The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2 Page 4

darkened the Wilhelmstrasse skyline, they stopped to ponder its ghosts.

  By dusk, only the prison heating plant still stood, its smokestack

  painted in stark relief against the gunmetal clouds. A wrecking-crane

  drew back its mammoth concrete ball. The stack trembled, as if waiting

  for the final blow. The ball swung slowly through its arc, then struck

  like a bomb.

  The smokestack exploded into a cloud of brick and dust, showering what

  had been the prison kitchen only minutes before.

  A sharp cheer cut through the din of heavy diesel motors.

  It came from beyond the cordoned perimeter. The cheer was not for the

  eradication of Spandau particularly, but rather a spontaneous human

  expression of awe at the sight of largescale destruction. @tated by the

  spectators, a French corporal gestured for some German policemen to help

  him disperse the crowd. Excellent hand signals quickly bridged the

  language barrier, and with trademark efficiency the Berlin Polizei went

  to work.

  "Achtung!" they bellowed. "Go home! Haue ah! This area is clearly

  marked as dangerous! Move on! It's too cold for gawking!

  Nothing here but brick and stone!"

  These efforts convinced the casually curious, who continued home with a

  story of minor interest to tell over dinner.

  But others were not so easily diverted. Several old men lingered across

  the busy street, their breath steaming in the cold. Some feigned

  boredom, others stared openly at the wrecked prison or glanced furtively

  at the others who had stayed behind. A stubborn knot of young

  toughs@ubbed "skinheads" because of their ritually shaven

  scalpsswaggered up to the floodlit prison gate to shout Nazi slogans at

  the British troops.

  They did not go unnoticed. Every passerby who had shown more than a

  casual interest in the wrecking operation had been photographed today.

  Inside the trailer being used to coordinate the demolition, a Russian

  corporal carefully clicked off two telephoto exposures of every person

  who remained on the block after the German police moved in.

  Within the hour these photographs would find their way into KGB

  caserooms in East Berlin, where they would be digi tized, fed into a

  massive database, and run through a formidable electronic gauntlet.

  Intelligence agents, Jewish fanatics, radical journalists, surviving

  Nazis: each exotic species would be painstakingly identified and

  catalogued, and any unknowns handed over to the East German secret

  policethe notorious Stasi-to be manually compared against their files.

  These steps would consume priceless computer time and many man-hours of

  work by the East Germans, but Moscow didn't mind asking.

  The destruction of Spandau was anything but routine to the KGB.

  Lavrenti Beria himself, chief of the brutal NKVD under Stalin, had

  passed a special directive down through the successive heads of the

  cheka, defining the importance of Spandau's inmates to unsolved cases.

  And on this evening-thirty-four years after Beria's death by firing

  squad-only one of those cases remained open.

  Rudolf Hess. The current chief of the KGB did not intend to leave it

  that way.

  A little way up the Wilhelmstrasse, perched motionless on a low brick

  wall, a sentinel even more vigilant an the Russians watched the Germans

  clear the street. Dressed as a laborer and almost seventy years old,

  the watcher had the chiseled face of a hawk, and he stared with bright,

  unblinking eyes. He needed no camera. His brain instantaneously

  recorded each face that appeared in the street, making associations and

  judgments no computer ever could.

  His name was Jonas Stern. For twelve years Stern had not left the State

  of Israel; indeed, no one knew that he was in Germany now. But

  yesterday he had paid out of his own pocket to travel to this country he

  hated beyond all thought.

  He had known about Spandau's destruction, of course, they all did.

  But something deeper had drawn him here. Three days ago-as he carried

  water from the kibbutz well to his small ev desert-something bilious

  had shack on the edge of e Neg risen from his core and driven him to

  this place. Stern had not resisted. Such premonitions came

  infrequently, and experience had taught him they were not to be ignored.

  Watching the bulwarked prison being crushed into powder, he felt

  opposing waves of triumph and guilt roll through his chest. He had

  known-he knew-men and women who had passed through Spandau on their way

  to the death factories of Mauthausen and Birkenau. Part of him wished

  the prison could remain standing, as a monument to those souls, and to

  the punishment meted out to their murderers.

  Punishment, he thought, but not justice. Never justice.

  Stern reached into a worn leather bag at his side and withdrew an

  orange. He peeled it while he watched the demolition. The light was

  almost gone. In the distance a huge yellow crane backed too quickly

  across the prison courtyard.

  Stern tensed as the flagstones cracked like brittle bones.

  Ten minutes later the mechanical monsters ground to a screeching halt.

  While the senior British offic@r issued his dismissal orders, a pale

  yellow Berlin city bus rumbled up to the prison, headlights cutting

  through the lightly falling snow. The moment it stopped, twenty-four

  soldiers dressed in a potpourri of uniforms spilled into the darkening

  prison yard and broke into four groups of six. These soldiers

  represented a compromise typical of the farcical Four Power

  administration of Spandau. The normal month-long guard tours were

  handled by rota, and went off with a minimum of friction. But the

  destruction of the prison, like every previous disruption of routine,

  had brought chaos. First the Russians had refused to accept German

  police security at the prison.

