The Spandau Phoenix

the Nazi party had battled the communist gangs for control of postwar

Germany. It was to that street that a young Rudolf Hess had returned

one afternoon, to find that a communist gang had reached his local group

headquarters ahead of him. Hess had hidden and watched in horror as

heavily armed Red Guard ruffians loaded twenty of his friends into a

panel truck. Later that night the communists shot all of Hess's

comrades, loyal Germans to a man. A captured communist later claimed

the Reds had lined the prisoners up and sl;of them one by one.

Among all the communist crimes, Hess vowed, this was the one for which

he would exact revenge in Russian blood"Herr Reichminister?" the sentry

asked tentatively.

"What?" Hess looked up. "Oh. The message. To Karlheinz Pintsch: Have

my Messerschmitt fully fueled and ready for a round-trip flight to

Berlin. I want nine-hundredliter drop tanks fitted and filled. Got

that?"

"Jawohl, Herr Reichminister!"

Hess kicked the Mercedes into gear and raced down winding mountain road

as fast as the snow would allow.

I ma God! he thought with exhi aration- I am the n who will seal the

peace with England ... and open the road to Moscow!

With Reinhard Heydrich's help, Hess remembered uneasily. He touched the

envelope in his coat pocket. With a shiver he suddenly recalled the

story he had heard about Heydrich. Apparently the "blond beast"-after

an exhausting night of drinking and whoring-had caught sight of his own

reflection in a lavatory mirror. Wild -eyed and sweating, scum!" then

he had screamed, "At last I've got you, whipped out his pistol and

emptied it through the glass.

Hess felt a cold chill of presentiment, but he quickly shook it off. One

could not pick one's allies in the war against the Bolshevik and the

Jew. Sometimes it took a beast to slay a beast. If the Fuhrer trusted

Heydrich, there was nothing more to be said. Hess had other things to

worry about. A night flight to Britain, for example.

Englishmen who had survived the hell of Hermann Goring's terror bombing

would not mince words if Hess landed alone and unprotected in their

country. They would do their talking with bullets. And that's fine,

Hess thought. I've faced bullets before; I can do it again. The mere

thought of his destination brought a strange quickening to his blood.

England!

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

January 7, 1941, The Bavarian Alps Obergruppenfiihrer Reinhard Heydrich,

Reich Commissar for the Consolidation of German @tock and chief of the

SD, landed at Ainring Airport near Berchtesgaden just two hours after

Rudolf Hess delivered Hitler's unexpected message to Berlin. Like Hess,

Heydrich piloted himself, and upon landing he commandeered a convertible

Porsche from a local Gestapo sergeant. The sergeant professed great

pleasure at being able to help the Obergruppenfiihrer, but inside he

felt only despair. He knew that even if the beautiful car were returned

a burned-out wreck, he could say nothing. Men who angered Reinhard

Heydrich had been known to disappear without a trace.

The open Porsche rocketed along the blacked-out highway, half-sliding

around curves made deadly by a sudden winter shower.

Heydrich drove stonefaced despite the brittle drops that stung his skin

and eyes. The frigid wind would have driven any normal man to groan in

pain, but the young Obergruppenfiihrer prided himself on his ability to

control his human weaknesses. The fact that he was quite mad aided him

considerably in this task.

Unlike most of Hitler's chieftains, Heydrich seemed the incarnation of

the mythical Aryan superman. Tall and blond, blue-eyed, spare and

muscular of frame,.he carried himself with the self-assurance of a crown

prince. A jarring amalgam of opposites, Heydrich put every man he met

off balance. A world-class fencer, he had been asked to join the German

Olympic team, yet tales of his homosexual conquests were whispered in SS

barracks throughout the Reich.

He was an accomplished violinist who not only brought tears to the eyes

of his audiences, but sometimes cried himself during particularly

beautiful passages. Yet his sadistic rampages through Eastern Europe

would eventually cause Czech partisans to christen him the "Butcher of

Prague," and British intelligence to order his assassination. And the

most telling paradox of all: Reinhard Heydrich-the man who had vowed to

"eliminate the strain" of Jewry from the world-had Jewish blood flowing

through his veins.

At the outer gate of Obersalzburg, the SS guards eyed the approaching

Porsche with suspicion. When they recognized its driver, however, they

snapped to attention and waved Heydrich through. The sentries at the

inner gate displayed the same deference, and he soon reached the summit

of the mountain. The Berghof appeared to be under siege.

Most of the High Command had arrived during the afternoon; long black

staff cars overflowed the parking lot and encircled the rear of the

house. Heydrich picked a path through the cars, made his way around to

the front of the house, and opened the door without knocking.

An SS sergeant of the Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler had been posted in the

entry hall to meet him. After a curt salute, the sergeant whisked

Heydrich up the stairs to the bedrooms and indicated the door he wished

the SD chief to enter.

"You're to wait here, Herr Obergruppenftihrer. By order of the Fuhrer."

Heydrich looked mystified- "Am I not to attend the conference

downstairs?"

"Nein, Herr Obergruppenflihrer. Reichleiter Borrnann instructed me to

have you meet the Fuhrer in the teahouse, but I just received word that

he won't have time for the walk."

"We could drive," Heydrich suggested.

"The Fuhrer never drives to the teahouse."

The sergeant seemed to think this explanation sufficient.

Heydrich dismissed him and reached for the bedroom door handle, then

paused as another door opened farther down the hall. A blond woman

leaned furtively out; Heydrich registered an ample bosom beneath a

rather plain face before she ducked back inside. Only after entering

the small bedroom designated for his meeting with the Fuhrer did he

realize that the woman he had just seen must be Eva Braun. With an

extreme sense of discomfort Heydrich put the incident out of his mind.

The Fuhrer in a carnal entanglement with a

peasant -girl? Preposterous!

Out of habit Heydrich surveyed the Berghof grounds from the small

bedroom window. He saw SS guards and dogs silhouetted against the snow

at regular intervals all over the compound. Nodding with satisfaction,

he sat stiffly on the edge of a narrow bed. An hour,passed. When he

next heard footsteps in the hall, he knew they belonged to the Fuhrer.

Standing deliberately, he straightened his silver-bordered collar and

faced the door. As it opened, he cried, "Heil Hitler!" and gave a

whip-crack Nazi salute.

Adolf Hitler stood blinking in the doorway. He looked like a man

suddenly pulled into a quiet alcove from a beer hall where a violent

brawl was in progress. "Heydrich," he mumbled.

"My Fuhrer."

"We haven't much time. I have to get back to my generals.

They've taken a break for food." With sudden ffitler s@ into the room

and walked to the window. "Food!" he cried, pounding his right fist

into his palm. "They think I am a fool, Heydrich! Adolf Hitler!

My God, if I had listened to my generals we would never even have

crossed into the Rhineland. And now that we stand ready to begin the

greatest land invasion the world has ever seen, they counsel me to be

cautious!" Hitler whirled, evangelical fire burning in his eyes.

"Would caution have won us Poland, Heydrich?"

"No, my Fuhrer!"

"Would it have won us France?"

"No!"

"Then how can it win us Russia?" Spittle flew from Hitler's quivering

lips.

"It cannot, my Fuhrer!"

"Exactly! You should hear them ... Halder, Jodl, even Guderian's

reports sound like the whining of an old woman.

They speak as if we have allies. We have none! For hours the fools

have gone dyer and over the North African situation.

The situation is clear! On January third the British captured

thirty-eight thousand lwian soldiers at Sidi Barram. Did you know that?

That's more prisoners than the British had soldiers!"

"The Italians are swine," Heydrich declared, watching Mtler wind up,

again.

"What does Africa matter, I ask you? All my generals proudly display

Mein Kampf on their mantelpieces. I don't believe one of the idiots has

read it! Russia is the keY to el erything! When Russia falls, Japan

will be free to attack the United States. And with Roosevelt's

attention turned there, Churchill will be forced to sue for peace. it's

so simple a child could see it."

Hitler's left eye twitched angrily, "Perhaps _ I should place my armies

under the command of the Hitler Youth!"

Heydrich said nothing to this remarkable suggestion. Hitler smoothed

his unruly forelock, then clasped his hands behind him and said, "Do you

know what my Prussian peacocks are afraid of."

Heydrich swallowed. "England, my Fuhrer?"

c my own words back at me as if I "Pre isely! They throw did not write

them myself. 'Germany should never again become embroiled in a

two-front war. Never will I fight a twofront war.' Enough! England

lies prostrate beneath our bombs, yet my sniveling generals call her a

western front. A front! When we turn east, Heydrich, the cowards will

learn what a front truly is!"

Heydrich suppressed a sadistic grin.

Hitler squared his shoulders. "Directive Twenty-one commands that all

preparations for Plan Barbarossa be completed by May fifteenth of this

year. Do you know why?"

"So that we may defeat the communists before winter sets in?"

"Exactly. And why this year, Heydrich? Because Stalin is arming Russia

even faster than I am arming Germany! The purge of 'thirty-seven slowed

him down considerably, yes, but he has a new program in place-a total

reorganizationr will be too late! All that we have If we wait another

yea it accomplished will be dust! Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, my Fuhrer."

"I believe you do. And that is why you are here." Hitler carefully

read his watch, holding it close to his face because of his poor vision.

"I have no intention of fighting on two fronts, Heydrich.

But can I trust my spineless generals with my plans?" He waved his hand

impatiently. "My brilliant generals. imbeciles, every one.

England doesn't want warNo matter what your agents tell you, Heydrich, I

know.

Withstanding aerial bombardment is one thing-fighting a land war is

another. The English people will do almost anything to keep from

sending their sons to die at another Somme or Ypres. Believe me,

Heydrich, I was there- No, the only obstacle to an Aryan peace is

Winston Churchill.

Churchill and his warmongering cronies! Do you agree?"

"Absolutely, my Fuhrer."

"Tell me," Hitler said in a confiding tone, "what do you think.of our

chances of making peace with the British?"

Heydrich tried to guess which answer Hitler wanted today.

The Fuhrer did not tolerate equivocation; it had to be one absolute or

the other. "As things now stand," he ventured carefully, "we have no

chance whatsoever."

Hitler's eyes sparkled. "You seem certain. Yet I suspect that some of

your superiors might disagree with you."

Heydrich f@it his chest tighten.

Hitler's voice cut like a blade. "What do you know, Herr

Obergruppenfiihrer, of attempts by my officers to make clandestine

contact with the British?4' Heydrich felt the tingle of opportunity in

his palms. "May I speak frankly, my Fuhrer?"

"You had better!"

"My Fuhrer, so far, despite exhaustive efforts, I have not uncovered any

proof of treason around you. However, I am aware of efforts on the part

of certain individuals to make clandestine contact with British citizens

in various neutral countries. I've taken the liberty of compiling

dossiers on the activities of each for your review."

Hitler frowned disdainfully. "The Haushofers, for instance? Karl and

Albrecht?"

"Yes," said Heydrich, surprised by Hitler's knowledge.

"You know of their communications with Hess.

Heydrich nodded warily.

"Goring?"

"Surely you don't suspect the Reichsmarschall!"

Hitler dismissed his shock with a wave of the hand. "Who knows?

The air war over the Channel came close to breaking him. Goring hasn't

the stamina for wars of attrition. He was trained for aerial

dog-fighting-nothing else. But what of my question? How do you rate the

chances of gaining peace by clandestine means?"

Heydrich licked his thin lips. "As long as Churchill rules in London,

my Fuhrer, England will fight us."

Hitler nodded. "And the result?"

"England will be crushed."

"No," Hitler said softly. "There will be no war with England."

Heydrich waited for some evidence to back up this mistic assertion.

"There will be no war with England, because soon Winston Churchill will

no longer sit at the head of the British government."

Heydrich's pulse quickened.

"Does that statement surprise you, Heydrich? t shouldn't.

Because you are the man who is going to ensure that my prediction

becomes fact."

it took all of Heydrich's self-control to hold his facial muscles in

check. Renwve Churchillfrom the government? It was too fantastic ...

"Let me ask you another question, Herr Obergruppenftihrer. You consider

yourself a good judge of men. What do you think of the Duke of

Windsor?' Heydrich chose his words carefully. "As you know, my Fuhrer,

I handled security on the occasion when the duke secretly met with

Reichminister Hess in Lisbon. During my limited time with the duke, I

developed an impression of a weak, self-centered man.

He-behaved like a spoiled child.

Having voluntarily relinquished the throne of England, he would like

nothing better than to sit upon it again, if only so that his American

wife can be called 'Her Royal Highness.' Windsor imagines that he would

do anything to anain this end, when in fact he would probably do

everything short of what is required."

Hitler smiled. "You are indeed a good judge of men. But none of that

matters in the slightest. It is the royal blood that matters, Heydrich-

The blood. The English pretend to abhor my racial policies, they revile

me at every turn. Yet in the final analysis they revere the blood just

as we do!" Hitler tugged anxiously at his forelock.

"How would you rate Windsor as a friend to Germany?"

"There can be no doubt of his sympathies, my Fuhrer.

From an intdllectual standpoint, he s the @ost right-thinking Englishman

in the Empire. His actions in France proved that.

Knowingly or not, he accelerated our invasion timetable by at least a

week. But may I ask, my Fuhrer, why this is relevant? The English

constitution forbids an abdicated king from ever resuming the throne,

even should he wish

to. "Don't worry about the English constitution!" Hitler

snapped contemptuously. "If the English people recalled Windsor, would

he accept?"

"Undoubtedly. He said as much to Hess in Lisbon."

"Well, the people are going to recall him, Heydrich. And soon."

Heydrich blinked.

"If King George were to die suddenly," Hitler postulated, "what would

happen? There are two possibilities. Either his eldest daughter,

Elizabeth, would assume the throne-a highly dubious prospect,

considering that England is engaged in a life-and-death struggle@r the

English people would remember the Duke of Windsor, their once-adored

Prince of Wales and uncrowned king, who now wastes his

not-inconsiderable gifts as crown governor of the Bahamas.

Which alternative do you think they would choose, Heydrich? Which would

you choose? An empty-headed child, or the strong hand of a man trained

to rule? How important will Windsor's romantic follies seem in the face

of England's greatest peril?"

Heydrich shifted uncomfortably. "I ... I'm not sure the English view

these things as we do, my Fuhrer."

"Rubbish! And what does it matter? Windsor would only be the window

dressing! The real power of England is in Downing Street! That is

where the change must be made!"

Heydrich sensed that Hitler had finally come to the point of this

meeting. "But how is this change to be made, my FuhrerT' he asked

softly.

Hitler's eyes flickered. "Ruthlessly, Heydrich' ' as all acts of war

must be. On the tenth of May, Winston Churchill is going to die.

And with him King George the Sixth. When that happens, Britain will

hold its breath, headless for a few moments of history. And through

that brief window, we shall snatch the prize we want-peace in the west.

Then Russia will be ours for the taking, and Guderian's panzers will

roll!"

Heydrich cracked his boot heels together and stood rigid before his

master.

"Have you been struck dumbt' Hitler asked, his very posture a challenge.

"No, my Fuhrer. It's simply that ... the scope and genius of your

concept have shocked me."

Hitler nodded. "I understand. Few men think as I do, with a mind

unfettered by the restraints of so-called 'civilized'

SPANDAU PHDENIX

war. Such a concept is ludicrous, a blatant contradictior terms.

But I'm sure you're wondering exactly how deaths of these two men will

gain us peace from the English."

Heydrich nodded, though he was actually wondering how the deaths of

those men could be accomplished.

. "It's quite simple," Hitler explained. "When the new prime minister

takes Churchill's place, his government will be mine. Or at least

sympathetic to my ideas. Don't look so surprised. Like Haushofer and

others, I too know of certain Englishmen who want peace.

However, the men I speak of are Then of deeds, not words. They

understand my true aims, that my primary goal is to expand eastward-not

into Britain. They know that Adolf Hitler is the hammer that will crush

world communism!"

Heydrich stepped back from the raw force of Hitler's zeal.

"The British Empire was not forged by men who whined at the sight of a

little blood, Heydrich. The English understand that to create, one must

first destroy. That out of death comes life!" Hitler wiped his brow-

"So YOu see -- -" Heydrich did see. He saw that Hitler-from

Machiavellian genius or sheer desperation-had decided to extend the

tactics of terror, which had served him so well during the Party's early

expansion, into the realm of international policy.

Heydrich also saw that this decision would immeasurably raise his value

to Hitler vis-A-vis purely military officers.

Where another man might recognize imminent disaster, Heydrich saw

opportunity. hands together, "be "So, " Hitler concluded, bringing his

ginning now, you will devote all your energies to devising a method by

which Winston Churchill and George the Sixth can be liquidated. Three

limits must define your plan. First, your mission cannot be

accomplished in such a way as to incriminate Germany or the National

Socialist Party. Second, you will conduct all inquiries involved in

your t)lanning in in such a way that neither Reichsfiihrer Hi mler,

Admiral Canaris, nor any other member of the High Command becomes aware

of your mission. And finally, the mission must be carried out on the

tenth of May-the glorious anniversary of our historic westward

invasion!"

Heydrich blanched. The Fuhrer had just placed restrictions on the

operation that would make success all but impossible. Even if a bolt of

lightning were to strike down Churchill and the king in Trafalgar

Square, accusing fingers would still point to Germany. Yet despite this

grim truth, Heydrich elected to keep silent. He had seen what happened

to men who protested to Adolf Hitler that his orders were impossible.

"Am I to understand, my Fuhrer, that I am to assassinate these men?"

Hitler exploded. "Were you not listening? The thought of making

Winston Churchill a martyr turns my stomach, but alive he hounds me like

the devil incarnate. I want him dead! The king too!"

Heydrich's mind reeled at the implications of this order. If what the

Fuhrer said about Nazi sympathizers in England was true, the plan could

actually work. But what were the odds of that? The terror bombin of

London and other population centers had hardened Britain's will to

adamant; the reports of all his agents confirmed this. Could there

really still be Englishmen who feared Stalin more than they feared

Hitler? Men to whom profits meant more than national honor?

Men to whom a guarantee of safety from Adolf Mtler was worth more than a

pr-e-war Deutschemark?

"Do not think I labor under any illusions," Hitler said, almost

telepathically. "The English have no love for me, or for things German.

But they understand me, Heydrich. I represent absolute power

concentrated in the head of the state, and the English respect that.

Their industlialists and nobles fear Stalin and his hordes far more than

my policies.

Communism-power seized by millions of fanatical workers who cannot wait

to tear down the ivied walls of traditionthat is like the plague to the

English, the Black Death come again!"

A sharp knock on the bedroom door halted Hitler in midstream.

Martin Bormann opened the door and stood there stubbornly, ignoring

Heydrich. "You asked me to inform you when the generals finished their

dinner, my Fuhrer."

"So I did, Bormann, thank you. Dismissed."

