Spandau Phoenix

“Misha,” Kosov growled.

The interior of the taxi echoed with the force of the third blow. A large purplish bruise was already visible beneath the thick patina of makeup Eva wore. In the front seat beside Kosov, Ernst the cabbie slumped unconscious over the wheel of his old Mercedes.

“I have no time for your stupid loyalty, woman,” Kosov said. “If you don’t answer this time, this zealous young man will have to slit the throat of your sleepy old hero. You don’t want that, do you?”

Misha drew a long-bladed stiletto from an ankle sheath and brandished it under Eva’s chin.

“I think he’s quite eager to use that,” observed Kosov. “Aren’t you, Misha?”

Eva saw feral eyes glinting in the dark.

“Now, where did Frau Apfel get out?”

Eva struggled to think through the pain of the blows and her growing apprehension that she would not survive the night. How long had Ernst evaded the black sedan? Two minutes? Three? With his taxi finally trapped in the dead-end lane beside the Lietzensee lake, the old cabbie had done his best to fend the Russians off, but the young KGB agents had simply been too agile for him. How far could Ilse have gotten in that time?

Without warning Misha savagely thrust his knee into Eva’s left breast, crushing it—

“All right!” she gasped.

The pressure eased a little. “You have regained your memory?” Kosov asked.

Perhaps they’ll spare Ernst, Eva thought. Swine. “We stopped two or three blocks back,” she whispered. “When we rounded a corner. Ilse jumped out there.”

“Sko’lka?” asked Kosov. “Two blocks or three? Which is it?”

Again Misha jabbed his knee forward. “Stop!” Eva begged. “Please!” She could fight no more, but she could fire a last covering shot. “Three blocks,” she lied, laboring for breath. “The Seehof Hotel … by the lake. She ran inside.”

Kosov nodded. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Eva gulped air like a landed fish.

Kosov sighed angrily, debating with himself. How in hell was he supposed to find the Spandau papers? Three times Moscow had signaled him, each time telling him just a little more about the Hess case, doling out information like scraps of meat to a dog. Names without physical descriptions, dates of events Kosov had never heard of. And at the center of it all, apparently, a one-eyed man who had no name. Kosov could make no sense of it. And of course that was how Moscow wanted it.

“Now that you’re talking,” he said amiably, “I have one more question. Did Frau Apfel mention any names in connection with what her husband found?”

“No,” Eva groaned. “She told me someone was after her, that’s all. I didn’t ask—”

Unbelievably, Misha’s knee buried itself still deeper into Eva’s chest. The pain was excruciating. She felt as if she were going to vomit. “Please!” she choked.

The pressure relented just enough for her to take a shallow breath. Kosov heaved a bearlike shoulder over the front seat and bellowed, “Names, woman! Names are what I want! Did Frau Apfel mention the name Zinoviev to you? Do you hear me? Z-I-N-O-V-I-E-V. It’s a Russian name. Did she mention it?”

Eva shook her head violently. She had passed the point of being able to lie, and something in her eyes must have shown it. After several moments Kosov nodded, and Misha removed his knee from her chest. The old colonel’s face softened.

“Unlike my young friend,” he murmured, “I do not believe in needless killing. However, if you are lying—that is, if we do not find Frau Apfel, or if you feel the sudden urge to speak to the authorities—well, quite obviously we know where to find you. And we will find you. I would send Misha personally. Do you understand?”

Eva lay as still as she could. The animals were going to let her live. “Ja,” she breathed.

“Good.” Kosov climbed out of the old taxi. “Misha, a reminder.”

With an expert flick of his stiletto, the young KGB agent opened a two-inch gash along Eva’s left cheek. Eva shrieked in pain. Misha grinned, watching her struggle in vain to reach the wound and stop the bleeding. As the young Russian backed out of the taxi, Kosov’s hard face appeared in the front window.

“Free her hands,” he ordered.

Cursing quietly, Misha slashed the stockings over Eva’s head. But instead of getting out of the car, he thrust his hand viciously beneath Eva’s skirt and clenched her pubic mound in a clawlike fist. With flashing eyes he leaned close so that Kosov couldn’t hear. “When I find your little friend,” he snarled, “the pretty one—she’s going to bleed, old woman. Everywhere.” He wrenched his hand away, tearing hair and skin as he backed out of the taxi.

Shaking like an epileptic, Eva turned away and tried to stanch the flow of blood from her lacerated face. She heard Kosov’s BMW skid around and speed down the Lietzensee-Ufer in the direction of the Seehof Hotel. “Screw you,” she spat. “Swine. You’ll never find her.” Slowly she leaned forward and put her bloody hand to the old cabbie’s forehead. “Ernst, are you all right? Poor darling, you fought well for an old soldier. Wake up for Eva.”

The old man didn’t move.

If only some of my old friends were here, Eva lamented. That young pig’s balls would be meat for the dogs.

Ernst groaned and jerked forward in his seat. “Wo sind sie!” he cried, flailing his arms.

“They’re gone,” Eva said, soothing his forehead with a knowing hand. “All gone. You can take me home now, my brave knight. We’ll mend our scratches together.”

10:33P.M.South African Airspace: 100 km Northeast of Pretoria

The JetRanger helicopter stormed northward beneath a moonless African sky, startling flocks of black heron, spooking herds of impala and zebra gathered around the waterholes on the veld below. Inside the chopper’s luxurious cabin, Alfred Horn sat gripping the arms of his wheelchair, which was bolted to the carpeted deck by specially designed fittings. Pieter Smuts, Horn’s Afrikaner security chief, leaned closer to his master and spoke above the low beating drone of the rotor blades.

“I wanted to wait until we were airborne to tell you, sir.”

The old man nodded slowly. “What is so important that you don’t even trust your own security?”

“We’ve received the new figures from Britain, sir. The American figures. They were delivered by courier just an hour ago.”

“The Bikini figures?”

“More than that. Sixty-five percent of American test data from Eniwetok Atoll in ’fifty-two up to the test ban in ’sixty-three.” The Afrikaner shook his head. “Sir, you can’t imagine what a one megaton surface blast will actually do.”

“Yes, I can, Pieter.”

“It leaves a crater one mile across and sixteen stories deep. Christ, we’ve got the design, the plants … If we had six months, we could probably divert—”

“I’ll be dead in six months!” Horn snapped. “What do these figures tell you about our current resources?”

“The blast effects will be greater than we predicted. Using round figures, a forty-kiloton air burst should vaporize everything within three kilometers of ground-zero. Intense heat will incinerate anything for a five-kilometer radius beyond that. And the resulting winds and fires will wreak havoc for a considerable distance beyond those already mentioned.”

“And the fallout?” Horn asked.

“Twenty percent higher than we predicted.”

Horn digested this without emotion. “And these figures … you believe they are more reliable than our own?”

“Sir, except for the secret Indian Ocean test, all South African figures are purely theoretical. By definition they are predictions. The American figures represent verified data.”

Horn nodded thoughtfully. “Apply them to our scenario.”

“Everything depends on the target, sir. Obviously, ground-zero at the center of Tel Aviv or Jerusalem would obliterate either city. But if the weapon were used at the right time, its effects could be greatly enhanced, possibly even doubled, by a collateral factor: the weather.”