The Spandau Phoenix

Israel declared nationhood, we emerged as her legitimate defense forces.

I've never believed in senseless violence to achieve political ends. I

saw too many men start out as patriots and end up as criminals." Stern's

eyes misted with some half-forgotten emotion.

"Terror is a tempting tool in war, Professor. The easiest short-term

solution is always to lash out-to murder. I know. I tried it once."

He sighed deeply. "But 'an eye for an eye' is no road map to a better

world."

In her seat near the staircase, Swallow clenched her trembling hands.

Jonas Stern's voice-his hypocritical, Zionist voice-had hurled her back

into the past, back to Palestine.

Swallow knew all about Jonas Stern's flirtation with revenge, and she

had a very different opinion about the merits of the concept. She could

no longer even think coherently about her pain. Her clearest memory was

of her time as a mathematics prodigy studying at Cambridge, her time as

Ann Gordon. She still remerhbered the stunned expressions of the dons

as she soared through the nether reaches of theoretical calculus at age

@ixteen. When the war broke out, British Intelligence had snatched her

up with the rest of the savants and whisked her into cryptography. Her

parents lived in London, but her two brothers were stationed abroad: the

elder an RAF bombardier on Malta, the younger-Ann's fraternal twin-a

military policeman in Palestine. Ann and her twin brother, Andrew, had

been inseparable as children, and they had danced with joy when fate

landed them both in the same theater of the war.

. The family had a splendid war-right up until the end. In 1944

both of Ann's parents were killed by one of the last V-rockets to fall

on London. Then her elder brother was shot down over Germany and

lynched by civilians while the Warren-SS looked on. That left only Ann,

decoding German signals in a stifling shed inTel Aviv, and Andrew,

caught in the escalating violence between Jews, Arabs, and the British

in Palestine. With the rest of the family dead, the twins had grown

closer than ever. They even shared a small apartment in the poor

quarter of Tel Aviv-until the night Andrew was blown into small pieces

as he sat on a toilet in the British police barracks. His brutal death

finally shattered Ann's Enghsh stoicism. During the long, desolate

months of anguish, her grief slowly metamorphosed into a dark,

implacable fury. The war with Germany ended, but she had found a new

war to fight.

With methodical fanaticism she set to work finding out who had killed

her twin brother. It didn't take long. The bomb that killed Andrew had

been a Zionist reprisal attack, revenge for some filthy Jews who had

died in a British deportation camp. And the name of the young firebrand

who had planned and carried out that reprisal? Jonas Stern.

It had taken Ann just two hours to learn everything the local

authorities knew about Stern. He had apparently helped the British

quite a bit during the war, but before and since, the young Zionist had

killed enough Englishmen to earn an unofFicial bounty of a thousand

pounds on his head. Ann Gordon didn't give a damn about the bounty.

All she cared about was avenging her dead brother.

The next day she volunteered for the operations side of British

Intelligence, and they accepted her. She was brilliant, tough, and best

of all an orphan. After rigorous training in England, they christened

her Swallow and put her to work.

As an assassin. The trouble was, she had no say in her choice of

assignments. She spent year after year luring IRA gunmen, Arab

terrorists, African communists, anti-British mercenaries and other hard

cases to their doom, instead of hunting down the Zionist demon from her

past. In all the years Swallow worked for British Intelligence, not

once did she manage to get within striking range of Jonas Stern. To her

everlasting fury, the young Zionist fanatic had evolved into a

singularly gifted field agent. And long before Swallow was pensioned

off, Stern himself had retired to a fortified haven in the Negev desert,

apparently never to emerge.

TWice since then Swallow had attempted to breach the defenses of Stern's

desert refuge. She had drawn Jewish blood on both occasions,.

but she had failed to reach her hated target. After that, the Mossad

had learned her identity and warned her off. For Swallow, crossing'into

the Holy Land meant certain death. And so she had returned to England.

And waited. Until yesterday. Yesterday, like a call from Olympus, Sir

Neville Shaw's summons had come. Something had drawn Jonas Stern out of

Israel at last. Out of his sanctuary ...

Swallow's eyes popped open as Professor Natterman's voice crackled in

her ear receiver, breaking her reverie.

"Can't you see it, Stern?" he said forcefully. "Somehow, for some

unknown reason, the past and present are coming toward some mysterious

meeting point ... a kin o completion. It's like the Bible. The sins of

the fathers, yes?

Or as the Buddhists teach, karma." The old professor raised a crooked

finger and shook it slowly. "You still think my suspicions about Rudolf

Hess are unfounded? If ghosts like Yitzhak Shamir can survive to haunt

the present, so can Hess. I tell you, Stern, the man is alive."

Stern closed a strong hand over Natterman's upraised finger, hard enough

to cause pain. It infuriated the professor, but it shut him up.

Stern leaned back in his seat and sighed.

"I do wonder sometimes who is pulling the strings of this invisible

cabal. Is it Lord Granville, the young Englishman? Is it some madman?

Some would-be Aryan Messiah? Is it another ghost from the past? Your

Helmut, perhaps?"

Natterman fixed the Israeli with a penetrating gaze. "Jonas," he said

gravely, using Stern's first name for the first time. "What will you do

if ... if we find that I am right? If we find living men who bear

direct responsibility for the Holocaust? Will you kill them?"

Stern ran a hand through his thinning hair. "If we were to find such

men alive," he said quietly, "I would take them back to Israel.

Take them to Israel for a public trial. That is the only end from which

justice can come."

Natterman scratched at his gray wisp of beard. "You're a strong man,

Jonas. It takes great strength to show restraint."

"I'm not that strong," Stern murmured. "If I couldn't get them back to

Israel, I would kill them without hesitation."

Glancing across the aisle for the first time in several minutes, Stern

saw that his three young companions had awakened. They were listening

wide-eyed, like children around a campfire. The Haganah years Stern had

spoken of resonated like myths in the hearts of the young sabres, and

they stared at him like a hero of another age.

Beyond that, they now knew something about their mission. They %yere to

be given the chance of a lifetime-the chance to strike back through the

pages of history-to punish men who had never been justly punished-men

who had tried to make the State of Israel a stillborn nation! Stern's

commandos were lean and hard in body and spirit, and from that moment on

they were as soldiers in a holy war.

Four rows ahead of them, another soldier also awaited her chance to

strike. As the El Al jetliner soared southward through the glorious

vault of sky, the woman code-named Swallow reveled in the knowledge that

she could destroy Jonas Stern right now.

Stern had the least part of the Spandau diary, but what did she care for

papers? If she killed Stern here, of course, she would die.

She thought of Sir Neville Shaw, the nerveless director general of mI-5.

She certainly felt no loyalty to that old serpent. Shaw and men like

him had used her ruthlessly throughout her career, wielding her like a

razor-sharp sword, all the while ignoring her quest for private justice.

But what of England, that hazy, increasingly obsolete concept? In spite

of her coldness, Swallow had always possessed a strong, rather maudlin

streak of patriotism.

Was preserving British honor worth deferring her sweet revenge for one

more day? Professor Natterman had spoken of ghosts from the past.

Swallow knew that once she unmasked herself-today, tomorrow,

whenever-she would be one ghost that Jonas Stern would be very surprised

to see.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

11.40 A.M. PrOtOri8

More than fifty knives of all types gleamed inside the brightly lit

display case. Hauer leaned over until his nose touched the glass.

This immediately drew the attention of a nearby salesman, a freckled,

red-haired man of about "Any particular style you're looking for, sir?"

he asked in a British accent. ,Are you looking for a souvenir, or might

you be doing some hunting with it?"

"Good point," Hauer said in English. "Could be doing some hunting.

Still, we don't want anythingtoo big. Quality, that's the thing."

"Of course, sir. I believe I've got just what you need."

When the young man moved down the row of display cases, Hans leaned

close to Hauer. "What about a gun?" he whispered.

Hauer didn't reply. This was their fifth stop of the day, and he was

beginning to feel overexposed. After checking into the Burgerspark

Hotel and changing their Deutsche marks for rand, they had slipped out

the rear entrance of the hotel and into their taxi. They clung to the

amuests Of the Ford while Salil made short work of their British tall

car.

The loquacious Indian had shepherded them around the city while they

purchased several changes of clothes and enough food to last two days

without leaving whatever hotel room they finally settled into.

Salil had also recommended the large sporting goods store.

"Here you are, sir," the salesman said, proudly holding out a sleek

six-inch knife for Hauer's inspection- e Hauer took the weapon and

turned it in the light. H halted it in his palm, feeling the balance.

The knife had a plain varnished handle-not nearly so ornate as the

engraved showpieces glinting in the display case-but Hauer's approval

was evident.

"I see you know your knives, sir," said the salesman.

"Made in West Gen-nany that was. Solingen steel, finest in the world."

Hauer flicked the knife back and forth with practiced ease.

"We'll take two."

The salesman's smile broadened. Already these two tourists had

purchased an expensive hunting rifle, scope, and a Nikon camera with

mini-tripod and hand-held light meter. "I notice your accent, sir," he

said with a sidelong glance at Hans. "German, are you?"

"Swiss," Hauer said quickly.

"Ah." The salesman realized he had asked the wrong question.

"I'll just wrap these for you." After another long look at Hans, he

disappeared through a narrow doorway behind the counter.

"Why does he keep staring at you?" Hauer muttered. "Is he queer?"

"He thinks I'm a goddamn tennis star."

After a moment, Hauer nodded with reliel "What about guns?" Hans asked

again. "The rendezvousis tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Hans, if the kidnappers are smart-and so far they have been-they'll

just sniff you out tonight. You didn't take the' plane they told you

to. That will put them off balance. For all they know, a hundred

Interpol agents are going to descend on the Burgerspark Hotel tonight.

No, they'll either send a drone or telephone you with further

instructions. My, guess is they'll call."

Hans looked far from satisfied. "I'd feel a lot better if I had a

pistol, and there are dozens right in that case."

"True," Hauer acknowledged. "But I don't see any silencers, do you? We

can't go around Pretoria firing off pistols.