  Then-because no Allied nation trusted any of its "allies" to guard

  Spandau's ruins alone-they decided they would all do it, with a token

  detachment of West Berlin police along to keep up appearances. While

  the Royal Engineers boarded the idling bus, the NCO's of the four guard

  details deployed their men throughout the compound.

  Near the shattered prison gate, a black American master sergeant gave

  his squad a final brief: "Okay, ladies. Everybody's got his sector map,

  right?"

  "Sir!" barked his troops in unison.

  "Then listen up. This ain't gate duty at the base, got it?

  The Germs have the perimeter-we got the interior. Our orders are to

  guard this wreckage. That's ostensibly, as the captain says. We are

  here to watch the Russians. They watch us; we watch them. Same old

  same old, right? Only these Ivans probably ain't grunts, dig?

  Probably GRU-maybe even KGB. So keep your pots on and your slits open.

  Questions?" I "How long's the gig, Sarge?" "This patrol lasts twelve

  hours, Chapman, six to six. If you're still awake then-and you'd

  better be-then you qan get back to your hot little pastry on the

  Bendlerstrasse."

  When the laughter died, the sergeant grinned and barked, "Spread out,

  gentlemen! The enemy
is already in place."

  As the six Americans fanned out into the yard, a greenand-white

  Volkswagen van marked PoLizEi stopped in the street before the prison.

  It waited for a break in traffic, then jounced over the curb and came to

  rest before the command trailer steps. Instantly, six men wearing the

  dusty green uniform of the West Berlin police trundled out of its cargo

  door and lined up between the van and the trailer.

  Dieter Hauer, the captain in charge of the police contingent, climbed

  down from the driver's seat and stepped around the van. He had an

  arresting face, with a strong jaw and a full military mustache. His

  clear gray eyes swept once across the wrecked prison lot. In the dusk

  he noticed that the foul-weather ponchos of the Allied soldiers gave the

  impression that they all served the same army. Hauer knew better.

  Those young men were a fragmented muster of jangling nerves and

  suspicion-two dozen accidents waiting to happen.

  The Germans call their police bullen-"bulls"-and Hauer personified the

  nickname. Even at fifty-five, his powerful, barrel-chested body

  radiated enough authority to intimidate men thirty years his junior.

  He wore neither gloves, helmet, nor cap against the cold, and contrary

  to what the recruits in his unit suspected, this was no affectation

  meant to impress them. Rather, as people who knew him were aware, he

  possessed an almost inhuman resilience against external annoyances,

  whether natural or man-made. Hauer called, "Attention!"

  as he stepped back around the van. His officers formed a tight unit

  beneath the command trailer's harsh floodlamp.

  "I've told anyone who'd listen that we didn't want this assignment," he

  said. "Naturally no one gives a shit."

  There were a few nervous chuckles. Hauer spat onto the snow. A

  hostage-recovery specialist, he-'plainly considered this token guard

  detail an affront to his dignity. "You should feel very safe tonight,

  gentlemen," he continued with heavy sarcasm. "We have the soldiers of

  France, England, the United States, and Mother Russia with us tonight.

  They are here to provide the security which we, the West Berlin police,

  are deemed unfit to provide." Hauer clasped his hands behind his back.

  "I'm sure you men feel as I do about this, but nothing can be done.

  "You know your assignments. Four of you will guard the perimeter.

  Apfel, Weiss-you're designated rovers. You'll pa&ol at random, watching

  for improper conduct among the regular troops. What constitutes

  'improper conduct' here, I have not been told. I assume it means

  unsanctioned searches or provocation between forces. Everyone do your

  best to stay clear of the Russians. Whatever agencies those men out

  there serve, I doubt it's the Red Army. If you have a problem, sound

  your whistle and wail. I'll come to you. Everyone else hold your

  position until instructed otherwise."

  Hauer paused, staring into the young faces around him.

  His eyes lingered on a reddish-blond sergeant with gray eyes, then

  flicked away. "Be cautious," he said evenly, "but don't be timid. We

  are on German soil, regardless of what any political document may say.

  Any provocation, verbal or physical, will be reported to me immediately.

  Immediately."

  The venom in Hauer's voice made it plain he would brook no insult from

  the Soviets or anyone else. He spoke as though he might even welcome

  it. "Check your sector maps carefully," he added. "I want no mistakes

  tonight. You will show these soldier boys the meaning of

  professionalism and discipline. Go!"

  Six policemen scattered.

  Hans Apfel, the reddish-blond sergeant whom Hauer had designated one of

  the rovers, trotted about twenty meters, then stopped and looked back at

  his superior. Hauer was studying a map of the prison, an unlit cigar

  clamped between his teeth. Hans started to walk back, but the American

  sergeant suddenly appeared from behind the police van and engaged Hauer

  in quiet conversation.