Bormann reluctantly closed the door. Hitler folded his arms and peered

closely at Heydrich. "Do you foresee difficulties, Herr

Obergruppenftihrer?"

"None, my Fuhrer," Heydrich replied automatically.

Hitler raised his chin and smiled. "That is why I selected you for this

mission. The word impossible is one you never learned. If my generals

had the same attitude, we would be in Moscow by now."

Heydrich inclined his head briefly.

"I am going you give you a name, Heydrich. You will never repeat it.

You will never write it down. This is t e Englishman you may contact if

there is vital information you cannot obtain by any other means.

Churchill's likely. whereabouts, such matters as that. His name is

Robert Stanton@' "Lord Granville?" Heydrich ejaculated. He reddened.

"I apologize for the interruption, my Fuhrer, but "But he is the last

man you would have guessed to betray his king?" Hitler smiled wickedly.

"That is good. Just remember, you will never use his name@nly his code

name.

Lord Granville is Mordred."

While Heydrich's brain raced, Hitler said, "I'll go downstairs first.

You follow in a few minutes. I don't want MY generals to know of our

meeting. On the eleventh of May I shall present them with afait

accompli, just as I did with my 1939 pact with Stalin. That should

stiffen their resolve when they cross into Russia!"

,It should indeed, my Fuhrer!"

"The operation must take place on t'he tenth of May, Heydrich.

Other wheels are already in motion. When your plan is ready, call

Bormann and say the word Mordred- He'll set up another meeting."

Hitler reached for the door handle, then paused. "By the way, about

those files you have compiled on potential traitors. is Hess among

them?"

Heydrich nodded solemnly.

"Burn his file."

"The moment I return to Berlin, my Fuhrer-" Hitler saluted smartly.

"Guten Abend, Herr Obergruppenfiihrer." the closing door.

In Heydrich's "Heil Hitler!" died against spite of his pounding heart,

he resumed his cross-legged position on the edge of the bed. He sat

absolfately still, and before five minutes passed, his throbbing pulse

had returned to a point of equilibrium that most men of eighteen would

be hard put to equal at rest. He stood deliberately, passed a slim hand

over his blond hair, and walked into the hallHalfway down the stairs, he

heard a ftirtive noise behind him. Eva Braun again? Bener to let it

pass, he thought. But he could not. His predatory instincts were too

strong. With the stealth of a leopard, Heydrich turned and crept back

up the stairs.

He arrived on the second floor just in time to see the round-shouldered

back of Martin Bormann disappear into the bedroom opposite the one Eva

Braun had leaned out of.

Heydrich heard the shallow tinkle of girlish laughter, and as the door

closed he glimpsed a swatch of unclad flesh. For a moment he stood

still. Then, @most as if pulled against his will, he moved up close

against the door.

He heard the laughter again, like cheap crystal. First teasing, then

hysterical, it had a lilt of drunkenness in it. Then a sharp cry of

pain pierced the door. Dry-throated, Heydrich tried to swallow. He

heard another cry. Then a deeper, animal sound began to punctuate the

brittle protests of the woman. Heydrich felt his organ move, then

stiffen. A nerve tic intermittently closed his left eye. Grinding his

teeth, he blocked out the primitive sounds until the spasm ceased.

The grunts grew regular. Heydrich no longer heard the woman.

Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He opened and closed his right fist

in synchrony with the groans coming from behind the door. The next

sound he heard started the tic again. Only slaps at first-almost

playful, echoing lightlybut the deadened thump of solid blows soon

followed.

Heydrich knew that sound as well as any man on earth. Like an

arrhythmic heartbeat it drove him through each hour, each new day of

conquest.

The woman was protesting again, but her cries were muffled. A pillow,

Heydrich thought distantly. Conflicting emotions struggled for control

of his taut body. Anger, revulsion arousal. He longed to smash open

the door, but whether t@ flay Bormann in disgust or to plunder his share

of the woman, he did not know.

He did neither. He simply stood facing the door, his body rigid as a

steel beam, his brow pouring sweat, and listened.

Coupled with his earlier proximity to the Fuhrer, the stress of this

violently erotic encounter pushed him into a kind of trance. The sound

of the blows deepened, the cries grew closer together, and Heydrich,

with Adolf Hitler's voice still echoing in his ears, waited for the

orgasmic groan that would resolve it all.

It never came.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Two Months Later Reinhard Heydrich felt like a god. Seventy days ago,

when he first heard Hitler impose his operational restrictions on Plan

mordred, Heydrich thought his meteoric rise through the Nazi rarc assas

mate hie by had been stopped dead- To find a way to s not only Winston

Churchill but also King George VI, to do it on a specific day, and

without leaving a smoking gun in German hands? Ridiculous! Yet e@en

before he landed his Fieseler-Storch back at Berlin-Staaken Airport on

that frozen January night, the essential elements Of the plan had

flashed into his mind as if by divine inspiration. The concept was so

ingeniously simple that, if brought off successfully, not only would

Britain be neu with little more than sporadic small-arms rue, but she

would become Germany's strongest ally!

It had taken the Obergruppenfiihrer SD a further sixty-eight days to

determine whether his unprecedented plan could actually be put into

operation. Sixty-eight nerveracking days of frantic intelligence work

carried out under the lidless gaze of Heinrich Himmler: a dozen trips

taken under false pretenses; a hundred agents lied to about the reason

for the questions he had asked them; a thousand scraps of information

gathered from around the globe and funneled through the sieve of the

SS/SD intelligence complex, each tiny piece sucked out of the system

without the knowledge of the ruthless little tyrant who controlled it.

Now, driving back to Obersalzburg beneath a cold, starlit sky, Heydrich

knew that he was ready. The leather briefcase on the seat beside him

contained his ticket to the most exclusive club in the world. Two

months ago he had been a mere subaltern-a loyal centurion charged by his

Caesar with nailing millions of Jews to the Iron Cross of the Reich.

But now-now the centurion had glimpsed the keys to the palace!

Behind Heydrich's glacier-blue eyes, a seething blast furnace of

all-consuming desire firrd his brain. Only one man alive possessed the

kind of power he craved, and Heydrich was on his way to see that man

now. With him he carried the plan that would prove his worthiness to

Hitler beyond doubt, and one day@ne day very soon-the mantle of

dictatorship would pass to him!

Passing through the Obersalzburg gates, he noted the almost casual

attitude of the SS guards. Desultory fighting on all fronts was taking

its toll in efficiency throughout the Reich. What everyone needs is

another good blitzkrieg to wake them up, he thought. And they'll get

one soon enough.

He reminded himself to give the laggards a good dressing down on his way

out.

He parked in the garage beneath the Berghof's enormous picture window

and walked around to the front of the house.

A sergeant of the SS Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler barred the door.

Before Heydrich's boot even touched the first step, the guard instructed

him to turn around. When he did, he saw the last thing he expected:

Adolf Hitler, outfitted in a dark suit, homburg hat, and carrying a

walking stick, stood silent in the snow, watching him. Arc lights

silhouetted, Hitler's harlequin figure. For a moment Heydrich felt as

if he were watching a newsreel in a darkened theater. Then the

FUhrer-for all the world like Charlie Chaplin's caricature of him-turned

and bobbed off across the snow.

"The teahouse," whispered the SS sergeant.

Heydrich caught up with Hitler forty meters from the Berghof, walking

briskly along a deep path cleared through the snow. There was just room

for two to walk abreast.

Heydrich fell in beside Hitler and waited for a cue to begin his report,

but Hitler walked in silence.'Heydrich heard dogs barking in the

distance-the Fuhrer's German shepherds, he guessed-but when Hitler

stopped and called them, they did not come. Unable to restrain himself

any longer, Heydrich took a deep breath and announced: "I have finished

my report, my Fuhrer."

"In the teahouse," Hitler said tersely, and set off again.

Mystified, Heydrich hurried after him. Another twenty minutes' silent

marching brought them to their destination

the round, rustic building where Hitler liked to hold court after

dinner. In contrast to the opulent Berghof, the teahouse had been

furnished for comfort. The circular main room was about twenty-five

feet across, with a round wooden table and easy chairs. it reminded

most people of cozy country holidays before the shadow of war fell

across their lives.

Heydrich did not even notice the blazing fire. Nothing existed for him

in that space save himself and Hitler-two unalloyed souls staring at

each other across a gulf of limitless ambition.

"So?" Hitler snapped. "You have brought me my plan?"

"Yes, my Fuhrer," Heydrich said proudly.

"And it took you only two months. Two months! What were you thinking

oP."

Heydrich stepped back in surprise.

"Did I ask you for the impossible, Herr obergruppenfiihrer? No!

I asked you to plan two simple murders! Surely that could not be too

difficult for you? They tell me you left Gregor Strasser's brains on

the wall of a Gestapo cell for weeks!"

Stunned by Hitler's fury, Heydrich waited in silence"is it in that

briefcase?" Hitler asked sharply.

"Yes, my Fuhrer."

,you wrote ii down?"

Heydrich nodded uncertainly.

,I am surrounded by fools." Hitler crossed the room and collapsed into

a leather easy chair opposite Heydrich"Well?" he said finally.

"Report!"

Too shocked to do anything else, Heydrich sat stiffly in one of the easy

chairs and emptied the contents of his brief case onto the coffee table.

His notes, clear and concise. And a stack of eight-by-ten photographs

held neatly together by a paper clip.

"My Fuhrer," he began, "my orders entailed finding a way to remove

Churchill and George the Sixth from power on the tenth of May, without

leaving any clue ' that might possibly point to Germany. While this

seems@ "I am aware of the orders I issued you!" Hitler exploded.

"I want to hear your plan, not a description of the problem!"

Heydrich's notes slipped from his clammy palms. Standing erect, he

screwed up his courage and locked his blue eyes onto Hitler's black

ones. "Accountability," he said slowly. "That, my Fuhrer, is the

paramount consideration in this operation. Even if Churchill and the

king could be killed without leaving a trace of their killers, the

finger of accusation would still point to Germany. More than anyone, we

have the motive-and in time of war, motive is the only consideration. To

avoid making 'Remember Churchill!' the new rallying cry against us, we

must accomplish two things.

First, we must leave no German at the scene of the crime.

Second-and most important-we must provide the British with a culprit

they cannot ignore."

He watched Hitler for a reaction, but the dictator sat sullenly

immobile. "So," he continued, "who to blame? My Fuhrer, the solution

came to me that first night as if screamed in my ears! Who besides

yourself do the English fear most? The communists. You've said it

yourself a thousand times: 'The communists are the enemy of all

civilized nations.' We know the English industrialists share this view.

The march of Bolshevism since 1917 has every nation in Europe

trembling." Heydrich drew himself to his full height.

"And so, my Fdhrer, the men who assassinate Churchill and the king must

be communists!"

Heydrich sensed a stirring in Hitler's eyes, a heightening of awareness.

"If communist agents were to assassinate Churchill and the king," he

went on, "England would explode into panic. Instead of being united

against Germany, every Englishman would begin t@ fear his own

neighborhis own brother! Communism would become Britain's new enemy-its

new Satan. And what. is the source of world communism?

Russia! 'Strike back at Russia!' will be the new rallying cry in

Britain."

Heydrich raised one delicate finger into the air. "But can they?

Bombed and beaten almost beyond rising, England is virtually powerless

against a nation so distant and strong.

But you are not, my Fuhrer. Adolf Hitler is the most implacable foe

Communism has.ever known-the whole world knows it! Your nonaggression

pact'with Stalin means nothing-a temporary alliance of convenience. One

look at Mein Kampf will tell the most skeptical Briton that your primary

aim has always been Russia. Lebensraum!

Expansion eastward into Russia over the bodies of the subhuman Slavic

barbarians!"

Hitler opened his mouth to speak, but Heydrich rolled on, caught up in

the momentum of his emotions. "And most important, my Fuhrer, every

word, every warning ever given by your friends in England will be proved

true! German' will finally be recognized as the last bastion shielding

England from the fanatical hordes of the East! Isn't that what the Duke

of Windsor has argued all along? That another war between England and

Germany can only end in common slavery under the communists?"

While Heydrich paused for breath, Hitler rose slowly to his feet and

folded his arms. "An interesting plan, Herr obergruppenftihrer," he

said, his voice edged with excitement. "I myself was thinking along

similar lines just the other day. But tell me, who will commit these

murders? No Russian communist will attempt such a thing without Stalin

behind him. And if a German communist does it, we are lost. To the

English, Heydrich, a German is a German. They will not split hairs when

they ask America for our blood in revenge."

"I've thought 'of that, my Fuhrer," Heydrich said smoothly, his cruel

lips cracking into a smile. "There is but one way that this thing can

be accomplished-one way that British fury can be turned away from us and

against Russia."

He paused like a magician reluctant to reveal his last, best trick.

"The communists who assassinate Churchill and the king must be British

subjects."

Hitler sat still as stone. "Explain."

Heydrich frowned. "That is all, my Fuhrer. That is the key.

The men who carry out the assassinations must be British subjects-of

course I mean British communists."

Hitler ground his teeth slowly. "Are you about to tell me, Herr

Obergruppenfiihrer, that you have devised a way to get Stalin to order

his English cadres to execute Churchill and the king at the time and

place of our choosing?"

"No, my Fuhrer "I hope not!" Hitler shook his hand in the air.

"It's all I can do to keep Stalin out of my Rumanian oil fields!

For a while you were making sense, Now ... w@ shall see."

Heydrich squinted with a gambler's concentration. "What I propose, my

Fuhrer is not really so far from what you just suggested.

But before I can give you the mechanics, I must explain a little recent

history.

I The idea of playing history pupil did not please Hitler, but he held a

fitful silence while Heydrich laid the foundations of his plan.

"Do you recall the communist takeover of Bavaria in 1919, my Fuhrer?

Specifically Munich?"

Hitler scowled. "I fought in it, you fool. With Hess at my side I

battled in the streets, and Hess with only his tattered old uniform for

clothing!"

"Of course, my Fuhrer!" Heydrich said quickly. "Yes ...

well, during the final Friekorps assault on the Hauptbanhof-where the

communists chose to make their final stand-we had a man inside the

building."

"We?" Hitler said disparagingly.

"The Friekorps, my Fuhrer."

"I thought the communists in the Hauptbanhof were wiped out to a man."

"The real communists were. It was a massacre. But one Friekorps spy-a

loyal young German who provided critical information during the

crisis-managed to escape. With Friekorps help, of course. His name was

Heimut Steuer, and he became known among the communists as the 'Survivor

of Munich. ' "

"And what has this Helmut got to do with your plan?"

"Everything. But these early details are important.9' Heydrich smoothed

his thinning blond hair. "After the Party began to assert itself in

Germany under your inspired leadership, it was decided in the interests

of security to infiltrate informers into the communist cadres of our

past and probable future enemies-England and France. The agents were

sent into whatever countries their language abilities suited them for.

It was a primitive program, but quite remarkable considering the state

of our security services at the time. A few men were sent to Paris, a

few to Marseilles. Those who had no second language stayed in Germany.

And a very few were sent to England. Four went to Manchester and Leeds

to work in the mills, three to the mines around Newcastle.

Helmut Steuer, however, was a unique case. He had a fair grasp of

French, but his real gift was English. He'd worked the Rhine packets on

the English runs for most of his life and spoke the language like a

London dockworker. With little else but a prayer, Helmut was sent to

London.

"Being something of a communist hero after Muhich, Helmut was welcomed

into the London cadres with open arms. They considered him a great

fugitive-a celebrity of sorts. He worked the docks for a few years,

always doing his bit for the Party, selling the Daily Worker like a good

Bolshevik, but never doing quite enough to bring the British police down

on him. He wasn't really much use to us at that point, but he was

ordered to stay- He had possibilities."

Heydrich felt himself coming into stride. He clearly had the Fuhrer's

attention now.

@n in 1936, Heimut did something crazy. He packed a suitcase and set

out for Spain with the English communists who went to fight in the

International Brigades. And stmgely enough! my Fain, that,s when he

became a real owt. He drove an ambulance for the RePublican lo@ all the

while passing information to FranCO's fascists and our Condor Legion. No

one knew why he was doing it-he hadn't been ordered to-but I believe

that he simply acted out of patriotism. He was a loyal German; he saw

the Reich supporting Franco; so he did what he could from the POsition

he was in.

,An excellent man!" Hitler cried. "Why have I not heard of him

before?" ,m not sure, my Famr," Heydrich said smugly. - Perhaps

Reichsfiihrer Himmler never considered Helmut's reports important enough

to bring to Your attention-"

"Ridiculous! I need men with initiative! Like the English commandos!

This Heimut sounds like just that type of man!"

"He is better than that, my Fuhrer. After the Spanish War, Helmut

returned to England in disfavor with the British government, but an even

greater hero to the British communists.

It was then that I suggested the idealwhich now makes Plan Mordred

possible."

Hitler's eyes glowed with anticipation.

"I instructed Helmut to organize his own group Of COMmunist activist"and

case d isolate them from the local Party cadres. You know the standard

communist procedure: they organize small groups called cells, which are

subordinate to various committees and finally the national party

executive. Anyway, Helmut did as I asked, and out of genius or by

accident he hit upon a remarkable ideaIn short order he welded together

a small, highly committed group of combat veterans, all rabid

communists, all of whom had been wounded either in the Great War or in

Spain."

Heydrich tilted his narrow head forward. "Can you imagine the value of

this group, my Fuhrer? While they appeared to be merely a handful of

the thousands of English patriots who'd barely survived the Great War,

in reality they were dedicated radicals, men so violently disillusioned

with their government that they would strike at its foundations whenever

they got the chance!"

Hitler sat spellbound; Heydrich breathed harder.

"Helmut started small. He reported the movements of the British Fleet

in and out of port, estimated factory capacities, things like that. But

I always believed the time would come when his group could do some real

damage." Heydrich held up his arms in admiration. "In Plan Mordred, my

Fuhrer, you have created the perfect opportunity to exploit their

special talents! Remember, these men are combat veterans trained by the

British Army!"

"And this Helmut," Hitler said, his voice tremulous, "you believe he can

talk these Englishmen into carrying out our will?"

"He already has," Heydrich said exuberantly. "In small ways, of course.

A bit of sabotage in the munitions factories, improper packing of ships

in London. But with the right cover story-" Hitler silenced Heydrich

with a stab of his right hand. I "Why haven't these men been recalled

to duty in the British Army?" I Heydrich faltered a little.

"When I said they were wounded, my Fuhrer, I meant it. In Helmut's

signals, he refers to his unit as the Verwunden Brigade-the Wounded

Brigade. One of the men has only one leg, another has but one hand.

One man is internally damaged. Helmut himself has only one eye.

He lost the other at Guemica."

Hitler's mouth fell open. "What! You speak of cripples?

A one-eyed man leading a rabble of cripples against the British security

services? How can they possibly do what is necessary to carry out your

plan!"