Our badges are worthless here. Plus, I don't want to subject our papers

to even a cursory background check."

While Hans sulked, Hauer glanced around the store. "All right," he said

resignedly. "You see that rack over there?" He pointed across the

store to a large display of hunting bows.

Hans nodded.

"Go over and tell that salesman you want the smallest crossbow he has

with a seventy-pound draw, and six of I sharpest bolts he has." Hauer

pulled a wad of bills from his trousers pocket and peeled off four

hundred rand.

Still looking longingly at the gun case, Hans took the money.

"Here you are, gentlemen." The salesman had reappeared in the doorway

with a small brown-wrapped parcel. "That comes to, ah . . ."

He trailed off, looking past Hauer.

Hauer turned and followed his gaze. The salesman was staring at Hans,

who now stood with his hands on his hips, scrutinizing a rack of

expensive tennis racquets with an expert's disdainftil eye.

The salesman cleared his throat. "Could I show you something else, er

... sir?"

Hans continued to stare silently at the racquets.

The salesman reached out timidly and touched Hauer's sleeve.

"Pardon me, sir, but isn't he ... ?"

Slowly Hans turned to the salesman and smiled the confiding, slightly

embarrassed smile celebrities use when they would prefer that no one

make a fuss over them. "Could I possibly see a few racquets?"-he asked.

"Estusas? Preferably the N100O."

The salesman almost tripped over his feet in his haste to get around the

counter. "Why certainly, sir. I am at your complete disposal." He

blushed. "I'm a terrific fan, you know. We have just the racquet you

want, and I'm positive that a very agreeable discount could be arranged

-' ' " As the gushing salesman led his prize across the store, Hans

looked back over his shoulder and glared pointedly at Hauer, then at the

gun case, talking all the way. "Normally my racquets are supplied

directly from the factory," he explained, "but the stupid airline put my

bag aboard the wrong plane .

Stunned by Hans's boldness, Hauer took 9;ie look around the store for

surveillance cameras, slipped quickly behind the gun case, dropped to

his knees and went to work on the

lock.

When Hans stepped out of the store twenty minutes later, he saw Hauer

waiting for him at the end of the block, surrounded by shopping bags.

Stuffing a large, oblong parcel under his arm, he jogged awkwardly up

the street.

"Don't tell me," said Hauer. "You bought the tennis racquet."

"The crossbow," Hans muttered. "I wasn't sure you could break into the

gun case."

Hauer opened his jacket slightly. The handgrips of two gleaming black

pistols jutted from his waistband. "Walthers.

Matched pair. A child could have sprung the lock on that case."

He closed his jacket and laughed softly. "That was pretty good acting

in there, Boris. You almost had me convinced."

"Let's just get the hell out of here," Hans snapped. "I had to sign six

autographs before they let me out of the store."

At that moment Salil pulled his taxi smoothly up to the curb.

"Your carriage awaits," said Hauer. He reached down and picked up the

boxed rifle, scope, and camera, and loaded them into the trunk of the

Indian's Ford. "Let's go shoot some pictures."

11:44 A.M. mI-5 Headquatlers, Charles Street, London, England Sir

Neville Shaw had not slept in his office for quite some time-not since

the Falklands War, his deputy had reminded him. But now he lay sound

asleep on a squeaky cot he had ordered brought to his office early this

morning. When Deputy Director Wilson came barging into the office

without even a perfunctory knock, Shaw came up off the cot like he had

as a child during the Blitz.

"What in God's name is it?" he bellowed. "World War Three?"

Wilson was breathless. "It's Swallow, sir. She's picked up Stern."

Shaw pounded his fist on his thigh. "By God, I knew that woman could do

it!"

"She boarded his plane at Ben-Gurion. They're airborne now, and Stern

is definitely headed for South Africa. Not only did Swallow overhear

Stern say that he had part of the Spandau papers, but she also heard him

discussing the involvement of the Duke of Windsor in the Hess affair."

"Good Christ! Discussing it with whom?"

"A German his professor. He's a relative of one of the tory Berlin

policemen who found the Spandau papers. Swallow thinks Stern plans to

use him to make contact with HE and ApfelShe called from the aircraft

telephone. She u a verbal code from the nineteen sixties, sir. It took

a crypto team two hours to dig the cipher key out of the basement."

Shaw left his cot and walked toward his desk. "With Swallow on his

tail, Stern's as good as dead. We can count on getting whatever portion

of the papers he's carrying."

Wilson looked uncomfortable. "if Swallow does kill Stern, sir, do YOu

think the fact that she's retired is enough to shield us from an Israeli

protest?"

,Protest! What do we care about one scruffy Yid? You can bet Stern

asked for it somewhere up the line. The Zionist terrorists in Palestine

were a damned sight mo re ruthless than your Palestinian today, Wilson.

A damned sight!" Shaw rubbed his hands together anxiously. "South

Africa," he murmured. "How in blazes did that old fox figure that Out?"

Wilson looked puzzled. "I'm not sure what you mean, but Swallow

overheard Stern discussing the wife of Sergeant Apfel. Frau Apfel seems

to have been kidnapped by someone in South Africa who is demanding the

Spandau papers as ransom."

For a moment Shaw seethed to have lost his breath.

"Where's my bloody ship, Wilson?"

"Ship, sir?" Wilson reddened. "Oh, yes. Lloyd's List has the MV

Casilda bound for Tanzania. However, I managed to get hold of some

American satellite photos which show her anchored in the Mozambique

Channel, off Madagascar.

There are two helicopters lashed to her decks."

"Thank God," Shaw said under his breath.

"Sir Neville?" Wilson said softly. "Does that freighter have something

to do with the Spandau affair?"

"Better if you don't know just yet, Wilson. If all this blows up in my

face, you'll be able to swear you never knew a bloody thing."

"For God's sak Wilson looked distraught. e, Neville, at least let me

help you!"

Shaw pursed his lips thoughtfully. "All right, man. If you really want

to help, I've got something that's just your line of country."

"Name it."

"There are some files I need. If this thing goes sour, we'll want them

shredded and burned in a hurry." Shaw picked up a pen and scrawled

three names on a sheet of notepaper.

"Might be a bit sticky, but you've done this kind of thing before." He

handed over the paper.

Wilson read the names: Hess, Rudolf Steuer, Helmut Zinoviev, V V "And

where are these files, sir?"

"The Public Records Office." Shaw watched Wilson closely.

"Although technically they're Foreign Office files.

There is also a Hess file in the War Office, but it's sealed until 2050.

I don't think anyone could get at that."

Wilson swallowed hard. "You mean ... you want me to steal files from

the Foreign Office?"

"Be thankful it's only paper, man. There are much dirtier jobs involved

in this case."

Wilson met Shaw's steady gaze. "Won't the missing files be noticed?"

"Probably." Shaw reached into a drawer and withdrew a thick, dog-eared

file. "That's why I m giving you this." He handed the folder across to

Wilson. :It's also a Hess file, but it's been ...

amended. The Zinoviev and Steuer files simply have to disappear, but

you can fill the Hess gap with that. It was prepared in the early

seventies, after we were forced.by statute to reveal certain information

on Hess. It was our insurance against the day some hothead like Neil

Kinnock started pressing for radical disclosures. I think it will serve

very well in this situation." Shaw sighed contentedly.

"Now pour us a Glenfiddich, eh, Wilson? You look like you need one."

1:L?5 Pm. Room 604, The Protea Hof Hotat Pretoria

Hauer looked forlornly around the hotel room. He had steeled himself

for an explosion that never came. Perhaps Hans was simply too exhausted

to get upset. And then perhaps it was something else. His reaction did

not fit the stimulus, and that bothered Hauer. The fact that three

pages of the Spandau diary were missing clearly reduced the chances of

getting Ilse back alive; yet when Hauer had revealed that the pages were

missing, Hans hadn't said a word. fris eyes had widened in disbelief;

he'd rubbed his temples, seen to sag a little; but he had not shouted at

Hauer for pilfer the papers on the plane, or blasted Professor Natterman

for his cowardice, or tried to attack Hauer as he had done to the

professor at the cabin. He'd simply stood up and walked into the

bathroom. Hauer could hear water running in the sink now.

He unboxed the Nikon N/2000 camera with macro/micro lens that he had

bought at the sporting goods store. Then he set up the special tripod

he had bought to facilitate the time exposures. Less than a foot high,

the squat instrument had short, splayed legs and fully pivoting head. It

reminded him of a robot from a 1950s science fiction movie. He set it

up on the table near the window and opened the drapes; then he mounted

the Nikon.

"Hans!" he called to the bathroom. "I need the papers!"

Thirty seconds later Hans emerged from the bathroom with the crinkled

foil packet containing the Spandau papers.

He handed it to Hauer without a word.

"Cover the door," Hauer said. "if anyone knows where we are, now is the

time they'll hit us."

Instead of drawing the Walther from his waistband, Hans leaned over and

picked up the crossbow held bought.

Hauer gingerly unwrapped the foil while Hans loaded a stubby,

razor-sharp bolt. "I'm going to bracket the f-stops," he said. "I'll

shoot at the widest aperture flash at one@eth of a second. Then

progressively longer exposures until we'reach two full seconds, just to

make sure."

Hans said nothing.

"I know you're still worried about the pictures, but Ilse said the

kidnappers could detect whether photocopies o'f the papers had been

made. This is no different than looking at the papers. We've got no

choice, Hans. We're going to have to trade the original Spandau papers

for Ilse. This is our fallback. Besides, to crack Phoenix in Berlin,

Ive're going to need a copy of the papers, plus the evidence in the fire

safe at Steuben's house."

Hauer worked his way through the exposures for the first page-seven

shots altogether-then carefully set it aside.

Hans handed over the second page; Hauer repeated the procedure.

The first roll of film ran out halfway through page four. While Hauer

reloaded the Nikon, he heard Hans whisper: "Damn that old man."

