Spandau Phoenix by Greg Iles Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Greg Iles
personal document of some sort, a will or a diary perhaps, hand-printed in heavy blocked letters. In the dying matchlight Hans read as rapidly as he could: This is the testament of Prisoner #7. I am the last now, and I know that I shall never be granted the freedom that I-more than any of those released before me-deserve.
Death is the only freedom I will know. I hear His black wings beating about me! While my child lives I cannot speak, but here I shall write.
I only pray that I can be coherent. Between the drugs, the questions, the promises and the threats, I sometimes wonder if I am not already mad I only hope that long after these 'events cease to have immediate consequencest . n our insane world, someone will find these words and learn the obscene truth, not only of Hammier, Heydrich, and the rest, but of England-of those who would have sold her honor and ultimately her existence forThe crunch of boot heels on snow jolted Hans back to reality. Someone was coming! Jerking his head to the aperture in the bricks, he closed his hand on the searing match and peered out into an alien world.
Dawn had come. In its unforgiving light, Hans saw a Russian soldier less than ten meters from his hiding place, moving slowly forward with his AK-47 extended. The flare of the third match had drawn him. "Fool!"
Hans cursed himself. He jammed the sheaf of paper into his boot, then he stepped boldly out of the niche and strode toward the advancing soldier.
"Halt!" cried the Russian, emphasizing the command with a jerk of his Kalashnikov.
"Versailles," Hans countered in the steadiest voice he could muster.
His calm delivery of the password took the Russian aback.
"What are you doing in there, Polizei?"lasked the soldier in passable German.
"Smoke," Hans replied, extending the pack. "Having a smoke out of the wind." He waved his sector map in a wide arc as if to take in the wind itself.
"No wind," the Russian stated flatly, never taking his eyes from Hans's face.
It was true. Sometime during the last few minutes the wind had died.
"Smoke, comrade," Hans repeated.
"Versailles! Smoke, tovarich!"
He continued to proffer the pack, but the soldier only cocked his head toward his red-patched collar and spoke quietly. Hans caught his breath when he spied the small transmitter clipped to the sentry's belt. The Russians were in radio contact! In seconds the soldier's zealous comrades would come running. Hans felt a hot wave of panic. A surprisingly strong aversion to letting the Russians discover the papers gripped him. He cursed himself for not leaving them in the little cave rather than stuffing them into his boot like a naive shoplifter. He had almost reached the point of blind flight when a shrill whistle pierced the air in staccato bursts.
Chaos erupted all over the compound. The long, anxious night of surveillance had strained everyone's nerves to the breaking point, and the whistle blast, like a hair trigger, catapulted every man into the almost sexual release of physical action. Contrary to orders, every soldier and policeman on the lot abandoned his post to converge on the alarm. The Russian whipped his head toward the noise, then back to Hans. Shouted commands echoed across the prison yard, rebounding through the broken canyons.
"Versailles!" Hans shouted. "Versailles, Comrade! Let's go!"
The Russian seemed confused. He lowered his rifle a little, wavering.
"Versailles," he murmured. He looked hard at Hans for a moment more; then he broke and ran.
Rooted to the earth, Hans exhaled slowly. He felt cold sweat pouring across his temples. With quivering hands, he pocketed his cigarettes, then carefully refolded his sector map, realizing as he did so that the paper he held was not his sector map at all, but the first page of the papers he had found in the hollow brick. Like a fool he had been waving under the Russian's nose the very thing he wanted to conceal! Thank God
Death is the only freedom I will know. I hear His black wings beating about me! While my child lives I cannot speak, but here I shall write.
I only pray that I can be coherent. Between the drugs, the questions, the promises and the threats, I sometimes wonder if I am not already mad I only hope that long after these 'events cease to have immediate consequencest . n our insane world, someone will find these words and learn the obscene truth, not only of Hammier, Heydrich, and the rest, but of England-of those who would have sold her honor and ultimately her existence forThe crunch of boot heels on snow jolted Hans back to reality. Someone was coming! Jerking his head to the aperture in the bricks, he closed his hand on the searing match and peered out into an alien world.
Dawn had come. In its unforgiving light, Hans saw a Russian soldier less than ten meters from his hiding place, moving slowly forward with his AK-47 extended. The flare of the third match had drawn him. "Fool!"
Hans cursed himself. He jammed the sheaf of paper into his boot, then he stepped boldly out of the niche and strode toward the advancing soldier.
"Halt!" cried the Russian, emphasizing the command with a jerk of his Kalashnikov.
"Versailles," Hans countered in the steadiest voice he could muster.
His calm delivery of the password took the Russian aback.
"What are you doing in there, Polizei?"lasked the soldier in passable German.
"Smoke," Hans replied, extending the pack. "Having a smoke out of the wind." He waved his sector map in a wide arc as if to take in the wind itself.
"No wind," the Russian stated flatly, never taking his eyes from Hans's face.
It was true. Sometime during the last few minutes the wind had died.
"Smoke, comrade," Hans repeated.
"Versailles! Smoke, tovarich!"
He continued to proffer the pack, but the soldier only cocked his head toward his red-patched collar and spoke quietly. Hans caught his breath when he spied the small transmitter clipped to the sentry's belt. The Russians were in radio contact! In seconds the soldier's zealous comrades would come running. Hans felt a hot wave of panic. A surprisingly strong aversion to letting the Russians discover the papers gripped him. He cursed himself for not leaving them in the little cave rather than stuffing them into his boot like a naive shoplifter. He had almost reached the point of blind flight when a shrill whistle pierced the air in staccato bursts.
Chaos erupted all over the compound. The long, anxious night of surveillance had strained everyone's nerves to the breaking point, and the whistle blast, like a hair trigger, catapulted every man into the almost sexual release of physical action. Contrary to orders, every soldier and policeman on the lot abandoned his post to converge on the alarm. The Russian whipped his head toward the noise, then back to Hans. Shouted commands echoed across the prison yard, rebounding through the broken canyons.
"Versailles!" Hans shouted. "Versailles, Comrade! Let's go!"
The Russian seemed confused. He lowered his rifle a little, wavering.
"Versailles," he murmured. He looked hard at Hans for a moment more; then he broke and ran.
Rooted to the earth, Hans exhaled slowly. He felt cold sweat pouring across his temples. With quivering hands, he pocketed his cigarettes, then carefully refolded his sector map, realizing as he did so that the paper he held was not his sector map at all, but the first page of the papers he had found in the hollow brick. Like a fool he had been waving under the Russian's nose the very thing he wanted to conceal! Thank God
Similar Books
Don't Close Your Eyes
Lynessa James
Starship's Mage: Episode 1
Glynn Stewart
The Rebel of Rhada
Robert Cham Gilman
The Cresperian Alliance
Stephanie Osborn
Conviction (Consolation Duet #2)
Corinne Michaels
River's Redemption: Blackwater, Book 5
Anne Rainey
The Doctor Takes a Wife
Elizabeth Seifert
Trouble at the Treasury
Ron Roy
Whispers of the Dead
Simon Beckett
Baby of Shame
Julia James