"They can do it," Heydrich said evenly. "Helmut is the most remarkable

agent I have ever come across. But you I pinpointed the problem with

your very first question, my Fuhrer. How do we get Helmut's Verwunden

Brigade to assassinate Churchill and the king at the place and time of

our choosing?"

"Just as I said!"

Heydrich's face assumed a surgeon's impassivity. "As I said before,

motivation is not a problem. These men believe that Churchill is

dragging the English working class into yet another worldwide slaughter

for capitalist greed. They've already proved their sympathies by

sabotaging the British war effort, albeit in small ways, and they

certainly have no moral compunction against killing. No, my Fuhrer, the

problem is one of authority. These men idolize Helmut, but Helmut alone

simply hasn't the authority to order an action on that arty execuscale.

Not even Britain's National Communist Party could order the

assassination of a head of state-much less two. An order like that must

originate"-Heydrich looked Hitler dead in the eye-"from Moscow."

"Then we are lost!" Hitler bellowed, leaping to his feet. "I told you

about my Rumanian oil fields! How can I possibly persuade Stalin to

mount an operation like this? That crafty old bear would immediately

guess our true intent!"

"You need not persuade Stalin of anything," said Heydrich. "I've solved

the problem already. That is what took me two months, my Fuhrer,

solving problems like this.

But I have the answers with me tonight. All of them."

,I'm tired of this game, Heydrich! Get to the point!"

The young SD chieftain nodded slowly. "MY Fuhrer, do you remember a

@Russian nwned ZinovievT' Hitler knitted his brow. 'The Bolshevik

leader of 1917?"

"No." Heydrich cracked a reptilian smile. "A Russian as opposite from

a Bolshevik as any man could be- He was captain in the Okhrana, the

tsar's secret POlice.@ Hitler tugged at his forelock. His eyes darted

around die ry here but at Heydrich. The fire had teahouse, looking eve

w died, but neither man noticed. Finally Hitler sat down again,

perching on the edge of the leather easy chair. "Proceed," he said.

As trim and hard as a rapier, Reinhard Heydrich stood before the most

powerful man on earth and outlined the plan that would place him first

in the line of succession to the black throne of the Nazi empire.

With each new revelation, his voice rose in excitement, and Hitler-,

spellbound, followed him up the scale.

"And the genius of the concept," Heydrich exulted, with the duill of

consummation, ,the -beauty of it, is that England will not simply be

neutralized, it will join us in our war against Russia! Think of it!

Paralyzed by grief, the British people will cry out to their new leaders

for guidance, and they will be told by those leaders-your men-to do

exactly what they so desire to do-take revenge on the godless enemy ! On

Russia, the cradle of assassins! And to do that they must reach out to

you! Barbarossa will become an Aryan crusade!"

Hitler's facial muscles had seized into an almost catatonic spasm.

His right hand shook as if from palsy. The genius of Heydrich's plan

had burst into his brain with the brilliance of a dying star. All his

life Hitler had fed upon the intellects of more timid men, seizing upon

their revolutionary ideas and charging forward without looking back.

Now-given Heydrich's plan like a gift from heaven itself-he reveled in

the knowledge that he would once again beat all the odds, once again

prove himself right and all his generals wrong!

This certainty coursed through his veins like a blast of morphine.

Visions of conquest flashed behind his eyes: the Kremlin, shattered and

smoldering in black ashes; tall young Germans tilling the great fields

of the Ukraine; German ships sailing forth from Odessa and Archangel "I

see it!" Hitler cried. "I see it all now!" @e' scurried around the

table like a human lightning rod attempting to discharge itself "It can

work! Churchill is going to die!"

"And the king!" Heydrich added euphorically. "My Fuhrer, Helmut

assures me that it can be done. Zinoviev is already preparing for the

mission!"

"My God," Hitler murmured, suddenly mortified. "How do you communicate

with Helmut?"

"I don't. It's always been a one-way conduit. "Because of that@'

"Yes?"

"I had to send a man into England with a message."

" What? "

"I take full responsibility, my Fuhrer. I felt that this mission was

simply too important to risk by using radio communications.

I trust no one. I never even contacted Lord Granville."

"And what if your messenger had been captured?"

"He wasn't."

"And what if he read your message, Herr Obergruppenfiihrer? What if he

decided to sell it to the highest bidder!"

"The message was in code," Heydrich replied evenly. "He simply

delivered an envelope and returned with a one-word answer: Ja."

.Hitler's voice went shrill with-paranoia. "And you think this courier

knows nothing? Can reveal nothing? What if he decides to sell his

knowledge now?"

"That would be impossible, my Fuhrer- I shot him myself, five minutes

after he delivered Helmut's reply."

Hitler said nothing for a long while. Putting his hand to his chin, he

looked out through one of the small-paned windows near the fireplace.

Outside, the snow had begun to fall again. "Remarkable," he murmured.

He took his walking stick from its resting place on the hearth and

turned back to Heydrich. "Let's return to the Berghof- 'we can talk on

the way back."

They walked through the darkness without speaking. The crunch of

Heydrich's boots on the hard-packed snow punctuated their progress

across the mountain. Now and then the howls of German shepherds

reverberated across the rocky slope. After twenty minutes they reached

the parking area.

Hitler fixed Heydrich with his dark gaze.

"Are you confident that Helmut's Englishmen can reach their targets,

Herr Obergruppenfiihrer? Can they kill both men on the tenth of May?"

"My Fuhrer," Heydrich said confidently, .1any man can be assassinated on

any day, if one critical condition is satisfied."

"What condition?"

"That the assassin be prepared to die in the doing of the deed."

Hitler's eyes narrowed. "And you believe these Englishmen will die for

Helmut?"

Heydrich blinked against the wind. "No. They will die for their lost

ideals. They will die for their gods-Leniii and Marx. For Moscow,

perhaps. But most of all, they will die believing they have delivered

their country from the clutches of ruthless oppressors who have held

England's poor-and half of the rest of the world's-in slavejy for a very

long time. They will die to become martyrs."

"Remarkable," Hitler said finally. "You seem to have considered every

possibility."

Heydrich nodded with formal correctness.

"I shall leave you here, Heydrich- Is there anything further you require

from me?"

,Yes," Heydrich answered without hesitation. "A diversion. if you

could possibly arrange some type of limited attack on England on May

tenth-a small commando attack on a Channel port, perhaps? A U-boat raid

near London?"

"I've already taken care of that," Hitler said. "Have no fear, your

assassins will have all the confusion they need. On the night of May

tenth, I shall unleash the most devastating air attack London has ever

known. And it will be the last raid against Great Britain. At least

until Russia has been conquered. Perhaps then He trailed off, his voice

soft and ruminative.

Heydrich licked his wind-burned lips. Unexpectedly, he had discovered

the courage to ask the question which had haunted him since the night

Hitler first gave him his assignment. "My Fuhrer?" he said

tentatively.

"Yes?"

"With all respect, you have not told me much about the political side of

the mission. To be quite frank, it worries me. The success of the

entire operation hinges on a single factor, and that factor is beyond my

control."

"What are you talking about?"

"My Fuhrer, again with all respect, do you have Englishmen ready to

assume control of the government when Churchill dies? When the king is

dead? My sources indicate-"

"That does not concern you!" Hitler jabbed a stiff finger into

Heydrich's chest. "You have Lord Grenville's name!

You know all you need to for now! Just make certain that your cripples

carry out their orders! Hess has the names. He will handle the

political side of the mission."

Too shocked to be afraid, Heydrich raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Reichminister Hess, my Fuhrer? But ... I was under the impression that

your confidence in him was waning. Both Goring and Himmler speak of him

a@' "Goring and Himmler? You should spend less time listening to gossip

and more time studying how the Party rose to the position it now holds!

Hess has done more for me than . . ."

Hitler shook his fist in the air. "Let me tell you something, Heydrich.

It took Hess just one month to do what you could not do in a year. Hess

rooted out the traitor in our midst. And that traitor is your own

boss-Himmler! Yesloyal Heinrich. Already he searches for ways to usurp

my power. And you, working right under his nose, you could not see it!"

Hitler's face suddenly darkened. "Or could you?"

Heydrich blanched. "No, my Fuhrer! I swear to you ...

What can I do to prove my loyalty? I shall arrest the Reichsfiihrer

myself!" r arr "Don't be ridiculous," Hitler s_offed"We cannot est the

head of the SS for treason. No, we shall rely on the safety mechanism

already in place."

Heydrich wiped his brow @with relief. His hand was shaking. "My Fuhrer,

a disturbing thought has occurred to me. It concerns the 'double'

program. If Reichsfiihrer Himmler is indeed a traitor, it is all the

more frightening. I think you should place all the doubles from the

Practical School under my direct command." ,What the devil are you

talking about, Heydrich?" Hitler scowled in confusion.

"My Fuhrer, consider this: if, God forbid, a traitor succeeded in having

you assassinated, the doubles could be of inestimable value to that

traitor in gaining the confidence of the people and the army- if the

traitor could present a trusted comrade of yours-Reichminister Hess, for

example-a true people Nazi who would stand at his side like an ally, the

might well accept the traitor's authority- Himmler is CeTtainly devious

enough to have worked this out."

This terrifying possibility seemed to shrink Hitler in his very clothes.

"I want every double shot immediately!" he cried. "Such a risk cannot

be tolerated!"

Heydrich replied very softly. "MY Fuhrer, perhaps YOu might reconsider?

Our political doubles represent a tremendous investment of time and

resources. I believe they will ar with Russia. You prove invaluable to

us in the coming w could remove the danger simply by placing them under

my direct command."

Hitler's black eyes bored relentlessly into Heydrich's face, probing for

disloyalty- After a full minute of silence, he said, ,Permission

granted." Then he added, "For now."

tar ri I tu an tried Heydrich s ed in surp se as Hit er med d hu uP the

frozen path. "MY Fuhrer!" he calledhastening up the slope after him.

"Nothing can stop us now! Failure is not a possibility!"

Hitler paused twenty meters from the Berghof- In a flat

6 pie d,

voice suddenly drained of anger, he said, "I am ase Heydrich.

When Barbarossa is completed, I shall not forget you. Once Russia's

vast lands lie under our control, I will need a man of iron to rule

her-a Reich-protector I can trustAre you that man, Heydrich?"

"As you command, my Fuhrer!"

Without a word Hitler turned and marched up the steps to the Berghof

Heydrich stood motionless in the snow. The promise of a

Reich-Protectorship made his heart pound, but a darker dread still ate

at his confidence. in the face of Hitler's wrath, he had quailed from

voicing his deepest doubt about Plan Mordred-his nagging suspicion that

the Fuhrer's English "sympathizers"-whoever they might be-were actually

I ure Germany into a for Britain nation, any human effort.

But w] it? The game had to be played sure that his part ran smoothly.

From this moment forward, Heydrich existed almost without sleep, without

food. The Fuhrer had extended the light of power to him, and he moved

through his days like he was sworn to a holy quest. His allies in that

quest were an embittered Russian expatriate, and ' a one-eyed German

agent living in the heart of beleaguered London. All @ lived only that

a fat English warrior and a shy English king might die.

In Hitler's small study on the second floor of the Berghof, Rudolf Hess

anxiously awaited his Fuhrer. Dressed in his gray uniform, he sat

behind a desk littered with architectural plans and sketches. Most of

the sketches were by Hitler; Hess recognized the cramped, untutored

style. The building plans, though, had been drafted by Albert Speer.

Stronglined and well-proportioned, the great avenue of the Fuhrer's new

Berlin stretched across the desk like a blueprint of the future.

The magnificent Imperial Palace, the Triumphal Arch that would dwarf the

one in Paris@l seemed the natural fruit of the labor of the new Reich, a

mighty city built to endure for a thousand years. Or so it see@ed on

those happier occasions when Hess had studied these plans in the past.

He would never look at them in quite the same way again.

The Party and the Reich that he had once viewed as a united force-an

unstoppable juggernaut destined for immortality-he now saw as a fragile

alliance of ambitious men held together only by their common fear of

Adolf Hitler. Since Hess's momentous meeting with the Fuhrer in

January, both Heinrich Himmler and Hermann Goring had deduced the real

reason for Hess's training flights. At Gestapo headquarters in Berlin,

Hess had conducted a conversation with Reichsfiihrer Himmler that could

only be described as a war of nerves.

The smell of treason had hung in the room like cordite. As the two men

spoke in measured tones, Hess had realized that Himmler's office was, in

every sense of the word, a battlefield. In the narrow confines of four

walls, words became bullets, names flashed like tracers, and the

silences were mined as lethally as the sands around Tobruk. Himmler had

claimed that the British would never make peace with Hitler, but might

make peace with Germany if he himself sat in the seat of power.

Then-as Hess's rage boiled over-Himmler had disguised his power grab by

claiming it would be a mere strategy to trick the British into making

peace. Hess had not been fooled. Behind Himmler's bland face and

pince-nez glasses, Hess had glimpsed a power lust more sickening than

the greed of any Jew. He had left the Prinz-Albrechtstrasse with no

doubt that Heinrich Himmler was a traitor. Goring had been very

different, if The conversation wi only in terms of style. Himmler had

begun his interrogation on an obscure pretext, and arrived at his main

point only after circumlocuting a veritable maze of half-truths and

theolike the fighter nes- Goring charged in with guns blazing, ace he

was. in substance, however, Goring's assessment of the British position

had been remarkably close to Himmler's-no peace with Germany, ever.

Unlike Himmler, though, the corpulent Luftwaffe chief had not suggested

treason. Hess recalled Goring's last words with grudging admiration: If

the Fuhrer wants to invade Russia now, it is our duty to stand by him to

the end, whether the reward be ambrosia or cyanide.

It's war now, Hess, war to the bloody end!

Yet Goring's opinion of Germany's future had been plain to see.

He had pronounced Hess's intended peace mission to England suicidal,

then declared that if HitIfr attacked Russia before finishing Britain,

all was lost. Hess thanked God that

nded on

the @iihrer was in good health. If the future depe men like Himmler and

Goring, the Fatherland was indeed lost.

"Rudi?" said a soft voice. e doorway of the Hess turned quickly.

Silhouetted in the study, Adolf Hitler stood watching him intently.

Hess tried to read the black eyes, but they were, as ever, inscrutable.

Regarding Hess from the door, Hitler felt a strange, almost paternal

sadness. Hess's broad shoulders, strong jaw, and high Aryan forehead

fanned the flames of pride in his breast. The resolute eyes looked back

at him with a frankness that seemed to say, "I am ready for anything!

Command and I shall obey!"

But was Hess ready for anything? Was he ready for Plan Mordred?

Explaining the operational details of the mission would be easy.

Hess would admire the plan for its boldness and intricacy. Technical

details fascinated him. But the rest"My Fuhrer," Hess said abruptly, "I

am curious about something. It's been two weeks since I informed you of

Reichsfiihrer Himmler's seditious conversation, yet nothing seems to

have been done. Are you delaying punishment for some reason?"

Hitler smiled wanly. "Remember the old proverb, Rudi?

Better the devil you know than the one you don't?"

"But Himmler could betray you at any moment!"

Hitler sighed. "Sooner or later, Rudi, he will probably try.

it is a delicate balancing act I perform. It has @en from the

beginning. It's the same for ill men of power. Churchill, Stalin,

Mussolini, Roosevelt-no one is immune. Himmler's SS is powerful, old

friend, too powerful to alienate or ignore. But it is also corrupt.

Himmler fears Heydrich-his subordinate-yet he thinks because Heydrich

has a little Jewish blood, he can be controlled by blackmail."

Hitler's eyes flickered like black stars. "Don't worry, Rudi, I have my

own controls over Reichsfiihrer Himmler. His personal adjutant happens

to be Heydrich's man, and Heydrich is my man. One word from me, night

or day, and Himmler dies.

But for the present-while he is useful-he lives."

Hess looked unconvinced.

"I expected it to be Goring," Hitler confided. "I always thought him

weaker than Himmler."

Hess nodded. "I must confess that I thought-I hoped@ the same thing. I

never liked Goring. He's a braggart . and a libertine. But he is also

loyal. For the time being, at least."

You're so straightforward, old friend, Hitler thought. Perhaps that is

why I trust you. Heydrich explained it all so well, made it seem so

easy and mechanical But in truth it isn't. The English fanatics who

will die afterfiring bullets into the brains of their leaders mean

nothing. They are ma chines, like tanks or rockets. But you, Hess, are

the closest thing to a friend I have left. How can I explain to you

that the same rules which apply to five communist fanatics also apply to

you? Yet somehow I must. For England must be neutralized.

Churchill must die.

And contrary to what Heydrich boasts, failure is always a possibility.

in the event-God forbid-that something does go wrong, my personal envoy

and confidant cannot be captured on British soil. For in your head you

carry the secrets of BarbarossaIf the "impossible" happens-if the

fanatics miss their targets, if they lose their nerve, if they're

caught, if the mission is blown and the great gamble is all for

nothing-my messenger will I have to die. You, Hess, will have to die.

And, quite simply, there will be no one there to kill you. No Reinhard

Heydrich-no steely-eyed SS officer sworn to shoot without question at my

order You will have to do it yourself. Can you do that, I wonder?

You once proclaimed to @a multitude that I, Adolf Hitler, was

GermanyWill You die for Germany, old friend? Will you die for me?

With his right hand on Hess's powerful shoulder, Hitler looked deeply

into the bright, worshipful eyes. "Rudi," he said softly, "there are

two possibilities One hour later Rudolf Hess rose and marched to the

door of the study. He turned and placed his right fist against his

heart. "My Fuhrer," he said, "to die for Germany is no more than we ask

of any soldier. In the most extreme circumstance I shall sacrifice

myself with an unfaltering heart. My only regret is for my wife and

son." Hess paused for a moment, too full of emotion to speak. "Yes,"

he said at leng , "even they would understandDeutschland fiber Alles:

these words are our creed."

Hess took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Do not let this

trouble you, my Fuhrer- We were never meant to fight the English, and

this is the solution Fate has provided us. You, Adolf Hitler, were sent

by God to free the world from the scourge of the Bolshevik and the Jew!

I believe that with all my heart. if my death were to bring our goal

one day closer, my life would not have been wasted. But I shall not

fail." Hess nodded solemnly. "I await your final orders.

Hell Hitler!" aliment. The Hitler felt a numbing jolt of profound lull

sight of Rudolf Hess, tall and resolute, his hard-muscled

right arm extended in the Nazi salute, moved him almost to tears.

This man, born to wear the German uniform, possessed a devotion far

deeper than loyalty, deeper than patriotism. As Hess turned and marched

through the study door, Adolf Hitler, his hands resting on the plans for

the world's youngest imperial city, realized that he had not asked the

ultimate sacrifice of his deputy or his friend-but his disciple.

B 0 0 K TWO TH AF d If ... the Jew conquers the nations of this world,

his crown will become the funeral wreath of humanity, and once again

this Janet, empty of mankind, will move p rough the ether as it did

thousands of years ago.