Hauer kept working while he talked. "It isn't the professor's fault,

Hans. That blond Afrikaner got them, and whoever killed him got the

papers. The professor should have told us about the missing pages, but

you know why he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to admit he'd lost

them.

He knew you'd go crazy, and to no avail. We couldn't have done anything

about it anyway."

Hans sat silently.

"Listen," said Hauer. "Natterman was stupid to put these blank sheets

in with the papers. It made the missing pages twice as obvious.

When we make the exchange, we'll use only the six matching pages.

The kidnappers won't know the difference."

Hans's opinion of this theory was painfully clear on his face.

"You know better than that," he said softly. "They have Ilse, and she

knows exactly what I found. She can describe it down to the-" Hans's

mouth stopped moving. "Phoenix would torture her to find those things

out!"

"Stop talking like that!" Hauer snapped. "Ilse's smart.

She'll tell them what they want without a fight. Look, Hans, all we

need is Ilse in the open and ten seconds to get her clear. The

kidnappers won't have more than ten seconds to examine the papers.

That's the situation I intend to arrange.

Anything else is unacceptable."

"Ten seconds is enough time to count pages," Hans observed.

Hauer sighed heavily. "At the cabin you said you trusted me, Hans. Now

you've got to prove it. We've got the leverage here, not them. They

know they'll never get the papers back if they kill Ilse.

The moment they make contact, we set out our terms for the exchange.

They have to accept them.

And once they accept our terms, we've got them."

Hans met Hauer's eyes. "But do we have Ilse?"

Hauer picked the last diary page up off the bed, shot his last seven

exposures, then removed the film from the camera. He folded the Spandau

papers into quarters, then eighths, then he wrapped the aluminum foil

tightly about them again.

"I'm going to find a lab that can process the film in an hour or two,"

he said, slipping the cartridges into his pocket.

"I want you to sleep while I'm gone. You've been up for thirty-six

hours, and I've been up longer than that. Airplane sleep doesn't count.

The Burgerspark rendezvous is at e tonight.

Call the desk and set a wake-up call for seven-thirty."

Hans looked up stonily. "You expect me to steep now?"

"Just shut off the light and breathe deeply. You won't last five

minutes. You should see your eyes right now. They look like they're

bleeding."

Working his jaw muscles steadily, Hans finally said, "Shouldn't I keep

the papers here?"

Hauer considered this. Hans had held the papers until now . . .

"They're safer on the move," he said suddenly. He slipped the packet

into his trouser pocket and headed for the door. "Get some sleep.

I'll see you when we wake up."

Outside the hotel the sun burned down without mercy.

Hauer wished he'd thought to bring a hat. Moving watchidly through the

tree-lined streets, he tried to gauge their chances of success. Tonight

would be their first and possibly only chance to turn the tables on the

men who held Ilse, the men behind Phoenix. And with no backup to rely

on, every move could be their last. Hauer needed time to think. And

most critical now, he needed sleep. Maybe worse than he ever had in his

life. He could feel the sun sapping his energy by the minute.

He paused in the shade of a purple-blossomed jacaranda tree. He leaned

against its trunk, folded his arms, and waited for a taxi. None passed.

He did not know that in South Africa taxis may not legally cruise for

business, but must wait in ranks at designated locations.

Struggling to keep his eyes open, he wondered if Hans might be right.

Would the kidnappers make their main move at the Burgerspark tonight?

Would they risk showing themselves this early in the game?

He didn't think so, but this wasn't Berlin. Maybe on their own

territory the bastards would act with impunity. Maybe he should find a

place to hide the papers before the rendezvous. Maybe"T i!"

ax A red Madza driven by an enterprising soul made an illegal U-turn and

screeched up to Hauer's shade tree. For a moment Hauer thought the

driver was Salil, the talkative Indian, but it was only his exhausted

mind playing tricks on him. A tanned Afrikaner leaned out of the

window.

"Where to, mate?" he asked in English.

"I need some film developed," Hauer replied. "Fast."

"How fast?"

"Yesterday."

"Got money?"

"All I need."

"Right," said the driver. "Get in, then."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I30 Pm. Horn House, Northern Transvaal, RSA Seated in his motorized

wheelchair on the north lawn, Alfred Horn chewed an Upmann cigar while

Robert Stanton, Lord Granville, paced nervously around him, gulping from

an enormous Bloody Mary. For an hour the young Englishman had been

ranting about "corporate expansion." The corporation he referred to was

the illegal and wholly invisible one which carried on the lucrative

drug- and currencysmuggling operations he had administered for Alfred

Horn for the past eight years. The old man had sat silent during most

of the tirade. He was curious, but not about increasing his illegal

profits. He was curious about Stanton himself.

Today the young nobleman's voice had the semblance of its usual

brashness, but something in it did not quite ring true.

He was drunk, and Horn intended to give him as much rope as he would

take.

"I don't even know why I'm trying," he lamented. "Do you realize how

much money we have lost in the past three days, Alfred? Over two

million pounds! Two million. And I have no idea why. You shut down

our entire European operation without a word of explanation."

"To whom do I owe explanations?" Horn rasped.

.Well ... to no one, of course. But Alfred"certain people might get

angry if we don't resume operations very soon.

We have commitments."

A faint smile touched Horn's lips. "Yes," he said softly.

"I'm curious, Robert, this gold that is scheduled to anive day after

tomorrow. Why is it coming by ship? Normally those deliveries are made

by air."

This question surprised Stanton, but he recovered quickly.

"The final leg will still be made by air," he said. "By helicopter. I

don't know why, Alfred. Perhaps the currency export restrictions were

tightened at Colombia's airports.

Perhaps it was easier to take the gold out by ship. Who knows?"

"Indeed." Horn glanced at the thin face of Pieter Smuts.

"Tell me, Robert, do you miss England? You've been with us a month

now."

Stanton took a huge swallow of his Bloody Mary. "Glad to be away from

the bloody place. It's winter there, isn't it?

Though I must admit I'd like to get down to Jo'burg for a weekend.

Not much female companionship to choose from here. I don't have the

fancy for dark meat Smuts has. I suppose it's an acquired taste."

Stanton grinned. "There's always the pretty new Fraulein, of course,

our own Aryan princess.

Horn's solitary eye burned into Stanton's face. "You will keep your

distance from Frau Apfel, Robert," he said sharply. "Is that absolutely

clear?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, old boy. Not my type at all." The young

Englishman tried to look nonchalant, but he could not remain cool under

the smoking gaze of Horn's security chief. "Would you mind terribly not

doing that, Smuts?" he said irritably. "Gives me the galloping

creeps."

Smuts continued to stare like a wolf at the edge of a dying fire.

After several moments, Horn said, "It won't be long now, Robert, and

everything will be back to normal. I have some business to take care of

first, that is all. It's a matter of security."

Security, Stanton thought contemptuously. In two days you're going to

find out about bloody security. He slipped on a pair of Wayfarer

sunglasses to hide his eyes while he considered his remarkable position.

Three months ago, two very powerful people had decided they wanted

Alfred Horn dead.

One was a ruthless Colombian drug baron who wanted access to Phoenix's

European drug markets. His motivegreed-Stanton clearly understood. The

other was a rather terrifying gentleman from London named Sir Neville

Shaw.

Stanton knew nothing about his motive. All he knew was that both Shaw

and the Colombian had asked him to assassinate Alfred Horn. With his

own hands! Stanton had refused, of course. He didn't want to murder

the old man.

Horn had made him rich-something his worthless title had never done. But

the terrible pressure to kill the old man had not relented. The

Colombian had threatened Stanton's life, a threat Stanton could afford

to ignore as long as he lived under Horn's protection. Sir Neville Shaw

had also begun with threats. I'll bury your title under a mountain of

dirt and blood, he'd said. Stanton had laughed. He didn't give two

shits about his title. Even as a child he had sensed that the name

Granville was held in quiet, profound contempt among most of the British

peerage. That was one reason he'd turned to the life he had, and also

why, upon his father's death, he had accepted the aid and protection of

Alfred Horn.

But then Shaw had changed tactics. Kill Horn, he'd said, and the Crown

will allow you to keep the companies you own and operate under Horn's

supervision. Stanton had paused at,that. Because the time was long

past for Alfred Horn to pass on his empire to a younger man. For five

years Stanton had been the majority stockholder of Phoenix AG, yet not

one decision regarding the administration of the giant conglomerate had

been made by him. His father had played a similar role before him, but

his father had been allowed to make decisions-his father had been

trusted. Robert was a mere figurehead, almost a joke. Yes, the time

for change had come. Yet Stanton could not do the dirty work himself;

even if he succeeded in killing Horn, Pieter Smuts would tear him limb

from bloody limb. No, the old man would have to be killed in such a way

that Smuts and his security force died with him. Stanton had pondered

this problem for a week, after which time he had hit upon a rather

brilliant plan. He would simply bring together the two parties who

shared a common goal. On a day trip to London he had communicated his

plan to Shaw, then left the devious mI-5 chief to work out the details.

Thus the present plan; thus the ship. All that remained now was the

execution.

"Drunk already, are you?" Smuts goaded in his flat voice.

For once Stanton looked the Afrikaner dead in the eye.

"Just thinking," he said. "You should try it sometime, old

sport."

Ilse Apfel stood on a gentle swell of grass and stared across the vast

high-veld. She had fled Horn House after the nightmare in the X-ray

room, running as far and as fast as she could. No one had stopped her,

but Linah had followed at a respectful distance, pausing whenever Ilse

did, keeping pace like a distant shadow. After Ilse's panic had carried

her nearly two miles from the house, she'd calmed smoothed out a place

in the rough grass to rest.

Alfred Horn had spoken the truth at dinner, si On this empty plateau

there was simply nowhere to. Not without a map, a gun, and a good

supply Far to her left, scrawny, humped cattle grazed. Beyond them a

pair of reddish horses pranced in the sun. A black haze hung low in the

distance, touching the brown horizo& Though Ilse did not know it, the

black smoke rose from the coal-fueled cookstoves of a small native

kraal, or village.

