would host a meeting calculated to alter the balance of world power
forever. As Smuts closed the door softly, Horn's mind drifted back to
the days of his youth ... the days of power. Gingerly, he touched his
glass eye.
'Der Tag kommt, he said aloud. 'The day approaches.'
CHAPTER THREE
3.-31 Pm. British Sector West Berlin Hans awoke in a sweat. He still
cowered inside a dark cave, watching in terror as a Russian soldier came
for him with a Kalashnikov rifle. The illusion gripped his mind,
difficult to break. He sat upright in bed and rubbed the sleep from his
eyes. Still the wrecked compound hovered before him.
His soiled uniform still chafed, still smelled of the dank prison yard.
He shook his head violently, but the image would not disappear.
It was real ...
On the screen of the small Siemens television two meters in front of
Hans, a tall reporter clad in the type of topcoat favored by West Berlin
pimps stood before a wide shot of the wasteland that yesterday had been
Spandau Prison. Hans clambered over the footboard of the bed and turned
up the volume on the set.
'... Deutsche Welled broadcasting live from the Wilhelmstrasse.
As you can see, the main structure of Spandau Prison was destroyed with
little fanfare yesterday by the British military authorities. it was
here early this morning that Soviet troops in conjunction with West
Berlin police arrested the two West German citizens whom the Russians
are now attempting to extradite into East Berlin.. There is virtually
no precedent for this attempt. The Russians are following no recognized
legal procedure, and the story that began here in the predawn hours is
rapidly becoming an incident of international proportions. To the best
of Deutsche Welle's knowledge, the two Berliners are being held inside
Polizei Abschnitt 53, where our own Peter Muller is following
developments as they occur. Peter?'
Before switching to the second live feed, the producer stayed with the
Spandau shot for a few silent seconds. What Hans saw brought a sour
lump to his throat. A hundred meters behind the reporter, dozens of
uniformed men slowly picked their way across the ruined grounds of
Spandau.
They moved over the icy rubble like ants in search of food, some not far
from the very mound where Hans had made his discovery. A few wore white
lab coats, but others-Hans's throat tightened-others wore the
distinctive red-patched brown uniforms of the Soviet infantry.
Hans scoured the screen for clues that might explain the Soviet
presence, but the scene vaporized. Now a slightly better-dressed
commentator stood before the great threearched doorway of the police
station where Hans reported to work every morning. He shifted his
weight excitedly from one foot to the other as he spoke.
'Thank you, Karl,' he said. 'Other than the earlier statement by the
police press officer that a joint investigation with the USSR is under
way, no details are forthcoming. We know that an undetermined number of
Soviet soldiers remain inside Abschnitt 53, but we do not know if they
are guests here, as is claimed, or if-as has been rumored-they control
the station by force of arms.
'While the Spandau incident occurred in the British sector of the city,
the German prisoners were taken by a needlessly lengthy route to
Abschnitt 53, here in the American sector, just one block from
Checkpoint Charlie. Informed sources have speculated that a
quick-witted police officer may have realized that the Soviets would be
less likely to resort to violence in the American-controlled part of the
city. We have received no statements from either the American or the
British milimq commands. However, if Soviet troops are in fact inside
this police station without the official sanction of the U.S.
Army, the Allied occupational boundaries we have all by familiarity come
to ignore may suddenly assume a critical importance.
This small incident could well escalate into one of the most volatile
crises of the post-glasnost era. We will update this story at 18:00
this evening, so please stay tuned to this channel. This is Peter
Muller, Deutsche Welle, live . .
While the reporter solemnly wrapped his segment, he failed to notice the
huge station door open behind him. Haggard but erect, Captain Dieter
Hauer strode out into the afternoon light. He looked as though he
hadn't slept in hours. He surveyed the sidewalk like a drill sergeant
inspecting a barracks yard; then, apparently satisfied, he gave the
reporter a black look, turned back toward the station door, and
dissolved into a BMW commercial.
Hans fell back against the footboard of the bed, his mind reeling.
Russian troops still in his home station? Who had leaked the Spandau
story to the press? And who were the men in the white lab coats? What
were they searching for?
Was it the papers he'd found? It almost had to be. No one cared about
a couple of homosexuals who happened to trespass public property in
their search for a love nest. The realization of what he had done by
keeping the papers hit Hans like a wave of fever. But what else could
he have done? Surely the police brass would not have wanted the
Russians to get hold of the papers. He could have driven straight to
Polizei headquarters at Platz der Luftbriicke, of course, but he didn't
know a soul there. No, when he turned in the papers, he wanted to do it
at his home station. And he couldn't do that yet because the Russians
were still inside it!
He would simply have to wait.
But he didn't want to wait. He felt like a boy who has stumbled over a
locked chest in a basement. He wanted to know what the devil he'd
found! Anxiou@ly, he snapped his fingers. Ilse, he thought suddenly.
She had a gift for languages, just like her arrogant grandfather. Maybe
she could decipher the rest of the Spandau papers.
He lifted the phone and punched in the first four digits of her work
number; then he replaced the receiver. The brokerage house where Ilse
worked did not allow personal calls during trading hours.
Hans would break a rule quicker than most Germans, but he remembered
that several employees had been fired for taking this rule lightly.
A reckless thought struck Hans. He wanted information, and he knew