Eternal Nature inexorably revenges the transgressions of her laws,

Therefore, I believe today that I am acting in the sense of the Almighty

Creator-' BY warding off the Jews I am fighting for the Lord's work.

ADOLF HITLER, Mein KaMPf

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

2.04 A.m. Lufthansa Flight 417. South African Airspace

The German airliner shuddered against the increased drag of descent'

Hans Apfel took a deep breath and gripped the armrests tighter. The

announcement bell rang.

"Attention ladies and gentlemen," said a male voice.

"This is your captain speaking. We are now beginning our descent into

Jan Smuts International Airport. We expect to arrive on schedule.

The temperature is seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit in Johannesburg.

There's been no rain for two weeks, and none expected soon. We hope,

you enjoy your stay in South Africa, and we appreciate your flying

Lufthansa. Danke Schdn."

"Nice change," Hauer remarked.

"What?" said Hans.

"The weather."

"What?"

"It's summer here, Hans. No snow. We've hardly had a break for three

weeks in Berlin."

"Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about the exchange. Have you settled on

the plan yet?"

Hauer nodded. "With our limited resources, there's really only one

option. We've got to find some place that's really open, but with

plenty of concealment for me. An empty football stadium would be ideal.

I can hide in the standsthe high ground-while you make the exchange on

the field.

You'll have two jobs. The first is acting."

"Acting?"

Hauer nodded. "You're going to be holding a grenade, and you've got to

act like you'll blow everyone to hell if they don't hand Ilse over as

soon as they touch the papers."

"I won't have to act," Hans said.

"I'm afraid you will. it won't be a live grenade. We won't have access

to one. We'll buy an empty one at an army surplus shop. The grenade is

just a prop to speed things along.

We want Ilse in your hands ten seconds after you hand the papers over."

"And my second job?"

"Running. As soon as you get Ilse, you'll start walking toward

preplanned cover. The kidnappers will have no intention of letting you

escape alive, of course. When you hear the first shots, you run like

hell."

"What's your job?"

Hauer made a pistol with his thumb and forefinger. "Suppressing fire.

The second you get Ilse clear of my line of fire, I start knocking

people down. The first shot you hear will be mine. I'll take out the

men on the field, plus anyone they may have covering the exchange

location."

Hans studied Hauer's face. "Can you do that?"

"I won't lie to you. Two snipers would be better. But I'm still one of

the best rifle shots-in Germany. I can do it."

Hans stared out of the small window at the stars hanging-2

in the African darkness. "Have you used this plan before?"

Hauer smiled faintly. "I've seen it used. Ten years ago I saw

terrorists use it successfully against the Cologne police."

"Oh."

The Lufthansa jet leaned sixty-five degrees to starboard, banking for

final approach. Hans gripped the armrests of his seat and stared

straight ahead. Hauer watched him silently, wishing he could reassure

his son more. At least he had spared Hans what he himself knew: that

the terrorists who had used his hostage-exchange plan had escaped the

Cologne football stadium only to be blown to pieces in a train station

an hour later. Escaping an exchange point with Ilse might not be too

difficult; escaping from South Africa was another thing altogether.

Hauer laid his callused hand over Hans's and squeezed tightly.

"We'll get her, boy," he said softly.

Hans looked over at his father, fils jaw resolute. "I'm ready.

But there's something I can't get out of my mind.

Who cut the throat of that Afrikaner who attacked Professor Natten-nan?

Why did he do it? And where did he go? Did he just disappear?'3

Hauer's face darkened. He knew exactly why the unknown killer had cut

the Afrikaner's throat, and if Hans opened the foil packet in his inside

coat pocket, he would know too. The killer had escaped with three pages

of the Spandau diary. At Hauer's orders the packet had remained hidden

for the duration of the flight. But sooner or later, Hans would have to

be told the truth. Otherwise he would find it out for himself.

"Hans," he said, "I've got a feeling we may meet our elusive killer

sooner than you think."

2.2il A.M. El Al Flight 331: Over Tai Aviv, Israel

The El'Al 747 flew a lazy racetrack pattern over Ben-Gurion eet, Airport

at a comfortable twenty-eight thousand f One Of a dozen tiny blips on

the emerald air-traffic screens belowAn equipment malfunction on an

Eastern whisperedt on runway 3 had caused a delay, and until the men who

monitored the skies over Tel Aviv granted clearance, Professor Natterman

and his reticent Jewish companion would have to wait in the sky along

with two hundred and seventy other impatient travelers.

"What are these mysterious things we need to pick up?"

Natterman asked. "Weapons? Explosives?"

ess. "We will need weapStern looked out at the darkn them in South

ons," he murmured. "But we'll have to get Africa, not Israel. I

arranged it all from your cabin."

Natterman tried without success to ignore the acid stomach he had

developed during the flight from Hamburg. Combined with the stinging

pain radiating from his ripped pected delay almost nostril, the

indigestion made the unex unbearable. "Do you think they've arrived in

Pretoria yet?"

he asked.

Stern looked at his watch. "If they took the first flight out of

Frankfurt, they should be landing in Johannesburg right about now."

"God help them."

Stern grunted skeptically.

"I've been thinking about what you told me back in Frankfurt," Natterman

said. "About that Lord Granville character. The one who owns the

corporation called Phoenix AG. If Granville is English, and his company

is based in South Africa, why did you come to Berlin at all?"

"That's a good question, Professor. But the answer is complicated, and

for now at least, private' "

"If you're not going to tell me anything," Natterman grumbled, "why did

you bring me along in the first place?

A man like you doesn't do things without a very good reason."

"That's true, Professor," Stern said. "I brought you with me for two

reasons. One is that you may be able to provide historical information

that might help me. I know you're bursting at the seams to tell me your

theories about Rudolf Hess, and there is some of it I need to hear. But

first, let me explain how this is going to work. You want information

about what I think is going on in South Africa. Fair enough.

But you are going to have to earn it. You will answer my questions

about the Hess case now; then I will decide how much information to give

you in return. If you tell me things I do not already know, I'll reward

you in kind. But this is the only time we will discuss Rudolf Hess. Do

you agree?"

Natterman sat without speaking for nearly a minute. Then he cleared his

throat and said, "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about Hess and the British. Was there a pro-Nazi clique high

in the British government in 1941?"

Natterman folded his hands together on his lap. "It's very complicated,

Stern."

"I think I can stay with you, Herr Einstein."

"All right, then. Yes, there was a group of Nazi appeasers-very highly

placed-who wanted to make a deal with Hitler. That's been proved. Or

at least it's being proved, by an Oxford academic. The question is, was

that group sincere? Do you follow me, Stern? Were the members of this

group English fascists who loved the swastika? Or simply war profiteers

out for all the gold they could get? Were they paranoid anticommunists

who wanted peace at any price so that Hitler would be free to crush

Russia? Or d here's the rub-were they patriotic Englishmen leading

Hitler by the nose until it was too late for him to invade England?

Do you see my point about complexity?"

Stern waved his hand.

"And if they were genuinely pro-Nazi," Natterman went on, "were they

truly operating in secret? Or was British Intelligerice aware of them

all along? After all, what better stalling ploy could mI-5 have come up

with than to a real traitors to lead Hitler on-letting him think he

could neutralize England without an invasion-until he could no longer

wait to attack Russia? Remember, these 'traitors' weren't the class of

people one likes to arrest for treasonWe're talking about the backbone

of British government and industry. What if mI-5 decided to use these

blue-blooded turncoats while they could, and then slap them on their

noble wrists when it was all over? Are you with me, Stern?"

"I'm ahead of you, ProfessOr- What if the top officers Of British

Intelligence-expecting a few closet Reds from Oxford-were virulent

anticommunists? Brothers-in-spirit with your alleged aristocratic,

pro-Hitler clique? What if for strictly pragmatic reasons British

Intelligence wanted to do a deal with Hitler, thereby freeing him to

crush Stalin? Or ... British Intelligence could have been ordered to

explore such a deal. In that case the impetus to make peace with Hitler

would have originated at the highest level of British government.

And I mean the very top. Excluding Churchill, Of course. But including

the- monarchy." Stern winked at Natterman. "Are you with me,

Professor?"

Natterman gave him a black look. "You should have been a historian,

damn you. You've struck the main pillar of my thesis-the Duke of

Windsor British Intelligence has been helping to conceal Windsor's

shadowy past for years. All records of the duke's wartime activities

are sealed forever by order of Her Majesty's government.

Yet in spite of that, there's a growing body of hard evidence linking

Windsor to the Nazis. It's almost certain that in 1940 the duke met

Hess secretly in Lisbon to try to reach an acconunodation with Hitler

that would put him back on the throne. Windsor was the archetype of the

privileged, Russophobic, Jew-hating British admirer of Hitler. And I'm

sure you're aware of the fact that many informed sources believe British

Intelligence murdered Number Seven in Spandau last month."

"Yes. But I have my doubts about that. I'm not sure that in this day

and age the British would kill over the reputation of the royal family.

it's tarnished enough already."

"If Windsor were merely the tip of an iceberg," Natterman mused, "they

might. Many historians believe that Lord Halifax, the British foreign

secretary during the war, and possibly as many as forty ranking members

of Parliament continued to try to make a deal with Hitler long after

Churchill declared: 'We shall never surrender!' I doubt if the most

revered families in England would care to have their names linked to

Adolf Hitler after all these years. And no Englishman in his right mind

wants Churchill's 'their finest hour' myth stained. Think about it,

Stern. Neville Chamberlain is excoriated today, and he was merely an

appeaser.

Men who sought to accommodate Hitler after the Battle of Britain would

be branded collaborators." Natterman looked thoughtful. "You know, I'd

be surprised if some of those noble English family trees haven't spread

quite a few branches into South Africa."

"Branches," Stern muttered. "It's roots I'm interested in, Professor.

And not the roots of the past, either. I mean the roots of conspiracy

in the present. The here and now. That's where the threat to Israel

is."

Natterman's eyelids lowered in meditation. "I don't know about any

threat to Israel," he said, "but I think I've earned some information,

Stern."

The Israeli shook his head slowly. "Professor, what you have told me

thus far is available in libraries. I want your analysis. Amaze me

with the fruits of your years of scholarship!"

Natterman looked up at Stern, his lips pale with anger. "If you know so

much, why don't you finish this conversation alone?"

When Stern didn't respond, Natterman said, "All right, I'll give you

something. But you'd better be prepared to pay me back in kind."

"Ask and it shall be given, Professor."

"That's the New Testament, Stern."

"You were saying?"

Natterman actually blushed as he whispered his next words. "What I am

about to tell you, Stern, I learned by ...

by rather dubious means."

Stern's eyes flickered interest.

"As I told you, several historians are currently working on the Hess

mystery. Two of them are at Oxford University.

You may not know this, Stern, but history is a very competitive field.

In the top rank anyway. And it pays to know all you can about your

competition."

"Are you telling me that you have your own spies, Professor?"

A

SPANDAU PHOENIX Natterman averted his eyes. "I prefer to call them 'g4

friends.' The Israeli chuckled. "Naturally."

"One of these friends," said Natterman, "managed to get a very close

look at the Hess research going on at Oxford.

It seems that there's a very mysterious fellow who figures in the Hess

case. A heretofore unheard of fellow, who seems to have done some

particularly nasty mischief on the night of May tenth 1941. In the

Oxford draft papers he is referred to as Helmut, but@' "Another German

in England on "Helmut?" Stern sat uP.

that night?" Natterman smiled cagily. "The Oxford draft research

indicates that. However, I belive that 'Helmut' is simply a code

name-a, device that the Oxford historians are using to mask this

person's real identity. Never in my own research have I found anyone

named Helmut associated with the Hess case in any way."

"You're not telling me you think 'Helmut' is a code name for the real

Hess?"

Natterman smiled triumphantly. "In the Oxford papers 'Helmut' is

referred to as having had one particularly distinguishing

characteristic, Stern. I think it will interest YOU."

"Well?"

"He had only one eye."

Stern looked surprised, then thoughtful. "That might tie in with our

tattoo," he allowed. "But I shouldn't think you'd be too happy about

it, since Rudolf Hess had two perfectly good eyes."

Natterman raised a long forefinger. "He did as of May tenth 1941.

But if Hess survived that night-as I believe he did-he had plenty of

time left to lose an eye. He might even have lost it on the very night

of his flight!"

"You should be writing movies, Professor. Do you know how many men lost

eyes in the Second world War? Do you plan to scour all Africa for a

one-eyed man, in the hope he will lead you to your fantasy Nazi?"

"We'll see how fanciful I am," Natterman muttered.

"Why couldn't there have been a German named Helmut in England on that

night in May?" asked Stern.

"There could have been," Natterman admitted. "But there wasn't.

So-have I earned your half of the story?"

"Yes, Professor, I think you have. Just one more question, though. Were

there any Russians involved in the Hess case, as far as you know?"

"Russians?" Natterman was silent. "In Hess's original mission?

None that I know of. But I'll certainly think about it."

"Please do that. And please remember our deal when we get on the

ground. No fairy stories about Rudolf Hess in front of anyone. Talk

like that can make some Jews very upset."

Natterman nodded solemnly.

"Attention ladies and gentlemen, " demanded the loudspeaker.

"Please take your seats. We have been cleared for approach to

Ben-Gurion Airport."

A collective sigh of relief went up throughout the plane.

Stern chuckled and touched Natterman's sleeve. "I'm afraid my

contribution to this epic will have to wait for the second leg of our

journey."

Natterman studied the Israeli's tanned, angular face. "You said

information was the first reason you brought me with you, Stern. What

was the secondt' Stern looked away from the professor. When he looked

back, his eyes were dark and hara. "Phoenix kidnapped your

granddaughter, Professor. You are her closest blood relative.

That makes you my direct line into Phoenix. I'm not sure how yet, but I

think you might just be my best weapon against them."

Natterman leaned thoughtfully back in his seat as the pilot stretched

his holding pattern into a smooth approach and made a flawless landing

on the main runway. A security gate with metal-detection and X-ray

equipment awaited the deplaning passengers at the end of a long passage,

but when Stern presented his wallet to the senior security officer, he

and Natterman were waved throup-h.

"That's no small trick in this @o-untry," Natterman said.

"Is it, Stern? What exactly did you do for a living before you

retired?"

Stern didn't answer. He was searching the concourse for something or

someone he apparently expected to find waiting.

"You must be with the Mossad," Natterman guessed.

"That's it, isn't it?"

Stern kept watching the crowd. "I go back a lot further than the

Mossad, Professor. You should know that."

"Yes, but it's something similar, I'll bet. Something c unsavory."

"Gadi!" Stern cried.

Suddenly the Israeli was moving across the concourse at great speed, not

running, but taking long strides that seemed to swallow distance

effortlessly. Natterman tried to pick out Stern's objective but

couldn't, until he reappeared out of the milling crowd with one arm

draped affectionately around a dark young man of about twenty-five.

"Professor Natterman," Stern said, "meet Gadi Abrams, my great-nephew."

"My pleasure, Herr professor," said the young man graciously, extending

a sun-browned hand.

"Guten Abend, " said Natterman, turning to Stern. "Is this one of the

'packages' we stopped to pick up?"

,Yes, Professor, one of three."

Two smiling young men appeared from behind Gadi Abrams. They extended

dark-tanned hands to Natterman, nodded politely, then embraced Stern as

if they hadn't seen the older man for many months.

"Aaron," said Stern, ',yosef-this is Professor Natterman of the Free

university of Berlin."

The young men nodded courteously, but said nothing.

Both appeared to be about Gadi's age, if not younger, and both carried

canvas OVERNIGHT bags. Stern began walking down the concourse toward a

row of expensive restaurants, talking quietly to his nephew as he moved.

Natterman tried to keep close enough to the pair to overhear their

conversation. Aaron and Yosef padded along behind at a discreet

distance. Stern finally turned into a restaurant styled after a French

cafe-the only One open at this hour. He waved away a bald waiter who

started toward them with a sheaf of menus.

"What about the plane, Gadi?" he asked in Hebrew. "How long?"

"You won't believe this, Uncle, but a fliiht leaves for Johannesburg in

ninety minutes."

" 'Siz bashert, " Stern breathed. "it is meant to be. Nonstop?"

"One stopover. Athens."

"Good enough." rpri ki ht to "You don't seem su sed, Uncle. Luc ng

into a flig

South Africa on,such short notice? I couldn't believe it."

"It wasn't luck, Gadi. I called an old friend of mine in the air force

and requested a bit of creative rescheduling."

"You're kidding. They can do that?"

"I really wasn't sure. My faith in mankind is renewed."

Gadi laughed infectiously. "It's very good to se@ you again, Uncle.

Traveling first class, as usual?"

Professor Natterman could contain himself no longer. As far as he was

concerned, the conversation had taken a sudden turn into outer space.

"Stern, " he interrupted. "Would you please tell me why we are sitting

here in this godforsaken airport while my granddaughter is in mortal

danger in South Africa?"

Stern switched back to German. "Professor, your manners leave quite a

bit to be desired. However, I do appreciate your motive. In ninety

minutes we board an El Al flight to Johannesburg, from whence we shall

begin our search for your granddaughter. We are only one day behind

Hauer and Apfel, and we know the time and location of their rendezvous

with the kidnappers. The Burgerspark Hotel at eight tomorrow night,

remember? And remember this also: that our interests happen to coincide

is for you a lucky twist of fate.

For me that remains to be seen."

The Israeli's words infuriated Natterman, but since he imew Stern could

simply abandon him in the airport, he decided to remain silent.

"Now," said Stern, "I suggest we all have something to eat. I expect

everyone to sleep during the flight. Once we land in South Africa, we

won't have much time for it." He summoned the waiter with a flick of

his eyes. Everyone took one of the flimsy paper menus.

"Cheer up, Professor," Stern said. "You and Gadi should have quite a

lot to talk about. He took his degree in history just last year."

"Really?" said Natterman. "He looks more like a soldier than a scholar

to me."

Gadi stiffened.

"You have a good eye, Professor," Stern said, gending his nephew with a

quick glance. "You may prove to be more Of an asset than I thought."

Four tables away sat an expensively dressed woman with blue-rinsed hair.

She looked dun for her age-which could have been anywhere between fifty

and sixty-and she was obviously not an Israeli. A Louis Vuitton handbag

lay or table.

Beside it stood a glass -of orange juice. When the waiter inquired if

the woman would like to order some food, she politely declined. Her

voice was pitched low, but the waiter thought it very pleasant. In the

babel of the Mideast, there was nothing like a crisp British accent to

tickle the ear.

When the woman smiled, the waiter thought the smile was for him, but he

was wrong. It was for Jonas Stern.

Swallow had acquired her target.

225 A.M. Jon Smuts Airpoll, Johannesbarg

The taxi was a small, clapped-out Ford. It stood out sharply from the

short line of Rovers and Mazdas, which were mostly new and owned by the

same two taxi companies.