Such smoke marked most native dwellings from Capetown to the Bantustan

of Venda. In winter it was worse. Then the dark palls hung perpetually

over the settlements, blocking out the sun. In South Africa electricity

is a selectively p@, vided commodity.

Ilse looked down at the sun-baked earth. What hope had she here, so far

from Germany? What chance did her childm have? Hans was on his way

here now, if Horn could be believed . And from Smuts's questions in the

X-ray session, shorn thought there was a chance Hans's father might be

coming too. She hoped so. Even from Hans's rare comments about Dieter

Hauer, Ilse had gleaned that he was a highly respected, even feared,

police officer. But what could he do against men like Pieter Smuts?

Again!

Jiirgen Luhr, who had slashed a helpless policeman before her eyes?

She thought of Alfred Horn. Lord Grenville was right about one

thing-the old man had taken to her. Ilse had enough experience with men

to recognize infatuation, and Horn had definitely fallen for her. And

here, she realized, his infatuation might be the key to very survival.

And to her child's survival. She wonder what madness the old man had

planned for tonight. From what Stanton had told her of Horn's business

dealings, meetings could augur no good for anyone. Still. she c not

very well refuse to attend-not if she wanted ate herself further with

Horn. And she might le@ thing that could help her escape.

Pulling a long blade of grass from the ground and started back toward

the house. She had wandered afield than she'd thought. Linah was no

longer in sig before Ilse had covered fifty meters, she confronted thing

she had not seen on her way out: a shimmering stretch of hot asphalt

running off through the grass and scrub. A @? Her heart quickened with

hope. Then she saw the plane. Three hundred meters to her right, on a

round asphalt runway, Horn's sleek Lear-31A. Ilse sighed hopelessly,

and continued west.

a long rise, she caught sight of Horn House about away. She gasped.

Fleeing the house earlier, she had not looked back. But now she saw

the whole estate laid out before her like a postcard photograph, stark

and stunning in its originality. She had never seen anything like it,

not in .)magazines, not even on television. Horn House-a building #kat

from inside gave the impression of a classical manor Med with ornate

rooms and endless hallways-was actually an equilateral triangle. A

triad of vast legs surrounded a central tower that rose like a castle

keep above the three outer legs. Crowning this tower was a.glittering

copper-plated dome. The observatory, Ilse remembered. Hexagonal

turrets ked each vertex of the great triangle. She half expected to see

archers rise up from behind the tessellated parapets.

With a sudden shiver, she realized that Horn House was exactly what it

appeared to be-a fortress. On the seemingly ureless plain, the massive

citadel stood ofi a hill set in center of a shallow, circular bowl

created by gradually rig slopes on all its sides. Anyone approaching it

would have to cross this naked expanse of ground beneath the gaze of the

central tower.

Ilse pressed down her apprehension and set off across the asphalt, using

the observatory dome as her homeward beacon.

She was quickly brought up short by a deep, dry gully. She d crossing a

shallow defile earlier, but nothing s. She must have crossed it at

another point on her from the house. Easing herself down over the rim,

carefully into the dusty ravine.

Smuts had christened this dry creek bed "the wash and it served as the

first barrier in an impregnable security screen which the Afrikaner had

constructed around his master's isolated redoubt. If Ilse had known

what lay been her and Horn House, she would have hunkered down he Wash

and refused to take another step. The Afrikaner used all his experience

to turn the grassy bowl between the Wash and his master's fortress into

a killing zone from which no intruder could escape alive.

Every square meter of the circular depression was protected by Claymore

mines, explosive devices containing hundreds of steel balls that, when

remotely detonated, blasted outward at an angle and cut any living

creature to pieces in a millisecond. Concrete bunkers, each armed with

an M-60 machine gun, studded the inner lip of the huge bowl.

Each was connected to the central tower by a network of underground

tunnels, providing a secure means of directing fire and reinforcing the

bunkers in the event of casualties. But the linchpin of Horn House's

defenses was the "observatory." The nerve center of the entire security

complex, the great copper dome housed closed-circuit television

monitors, radar screens, satellite communications gear, and the pride of

Smuts's arsenal-a painstakingly machined copy of the American Vulcan

mini-gun, a rotary cannon capable of pouring 6,600 armor-piercing rounds

per minute down onto the open ground surrounding Horn House.

None of these precautions was visible, of course; Pieter Smuts knew his

job. The Claymore mines-designed to be spiked onto the ground

surface-had been waterproofed and hidden beneath small mounds of earth.

The bunkers had sheets of sun-scorched sod laid over their outward

faces.

Even the Vulcan gun slept silently behind the retractable 'lllescope

cover" of the "observatory," waiting to be aimed not at the heavens, but

at the earth.

Oblivious to the matrix of death that surrounded her, Ilse fought her

way up and over'the far rim of the Wash, brushed herself off, and

continued toward the still distant house.

With a soft buzz Alfred Horn turned his wheelchair away from his

security chief and gazed across the veld. Ilse had just topped the rim

of the bowl to the northeast. With her blond hair dancing in the sun,

she looked as carefree as a Jungfrau picnicking in the Grunewald.

Without taking his eyes from her, Horn asked, "Is the helicopter

available, Pieter?"

"Yes, sir."

Horn watched Ilse make her way across the long, shallow depression and

climb the hill to the house. It took several minutes. When Ilse spied

the Ahikaner, she started to avoid the table, but Horn motioned her

over. She stepped tentatively up to his wheelchair.

"Is there any news of my husband?" she asked diffidently.

"Not yet, my dear. But there soon will be, I'm sure." Horin turned to

Smuts. "Pieter, have one of the office girls order some clothes for

Frau Apfel. They can fly them out in the helicopter. And make sure

there's something conservative."

He cast a surreptitious glance at Lord Granville. "For tonight."

The young Englishman stared into his drink.

"Take Frau Apfel with you, Pieter," Horn suggested. "She can provide

her sizes." He turned to Ilse with a smile.

"Would you, my dear?"

Ilse hesitated a moment, then she silently followed Smuts.

She didn't know what to make of Alfred Horn's eccentricities, but she

remembered the Afrikaner's warning against disobeying him. She would do

anything to keep her unborn child off the torture table that waited in

the X-ray ROOMHom watched her walk into the house, a look of rapture on

his face. Stanton observed him with growing disgust. The oldfool's

past it, he thought. There's no stopping things now.

You never learned the natural law, Alfred You pass the torrh to the

young or you die. As Stanton drained the dregs of his Bloody Mary, he

made a silent toast to Sir Neville Shaw.

3.30 P.M. Mozambique Channel, Indian Ocean

Sixty-five miles off the wooded coastline of southern Mozambique, the MV

Casilda hove to in the 370-mile-wide stretch of water that separates the

old Portuguese colony from the island of Madagascar. A medium-sized

freighter of Panamanian registry, her holds were full of denim fabric

bound for Dares Salaam on the Tanzanian coast to the north. After

unloading this cargo Casilda would sail to Beira, the great railhead and

port on the Mozambique coast, where she would take on a consignment of

asbestos bound for Uruguay. But just now she had other business.

Strapped to the aft deck of the freighter like giant insects pinned to a

display board were two Bell JetRanger HI helicopters scheduled for

delivery to RENAMO, the antiMarxist guerrillas in Mozambique- Although

the choppers would eventually be delivered to their official buyers,

they had a job to do first-a slight detour to take. Supplied by a very

wealthy gentleman in South America, the JetRangers were configured as

commercial aircraft-with the papers required for legal transfer all in

order-but a military man might I e quick to notice that they could be

easily modified for combat duty in a pinch.

The sun-blistered man who surveyed the two helos from the shadow of the

wheelhouse awning was just such a man.

An Englishman, and the only white man on the entire ship, his name was

Alan Burton. During the entire five-week voyage, Burton had watched

over the helicopters as if they were his own. In the next two days he

would have to entrust his life to them, and as he did not particularly

trust any of the men he would be working with, he felt that the most he

could do was be sure of the choppers. They were his lifeline.

His way in-his way out.

Casilda had been lucky so far. At no port of call had any customs

officials conducted more than a cursory search of her holds. If they

had, they would almost certainly have discovered the two large crates

secreted in the stacks of bolted denim, which contained a rather

amateurish assortment of assault rifles, ammunition, and grenades.

They might even have discovered the special cargo hidden in Alan

Burton's cabin, but the Englishman doubted it. He had hidden the mortar

tube well.

In spite of this luck, Burton was angry. The man who had contracted for

his services had led him to believe that his companions on this mission

would know what they were about. They did not. Burton was the only man

in the entire unit who knew this part of Africa, and, excepting the

pilots, he was the only professional of the lot. The Cubans were all

right, but there were only two of them-the pilots. The sloppiness of

the Colombians was appalling. Burton considered them a rabble-no better

than d bandits. From his first contact with them, serious doubts about

the mission had begun to eat at his confidence.

He lit a Gauloise and cursed the luck that had forced him to work under

these circumstances. The company stank, but what could he do?

He wasn't complaining about the money-the Colombian paid cash on the

barrel head and lots of it. The Cuban pilots were getting six thousand

in flight pay, plus salary, and Burton's bonus was twice that.

But he had not taken this assignment for the money. He had taken it for

The Deal. The Deal was a mysterious and wondrous arrangement of a kind

he had never before heard-a solemn pact between a government and an

exiled mercenary.

The price to be paid was not money, but a treasure that only one

government in the world could pay. Burton didn't like to think about

The Deal too much, for fear it would evaporate like every other precious

hope in his life. Only in a few unguarded moments, on the foredeck at

dawn watching the sea, had he caught himself thinking of green hills, of

an old stone cottage, the smell of hothouse orchids, and sharing a pint

with a man much like himself. At those times he would angrily push the

visions from his mind.

He had enough to worry about. He worried what would happen if the

Cubans discovered what lay inside one of the elongated boxes labelled

RPG. Two million rand in gold was enough money to tempt even a man of

Burton's high professional standards, and he doubted the Cuban pilots

had any such pretensions. Strangely,'the Colombians didn't worry him on

that score. They would know enou h about the price I 9

of betraying their master to keep clear of such temptations.

