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