Hauer chose a taxi over the shuttle bus because he wanted speed and

privacy. The forty-mile taxi ride to Pretoria would be outrageously

expensive, but money was the least of their worries. He chose the old

Ford because he wanted a driver with some character-an entrepreneur.

"English?" the driver asked with a strong Indian accent.

"Swiss," Hauer replied.

The driver switched to a strange but fluent German. Oddly enough, the

Teutonic consonants did not prevent the dark ypung man from speaking

with the singsong inflection of his native country. "And where do you

wish to go?" he crooned.

"You speak German?" Hauer said, surprised.

"Most happily, yes. Taught to me by a cousin on my mother's side.

His father was a houseboy to the German ambassador in New Delhi.

He knew the language well and I picked it up quite easily when they

moved back to Calcutta.

I pick up all languages easily. A wonderful aid in my humble profession

. .

Hans sank back into the Ford's rear seat and listened to the Indian's

spiel, luxuriating in the stability of the automobile.

"Listen," Hauer said, breaking the Indian's flow, "we need to get to

Pretoria. My son and I are stockbrokers.

We've come to South Africa to do a little business, but also to have a

little fun, you understand?"

"Most certainly, sir," said the driver, sensing the possibility of a

generous tip.

"For this reason we'd like you to take us to a somewhat cheaper

establishment than you might expect-a fleabag, one might say."

"I understand perfectly, sir," the driver assured him, appraising Hauer

in the rearview mirror.

"Then drive," said Hauer. "And keep your eyes on the road."

The Ford jumped to life and joined the stream of taxis moving out of the

airport like a line of beetles.

"Salil is my name," the Indian sang out. "At your service."

Hauer said nothing.

"Sir?" Salil tried again.

"What is it?"

"I believe I understand your requirements perfectly. But might I

suggest that for gentlemen such as yourselves, a fleabag-as you so

accurately call it-might be just the type of place where you are most

quickly noticed? Why not one of the higher-priced hotels? If you have

the money, of course. You would blend right in, and no one would think

of asking questions. Privacy is at a premium in such places."

Hauer considered this. "Any suggestions?" he asked, liking the idea

better the more -he thought about it.

"The Burgerspark is an excellent hotel."

Hans jumped as if struck physically.

"Where else?" Hauer asked quickly.

"The Flfotea Hof is also a fine hotel, sir." Salil glanced furtively at

his rearview mirror.

"The Protea Hof it is."

While the taxi sped northward, Hauer peered out at the ultramodern

skyline of Johannesburg, the City of Gold. Dozens of brightly lit

skyscrapers towered above a dense network of elevated freeways.

Compared to this futuristic metropolis West Berlin looked like a sooty

hand-me-down.

South Africa looked nothing like what Hauer had expected.

Already he sensed the change in altitude, the huge expanses of space

around him.

"Sir?" Salil said, catching Hauer's eye in the rearview mirror.

"Yes?"

"Would you be interested to know that someone is following us?"

Hauer clutched Hans's shoulder to keep him from turning. "Any idea who

it might be?" he asked calmly.

"Yes, sir. I believe they are British agents. They've been with us

since the airport."

Hauer heard a sharp intake of breath as Hans slid down in his seat. "And

how would you know that?" he asked.

"I saw many British agents in India," Salil explained.

"I've seen that car at the airport many times before. The young man

driving it, though, I have not."

Hauer rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. Hans tried to turn around,

but Hauer restrained him. "I've changed my mind, driver," he said.

"We'll check into the Burgerspark after all."

"Very good, sir."

Hans opened his mouth to protest, but Hauer whispered: "There's already

a room there in your name. We might as well let the kidnappers think

you're really staying there.

"Driver?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Could you lose that car after we check into the Burgerspark? I'd make

it worth your trouble."

"Certainly, sir!" the Indian replied, foreseeing a very good tip

indeed. "You are in most excellent hands!"

'The taxi climbed from the airport road onto the northbound side of

Highway 21-the left side of the road, Hauer noticed, as in England-where

a few lorries rumbled languidly toward Pretoria. Hauer wondered what he

and Hans would find in the capital city. Had Ilse Apfel really been

brought there? Or did she still wait somewhere back in snowbound

Berlin? Was she still alive? The professional in Hauer doubted it, but

some deeper part of him still held out hope. For Hans's sake, he

supposed. He flattened his palm against the taxi's window and felt the

heat. Strange, this sudden change of seasons, he thought. But he liked

it. He felt good, and he knew he would feel even better once he'd met

the enemy face to face.

"Thirty minutes to Pretoria, sir," Salil sang out.

"No hurry," Hauer lied, watching Hans carefully. "No hurry at all."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

2.'45 A.m. The Northern Transvaal.

The Republic of South Africa Ilse awakened slowly, like a diver fighting

to the surface of a deep black lake. Finally aware, she found herself

in a bed, tucked beneath cotton bedcovers. She was naked.

Tacky residue from the tape that had bound her on the jet made the

sheets stick to her skin. She tried to remember how she had lost her

clothes, but could not. Her eyes darted around the room. The bedroom

was sparsely but expensively furnished: an antique bureau, a chair, an

end table, and the bed. No windows, just two doors-one half-open and

leading to a bathroom, the other closed. No telephone. Nothing offered

any clue as to where she was or what lay beyond the four walls.

Wrapping the blanket tight around her, she climbed out of the bed and

tried the closed door. It was locked. A moment later she found the

note. It lay on the teak bureau, weighted by a silver hand mirror.

Written in German on a small white card were the words: Frau Apfel,

Welcome to Horn House. Please make Yourself presentable. All will be

made clear at dinner Alfred Horn When Ilse saw her face reflected in the

hand mirror, she put a quivering finger to her cheek.

Her fine blond hair hung in lank, dirty strands, and her usually

luminous eyes looked gray and opaque beneath swollen lids. The shock of

seeing herself in such a state drove her into the adjoining bathroom.

Standing before a long mirror, she dropped the blanket from her

shoulders and saw the welts left by the tape. Her neck, wrists, and

ankles bore the angry red marks. Sudden panic wriggled in her chest;

gooseflesh rose like quills on her arms and thighs. There were other

marks too: deep blue bruises mottling her breasts and thighs. they

reminded Ilse of the times when she and Hans had made love mo rougmy,

except ... this was different somehow. She looked as though she had

been fighting someone. Had she-?

Oh God, she thought wildly, suddenly remembering. The lieutenant!

The arrogant animal who had exposed himself to her on the plane!

He had drugged her! Ilse remembered the needle lancing into her

immobilized arm. The possibility that she had been raped while

unconscious hit her in a hot, nauseous wave. Barely able to keep her

balance, she stumbled into the shower and cranked on the hot water until

it @early scalded. She scrubbed her skin raw while the steaming spray

obliterated her tears. Where was she? She had been airborne for a long

time, she knew that. Her entire body ached. she felt as though she had

slept thirty hours Or more. She vaguely remembered the plane touching

down-a jarring bump followed by murmured voices She did not

understand-but it had lifted off again and she'd slipped back into a

black void.

Rather than feel the hot water drain away slowly, Ilse shut it off

altogether and let the frigid spray shock her back to reality. She

screamed once, twice, but endured the icy torrent until her head pounded

from the cold. Shutting it off at last, she wrapped one towel around

her waist and used another to dry her hair.

In the bureau drawer she found some lotion, which she applied liberally

to her swollen wrists and ankles. The air in the bedroom felt strangely

warm. She let the towel fall and reached for her clothes, then with a

start remembered that she had none. As she bent to retrieve her towel,

she caught her reflection in a dressing mirror.

Straightening up, she stared at her belly, drawn taut and flat from lack

of food.

With her forefinger she traced a line from her pubic triangle to her

navel. How long? she wondered. How long before You begin to show,

little one? A sftwge serenity slOwlY warmed Ilse,s heart. In spite of

the desperate situation, she felt a powerful conviction that she had but

one obligation now-to survive. Not for herself, but for her child. And

with this realization came a resolution: no matter what horrors or indig

nines she might face in the next hours or days, she would not act in any

way that might cause her harm. Not even she wanted to die.

Because harm done to her would be harm done to her baby, and that was

simply unacceptable. She still felt nauseated, which was surprising

because so far she had not experienced any morning sickness.

Then with a shiver she again recalled the needle on the plane. Oh no,

she thought dizzily, her mouth suddenly dry. Could the drug have hurt

my baby-?

Without warning, the bedroom door banged open. Ilse froze in terror.

Looming in the doorway stood a black woman who appeared to be at least

six feet tall. She could have been thirty or sixty; her ebony skin was

smooth, but her deep eyes glowed like ancient onyx stones.

"Madam will dress," she said in stilted German. She stepped forward and

set a soft bundle on the edge of the bed.

Ilse recognized the bundle as her clothes. They had been washed and

neatly folded. "Where am I?" she asked. "What day is this?"

"Madam will dress, please," the woman repeated in a deep, resonant

voice. She pointed to the small end table by, the bed. "It is nearly

three of the clock. I come in one quarter of the hour. Dinner then."

Before Ilse could speak again, the giant black woman, f@ slipped out and

shut the door. Ilse sprang forward, but the doorknob would not turn.

Alone again, she fought back another wave of tears and reached for her

clothes.

Alfred Horn sat in his wheelchair in the study, his hunched back to a

low fire. He watched his Afrikaner security chief put down a red

telephone. "Well, Pieter?"

"Linah says Frau Apfel is awake now, sir."

"She slept so long," Horn said worriedly. "I don't mind waiting dinner,

of course, even until three in the morning.

But it seems very odd."

Pieter Smuts sighed wearily. "Sir, do you really think you have time to

dally with this young girl?"

"Pieter, Pieter," Horn admonished. "-It's much more than that. I don't

expect you to understand, but it's been years since I dined with a real

German.

And a Frau at me this indulgence."

Smuts looked unconvinced.

"What is she like, Pieter? Tell me.

"She's quite young. Early twenties, I'd guess. And bea tiful, I must

admit. Tall and slender with fair skin."

"Her hair?"

"Blond."

"Eyes?"

Smuts hesitated for an instant. "I didn't see her eyes, sir.

She was unconscious when she arrived."

"Unconscious?" Horn asked sharply"I'm afraid so."

"But I instructed that no drugs of any kind be used."

"Yes, sir. I'm afraid Frau Apfel arrived in rather poor condition, sir.

She had bruises about her legs and torso. I ordered the doctor to

examine her. She wasn't sexually molested, but he thinks the police

lieutenant who accompanied her from Berlin probably used an intravenous

barbiturate to quiet her."

Quivering with rage, Horn wheeled around to face the fire. "Can no one

follow orders!" he screeched. "Where is the swine?"

Smuts heard the old man wheezing, as if unable to get enou h oxygen.

"Hq's in one of the basement cells, sir. Do you have a particular

punishment in mind?"

Horn did not reply, but when he finally@ turned back around, his

distorted face had regained its composure. "All in good time," he

mumbled. "Help me, Pieter."

Smuts moved behind the wheelchair, but the old man -shook his head

impatiently. "No, come around front."

"Beg your pardon, sir?"

."Help me up," Horn demanded.

"Up, sir?"

"Do it!"

Smuts bent slightly and with slim but powerful arms drew the old man

bodily out of the chair. "Are you sure, sir?" he @Absolutely," Horn

croaked, trying to subdue the pain in ruined leg joints. "The Jungfrau

will see me as a natural n before she sees me as ... an invalid. Even

after these it two years, Pieter, I still can't accept it. That 1, once

a mfior athlete, should be reduced to this. It's obscene."

'It comes to all of us, sir," Smuts commiserated.

that's no comfort. None at all. Is dinner ready?"

"When you are, sir."

Horn's dun legs trembled. "Let's go, then."

"Take my arm, sir."

"Only to the hallway, Pieter. Then I'm on my own."

Smuts nodded. He knew the old man was in great pain, but he also knew

that if Alfred Horn meant to walk to the dining room under his own

power, nothing would stop him.

Seated in the huge dining room, Ilse tried desperately to conceal the

panic that knotted her stomach. She sensed the presence of the tall

black woman behind her, watching.

Fighting the urge to turn, she concentrated on the spectacular table.

She had never seen such splendor gathered in one place before:

Hutschenreuther china rimmed with eighteenkarat gold; fine lead crystal

from Dresden; antique silver from Augsburg. The fact that each piece

was of German manufacture reassured her. On the plane she had worried

that her captors might take her out of the country; now she felt Hans

could not be too far away. As she stared up into a sparkling

chandelier, Alfi-ed Horn appeared in the doorway and strode with slow

dignity to the head of the table.

"Guten Abend, Frau Apfel," he said, inclining his white-haired head with

courtly grace.

Ilse's heart leaped. The moment she saw the frail old man, she knew

that he had the power to free her. In spite of Horn's advanced age, his

gaze burned with an intensity Ilse had seen in very few men during her

life. She stamd to her feet, but the strong hands of the Bantu woman

pressed her firmly back into her seat.

Struggling to silence the screams of his arthrific knees, Alfred Horn

seated himself. "Please," he said, "do me the honor of sharing my table

before we discuss any details of this awkward situation. There will be

no chains or rubber hoses here. You might even find this to be an

enjoyable evening, if you but allow yourself to. Sit, Pieter."

Smuts took the nearest chair to Horn's left.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the old man said. "I am Alfred Horn,

master of this house. The man across the table from you is my security

chief, Pieter Smuts." Horn frowned at a large wooden clock hanging over

the buffet to his right' "And any moment now," he added, "we should be

joined by a young man wh@' A sudden flurry of footsteps in the hall

heralded the arrival of the tardy guest, a young man who hurried in and

took the seat next to Ilse without a word. He looked to be about Hans's

age, perhaps a couple of years older. His ne was short and thick, his

head a size too large-indeed all is features seemed a little

oversized-and his sandy hair, though freshly combed, was wet. Beneath

his sunburned nose, Ilse noticed something she saw all too often at

parties in Berlin, the gleam of clear mucus that often betrayed the

recent use of cocaine.

"You're late," Horn complained.

"Sorry," said the young man without a trace of apology.

"There's a late rerun of the Open on the telly." He appraised Ilse with

undisguised relish. "Who's this little plum, Alfred?"

"Frau Apfel," said Horn, annoyed, "may I introduce Lord Grenville9

He's English, if you haven't surmised that already."

"How do you do, milady?" the young man asked too courteously, and

offered his hand.

Ilse ignored it, keeping her eyes fixed on the white-haired man at the

head of the table.

Horn's eyes twinkled. "Frau Apfel is not favorably impressed," he

observed. Noticing Ilse's look of uneasiness, he softened his tone.

"Linah-the Bantu woman behind youremains only to bring us anything we

require from the kitchen. Ask for whatever you like."

Ilse swallowed. "Do you mean I'm free to leave if I wish?"

Horn looked uncomfortable. "Not exactly, no. But you do have the run

of the house and grounds-with certain restrictions. I think you'll find

that out here on the veld, there isn't much of anywhere to go.

Not without an airplane, in any case."

While Ilse pondered the word veld, Horn began to eat his salad.

Linah lifted the covers off large dishes of split-pea soup, red cabbage,

and dark pumpernickel bread-all classic German fare. A huge roast ham

sat at center-table, but Horn ignored it. He talked between healthy

bites @f the cabbage, acting more like a patriarch presiding over a

gathering of distant relatives than a kidnapper toying with his hostage.

"You know," he said, his mouth full, "I've tried to adapt myself to

African cuisine-if one ventures to call it suchbut it simply doesn't

compare to German food. Robust enough, of course, but terribly bland.

Pieter loves the stuff.

But then, he was raised on, it."

Africa ... ? Fighting the urge to bolt from the table, Ilse remembered

her vow to behave as unprovocatively as possible. "So you're originally

from Germany, then?" she stammered.

"Yes," Horn replied. "I'm something of an expatriate."

"Do you go back often?"

Horn stiffened for an instant, then resumed eating. "No," he said

finally. "Never."

My God, she thought, her face hot. Africa! No wonder it feels so warm

here. As Horn glanced around the table, Ilse realized that only one of

the old man's eyes moved. The other remained fixed in whatever

direction Horn's head faced. As she stared, she noticed faint scarring

around the eye, stippled skin shaped in a rough five-pointed star.

With a chill she forced herself to look away, but not before Horn caught

her staring. He smiled understandingly.

"An old battle wound," he explained.

Lord Granville forked a huge slab of ham onto his plate.

"And what does a beautiful woman like you do in the Rhineland?"

he asked, grinning.

"I believe the young lady works for a brokerage firm," Horn INTERJECTED.

Suddenly the double doors behind Horn bumped open. A young black man

entered with a wheeled cart and took away the used dishes. A servant

girl followed with another cart that bore an antique Russian samovar

filled with steaming tea. She poured a brimming cup for Horn; Smuts,

Granville, and Ilse declined.

"I suppose you're wondering exactly where you are," Horn said.

"You are now in the Republic of South Africa, and unless you neither

watch television nor read the newspapers, I'm sure you know where that

is."

Ilse clutched the tablecloth as her stomach rolled. "As a matter of

fact," she said hoarsely, "my company maintained close ties with a

South- African FIRM before we ceased speculation in the Rand."

"You know something about our country, then?" Smuts asked.

"A little. What one sees on the news paints a pretty bleak picture."

"For some," Smuts said. "Not half as bad as they make out, though."

"I think what Pieter means," Horn said smoothly, "is that ... racial

problems in any society are always more complex than they appear to an

outsider. Look at the Asian question the White Russians must soon face.

In twenty years the Soviet Union will be over forty percent Islam. Think

of it! Look at America. For all their bluster about equality, the

Americans have seen abuses as bad as those anywhere. In South Africa,

Frau Apfel, prejudice does not wear a mask.

And no one will forgive us for that. Because South Africa admits

something that the rest of the world would prefer to hide, the world

hates us."

"Do you think that's an excuse?"

"We're not looking for excuses," Smuts muttered.

"Simply an observation," Horn said, glaring at Smuts.

"Isn't this bloody marvelous," Lord Granville crowed.

"Two Germans and a bloody Afrikaner debating the finer points of race

relations! It's really too much." He poured himself a second brandy

from a bottle he had claimed as his own.

"You think England's any better?'-, Smuts snapped. "All you've ever

seen of it is public schools and polo fields, you@' "Pieter," Horn cut

in. He turned to Ilse. "Herr Smuts is what the Americans call a

self-made man, my dear. He views the aristocracy as something of an

obsolete class."

"That's one view I sympathize with."

The Afrikaner inclined his head respectfully, his smoking gaze still on

the Englishman.

"Actually," said Horn, "even the South Africans shrink from truly

effective measures in the race question."

"Effective measures?"

"State-sponsored sterilization, my dear. It's the only answer.

We can't expect kaffirs or Mohammedan savages to regulate their own.

breeding habits. One might as well expect the same of cattle.