But their lack of combat experience did worry him. He'd heard them

boasting about violent shootouts in and around Medellfn, but such

hooliganism hardly qualified them to face the kind of opposition they

were likely to meet in Africa.

They'll find out soon enough, he thought bitterly.

Burton expected a message today, relaying the latest situation from the

target. There was supposedly an informer in side the target-an

Englishman, no less-which Burton found very interesting. At least he

isn't a bloody Colombian, he thought. Burton hoped the strike order

would come today.

He was ready to get off the goddamn ship.

As he smoked beneath the blue wheelhouse awning, a thin, deeply tanned

man emerged from a hatch in the afterdeck and walked over to the

helicopters. it was one of the Cuban pilots-a bright-eyed youngster

named Diazchecking the moorings of the choppers. Spying Burton, he made

an O.K. signal with his thumb and forefinger, then disappeared back down

the hatch.

Burton flipped his Gauloise over the side rail and walked out to the

helicopters. Maybe a few of them know what they're about after all, he

thought. Maybe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

6.55 Pm. Horn House: The Northern Transvaal The Learjet appeared low in

the east, a fiery arrow hurtling down the vast African sky. The dying

sun glittered on the metal-skinned apparition as it settled onto the

freshly laid asphalt runway. It taxied to the short apron, then turned

slowly until it faced back up the strip, shimmering like a bird of prey

next to Horn's helicopter.

A khaki-colored Range Rover Uundled out to meet the plane. Pieter

Smuts, dressed impeccably as a major of the South African Reserve,

stepped from the driver's seat. He stood at attention, waiting for the

Lear's short staircase to drop to the tarmac. He noticed that the

aircraft bore no corporate or national insignia, only numbers painted

across the gracefully swept tail fin.

When the jet's door finally opened, two dark-skinned Arabs stepped out.

Each carried an automatic weapon that, from where Smuts stood, appeared

to be the Israeli Uzi.

Hats off to the competition, he thought dryly. The bodyguards made a

great show of checking the area for potential threats. Then one of them

barked some Arabic through the open hatchway. Smuts marched smartly

toward the bottom of the staircase.

Four Arabs filed out of the aircraft and down the steps.

Two wore flowing robes and sandals, two wore Western business suits.

Smuts greeted the shorter of the two robed Arabs.

"Mr. Prime Minister?"

"Yes. Greetings, Mr.-?"

"Smuts, sir. Pieter Smuts, at your service. If you gentlemen will

follow me into the vehicle, please."

The taller of the two robed Arabs-a man with pie] black eyes and a

desert chieftain's mustache-surveyed the vast expanse of grass and scrub

around them, then smiled.

"This is not so different from our own country," he said.

The other Arabs laughed and nodded.

"Now," he said, "let us go to meet the man we have come to see."

Smuts led them to the Rover.

When they reached the main entrance of Horn House, all the

servants-medical staff excluded-stood outside awaiting their arrival.

This favorably impressed the Arabs, who walked disdainfully past the

white-clad line and into the great marble reception hall. Almost

immediately a low whirnng sound drew their attention to the far side of

the high-ceilinged room. A section of the wall slid swiftly back,

revealing Alfi-ed Horn sitting in his wheelchair inside a twometer wide

cubicle. On his gaunt body, the black suit and tie he wore gave him a

rather funereal air. But something else about him had changed. The

artificial eye was gone. Tonight Horn wore a black eyepatch in its

place. Combined with the wheelchair, the eyepatch gave the wizened old

man the quiet dignity of a battle-scarred war veteran.

"Guten Abend, gentlemen," he rasped. "Would you join me in the

elevator, please?"

The elevator Horn occupied led down to a basement complex one hundred

meters below the house. Only from this basement could one reach a

second elevator that led up into the observatory tower of Horn House.

When it became obvious that only four could fit comfortably into the

elevator with the wheelchair, he ordered Smuts to wait with the Arab

bodyguards.

"We'll see you in a few minutes, sir," Smuts said.

By the time the Afrikaner's party arrived at the secondfloor conference

room, Horn and his Arab guests were already seated around a great round

table of polished Rhodesian teak. A large aluminum briefcase lay closed

on the table before one of the business-suited Arabs. Linah had brought

up chilled Perrier. Prime Minister Jalloud turned to the door and

softly addressed one of the bodyguards.

"Malahim, we feel quite secure in Herr Horn's care. We wish you to wait

downstairs for us. The housekeeper will give you refreshments."

The bodyguard melted away from the door. Smuts closed the door, locked

it, then stood at attention beside it.

"Herr Horn," Prime Minister Jalloud said uncomfortably, "Our Esteemed

Leader has asked us to obtain your pennission to make a video recording

of this negotiation, so that he may witness what transpires here

tonight. He understands if you prefer not to have your face recorded,

but in that case he asks if we might make an audio recording instead."

The room hung in tense silence. Alfred Horn laughed silently. He had

four video cameras recording the meeting already. "You have video

equipment in that case?" he asked.

"Yes," Jalloud replied, worn'ed that he might already have overstepped

the bounds of propriety.

"Set it up then. By all means. In negotiations of this magnitude, it

is necessary to have an accurate record."

An audible sigh of relief went up in the conference room.

At the snap of Jalloud's fingers an Ar-ah opened the aluminum case and

busied himself with a camcorder and tripod.

"I have a request of my own, gentlemen," Horn said. "I too keep records

of meetings, but I'm old-fashioned. Do you mind if my personal

secretary takes notes?"

"Certainly not," Jalloud replied courteously.

Horn pressed a button. In a few seconds the door opened to reveal a

stunning young blonde wearing a severely cut blue skirt and blouse.

Ironically, the two Arabs who affected Western dress seemed most shocked

by Ilse's sudden appearance.

"As you can see, gentlemen, said Horn, "my secretary is a woman.

Is that a problem?"

There were some uncomfortable glances, but Jalloud ended any discussion

before it could begin. "If you wish it, Herr Horn, it is so.

Let us begin."

Ilse took a seat behind Horn, crossed her legs, and held a notepad ready

to take down anything Horn might instruct her to. She ignored the Arabs

completely, her attention on Horn's eyepatch.

Jalloud said, "Herr Horn, allow me to introduce my companions. To my

right is Major Ilyas Karami, senior military adviser to Our Esteemed

Leader. He is understandably out of uniform."

The tall, mustached Arab wearing robes stood and nodded solemnly.

"To my left," Jalloud continued, "is Dr. Hamid Sabri, our nuclear

physicist. Do not let his youth mislead you. In ou country he is the

preeminent expert in his field."

A bookish young man wearing a business suit stood and bowed his head.

'And finally," Jalloud concluded, "All Jumah, my personal interpreter.

He speaks excellent German and humbly waits to serve you."

"Excellent," Horn said in German. Until now they had all spoken a very

uncomfortable.English.

"And I," the robed Arab said proudly, "am Abdul Salam Jalloud, prime

minister of my country."

"Of course," Horn said ' "Do you mind if I smoke?"

Instantly the Arabs brought out packs of American cigarettes and lit up.

Horn accepted an Upmann cigar from Smuts's@ pocket supply. As Smuts lit

the cigar, Horn noticed a rectangular swatch of color emblazoned on

Major Karami's gold lighter. A solid field of blue-green-the flag of

Libya. A military man to his bones, Horn thought. The homeland is

never far from his mind. A quick glance at Smuts told Horn that his

security chief had also noticed the lighter.

"Perhaps you gentlemen should begin by stating your requirements," Horn

suggested. "That should give us a clear idea of where we stand."

Jailoud yielded the floor to Dr. Sabri, the physicist. The

bespectacled young Libyan spoke soft, precise Arabic.

Jumah the interpreter translated whenever he paused for breath.

"What we need," Dr. Sabri began, "is fissile material. Either highly

enriched uranium (U-235) or plutonium (Pu-239). We need as much of

either isotope as you can supply, both if possible. At the very least,

we need fifteen kilograms of uranium or five kilograms of plutonium. By

'highly enriched' I mean uranium enriched to at least eighty percent

purity. Anything less is useless to us. We also need triggers@ither

lens or krytron types-and sculpted steel support tubes."

He paused nervously. "These are our requirements," he concluded, and

resumed his seat.

When the interpreter's voice faded, there was silence in the room.

The Libyans, watching Horn closely, failed to notice the shock whiten

Ilse's face as she realized the implications of the young scientist's

words. She had not seen the Libyan flag emblazoned on Major Karami's

lighter, and even if she had, she wouldn't have recognized it. But she

knew enough science to understand that these men were discussing atomic

weapons. It took all of her willpower to remain seated and silent.

She watched the remainder of the meeting through a gauzy haze of

unreality, like someone who has stumbled onto the scene of a bloody

traffic accident. Alfred Horn, however, watched the Libyans as affably

as if he were negotiating the price of Arabian horses.

Prime Minister Jalloud finally broke the silence. "We are prepared to

pay any reasonable price for these items, Herr Horn. In the currency of

your choice, of course. Dinars, dollars, pounds, marks, ECUS, rand ...

even gold bullion. The question is, are these items available at any

price? Do you actually have access to them?"

Alfred Horn smiled. This was the moment he had been waiting for-not for

weeks or months or years, but for decades. For a lifetime.

He could barely suppress the excitement he felt on the threshold of

realizing his life's work.

"Gentlemen," he said softly. "Allow me to be frank."

The Libyans nodded and leaned forward. Ilse held her breath, praying

she would awaken from the nightmare.

Pieter Smuts remained impassive as ever, his gray eyes glued to his

master's face.

"For over a decade," said Horn, "your leader has sought to obtain

nuclear weapons. He has attempted to develop a manufacturing capability

in your home country, and also to purchase weapons ready-made from other

nations. The first avenue proved impossible; students from your country

aren't even allowed to study nuclear physics in the great universities

of the world. And the second option, while theoretically possible, has

proved to be an embarrassing circus of bribery, scandal, and hoaxes. The

Chinese sent you packing in 'seventy-nine. India backed out of a

proposed deal and refused to fulfill her obligations to you, even after

you cut oil shipments to New Delhi by one million tons. Belgium yielded

to U.S. pressure, and Brazil has refused to give any valuable

assistance, in spite of the fact that you sold them massive amounts of

arms in 'eighty-two . .