  Hans turned and struck out across the snow, following the line of the

  Wilhemstrasse to his left. Angrily, he crushed a loose window pane

  beneath his boot. With no warning at all this day had become one of the

  most uncomfortable of his life. One minute he had been on his way out

  of the Friedrichstrasse police station, headed home to his wife; the

  next a duty sergeant had tapped him on the shoulder, said he needed a

  good man for a secret detail, and practically thrust Hans into a van

  headed for Spandau Prison. That in itself was a pain in the ass.

  Double shifts were hell, especially those that had to be pulled on foot

  in the snow.

  But that wasn't the real source of Hans's discomfort. The problem was

  that the commander of the guard detail, Captain Dieter Hauer, was

  Hans's father. None of the other men on this detail knew that-for which

  Hans was grateful-but he had a strange feeling that might soon change.

  During the ride to Spandau, he had stared resolutely out of the van

  window, refusing to be drawn into conversation. He couldn't understand

  how it had happened. He and his father had a long-standing

  arrangement-a simple agreement designed to deal with a complex family

  situation-and Hauer must have broken it. It was the only explanation.

  After a few minutes of bitter confusion, Hans resolved to deal with this

  situation the way he always did. By ignoring it.

  He kicked a mound of snow out of his path. So far he had made only two

  cautious circuits of the perimeter. He felt more than a little tense

  about strolling into a security zone where soldiers carried loaded

  assault rifles as casually as their wallets. He panned his eyes across

  the dark lot, shielding them from the snow with a gloved hand. God, but

  the British did theirjob well, he thought.

  Ghostly mountains of jagged brick and iron rose up out of the swirling

  snow like the bombed-out remnants of Berlin buildings that had never

  been restored. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped forward into the

  shadows.

  it was a strange journey. For fifteen or twenty steps he would see

  nothing but the glow of distant street lamps. Then a soldier would

  materialize, a black mirage against the falling snow. Some challenged

  him, most did not. When they did, Hans simply said, "Versailles"-the

  code word printed at the bottom of his sector map-and they let him pass.

  He couldn't shake a vague feeling of anxiety that had settled on his

  shoulders. As he passed the soldiers, he tried to focus on the weapon

  each carried. In the darkness all the uniforms looked alike, but the

  guns identified everyone.

  Each Russian stood statue-still, his sharklike Kalashnikov resting

  butt-first on the ground like an extension of his arrnThe French also

  stood, though not at attention. They cradled their FAMAS rifles in

  crooked elbows and tried vainly to smoke in the frigid wind. The

  British carried no rifles, each having been issued a sidearm in the

  interest of discretion.

  it was the Americans who disturbed Hans. Some leaned casually against

  broken slabs of concrete, their w
eapons nowhere in evidence.

  Others squatted on piles of brick, hunched over their M-16

  Arinalites as if they could barely stay awake. None of the U.S.

  soldiers had even bothered to challenge Hans's passage. At first he

  felt angry that NATO soldiers would take such a casual approach to their

  duties.

  But after a while he began to wonder. Their indifference could simply

  be a ruse, couldn't it? Certainly for an assignment such as this a

  high-caliber team would have been chosen?

  After three hours' patrol, Hans's suspicions were proved correct, when

  he nearly stumbled over the black American sergeant surveying the prison

  grounds through a bulbous scope fitted to his M-16. Not wishing to

  startle him, Hans whispered, "Versailles, Sergeant." When the American

  didn't respond, he tried again. "What can you see?"

  "Everything from the command trailer on the east to that Ivan pissing on

  a brick pile on the west," the sergeant replied in German, never taking

  his eyes from the scope.

  "I can't see any of that!"

  "Image-intensifier," the American murmured. "Well, well ... I didn't

  know the Red Army let its sentries take a piss-break on guard du-What-"

  The noncom wrenched the rifle away from his face.

  "What is it?" Hans asked, alarmed.

  "Nothing ... damn. This thing works by light magnification, not

  infrared. That smartass flashed a spotlight toward me and whited out my

  scope. What an asshole."

  Hans grunted in mutual distaste for the Russians. "Nice scope," he

  said, hoping to get a look through it himself.

  "Your outfit doesn't have 'em?"

  "Some units do. The drug units, mostly. I used one in training, but

  they aren't issued for street duty."

  "Too bad." The American scanned the ruins. "This is one weird place,

  isn't it?"

  Hans shrugged and tried to look nonchalant.

  "Like a graveyard, man. A hundred and fifty cells in this place, and

  only one occupied-by Hess. Dude must-ve known some serious shit to keep

  him locked down that tight." The sergeant cocked his head and squinted

  at Hans.

  "Man, you know you look familiar. Yeah ... you look like that guy, that

  tennis player-"

  "Becker," Hans finished, looking at the ground.

  "Becker, yeah. Boris Becker. I guess everybody tells you that, huh?"

  Hans looked up. "Once a day, at least."

  "I'll bet it doesn't hurt you with the Frduleins."