No, the government health services should simply sterilize each black

female after the birth of her first child. An entire spectrum of

problems would disappear within a single generation."

While Ilse stared in astonishment; Horn signaled to the stone-faced

Linah, who brought him a thick Upmann cigar, clipped and ready to light.

He did so without asking if anyone minded, took several puffs, then

exhaled the smoke in deep blue clouds that wafted gently above the

table.

"Well," he said finally, "I'm sure you have many questions. I'll try to

answer what I can."

Ilse had not even touched her salad. Now she set her quivering hands

flat on the table and took a deep breath. "Why am I here?" she asked

softly.

"Quite simply," Horn replied, "because of your husband.

I'm afraid your Hans stumbled upon a document that belonged to a man I

knew well-a document he should have turned over to the proper

authorities, but did not. Pieter decided that the most expeditious

method of recovering the property was through you. That is why you are

here. As soon as your husband arrives, the matter will be resolved."

Ilse felt a flutter of hope. "Hans is coming here?"

Horn glanced at his watch. "He should be on his way now."

"Does he know I'm safe?"

Smuts answered. "He heard the tape you made."

Ilse shivered, recalling the gun held to her head by the wild-eyed

Lieutenant Luhr.

Horn blew a smoke ring. "I assure you that such unpleasantness will not

be repeated. The man who drugged you on the plane is now in a cell a

hundred meters beneath your feet." Horn smiled. "Now, if I may, I'd

like to ask your opinion of the document your husband discovered in

Spandau Prison."

Ilse studied her hands. "What about it? It looked like a hoax to me.

Things like that have come up a dozen times since the war@' "Please,"

Horn interrupted, his tone harder, "do not try my patience.

Your discussion with Prefect Funk indicated that you well understood the

importance of the papers."

"I only thought that they might be dangerous! I knew that because Hans

found them in Spandau they'd probably been written by a war criminal.

Because of that-"

"Excuse me, Frau Apfel." Horn's gingle eye settled on Ilse's face. "How

would you define that term-war criminal?

I'm curious."

Ilse swallowed. "Well ... I suppose it means someone who has departed

from the laws of morality so radically that it shocks the civilized

world, even in time of war."

Horn smiled sadly. "Very articulate, my dear, but completely incorrect.

A war criminal is merely a powerful man on the side that Was Caesar a

war criminal? By your definition, By mine? No. Was Alexander? Was

Stalin? In 1944, arshal Zhukov's Red Army raped, murdered, and looted

its way across Germany. Was Zhukov a war criminal? No. But Hitler? Of

course! The Anti-Christ! You see?

The label means nothing in absolute terms. It's simply a relative

description."

"That's not true. What the Nazis did in the concentration camps-"

"Maintained the German war economy and furthered medical science for the

entire world!" Horn finished. "Of course there were excesses-that's

human nature. But does anyone ever mention the advances that were

made?"

"You don't believe that. Nothing justifies such cruelty."

Horn shook his head. "I can see that the Zionists have kept a firm grip

on our country's schools since the war. DeNazification," he snorted.

"My God, you sound just like an Israeli schoolchild. Can you be so

blind? In 1945 the Allied Air Forces attacked Dresden-an open city-and

killed 135,000 German civilians, mostly women and children.

President Truman obliterated two Japanese cities. That is not

criminal?"

"Then why is hiding the Spandau diary so important to you?" Ilse

challenged. "Why not let it be known and publicly argue your case,

whatever it is?"

Horn looked at the table. "Because some chapters of history are best

left closed. The case of Rudolf Hess has had a startling long-lived

effect on relations between England, Germany, and Russia.

It's in the best interest of all concerned to let sleeping dogs lie."

"But that's what I don't understand. What does it matter what happened

fifty years ago?"

"Nations have very long memories," Horn said.

"What happened to Rudolf Hess?" Ilse suddenly asked.

,The real Hess."

"He died," Horn said. "In Resistencia, Paraguay, in 1947.

I knew him well, and he died a bitter man, less than two years after his

beloved Fuhrer."

"Beloved?" Ilse echoed, horrified. "But the man in Spandau-who was

he?"

"No one," Horn said. "Anyone. The poor fool was part of a failed

gambit in foreign policy, that's all. But the result of that failure

was that he had to remain in prisons Hess for the rest of his life.

That is all in the past.

Unfortunately, your husband reopened this sticky little case, and now it

must be closed again. For me it is a small annoyance, but one cannot

ignore details. 'For want of a nail . . .' "

" 'For want of a nail,' " Ilse said thoughtfully, " 'the kingdom was

lost.' What is the 'kingdom' in this case?"

Horn smiled. "My company, of course. Phoenix AG."

Ilse looked thoughtful. "I don't recall seeing that name listed on any

stock exchange."

"I'm sure you don't. It's a private holding company. If I were to

furnish you with a list of my worldwide subsidiaries, however, I'm sure

you would recognize quite a few."

Smuts smiled at Horn's understatement.

Ilse was genuinely curious. "So you're multinational, then. How big

are you? Two, three hundred million in revenues?"

The young Englishman snickered.

"Three hundred million in assets," Horn corrected softly.

Ilse stared, incredulous. "But that would put your revenues at over a

billion dollars."

There was silence until Horn gracefully resumed the conversation.

"I see you have a keen interest in business. Why don't we excuse Pieter

and Lord Granville? You and I can continue our discussion without

boring them. Gentlemen?"

"But I find this discussion extremely interesting," the Englishman

protested.

"Nevertheless, " Horn said icily.

"How about some billiards, Smuts?" the Englishman asked gamely, trying

to preserve some illusion of free will.

Horn's stare commanded the reluctant Afrikaner to accept the invitation.

"Don't suppose I'd mind taking a few rand off you," Smuts said,

chuckling. He had a brittle laugh, like a man who finds humor only at

others' expense. He gave Horn a shallow bow as they went out.

"That man seems quite devoted to you," Ilse observed.

"Herr Smuts is my chief of security. His loyalty is absolute."

"Are you in danger?"

Horn smiled. "A man in my position makes enemies, Frau Apfel."

Suddenly Ilse's eyes glistened with moisture. The plea she had pressed

down deep in her heart welled up into her throat at last. "Sir, please,

isn't there some way that you could give my husband? He meant no harm!

If you only ew him, you would see-"

"Frau Apfel! Control yourself! We will not discuss the matter again

until your husband arrives. At that time I shall decide what is to be

done-not before. Is that clear?"

Ilse wiped her eyes with her linen napkin. "Yes ... yes, I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be sorry. Women are at the mercy of their emotions;

it's their biological flaw. If it weren't for that regrettable fact,

who knows what they might have aceomplished throughout history."

Ilse remained silent. She saw nothing to be gained by antagonizing her

captor further.

"Frau Apfel," Horn said, "the reason I excused the others was to invite

you to attend a business meeting with me tomorrow evening. :rhe

gentlemen I'm meeting have a rather medieval attitude toward your sex,

I'm afraid, so you would have to pose as my secretary. But I'm certain

you would find the negotiations extremely interesting." Horn raised his

chin.

"It will be the first meeting of its kind in history."

"It sounds bmin6us," Ilse said, trying to regain her composure.

"Let us say 'momentous' instead. It's only business, after all.

I'm sure the experience would prove invaluable to a young woman who

plans a career in the world of finance."

In spite of her perilous situation@r perhaps because of it-Ilse accepted

the invitation.

"Linah?" Horn called.

The tall Bantu woman appeared instantly.

"Escort Frau Apfel to the billiards room."

Ilse rose to go.

"And Frau Apfel," Horn said, "would you ask Pieter to join me when he

has finished his game?"

Ilse nodded.

"You won't see me until tomorrow afternoon, possibly not until tomorrow

evening. Pieter will show you around the estate in the morning. Certain

rooms are locked, but you have the run of the house and grounds

otherwise. Please refrain from using the telephone until the matter of

the papers has been resolved."

With the touch of a button Horn wheeled his chair around the table.

"May I see your hand?"

Puzzled, Ilse slowly extended her hand. Before she knew what was

happening, the wizened old man had bent his head and lightly kissed it.

She felt a sudden chill, but whether from physical revulsion or some

deeper fear, she could not tell.

"I apologize for the young Englishman's rudeness," Horn said. "I

shouldn't tolerate it, but his grandfather and I worked together during

the war." Horn smiled wistfully.

"His grandfather was a very special man, and I feel some responsibility

for his their. Gute Nacht, my dear."

The tall Bantu housekeeper took Ilse's elbow and led her into the hall,

where she let Ilse take the lead. Ilse had the feeling that the woman's

arm was but a fraction of an inch behind her own, ready to seize her if

necessary. The long.

hall opened into a large gallery, which in turn gave onto two more

beyond, each great room joined by means of a wide arch. Ilse gasped.

As far as she could see, the walls were lined with paintings. She knew

a little about art, but the works she saw in the first room required no

training to appreciate. The strokes of the great masters speak to a

part of the psyche deeper than thought, and these were no reproductions.

Each canvas glowed with immanent passion; Ilse's eyes danced from

painting to painting in wonder.

"My God," she murmured. "Where are we?"

Linah caught hold of Ilse's arm and tugged her along like an awestruck

child. Even the marble floors bore their share of the treasure.

Classical sculptures, some over twelve feet high, rose like marble

ghosts from pedestals in the center of each room. Ilse noticed that no

work in any of the rooms seemed modern. Nothing had the asymmetrical

distortions of Picasso, the geometric puzzles of Mondrian, or the

radically commonplace ugliness of the "sculpture" so common in Berlin

office parks. Everything was soft, romantic, inwardpulling.

Had she not been so stunned, she might have noticed that all the oh .

ets d'art-pgyptian and Greek sculpture, paintings from Holland, Belgium,

and France-had come from countries plundered behind the merciless boot

of the Wehrmacht during the 'thirties and 'forties. But she didn't

notice. She simply stared until the dazzling exhibition ended and she

found herself in the dark, wood-paneled billiards room where Pieter

Smuts and the young Englishman had finished their second game.

"Well, take your bloody winnings!" Lord Gren, snapped.

"Don't mind if I do," Smuts retorted, grinning. He pocketed the crisp

fifty-pound note that the Englishman handed over as casually as a

wrinkled fiver.

"Herr Smuts?" Ilse said. "Herr Horn wishes you to join him."

The Afrikaner's smile faded as he hurried into the hallway.

"Up for a game, Friiulein?" the Englishman asked, tilting his cue

toward Ilse.

"It's Frau," Ilse corrected coldly. "And I'd prefer to return to my

room."

As Linah turned to lead her out, Ilse got the impression that the'Bantu

woman approved of her decision not to remain. But as she followed the

housekeeper out, she felt a light touch on her arm.

"Why not stay a moment?" whispered the Englishman. "It might do

wonders for your husband's health."

Ilse froze. Without even thinking, she told Linah that she'd changed

her mind. She would play one game before she retired.

The tall Bantu eyed the Englishman warily through the door. "I watch

for Madam in the hall," she said. "You come soon."

"Soon," Ilse promised, closing the door.

"What do you know about my husband?" she asked pointedly.

"Not so fast, Fraulein." The Englishman racked the balls for another

game. "Why don't you try being friendly? Since we're the only two

civilized people in this godforsaken place."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean? Couldn't ygu tell at dinner?

They're mad as hatters, both of them! I'm almost mad myself from

listening to them. I'm also the only chance you have of getting

yourself and your husband out of here alive.

Break."

Ilse took a cue from the wall, walked to the table and opened the game

by sinking the one and the five. She didn't know what to make of the

arrogant Englishman. She suspected this was a trick to extract

information from her, yet a voice deep inside her said to try to use

this man-to try anything that might help her escape.

"How did you come to be here?" she asked. "I assume you weren't

kidnapped, like me?"

The Englishman chuckled. "Not exactly.. But I wouldn't be averse to

leaving, I can tell you that. For some years now Herr Horn and I have

been involved in a very profitable business arrangement. Until recently

it's been mostly from a distance. Alfred knew my grandfather-William

Stanton, Lord Granville-before the war. I'm afraid my character runs a

bit differently than my grandfather's, though. My primary interest is

making money. Along with certain other distractions."

"Her-r Horn is not interested in money?"

"Not for its own sake, no. He's very political. Fancies himself a

bloody Messiah, if you want to know. He and my grandfather did

something big in England during the war, though neither of them ever

told me what. Alfred has some kind of political agenda that dictates

every move he makes.

All very hush-hush. And very silly, if you ask me."

"Does he ask you?"

The Englishman tried an extravagant bank shot and muffed it.

"No," he said, "he doesn't."

"Lord Granville," Ilse mused. "Is that a real title?"

"Yes, actually. I really am a lord. My name is Robert Stanton, Lord

Granville. Call me Robert, if you like."

"What about the other man?"

"The Afrikaner? Smuts? He's a commoner. A real bastard."

Stanton chuckled. "A real common bastard, that's him. He's Horn's

chief of security. I don't like him, but I stay clear of him, you know?

He'd like to cut my throat some dark night."

"Why doesn't he?"

"Alfred protects me. Or he has up till now, at any rate.

But my protector's patience wears thin Ilse pocketed the three, nine and

fifteen before missing the seven in the side pocket.

"Very nice, Frdulein." Stanton eyed Ilse's hips. "Yes, I'm getting the

feeling that dear Alfred's use for me is rapidly coming to an end. And

I don't fancy waiting for the axe to fall."

"Exactly what business are you and Herr Horn mT' Stanton sank the twelve

with a crack. "Import-export."

"IX what?"

"Drugs. And money, of course. Lots of pretty pounds."

"Pharmaceutical drugst' Stanton laughed. "The odd lot now and then. But

we generally handle drugs in their more elementary state.

Morphine base, poppies, ether, coca paste ...

"Narcotics are the basis of Herr Horn's empire?"

"No, no. He's ninety percent legitimate now. But our little joint

venture provides him with quite a bit of untraceable cash.

That's a valuable commodity in the business world, as you probably know,

rarer and rarer these days."

"I see."

"Don't think 'legitimate' carries any great moral weight, though.

Alfred brokers chemicals to Iraq for weapons, conventional arms to the

third world, nuclear and computer technology to half a dozen maniac

governments-it makes the narcotics business look like a bloody jumble

sale."

"So what exactly do you want from me?" Ilse asked warily.

Stanton stepped close to her. "I want to know what the old man's

planning," he@ whispered. "Something big is in the works, and I think

he's, going to let you io on it. The old bird's got the idea you're

some kind of avatar of Teutonic womanhood. He's mad about you."

"No," Ilse said quickly, fighting a strong feeling that Stanton's words

were true. "You're wrong."

"Spare me, Fraulein. I can see it."

Ilse moved to leave, but Stanton barred the door. "If you find out

anything," he said, "you come see me. I can help

you.

Ilse tried to pass, but Stanton remained in front of her. "If you

don't," he warned, "neither you nor your husband will get out of this

house alive, I guarantee it."

Ilse stopped trying to pass and looked into, Stanton's eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing at all, love. But you think about it. Do you really believe

that one-eyed madman brought you all the way here just to send you

smiling back to Germany? Five thousand bloody miles?"

Ilse shook her head in denial.

"Come on, Frdulein, you're no fool." Stanton caught Ilse's shoulders

and drew her tight against him. "I'll tell you something else for

free," he said heavily. "Alfred's got the right idea, but he's much too

old for you."

He pressed his mouth hard against hers. Ilse twisted her head away

roughly. "Let go of me! Let me go!"

Stanton groped for her breasts. Truly frightened now, Ilse caught his

arms and tried to push him away. Just as he got one hand free and

raised it to strike, someone flung open the door. Tall and menacing,

the Bantu housekeeper fixed her impenous gaze on the Englishman. "Time

for bed, Madam," she said in a dangerous voice.

"Yes-yes, thank you, Linah," Ilse stammered.

"Bloody wog," said Stanton. "You ought to keep out of where you're not

wanted. I'm going to talk to Master about YOU."

Her face unchanging, Linah pulled the door shut and led Ilse to her

bedroom.

"Thank you," Ilse said again.

Linah looked deep into her eyes. "Careful with the English, Madam," she

said in her deep voice. "He is spoilt, and does not understand 'no.'

Ilse listened hopefully as Linah shut the door, but the lock clicked

fast.

Back in the dining room, Alfr@ Horn addressed Smuts liked a general

briefing his adjutant before a battle.

"The airstrip extension?"

"One hundred feet to go, sir. They finished the southeast end at dusk.

It should set up fine by tomorrow night."

"Is the basement secure?"

"Tight as a Zulu drum."

"What about the conference room video cameras? We must have a record of

this meeting. Our fallback plan depends on it."

"All four cameras loaded and in position, sir."

"Any questions for me, Pieter?"

"What about the policeman in the basement? Lieutenant Luhr."

Horn's face hardened. "He's fine where he is until after the meeting."

"And the girl?"

"I'm quite taken with her, Pieter. I've asked her to sit in tomorrow

night as my secretary."

"What!" "

"No arguments," Horn said. "I've decided.

"But the Arabs won't stand for a woman there!"

Horn smiled. "What can they say? I am the only man who possesses the

commodity they want. They certainly can't afford to make trouble about

a secretary."

Smuts shook his head. "What about Stanton? He's getting insufferable."

"I agree," said Horn. "But you should have known his grandfather,

Pieter, a visionary. It's a good thing he's not around to see his

their."

Smuts grunted in agreement.

"Let Robert take this last delivery, Pieter. TWO million rand in gold

bullion is worth waiting for, I think. Then he's yours." @ Smuts

grinned a death's-head.

"Less than twenty-four hours now," Horn intoned. "The wheels are in

motion." He looked up. "Take me to the study, Pieter. I want to sit

by the fire."

"Should I get the chair?"

"No. I feel strongTonight I walk like a man."

"A man among men, sir," Smuts said reverently.

"Thank you, Pieter. The last of a breed, it's true."

Together the two men-one ancient, the other in his mid-forties-set out

upon the long journey to the study, where the old one would await the

dawn with bright, unsleeping eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

g.'30 A.m. Horn House: The Northern Transvaal Ilse had no warning of the

horror to come. She had awakened several times during the night, but

the periods of sleep had been mercifully dreamless. When her door

opened, she expected to find the tall Bantu housekeeper waiting behind

it. Instead she saw Pieter Smuts, Horn's Afrikaner security chief

Smuts's smile did not quite reach his eyes.

"I'm here to give you the threepenny tour," he announced.

"That's not really necessary," Ilse said uneasily. "I'm sure I can find

my way around."

Smuts sighed with enough resignation to indicate he would remain in the

doorway as long as he had to. After closing the door and dressing, Ilse

allowed herself to be led out of the room and down the long corridor.

The lanky Afrikaner towered above her. Again she felt like a child

being led through a museum. Smuts delivered his information in a

monotone.