The Arabs tensed in fury, but Horn continued reeling off his grocer's

list of Libyan misadventures in a voice that was its own arbiter of

truth. Finally Prime Minister Jalloud, white with indignation, rose

from his chair.

"We did not come here to be insulted, sir! If you have nothing but

words for us, there are other suppliers!"

"Like Edwin Wilson?" Horn countered. "And his grubby Belgian

compatriot Armand Donnay? The uranium they offered you might-I.say

might-have been worth using as nose-weights for jets, but I doubt it.

You'rr lucky you had young Sabri to recognize Wilson's proposition as

garbage."

The young physicist nodded modestly, but Major Karami said, "Perhaps we

planned to irradiate their uranium at our Tajoura reactor, to produce

plutonium for a weapon of our own."

Dr. Sabri's sarcastic expression instantly undercut this feeble attempt

to save face.

"Gentlemen," Horn said soothingly, "I did not bring you here to insult

you. I merely state these facts so that the true basis of our

negotiations will be plain, and so that you will understand the

necessity of paying the price I ask."

The mention of money placated the Arabs somewhat. It suggested that the

man in the wheelchair-whatever his opinion of them-might actually have

access to the materials they had come to purchase. And that was all

that mattered.

"Go on," said Jalloud, taking his seat again"Here is the situation as I

see it," said Horn. "As we speak, the world does not even perceive

Libya as a nuclear threshold country. Your requirements, however, paint

a significantly different picture. The need for highly enriched

triggers, and sculpted tubes tells me that you are uranium, building

your own weapon, and that you have probably already obtained all the

necessary components other than those you seek from me. Your request

for an absolute minimum of fifteen kilograms of U-235 or five kilograms

of plutonium suggests that you have procured tamper/reflector technology

and are trying to build the smallest bomb you can-possibly even a

portable weapon. Am, I correct?"

No one disputed him.

Horn turned directly into the lens of the softly humming video camera

that had been forgotten by everyone in the room but him. "I propose

something quite different," he said solemnly. "I am offering you an

aircraft-deliverable nuclear weapon with a forty-kiloton yield,

completely assembled with fissionable core, ready for detonation."

in that moment the air in the conference room seemed to turn to water.

Although the Arabs knew their leader would not view the videotape for

many hours yet, they also knew that the words spoken by the old man in

the wheelchair were for him alone. Their presence had become

irrelevant.

Horn spoke softly to the humming camera. "I can offer you a weapon of

the implosion or the gun-assembly type, and, subject to certain

conditions, I can continue to provide these weapons at the rate of one

every forty days."

Major Karami's black eyes glittered as he fumbled for another cigarette.

At length Jalloud asked softly, "Are you serious, sir?"

Horn's single burning eye was answer enough.

Major Karami regained his composure first. "And what is the price of

this great gift?" he asked warily. "There are only so many billions of

diners in our treasury."

"Not a single piece of gold do I desire," Horn rasped.

"What then?" Jalloud asked, puzzled. "Oil?"

"My price, Herr Prime Minister, is control. I will provide you with a

single weapon. You will not stockpile it and wait for more weapons. You

will use it-and against a target specified by me." Horn raised a

spindly finger. "Only then will more weapons be provided."

"That's ridiculous!" Major Karami exploded. "Why not use it yourself.?

We have our own targets and we'll use our weapons as we see fit! Your

price is too high!"

"One moment, Ilyas," Jalloud cautioned. "What is your target of

preference, Herr Horn?"

"Thank you for asking," Horn said softly. "It so happens that the

target I want destroyed coincides with the one your leader has

unsuccessfully tried for years to destroy-the State of Israel. To be

exact, Tel Aviv."

Ilse let out a short gasp from her chair behind Horn.

"Tel Aviv!" Karami exclaimed, unbelieving. He turned to Jalloud.

"Does he speak the truth?"

"Do you?" the prime minister asked.

"Tel Aviv," Horn murmured. "I want the Jews wiped from the face of the

earth."

"As do we!" Jalloud retorted. "But what good is one weapon to us? If

we have to wait forty days for another, we will be annihilated.

The Zionists have two hundred nuclear bombs."

Horn smiled. "Yes, they do. But think for a moment. I assume you do

not want Palestine rendered permanently unin habitable. You merely wish

the Jews pushed into the sea, yes?

Tel Aviv is the first step on the road to reclaiming Jerusalem.

If skillfully managed, your attack could even be made to appear as an

Israeli nuclear accident."

Major Karami seemed to be debating with himself. "Herr Horn," he said

hesitantly, "Israel's air defenses are the toughest in the world.

Even with the best of luck, it would be difficult to guarantee that a

single plane carrying this warhead could get through to Tel Aviv. And

even if it did, we would have no chance to mask our responsibility for

the attack."

Horn saw that admitting this weakness had cost the Libyan major dearly.

"I appreciate your frankness," he said. "If you would prefer, I could

'arrange to deliver a slightly smaller, warhead-a thirty-kiloton

yield-that could be fitted with a timer and concealed inside a large

crate. It would not be nearly as compact as the American SADM-the

famous "suitcase bomb"-but it could fit easily inside a small truck."

Prime Minister Jalloud started to speak, but Major Karami restrained

him. "I believe we can do business," he said hoarsely, trying to

maintain some semblance of composure.

"Are there any other restrictions?"

"Time," Horn replied. "I want Tel Aviv destroyed within ten days."

Stunned, Major Karami sat back in his chair. Horn's words coursed

through his veins like a powerful narcotic.

After endless years of cowering beneath the Zionist nuclear threat,

Libya would finally possess the means to strike back!

Karami clenched and unclenched his fists in anticipation of wielding the

deadliest sword ever to fall into Muslim hands.

Theti he went still.

"How do we know that you actually have access to such weapons?"

he asked. He was almost afraid to hear the answer-afraid that his heady

dreams of, conquest would disappear like smoke from a tent fire.

Horn smiled. "Because I have one in the basement complex of this house,

ready for Dr. Sabri's inspection. If you gentlemen will follow me ..."

Gasps went up around the table. The Arabs began shaking each other's

hands and talking rapidly among themselves.

The interpreter did not even attempt to translate the effusive

congratulations that filled the room.

s

In the corner behind Horn, Ilse's face had gone slack. After Luhr's

drugs and the horror in the X-ray room, witnessing this nightmarish

conclave had pushed her over the edge of endurance. As the Libyans

filed out of the room behind Horn's motorized chair, she slid awkwardly

to the floor, tiny beads of cold sweat sparkling on her bloodless

forehead.

730 Pm. Burgerspark Hotel, Pretoria

In a small room on the fourth floor of the Burgerspark Hotel, Jonas

Stern reviewed his interception plan with his men.

Gadi Abrams lounged on one of the hotel beds. Professor Natterman sat

in a chair by the window, wearing a bulky bulletproof vest beneath his

tweed jacket. Stern himself sat on the bed opposite Gadi. Yosef Shamir

stood in the lobby four floors below, listening through a hand-held

radio.

"Thirty minutes until the rendezvous," Stern said.

"Where's Aaron?"

Just then they heard a key in the door. The young commando stepped in.

"The elevator control box is in the basement," he said.

"I can stop the elevator wherever you want it."

Stern nodded. "What about the radio?"

Aaron frowned and pulled a small walkie-talkie from his pocket.

"I could hear you, but there's static. And you were only on the fourth

floor. With eight floors between us, I'm not so sure."

"We'll check it when we get up there." Stern consulted a drawing he had

made on a piece of hotel stationery. "All right, here it is.

I've taken a second room on the eighth floor of this hotel. The closest

I could get to suite 81 I-the room 9 .

where Sergeant Apfel is registered-was 820. It's down the hall, past

the elevators, and around the corner. Gadi and I will be in that room.

Yosef will be watching the lobby.

Aaron will be in the basement. Professor Natterman will wait here."

Stern tugged at the flesh beneath his chin. "Before we intercept Hauer

and Apfel, I intend to let the kidnappers make contact in whatever way

they choose. I suspect that they will call suite 811

and instruct our German friends to meet them at a different place.

If they attempt to seize or kill the Germans, however, we will

intervene.'5

Stern looked over into the corner. There, in a large open suitcase, lay

the fruits of onle of the telephone calls he had made from Natterman's

Wolfsburg cabin. A Jewish arms dealer of Stern's long acquaintance had

had the suitcase ready when Stern arrived at his Johannesburg home this

afternoon. In the suitcase lay five short-barrelled Uzi submachine

guns, four silenced .22 caliber pistols, two of five walkie-talkies,

silencers for the Uzis, and a small hoard of ammunition.

"Obviously," said Stern, "Professor Natterman must make our initial

contact with the Germans. Of the five of us, Captain Hauer knows only

him. Hauer is likely to shoot anyone else who exposes himself too soon.

Ideally, the professor will make the contact by telephone. When Yosef

sees the Germans enter the lobby, he will radio Gadi and me in room 820.

Gadi has already bugged suite 811, so we will be monitoring what

transpires after Hauer and Apfel get inside. After the kidnappers have

made their contact, we will call Professor Natterman here.

Professor, you will immediately call suite 811. If you reach Hauer or

Apfel, you will give the little speech we went over together."

Natterman nodded attentively.

"If you cannot reach them-because of a busy signal or anything else-we

will go to the backup plan. Gadi and I will observe the Germans as they

leave suite 811. If they take the stairs down, we will radio you here,

whereupon you will walk immediately to the stairwell and wait for them."

Stern smiled encouragingly. "You don't need to run, Professor.

The stairwell is less than twenty meters from this room.

Hauer and Apfel must cover four floors before they reach you.

Natterman nodded again.

"If they take the elevator down, however, it gets a bit more

complicated. In that case Gadi will radio Aaron in the basement, and

Aaron will stop the elevator.between floorshopefully between the fourth

and third. I will radio you"Stern pointed his finger at Natterman-"and

tell you to go to the elevator shaft. Yosef will be here with you. He

will have come up from the lobby, after making certain that Hauer and

Apfel are not being followed. He will pry open the elevator doors for

you, and you will speak to Hauer while he is trapped below you. He'll

probably be trying to get out through the roof anyway."

Natterman looked anxious. "The elevator scenario seems rather

complicated."

"It's the only way we can insure contact without frightening Hauer away

or getting killed ourselves."

"Why can't I just wait in the lobby for them?"

Stern sighed heavily. "Because we would then risk frightening the

kidnappers away. And the kidnappers, Professor, are the men I came to

South Africa to get."

Natterman looked glum. "Can your men do All they're supposed to?

The timing seems close."

Gadi Abrams grinned. "We are sayaret matkal, Professor," he said

proudly. "This is child's play for us."

Stern shot him a dark look. "Hauer will not be child's play, Gadi.

You boys have trained with GSG-9, so I shouldn't have to amplify that.

Captain Hauer is an extremely dangerous man. Don't underestimate

Sergeant Apfel either. He is under unimaginable pressure, and a man

like that is capable of anything."

Gadi nodded. "Yes, Uncle."

Stern glanced at his watch, "Let's move. Twenty minutes to the

rendezvous, and we still need to test the radio reception from the

basement."

As one, Stern, Gadi, and Aaron collected their weapons from the suitcase

and moved toward the door. "Good luck, Professor," Stern said, then

they went out.

As Stern moved toward the elevators, Gadi fell back beside him and

whispered, "I didn't want to alarm anybody, Uncle, but what happened to

our body armor?"

Stern grimaced. "Another buyer came along and offered more money."

"But why give the Professor the one vest we have? You should be wearing

it."

Stern shook his head. "Natterman may have to stand in the stairwell and

wait for Hauer and Apfel to come running down. There's a strong chance

Hauer kvill fire a reflex shot before he even recognizes the professor.

That's why he gets the vest."

In room 401, Professor Natterman sat with the walkietalkie clenched in

his hand. It was sticky hot inside the armored vest. He wanted to take

it off, but he reasoned that if Stern had given him the only vest they

had, he probably needed it. Setting the walkie-talkie on the table, he

stood and stretched. His joints ached terribly from all the una( tomed

exercise. He had been on his feet for less than a minute when the door

slid open.

Facing the professor stood a woman wearing an expensively cut red skirt,

a white blouse, and a red hat. She carried a Vuitton handbag in her

left hand. It took Natterman several moments to realize that she also

held a gun.

Swallow stepped inside the room and closed the door.

"I'vd come for the Spandau papers, Herr Professor," she said in a crisp,

low voice, her British accent unmistakable.

"Would you be so kind as to get them for me?"

"I ... I don't have them," Natterman stammered.

"Stern has them?" Swallow asked sharply.

Stunned by her knowledge, Natterman said, "Who are you?" ' Swallow's

lips drew back, exposing her small teeth in a fierce animal glare. "Does

Jonas Stern have the papers?"

With a fool's courage Professor Natterman grabbed for the walkie-talkie

on the table. Swallow destroyed it with a threeshot burst from her

silenced Ingrain machine pistol.

"Take off your clothes," she ordered. "Every stitch."

When Natterman hesitated, Swallow jerked the Ingrain in his direction.

"Do it! " While Natterman, pale and shaking, removed his clothes,

Swallow began searching the hotel -room.

CHAPTER THIRTY

7,40 P.N. Horn House: ThO Northern Transvaal Deep in the basement

complex of Horn House, Alfred Horn shepherded his Libyan guests through

a maze of stainless steel and glass and stone. Huge ventilator fans

thrummed constantly, forcing filtered air down from the surface one

hundred meters above. An intricate network of cooling ducts maintained

the silicon-friendly environment required by the formidable array of

computers purring against the walls; the brittle air also extended the

life of the manifold chemicals and weapons stored here. The Libyans

surveyed the labyrinth of tubing, hoods, and pipes in reverent silence.

Only young Dr. Sabri, the Soviet-educated physicist, found it hard to

suppress his enthusiasm as he toured the lab. Most of the visible

hardware had been produced by one or another of the various high-tech

subsidiaries of Phoenix AG, but the man who controlled them all was

about to reveal a product of very different pedigree. Horn gradually

led the Libyans toward the rear of the basement, where something

resembling a giant industrial refrigerator stood gleaming in the

fluorescent light. Stretching from floor to ceiling and wall to wall,

the aluminum-coated lead chamber awaited the men like a futuristic

crypt. Three great doors without handles were set in its face.

"Pieter," Horn said softly.

The tall Afrikaner stepped over to an electronic console and flipped a

switch. An alarm buzzer sounded briefly; then, with a sucking sound,

the center door opened a fraction of an inch. A sickly orange-yellow

light dribbled out of the crack. Smuts slipped a hand inside and

pulled. When the door opened completely, the Libyan physicist gasped.

"Go ahead, Doctor," said Horn, "have a look."

Sabri looked shaken. "You don't store the weapon in halves?"

"It's quite safe," Horn assured him. "The core has been temporarily

removed. The weapon can be disassembled with the tools beside it. You

may verify the soundness of the design at your leisure."

Dr. Sabri stepped gingerly into the storage chamber and tiptoed around

the weapon. The blunt-nosed cylinder stood menacingly on its tail fins

like a blasphemous icon. Painted a gleaming black, the bomb bore a

single marking, emblazoned on one of its fins: a rising Phoenix.

The bird's head was turned in profile, its sharp, break screeching, its

single fierce eye wide, its talons enjulfed by red flames. Sabri's left

hand caressed the cool metal of the bomb chassis like a woman's thigh.

Horn watched the Libyans with thinly veiled curiosity. Prime Minister

Jalloud stood well back from the vault, his eyes on the physicist. His

interpreter did the same.

Major Karami stood rigid, his black eyes fixed unwaveringly on the

upended weapon. "Where is the core?" he asked hoarsely.

"The fissile material," Horn replied, "in this case plutonium 239-lies

in a lead vault below ourfeet."

"We must see it."

"I'm afraid you can't actually see it, Major, not without more

safeguards than are available in this room. But you can see its

effects." Horn waved his right hand.

Smuts pressed another button on the console. Instantly a section of the

metal floor to the left of the storage chamber whirred out of sight.

Beneath it lay a lead-lined vault conraining a wooden pallet stacked

with orange fifty-five-gallon drums.

"The plutonium is in those drums?" Jalloud asked, instinctively

stepping back from the gaping vault.

"They're lined with concrete," Horn explained. "We're perfectly safe.

For a short time, anyway. Look while you can. Those drums contain

enough plutonium to turn the State of Israel into a smoking cinder."

While the Arabs made approving noises, Smuts took a small metal box from

a nearby shelf. The box had a long cable dangling from it with some

type of sensor on the end.

When Horn explained that the machine was a portable radiation detector,

Dr. Sabri came out of the chamber and followed Smuts to the edge of the

vault. He watched the Afrikaner lower the sensor until it hung just

above the row of drums. Most modern radiation detectors emit no sound,

but Smuts's "Geiger counter" began to crackle like an untuned radio

dial. All of the Libyans but Sabri drew back in terror. While the

interpreter held both hands protectively over his genitals, the

physicist leaned over to read the instrument.

Major Karami asked, "How can we be sure the drums contain plutonium?"

Horn shrugged. "I have no motive to deceive you. Have I asked you for

any money?"

"You are a rich man," Kararni pointed out. "Perhaps your only goal is

to make our country look foolish in the eyes of the world. In the eyes

of the Zionists."

"Silence, Ilyas!" Prime Minister Jalloud commanded.

Horn smiled knowingly. "My intentions regarding the jews are identical

to your own, Major. You can be sure of that."

Karami looked skeptical. He turned to Dr. Sabri and spoke rapidly in

Arabic. "Could not spent reactor fuel produce this reaction?

Couldn't the instrument be tampered with to produce any desired

reading?"

Already protective of his new toy, Sabri spoke defensively.

"Spent fuel alone would not produce the reaction you see, Major.

The drums contain plutonium."

"You sound very sure of yourself for an inexperienced young man."

"I am the most experienced man you will find in our country!"

"Yes, yes, we know that," Prime Minister Jalloud said, switching back to

English. "Why don't we close the vault now?"

Horn nodded. Smuts pressed the button that hydraulically moved the

lead-lined cover back into place. Angered by Major Karami's skepticism,

Dr. Sabri returned to the bomb chamber. In a few seconds he had the

weapon open for inspection. His eyes glinted like those of a boy over

his first electric train. Major Karami, however, looked far from

satisfied.

"I understand your skepticism, Major," Alfred Horn said.

"And under the circumstances, perhaps you deserve more assurance of my

motives than my word alone." Pieter Smuts shifted uneasily. "If you

gentlemen will join Dr. Sabri,' Horn went on, "I believe I can satisfy

all doubts as to my motives regarding the Jews."

Major Karami stepped quickly into the yellow-lit chamber. Jalloud and

his interpreter reluctantly followed him inside, where they formed a

respectful half-circle around the bomb.

Smuts leaned down and whispered into Horn's ear, "I don't think this is

a good idea."

"Nonsense," Horn said. He buzzed his wheelchair up to the door of the

chamber. "The time for secrecy is past. Remove the decal, Pieter."

With a sigh of frustration the Afrikaner flipped a wall switch, flooding

the storage chamber with fluorescent white light. Then he shouldered

past the Libyans and knelt beside the upended weapon.

Taking a penknife from his pocket, he unfolded a short blade and began

to scrape lightly beneath the flames of the painted Phoenix.