"Horn House," he said, "stands in one of the most isolated regions of

South Africa-the northeast corner of the northern Transvaal. Boer

country. The nearest town is Giyani to the west, and the nearest

landmark to the east is the Kruger National Park. Not many -roads up

here to speak of."

Point taken, Ilse thought bitterly.

"The estate itself is one of a kind, as you'll see when you get outside.

The residential compound encompasses twelve thousand square feet of

living space. We've got an indoor swimming pool, a gymnasium, an art

gallery, an astronomical observatory, and something quite unusual for a

private dwelling-a hospital. Because of Herr Horn's advanced age, he

suffers from a number of chronic conditions, but here he is able to

obtain optimum health care at all times. The medical complex is at the

end of this hall. We have a resident cardiologist on duty at all

times."

"My God," Ilse said, genuinely shocked.

"The cost of maintaining this unit out on the veld like this would

bankrupt a small town," Smuts boasted, "but for Herr Horn ... ah, here

we are."

They had come to a door with no knob; brass letters on its face read

KRANKENHAUS. SMUTS pushed open the door. "After you," he said.

The astringent smell of alcohol and disinfectant wrinkled Ilse's nose.

She found herself in a large examining room replete with all the

paraphernalia of modern medicine. Blood chemis@ machines, centrifuges,

autoclaves, and various instruments lined the shining countertops. Two

doors were set in the opposite wall. Smuts led her to the one marked

icu.

Behind it was a fully equipped intensive care facility. Cardiac monitor

screens, a defibrillator cart, a ventilator, and two cylinders of oxygen

waited beside an electric hospital bed. Ilse wondered if Horn was in

poorer health than he appeared. "Very impressive,"' she said, not

knowing what else to say.

Smuts nodded curtly and led her out, closing the door softly behind

them. The other door was marked only with a warning symbol-three

inverted yellow triangles inside a circle of black. Smuts opened the

door and stepped inside, motioning for Ilse to follow.

I-rhis is our X-ray unit," he said. "It's state of the art, but I'm

afraid our cardiologist has to do double duty as a radiographer.

He's not too happy about that, as YOu might@' The moment Ilse stepped

across the threshold, someone seized her violently from behind, pinning

her arms to her sides. Before she could scream, Smuts stuffed a

handkerchief into her mouth. The unseen attacker lifted her off her

feet, then heaved her high and dropped her heavily onto a hard surface.

An ugly, sweating black face appeared above her; powerful hands crushed

her flailing arms against the cold Formica while Smuts worked at

something she could not see. Primal terror gripped her. Even without

seeing the thick leather belts that now bound her to the table, lase

registered and identified the sensation. Restraining straps, she

thought wildly. White light speared into her brain from above.

"Be still!" Smuts shouted. "Be still!"

Ilse drew in all the breath she could and tried to scream, but the

bunched handkerchief in her mouth choked her effort to an anguished

groan. Her throat felt near to bursting. The man panting above her was

so black he looked blue. He buckled a thick strap across Ilse's chest,

then forced her right cheek flat against the table and fastened another

strap across her head. All she could see now was a huge lead shield.

Pieter Smuts's hard, angular face floated inside a@ thick bubble window

set in its middle.

Ilse struggled to rise, but the heavy-buckled straps held her

motionless. When she tried to shift even slightly, the@ straps scoured

her flesh like sandpaper. As she lay there, chest heaving, Smuts

stepped around the lead shield. From his right hand a long cable

dropped to, the floor and snaked around the shield to the X-ray machine.

With his left hand Smuts reached up and took hold of a hammerhead-shaped

mechanism suspended above Ilse's head. The X-ray tube.

Painted a metallic orange, it hovered above Ilse like an alien being, a

deadly thing that moved silently on tracks and cables. Smuts raised the

housing to its highest position; then he returned to safety behind the

lead shield.

Two seconds later every muscle in Ilse's body constricted in terror. A

deep electrical surge, a subsonic roar shuddered through the table,

lasting three full seconds before h cease with a sharp clang.

Ilse's mouth went dry. Her from: head beaded with sweat. Just as she

realized what the sound' signaled, it came again, the heart-stopping

buzz of electricity converted into a barrage of irradiated particles and

fired through her body like invisible bullets.

lfer teeth ground furiously as she fought the leather straps. The hide

scraped her flesh raw. Again the awful sound came. Ilse heard herself

screaming, the voice tiny and shrill and meaningless inside her head.

What have I done? What do you want! Without a single word from Smuts,

she had made the mental leap from resistance to abject servitude. She

sought only to know what I was required of her, and she would comply.

Yet still the machine fired. Deeper than sound, she sensed a vibration

barely, within the realm of human perception, the vibration of

accelerated electrons focused into a beam that, even when guided by

healing hands, poured deadly poison into living cells. The sound came

again and again, until finally, in a silence made deeper by Ilse's utter

despair, Smuts stepped around the shield, the cable trigger in his hand,

and began to speak.

. "Frau Apfel," he said. "I don't believe in messing aboutnOt where my

job is concerned. You have certain information I need, and.you are

going to provide it."

Ilse tried to nod beneath the head strap.

"During the past several minutes, I have exposed you to the maximum

allowable three-year dosage of radiation for a nuclear plant worker. In

an hour or so, you will probably experience some nausea and vomiting,

but let us hope that is all you must endure. Far worse outcomes are

still possible.

Blindness, burns ... other things." Smuts held a finger in Ilse's face.

"What happens next, Frau Apfel, is up to you."

@le Ilse stared with wild eyes, the Afrikaner crouched and laid the

cable trigger on the floor. Then he stood, loosened a bolt on the

housing above Ilse, an . d lowered the hammerhead ban-el to a position

six inches above her abdomen.

He tightened the bolt again, locking it in place.

"Frau Apfel, I ain going to remove the gag now, and you will cooperate

fully. I have focused the X-ray beam on the approximate area of yottr

ovaries. Radiation has an enhanced effect on such cells@ells that are

still dividing, as it were.

Exposure in this region could seriously jeopardize your chances of ever

having children." Smuts grinned. "Are you ready to talk?"

Ilse's eyes ' widened in horror. Her baby! She began to shiver

uncontrollably. Her urinary sphincter let go, flooding both her dress

and the table. Smuts drew back from the pungent smell. As he reached

for the handkerchief gag, tears welled up in Ilse's eyes and streamed

down onto the table.

r.

"Listen," said the Afrikaner, his voice slightly softer "As of this

moment you are still all right. Only if you refuse to answer will you

be injured. The dosage you have received so far would only be excessive

for a woman alre#dy pregnant."

Ilse's body convulsed against the straps. She fought like gn animal,

expending every ounce of her remaining strength.

Smuts-who had used this interrogation technique on many previous

occasions-could not recall anyone resisting so fiercely once the

prospect of escape had been offered. One never knew who the tough ones

would be, he reflected.

When Ilse finally went limp, he loosened the. strap at her head and

carefully removed the gag.

"Now," he said. "I need to know some things about your husband.

Can you hear me?"

Ilse's eyes opened. Slowly she focused on Smuts's face.

"Good. Your husband did not take the plane he was instructed to take to

Johannesburg. Nor has he checked into the hotel he was ordered to stay

in. By the terms of the agreement, he has already forfeited your life.

Why would he do that? Doesn't he want to save you?"

Ilse closed her eyes. More tears dribbled out. When she opened her

eyes again, Smuts was shaking the cable trigger in her face. "Does your

husband have any Jewish blood in his family?"

Ilse shook her head, her eyes blank in despair. Smuts stepped

momentarily out of her field of vision, then reappeared with a damp rag.

He squeezed a few drops of water into her mouth.

"Now," he said. "No Jewish blood?"

"No," Ilse coughed.

"What about friends? Does he have any Jewish friends?

Has Hans ever been to Israel?"

Ilse shook her head.

"You're sure? What about England? Or anywhere else in Britain?"

"What is your husband's connection with Captain Dieter Hauer?"

Ilse hesitated. "Fr-friend," she rasped. It was difficult to

concentrate hard enough to lie, but she sensed that to reveal Hans's

blood relationship to Hauer might somehow be dangerous.

"Are you aware that Captain Hauer works with the German counterterror

unit GSG-9?"

Ilse silently mouthed the word no.

"Undoubtedly your husband is." Smuts clucked his tongue thoughtfully.

"I want you to tell me -about the Spandau papers. Did your husband show

them to anyone before you gave them to your grandfather?"

Ilse shook her head again.

"Do you understand these questions?"

She nodded.

"Think carefully, Frau Apfel. Think about the names you saw in the

Spandau papers. Did you see the name Al@ Horn?"

"You didn't recognize the name when Herr Horn introduced himself last

night?"

"You were staring at his eye-his artificial eye. Why were you so

interested in that? Did you come here expecting to find a man with one

eye?"

"I couldn't help staring."

"What names were in the Spandau papers?"

Ilse's voice cracked as she spoke. "Hess, of course. Hitler.

Hermann Goring. Reinhard Heydrich, I think."

Smuts nodded. "Did you see the name Zinoviev?" he asked softly.

"It's a Russian name."

Ilse thought a momen@ shook her head.

"Helmut? Did you see that name?" Smuts shook the trigger in her face.

"Did you?"

'No "Frau Apfel," he said coldly, "if you're thinking of informing Herr

Horn of what happened here this morning, I tell you now to abandon the

idea. Whatever his reaction might be, I assure you that it.is within my

power to have you back on this table before anything could be done to

me. Do you understand?"

"Oh God!" Ilse wailed, her voice choking into a sob.

"You bastard! You've hurt my baby! You've killed my baby!"

Smuts's eyes widened. "You are pregnant now?"

"You know that! I said so on the tape!" Ilse squeezed her swollen eyes

shut in anguish. She did not feel Smuts unbuckling the leather straps;

only when she felt herself lifted from the table did she look again. The

Afrikaner carried her over to the lead shield, then behind it to where

the tall, rectangular X-ray machine stood with its glowing dials and

meters.

"Look!" he said angrily. "Look here!" I4is tanned hand pointed to a

scalloped black knob. "This displays MAmilliamperes. It's the measure

of radiation." He moved his bind to another dial. '7Ws is KV-Elovolts.

It's the measure of power driving the tube. Look, woman!"

Ilse looked. Both dials were set at zero. She coughed and rubbed her

eyes, fighting down waves of nausea.

"Do you understand?" Smuts asked. "I never heard the tape you made,

but it doesn't matter. You have received no radiation! You are all

right. Your child is unhurt!"

Ilse looked into the Afrikaner's eyes for deception, but saw none.

"Why?" she stammered.

"I protect Herr Horn, Frau Apfel. At any cost. I had to know that you

would tell the truth. And you did, didn't you?"

Ilse nodded, wiping her face on her blouse.

"Good. Now get back to your room and clean yourself up.

Herr Horn is not to see you like this." His eyes fixed Ilse with

frightening intensity. "But you remember what that table felt like.

When Herr Horn asks you to do something, you do it, no matter how crazy

it might sound. Especially at tonight's meeting. Remember your child,

Frau Apfel. I can have you back on that table any time I decide. Any

time!"

Unable to restrain herself any longer, Ilse clenched her stomach with

both hands, double@ over, and vomited on the Afrikaner's boots.

Shaking with rage, Smuts stormed out and went in search of his Zulu

driver, leaving Ilse coughing on the floor. He could not believe he had

to put up with such outrages. Perhaps after tonight's business had been

concluded, Horn would see that the best policy was to kill the girl and

be done with it. The husband could be killed as soon as he turned over

the Spandau papers, and the Berlin police could take care of the girl's

grandfather at their leisure. Things were SO Simple, if people would

only focus on the facts. As Smuts passed through the spectacular

gallery rooms, he tried in vain to ignore the stench rising from his

boots.

958 A.m. Tempelhof Airpoil. American Sector, West Berlin, CRG Detective

Julius Schneider climbed out of the Iroquois helicopter gunship and

shook his head in wonder. Colonel Rose, bundled to the eyeballs in a

goosedown parka, stood on the tarmac beside a drab Army Ford. Sergeant

Clary waited faithfully at the wheel. Rose's face was clean shaven, but

his eyes were red and swollen. He waved Schneider into the Ford.

Pressing his hat to his head to keep the icy wind from blowing it off,

the big German ran to the car and climbed in.

Rose skipped the formalities. "The shit has hit the fan, Schneider.

Remember my FBI guy? The one who was going to get that Zinoviev file

for us?"

Schneider nodded.

"Well, he got it. He Fed-Exed a copy to me at nine-thirty this

morning." Rose shook his head. "Ten minutes later he was arrested on

charge& of espionage. His computer query on Zinoviev apparently rang

some kind of warning bell at Langley, and that set the dogs on him. I

guess the FBI computers aren't as secure as the Bureau likes to think

they are."

"What was in this Zinoviev file?" Schneider asked.

"We won't know till tomorrow when I get the file. If I get the file. If

the FBI knows he shipped it, they can probably stop it before it gets

here. If it does get here, I've got Ivan Kosov waiting to double-check

what he can in the KGB files." Schneider scowled. "Why do you need

Kosov?"

"When my buddy called, he told me a little about the Zinoviev file,

Schneider. He said the file claims that the United States, Britain, and

the Russians have all known for years that Prisoner Number Seven was not

Rudolf Hess."

Schneider's eyes narrowed.

"I asked him why, ifthat was true, the Russians had kept quiet about it

all these years You know what he told me? He said it didn't matter what

the Russians knew about Hess, because in 1943 Winston Churchill

blackmailed Stalin into silence."

Schneider looked bewildered. "What do you mean?

Blackmailed him with what?"

Rose shrugged. "MY guy said it had to do with Zinoviev's part in Hess's

mission, but that it was too complicated to explain on the phone. He

said I wouldn't believe it when I saw it, but that the Russians were the

good guys in this mess. I told him I would believe it, and that I

thought the Brits were still neck-deep in some kind of stinking

coverup." Rose's eyes flickered. "He told me I might be right,

Schneider. But I guess we'll have to wait for our copy of the Zinoviev

file to find out."

"Where is your new partner now?" Schneider asked.

Rose hooked his thumb toward Tempelhof's observation deck, eighty meters

away. Above the rail Schneider saw a solitary figure wearing a hat and

a raincoat, the only person braving the cold of the deck.

"There he is," Rose said. "A week ago I'd have considered it sacrilege

to bring that bastard to the home of the Berlin Airlift.

Today I trust him more than some of my own people."

Schneider looked skeptical. "Why are you here now?"

"To give you a little tactical update, my friend. One hour ago Prefect

Funk arrested one of your brother officers on espionage charges. Seems

this guy was passing secret information to the British government."

"Scheisse! " Rose nodded in disgust. "You should regard everything we

knew as of this morning-including the names on Hauer and Apfel's false

assports-as blown to the Brits. If you get anywhere near those cops,

Schneider, you keep your eyes peeled for British spools."

Rose looked out the window at an F-16 fighter parked in a concrete

revetment twenty meters away. "One more thing," he said. "Kosov told

me to tell you to watch your back. He wouldn't tell me why. I think

he's in the same spot I am, Schneider. He doesn't know who to trust.

He wants to help me, but he's being muzzled from above. I think he's

waiting for some kind of clearance to come clean with me."

Schneider grunted. It wasn't easy for a German to see any Russian in a

positive light. "Don't trust him too much, Colonel," he said.

"Kosov would sacrifice you without a thought."

"You worry about your own ass," Rose advised. "Kosov's got enough to do

without yanking my chain. Moscow went nuts when they found out about

Axel Goltz's mutiny. The KGB is interrogating every Stasi agent in

Berlin, trying to figure out what's going on. If they crack this

Phoenix thing, they'll be lining those tattooed bastards up against the

Wall by the dozen and passing out blindfolds and cigarettes."

Rose punched a stiff forefinger into Schneider's barrel chest.

"If you find Hauer and Apfel, you bring 'em back here with the papers.

Hauer's probably the 'only guy who can straighten this mess out now. And

those Spandau papers are the only thing that could buy my ass out of the

sling. Oh yeah, one more thing. If you happen to find the guy who

killed Harry Richardson"-Rose smacked the car window with the meaty end

of his fist-"you have my permission to gut and skin the son of a bitch.

Briefing concluded, Detective."

Schneider smiled coldly. "Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Oberst."

He climbed out of the Ford and clambered into the waiting gunship.

He was still 150 miles from Frankfurt Airport, and thirteen air-hours

away from South Africa. Plenty of time left to figure out how he was

going to find Hauer, and plenty of time to figure out what he was going

to say when he did. The questions he could not get out of his mind were

the ones Rose had barely touched on. What was Phoenix, reany?

Was it a secret subsect of Der Bruderschaft? If so, if it was a

neo-fascist group that had penetrated both the police and political

hierarchies, Schneider feared not only for his police department, but

for Germany itself The primary goal of all neo-Nazis was German

reunification. It was easy there enough to see that a premature grab

for that goal could suit in catastrophe fOr the country. Russia might

be flirting with glasnost and perestroika, but faced with the specter of

two fascist-led Germanys pressing for reunification, the nation that had

lost twenty million citizens to Hitler's armies might respond with

unimaginable force and fury.

Kosov's warning to COIOnel Rose about "watching his back" brought

Schneider back to more immediate concernsWho besides Kosov even knew

that he was involved in the Phoenix case? Schneider remembered Harry

Richardson's mutilated corpse baking in the overheated, apartment. Did

Kosov know the animal who had killed him? Schneider thought of the

mysterious B written in Richardson's bloodHad Kosov been able to read

its significance? If so, why couldn't he give Rose a name to go with

his warning? Could Harry Richardson have been killed by a Russian only

an hour after Kosov released him at the Wall? Schneider knew Colonel

Rose saw the British as the villains in this case, but he suspected it

was somehow more complicated than that.

As a homicide detective, he had found that 99 percent of all

the simplest mysteries" could be solved by reasoning out explanation for

any event. But this mystery-he had felt from the beginning-fell into

the 1 percent category.

ain international Airport 10.29 A.M. Frankfort Twelfth Department agent

Yuri Borodin sat eating a Wienerschnitzel in the large restaurant

overlooking the main runway of Flughafen Frankfurt. Every two minutes a

huge jet would swoop down from left to right across the giant picture

window and settle silently onto the tarmac. Borodin had seen everything

from Japan Airlines 747s to Aeroflot airliners to U.S. Air Force C-130s.

To the right of Borodin's Wienerschnitzel lay a red file a half inch

thick. It contained a concise summation of the KGB file on Rudolf Hess,

a multivolume collection of data amassed over fifty years.

A courier from Moscow had delivered the file to Borodin at the Frankfurt

Airport - Sheraton thirty minutes ago.

Borodin had scanned its contents with only desultory interest.

The file described a convoluted plot to kill the British heads of state

during World War Two, a plot involving highranking British Nazi

sympathizers, the British royal family, and a British communist cadre

manipulated by a tsarist Russian named Zinoviev and a young German agent

named Helmut Steuer. It told of the KGB's certainty that Spandau's

Prisoner Number Seven was not Rudolf Hess but his wartime double, and of

that double's murder just five weeks ago. KGB Chairman Zemenek stated

his belief that the killing had been done by an assassin paid by Sir

Neville Shaw of Britain's mI-5. Borodin admired the nerve and

resourcefulness shown by Vasili Zinoviev and Helmut Steuer, but the rest

of the story essentially bored him.

Except for the part about the blackmail. When Borodin saw how Churchill

had forced Joseph Stalin to keep silent about the Hess affair, he had

come instantly alert. Because he saw then how important the recently

discovered Spandau papers could be to KGB Chairman Zemenek. The Spandau

papers could conceivably clear the way for the Kremlin to tell the world

what it knew about British collaboration with the Nazis during the war,

and thus force them to share responsibility for the Holocaust. Borodin

also saw that if he were the man who recovered those papers, his already

advanced career would take a critical leap forward.

He had only one problem. At the end of the Hess file he had found a

message inserted by the chairman of the KGB.

It said: Borodin: General Secretary Gorbachev currently exploring

possibility of collaborating with U.S. State Department regarding joint

disclosure of the truth about Hess's mission. Do nothing to antagonize

any U.S. operatives you may encounter in pursuit of the Spandau papers.

British operatives fair game.

Zemenek Yuri Borodin wiped his mouth with his napkin, shoved his empty

plate aside, and pulled the file to him. He reread Chairman Zemenek's

note. At this point, he reflected, another agent in his position might

have trouble digesting the meal, since less than eighteen hours ago he

had tortured and executed an American Army Intelligence major. But

Borodin wasn't worried. The Hess file had told him one thing: if he

returned to Moscow with the Spandau papers, no one would ask whom he had

killed to get them.

He glanced at his watch. The next flight to South Africa took off in

just under four hours. Borodin chuckled. The big German.Kripo

detective had not arrived from Berlin yet, but he would, with

predictable German punctuality. And then he would lead Yuri Borodin to

the Spandau papers like an elephant leading a lion to water.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

n rsgo ll.-35 A.m. El Al Flight 331: Zoirea Al co The deadliest woman in

the world stepped out of the forward lavatory of the 747

looking like a grandmother on holiday, a role she assumed with ease.

Swallow's stylish outfit reflected modest wealth; her hair shone with

the almost-blue tint unique to elderly ladies still courting their

vanity; and she smelled of body powder and a very expensive vintage

perfume-an alluring concoction called Claire de Lune. She carefully

made her way up the first-class aisle, then, just as she passed Jonas

Stern, she stumbled. She cried out in Yiddish-a nice touch-and landed

directly beside Stern's seat. Gadi Abrams, who'd been sitting in the

seat across the aisle, leaped up and helped her to her feet.

"Thank you, young man," she said weakly, her face flushed with

embarrassment. "I'm afraid I'm not used to airplanes."

Stern glanced up. Had he met the woman's eyes, he might have seen the

danger; he might even have recognized her by the dark fire that burned

there. But he might not have. The road that had led Swallow to this

airplane was a long and tortuous one. In any case, he did not meet her

eyes. He glanced over at Professor Natterman, . who slept noisily

beside him, then went back to reading his El Al magazine.

"This flight seems as though it will never end," SwaHow complained.

4.ltls a long one," Gadi agreed.

"How much longer, do you think?"

"About five hours."

Swallow sighed. "It's worth it in spite of everything. My

granddaughter just turned eighteen months old, and I've yi to see her."

"She lives in JohannesburgT' Gadi inquired politely.

"No, Pietersburg. It's far to the north, I think."

Gadi nodded. "Are you all right now?"

"Yes, but I'd better sit down. Thank you again."

Swallow slowly made her way to her seat, one of three near the spiral

staircase leading up to the 747's cocktail lounge. After situating a

small pillow behind her head, she pulled a romance novel from her

handbag. Glancing up for a moment, she caught Gadi staring.

The Israelis were professionals-she had to admit that. Though Jonas

Stern sat only four rows behind her, his three young escorts had

surrounded him in a protective triangle. And with Stern in an aisle

seat, no one meaning harm to his slumbering companion could get to him

without going through all four Israelis first-an impossible task. Stern

himself, however, was a different matter. Swallow could have taken him

as she passed only moments ago.

In a way she had. While Gadi helped her up, she had pressed an

adhesive-barked microtransmitter against the underside of Stern's seat.

Everything the Israelis said during the remainder of the flight would be

pick@d up by a tiny receiver in the flesh-toned hearing aid she wore in

her right ear. The unit whistled for a few seconds as she dialed in the

frequency, but she could clearly hear Professor Natterman snoring in his

seat by the window.

"This is Captain Lev Ronen," announced a disembodied voice with the

accent of a Sabra, or native-born Israeli. "As a point of interest, we

are now crossing the equator. And about four hundred miles to our left

is Lake Victoria, Africa's largest lake and the source of the Nile. I'm

sure our first-time travelers will be glad to know that as we cross into

the southern hemisphere, the seasons are reversed. That means we're

flying into summer. We should arrive in Johannesburg on schedule at

5:40 Pm. South African time, and we hope everyone is having a pleasant

flight."

Gadi Abrams leaned across the aisle toward Stern. "Also about four

hundred miles to our left," he said, mocking the if, lo rth captain's o

icious tone, ,is Entebbe, site of the July u , 1976, rescue of-over a

hundred Israelis from the hands of international terrorists." His tone

changed to indignation.

"You'd think they'd mention it, at least. We are on El Al, for God's

sake."

Stern gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Old news, Gadi.

Besides, you never know who's flying El Al. We don't want to offend the

paying customers."

Four rows ahead, Swallow smiled with satisfaction. The conversation had

come in loud and clear over her receiver.

"I'm surprised at the number of passengers," Gadi remarked.

"Since you arranged the flight privately, I didn't expect any."

Stern chuckled softly. "I arranged this flight thirty hours ago.

General Avigur said he would get me to South Africa.

He didn't say he @ouldn't tly to defray the cost any way he could."

"I don't like it."

"Two passengers are always air marshals," Stern reminded him.

"Leave the security to them for once and go to sleep. It might be your

only chance for a while."

"You're not sleeping."

Stern reclined his plush seat and closed his eyes. "Good night."

Gadi pulled a wry face and glanced around the First Class cabin.

The blue-haired grandmother was the only other passenger up here.

That meant the air marshals had to be in Tourist. He considered walking

the length of the plane once more to try to pick them out, but decided

against it. Stern was right: he needed rest. The old woman was

certainly no threat. Reclining his seat, Gadi closed his eyes and, like

professional soldiers everywhere, dropped off to sleep only moments

after making the decision to do so. His last mental picture was of

himself helping the old grandmother to her feet, his good deed for the

day.

As the "grandmother" pretended to concentrate on the novel in her lap, a

new voice mumbled in her receiver. Professor Natterman had awakened.

"What time is it?" he asked groggily.

"Almost lunchtime," Stern answered, half-asleep already.

"How do you feel?"

"I feel like getting some answers is how I feel," Natterman grumbled. "I

think it's time you told me your half of the story."

Stern opened his eyes and turned irritably toward the professor, but the

large white bandage over Natterman's lacerated nose kept him civil. He

jerked his head toward Gad reminding the professor of their agreement

not to discuss anything- about Rudolf Hess. "What do you want to know,

Professor?"

"Everything. What about this Phoenix AG? Why did you come to Berlin in

the first place? I want to know why Ilse was taken to South Africa.

What's the significance of that?"

Stern looked over at Gadi. "I've thought a lot about that," he

murmured. "And I'm sorry to disappoint you, but your Nazi angle doesn't

fit here. At least not in the way you think. The Afrikaners are white

supremacists, of course, but that's no secret. They fought against

Hitler during the war, and damned valiantly. And in spite of their

prejudice against blacks, they@ve got a pretty good record on Jews. They

allowed a great deal of Jewish immigration during the war, which is more

than a lot of countries did."

"What about the present day? What are their ties with Germany?"

Stern shook his head. "Limited. During the past several years, South

Africa has quiedy developed extremely close relations with another

country in a very similar geopolitical situation. That country is not

West Germany, however, but Israel. It doesn't sound like we're flying

ifito a nest of neoNazis, does it?"

"No," Natterman agreed. "But you obviously have some suspicions about

South Africa and Germany. Where is the fox in the henhouse?"

"South Africa's nuclear program. The darkest corner of this dark

country."

"Does South Africa actually possess nuclear weapons?

I've heard it speculated in the news, but never confirmed."

Stern smiled wryly. "Oh, I can confirm it for you. In 1979, an

American VELA satellite detected a distinctive double flash off the

South African coast, in the South Atlantic. That flash was the result

of a joint nuclear test carried out by South Africa and Israel."

"How do you know that?"

"Because for all practical purposes, Professor, Israel gave South Africa

the bomb. Nuclear weapons are one of the main pillars of the

Israeli/South Africa relationship."

" What? "

"it was an inevitable partnership. Israel developed its first bomb in

1968, but we had several limitations. We couldn't test our weapons

without being detected; South Africa had vast deserts and two oceans. We

needed raw uranium and other strategic minerals; South Africa had

extensive reserves. South Africa also had a great deal of ready cash.

But the main tie was psychological, emotional. As the world closed

ranks against apartheid, South Africa grew ever more isolated. Before

long it was an international pariah surrounded by hostile enemies. The

siege mentality was a natural reaction, and we in Israel are the masters

of that particular neurosis."

"But how do you know all this, Stern?"

The Israeli looked at Natterman for a long time. "You asked me before

if I worked for the Mossad, Professor.

Right now I am exactly what I told you in the beginning, a retiree. But

I have done a bit of work for several government agencies.

Shin Beth and the Mossad, yes, but my longest service was with an agency

called LAKAM. Have you heard of it?"

Natterman shook his head.

"LAKAM is Israel's nuclear security force. Not in the sense of

operating the weapons, but in protecting them.

LAKAM safeguarded Israel's nuclear program from inception to completion.

That's why I know so much about the South African program."

"And is this LAKAM work what led you to Berlin? To Spandau?"

"Not exactly. What led me to Spandau was a chain of facts. A very

fragile chain with four links that spans three decades. The first link

wag a warning note-an anonymous, cryptic note written in Cyrillic

handwriting and delivered to Israel in 1967. It warned of terrible

danger to Israel and spoke of 'the fire of An-nageddon.' This note

claimed that the secret of this danger could be found in Spandau.

That, of course, was a very broad hint. Did the writer mean Spandau the

city? Spandau the prison? What? Two days later, the Six-Day War broke

out and the note was dismissed as a warning of the Egyptian attack,

probably written by a Russian with a conscience."

Stern rubbed his temples. "Now, ump ahead to the early 1970s. I was

working for LAKAM by then, and we in the agency became aware that

certain German scientistsformer Third Reich physicists-were working in

the rocketry section of South Africa's nuclear program. This by itself

was not unusual. After all, it was German scientists who built the

bombs for America and Russia. But when you c sider that the prime

minister of South Africa in 1979-the year of the secret Israeli/South

African nuclear test-was John Vorster, a man who had supported the Nazis

during World War Two, it takes on a rather different significance.

"Now, let's jump ahead again, to the 1980s. It was then, through

contacts in the Mossad, that I became aware of a neo-fascist police

organization called Bruderschaft der Phoenix, headquartered in West

Berlin-"

"Phoenix!" Natterman exclaimed. "Hurry, Stern, tell me!"

"Again, this by itself was not of great import. It took the fourth and

final link to join the others in my mind. Just three weeks ago, the

Israeli Foreign Ministry received a typed warning from an anonymous

source. The writer obviously knew of the secret Israeli/South African

nuclear partnership, and stated that he had personal knowledge that

there were some in the South African defense establishment who had

anything but Israel's best interests at heart.

The writer claimed he believed that Israel might actually be in danger

of a nuclear attack, and that the best line of inquiry for us to pursue

was with a South African defense contractor called Phoenix AG."

Natterman caught his breath. After several moments, he said, "Forgive

me, Stern, but there's something I don't understand here. You told me

you were retired. This situation seems serious enough. that Israel

would be making a significant effort to investigate it."

Stern's smile carried the bitterness of a lifetime's disillusionment.

"You would think that, wouldn't you? But some people don't see it that

way, Professor. South Africa is Israel's nuclear partner, remember? No

one in Jerusalem wants to upset that status quo.

The Israeli/South African 'special relationship' is so close that, as we

speak, a secret contingency plan exists to remove South Africa's entire

stockpile of nuclear weapons to Israel in the event, that the blacks

appear likely to overthrow the government."

Natterman's eyes grew wide. "My God. This is all so unbelievable. Why

would Israel sup orta repressive, even genocidal state like South

Afiica) "The Israeli people probably wouldn't, Professor. But decisions

guiding Israel's nuclear program were never voted on in the Knesset.

Israel's nuclear policy is formed by a very few men who happen to hold

the key positions in the government." Stern sighed. "And some men will

do anything in the name of survival. For some Jews, the Holocaust

justifies any act to prevent a repetition of history, even a preemptive

Holocaust perpetrated by Jews." Stern reached beneath his seat,

withdrew an orange from his leather bag, and slowly began to peel it.

"Professor, how much do you know about Israel's resistance to the

British during the Mandate and World War Two?"

Natterman shrugged. "I know about the Haganah."

"What about the Zionist terrorist groups?"

"The Stern Gang and the Irgun?"

"Yes.

"Some. Which did you fight with?"

"That is unimportant now. What matters is that prior to World War Two,

both groups violently resisted the British occupation of Palestine. But

when the war broke out, the two groups split. The Irgun supported the

British, rightly believing that Israel could never be born in a world

under Hitler. But the Stern Gang believed that driving out the British

was more important than defeating the Nazis."

Natterman's eyes widened in disbelief "The Stern Gang actually sent

delegations to meet with representatives of Hitler's Reich and

Mussolini's Italy. They actually promised to fight for the influence of

Germany and Italy in the Middle East, if Hitler and Mussolini would

agree 1

to allow Jews to leave their countries and also guarantee the safety of

Israel after the war."

"Madness," Natterman breathed. "What fools could have believed that a

guarantee from Adolf Hitler was worth anything?"

Stern shook his head in disgust. "One of those fools was Yitzhak

Shamir, the prime minister of Israel."

Natterman sat in stunned silence. "Shamir was a Zionist terrorist,

wasn't he? The Stern Gang ... my God."

"And that," said Stern, "brings us the the present, to the new LAKAM. I

left the agency seven years ago. At that time it was a model

intelligence organization. But under Shamir, LAKAM has grown completely

out of control. Up until two years ago, they actually ran a spy against

the United States.

Jonathan Pollard gave LAKAM information on U.S. weapons systems,

satellite capabilities, even nuclear targeting data-the most sensitive

intelligence in America. And do you know what Shamir did with this

tanned face paled with fury sent it to Moscow. That bastard risked the

life-giving support of America to prove that Israel could not be told

what to do by anyone, even the United States!"

"Does LAKAM know about the Phoenix AG warning?"

Stern answered with bitter sarcasm. "The current chief of LAKAM feels

that the Phoenix warning was fabricated by someone who wants to start us

on a destructive mole hunt.

LAKAM is pursuing the warning, but very slowly, like a man walking on

ice. There are 'constructive discussions' going on between Jerusalem

and Pretoria. The only reason I found out about the Phoenix warning at

all was that an old friend at LAKAM felt that the warning was not being

taken seriously enough."

Stern smiled mischievously. "That is the main reason I went first to

West Berlin rather than South Africa-to stay out of LAKAM's way. But

there were other reasons. The name of the company-Phoenix AG-reminded

me of Bruderschaft der Phoenix in Berlin. And when an old friend

happened to mention that Spandau Prison was being torn down only two

weeks after the warning arrived, the timing seemed impossibly

coincidental. All I could think of was the 'fire of Armageddon' note

that had mentioned Spandau.

Spandau as a city had always been too large to investigate, of course.

And while Hess-excuse me, Hess's double-was being held in Spandau

Prison, it was one of the most closely guarded buildings in the world.

But when I heard it was to be knocked into pieces, well ... it was

enough to get me on a plane to Berlin."

"But how are all these things connected?" Natterman asked.

"Where is the direct link between South Africa and Germany?"

Stern pursed his lips. "I don't think there is one, Professor. I think

the link runs through EnglandThe British governed South Africa until

1961, remember. They're a minority now, but a powerful one.

Take Phoenix AGit's a defense contractor based in South Africa, but the

majority stockholder is a young Englishman named Robert Stanton, Lord

Granville. His father and grandfather owned the company before him."

"Granville!" Professor Natterman shook his forefinger excitedly.

"That's why you brought me with you. You think this nuclear danger to

Israel could somehow be connected to the Hess case. To the English

conspirators!"

"Keep your voice down!" Stern glanced across the aisle to make sure

Gadi was still asleep. "LAKAM traced the paper used for the Phoenix AG

warning to an English mill. Lord Grenville's family has owned and

operated the corporation since 1947. But it still doesn't add up.

Britain has always been anti-Semitic, but what motive could Englishmen

have to support fascist groups now? Captain Hauer mentioned German

reunification to you. Could these Englishmen stand to make great

profits if Germany reunifies? Or could they have been blackmailed all

these years by Germans who knew their dark secret?

Germans who had secret ends of their own?"

Natterman was shaking his head. "I keep coming back to the past, Stern.

Consider our highly placed clique of Nazi sympathizers in the wartime

Parliament. I would imagine they had quite a bit of 'old boy' control

over British policy vis-A-vis Palestine, wouldn't you? Think about it.

In 1917

Britain promised the Jews a national home in Palestine. Yet while

England drifted into war with Hitler-the man who had vowed to

exter?ninate world Jewry-the British government used military force to

prevent every European Jew it could from reaching safety in

Palestine-the country Britain had already promised them. Was that

rational policy? Who really made those decisions? Could those

anti-Semitic feelings still be thriving in some families in Britain?"

Stern's face burned red with anger. "Professor, I can't even think

about those days without feeling rage toward the British."

Natterman was staring at Stern with strange intensity.

"Tell me," he said softly. "Were you part of the Stern Gang?

Is that how you know all this? Or were you Irgun?"

Stern's eyes bored in on Natterman. "Neither, Professor.

A very long time ago-before LAKAM-I helped found the Haganah."

Stern glanced past Natterman, to the small window-square of cerulean

sky. "In the winter of 1935, I emigrated with my mother to Palestine.

My father refused to leave our homeland, which happened to be Germany.

Despite my youth, I did a bit of everything for the Haganah: foug4t

Arabs, procured illegal arms, set up radio links across the Arabian

peninsula, smuggled in Jews from Europe-but mostly I fought the

British." The Israeli's face hardened.

"But I was no terrorist. Haganah was a moral army, Pr sor. The moment