Soon he had pried up a triangle of black polyurethane. He put the knife

back into his pocket, then took the curled edge between his thumb and

forefinger and pulled with a gentle, steady pressure. There was a soft,

adhesive ripping sound as the black decal tore away from the metal fin.

Prime Minister Jalloud gasped.

"Allah protect us," whispered the interpreter.

Dr. Sabri stared in mute wonder.

But Major Karami smiled with wolfish glee. For hidden beneath the black

polyurethane decal was Alfred Horn's true Phoenix design-a blood red

planet Earth clutched in the flaming talons of the Phoenix. And

spanning the red globe-a curved black swastika. Karami's sigh of

satisfaction told Horn that his revelation had produced its desired

effect.

Horn smiled. "It will take the doctor a half hour at least to complete

his inspection. Why don't we,go upstairs and wait in more comfortable

surroundings? Smuts will stay until he has finished."

"An ... an excellent idea," Jalloud stammered Jumah the interpreter

stumbled out of the chamber, his face ashen. He and Prime Minister

Jalloud followed Horn's wheelchair to the elevator at the far end of the

basement lab.

But Major Karami lingered behind. At the elevator Jalloud turned and

watched him. Still only halfway to the elevator, the stubborn major

stood staring back down the length of the lab to the vault where

Sabri-under the watchful gaze of Pieter Smuts-tolled over his deadly

prize.

Horn called, "More questions, Major?"

Karami turned and walked toward the elevator. "What is behind the other

two doors? More bombs?"

Horn's smile faded. "No. I keep only one weapon here.

They're too dangerous."

"More dangerous than raw plutonium?" Karami stepped into the elevator.

Horn smiled thinly. "Far more dangerous. There is always the chance

that some unscrupulous individual or nation might attempt to steal

them."

The elevator closed with a hydraulic hiss.

"I'M sure this house is well protected," Karami baited.

"Did you see any security on your way in?" Horn asked gamely.

Karami's eardrums registered a painful relief of pressure as the

elevator rocketed toward the surface. He had already noted the lack of

security with great satisfaction. "No, I didn't."

"It's there, Major. Smuts is the best in his field."

"And what is his field, Herr Horn? Personal security?"

The old man smiled. "I believe the English term is 'asset protection.'

"Translate," Karami commanded. When the prime minister's interpreter

obliged, Karami said, "Ah. Was he a soldier, then, this Smuts? Where

did he train?"

Horn folded his spotted hands in his lap. "He served in the South

African army as a young man. But he has a varied background. By the

time I found him, he'd fought all over Africa."

The elevator opened on the ground floor.

"And who trained him in this 'as-set protection,' as you call it?"

Karami asked. "The South African Army?"

"I did," Horn said tersely, rolling into the spacious reception hall. "I

"With all due respect," Karanii called, who trained you?"

Horn sopped his wheelchair and whirled to face the Libyan. "The German

Army," he said quietly.

The Arab's eyelids fell, hooding the yellow sclera of his eyes.

"More questions?" Horn challenged.

Fearin a deal-breaking dispute, Prime Minister Jalloud stepped between

the two men. "The major has a great curiosity, Herr Horn.

He's known as a zealous military historian in our country."

Karami ignored him. "You must have fought in the Second World War, Herr

Horn. Were you SS?"

Horn spat contemptuously on the marble floor. "I said the army, Major,

not Himmler's lapdogs. The Wehrmacht was my home!" Horn had taken all

he intended to from this arrogant Bedouin. "Listen to me, Arab. In

1941 the mufti of krusalem went to Berlin to beg the Fuhrer's help in

destroying the Jews of Palestine. The Fuhrer generously armed the

Arabs"-Horn stabbed a finger #t Karami-"yet still your fathers could not

push the Jews into the sea! I hope you do better this time!"

Major Karami shook with rage, but Horn simply turned his wheelchair away

and whirred off down a long corridor.

Jalloud shot Karami an angry glance. "Fool! What are you trying to

do?"

"Just testing the old lion's claws, Jalloud. Calm yourself."

"Calm myself?" The prime minister caught hold of Karami's robe.

"If you wreck this negotiation, Qaddafi will have your head on a spike!

And mine with it!"

Karami easily pulled his arm free. "If you had half the cunning of a

rug peddler, Jalloud, you'd see that this old Nazi needs us as much as

we need him. Probably more."

Karami reached out and laid his forefinger lightly on Jailoud's cheek.

"When our business is done," he vowed, "I will gut that old man for-his

insult."

Jalloud stared at Karami with horror, but the major only smiled.

"Hurry!" the interpreter whispered. "He's already around the corner!"

"Let us go, my friend," Karami said pleasantly. "We'll see what else

our host has to offer us." He started down the hall.

Jalloud followed slowly. He didn't know exactly what the

second-in-command of the Libyan People's Army had in mind, but he knew

already that he didn't like it. He also knew that the fanatical,

impulsive dictator who still held the reins of power in Tripoli would

probably love it. "Allah protect us," he murmured, hurrying after the

receding figure of Karami. "From ourselves, if no one else."

Ilse Apfel opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of her bedroom

prison cell. How did I get here? she wondered. As she lay there,

trying to gather her thoughts, a key scratched in the door.

Ilse sat up slowly, her eyes on the knob. It turned slowly; then the

door burst open. Robert Stanton stood there wobbling, with two crystal

goblets in one hand and a bottle of cognac in the other. The Englishman

smiled crookedly.

"Guten Abend, Frdulein!" he bellowed.

While Ilse stared, he stepped in, closed the door, and propped himself

haughtily against it.

"Get out of my room," she said forcefully.

"Now, now, Fraulein, let's just relax and have a sip of something nice,

shall we?"

"I'll scream," Ilse threatened, though she knew it sounded ridiculous.

"Wonderfully solid house, this," Stanton said, grinning.

"Damned near soundproof, I should think."

Ilse summoned her coldest voice. "If you touch me, Herr Horn will make

you pay."

Stanton raised an eyebrow. "The old goat's taken quite a fancy to you,

it's true. But he's terribly busy just now, hobnobbing with the Great

Unwashed. He doesn't have time for domestic squabbles. So, it's up to

us to have a good time while the business gets done." Stanton poured

two brimming glasses of Remy Martin V.S.O.P spilling as much again on

the floor.

The mention of the Arabs brought the earlier meeting back in a rush.

"Business?" Ilse echoed. "You're aware of what he's doing, and you

call it business? Aren't you an Englishman, for God's sake?"

"The genuine article," Stanton said with a mock bow. "I told you, my

blood's nearly as blue as the queens."

"Then why don't you try to stop him?"

Stanton shrugged. "What's the point? Alfred stopped listening to me

long ago. Although what he thinks he can get from those flea-ridden

Arabs, I haven't the slightest idea.

Poppies, I suppose. Very old hat. He certainly can't sell them

anything-they've got their own sources of supply in the trade, haven't

they? Rather like trying to sell them oil, what? Now, come her-e and

give us a kiss."

"My God," Ilse whispered. "You don't even know what he's doing!

What he's selling!"

Stanton lurched forward, sloshing cognac onto her blot "I don't care if

he's selling the- bloody crown jewels, love.

I'm well out of it now and ... darling, you make quite a dish in those

natty secretary's clothes. Makes one quite anxious to see what you look

like out of them."

Leering through a haze of alcohol, Stanton set the bottle on the bedside

table, drained his glass and smashed it against the door with a

flourish.

Ilse struggled to stay calm. "Lord Granville," she said evenly, "you're

drunk. You don't know what you're don Herr Horn will have you killed if you do this. Don't you know that?"

Stanton laughed raucously, then,his face grew deadly serious. "I advise

you to choose your allies with care," he said, wagging a finger in her

face. "Very soon dear Alfred may no longer be in a position to have

anyone killed."

Ilse thought swiftly. She was afraid, but not in the way she had been

on the X-ray table. This babbling Englishman was no Pieter Smuts.

"All right, then," she said. "I suppose there's nothing I can do." As

Stanton watched fascinated, Ilse lifted the bottle of Rdmy Martin and

swigged from the mouth of the bottle.

She let some of the brandy dribble down her chin, her eyes fixed on

Stanton's. "Lock the door," she said. "I don't want to be

interrupted."

With an astonished gape Stanton turned around and lurched toward the

door. The half-full bottle of Remy Martin crashed against the base of

his skull like a glass avalanche.

He staggered and fell to the floor. Ilse rifled his pockets and found

the key he'd used to enter her room. Praying he didn't have access to

any others, she flung the bedroom door wide, dragged his unconscious

body into the hall, then jumped back into her room and slammed the door.

She tried to lock it with the key, but it didn't seem to fit. She

cursed as the useless metal bent in the lock. Either she'd taken the

wrong key from Stanton, or the proper key only worked from the outside.

She thought of opening the door and searching him again, but she had

lost her nerve. Her entire body was shaking. Ilse lurched into the

bathroom and locked it with the flimsy door latch.

"Please hurry, Hans," she murmured. "God, please hurry."

7.55p.m. BurgersparkHatel, Pretoria When Hans Apfel walked into the

lobby of the Burgerspark, Yosef Shamir felt his heart thump with

excitement. Hans looked neither left nor right as he walked, but

marched straight across to the elevators set in the far wall. Yosef

lifted the walkie-talkie that connected him to Stern's room on the

eighth floor.

"Apfel has arrived," he said. "He's going for the elevators."

"Any sign of HauerT' asked Gadi Abrams.

"No. Should I wait?"

A pause. "No. Get up to Natterman's room."

Yosef scurried to a second elevator. Just as he stepped inside, he

glimpsed the broad back of a man wearing a dark business suit disappear

through the fire stairs door. "I think Hauer's here," he said as the

elevator doors closed. "He's coming up the stairs."

"Acknowledged," Gadi replied. "Get the professor ready to move."

Dieter Hauer crashed through the third floor fire door and hit the up

elevator button. The stairs were taking too long, and if anything rough

was going to happen in suite 811, he didn't want to be too late or too

exhausted to participate. After a brief wait, he darted into an empty

elevator and punched 8. The car whooshed up the remaining floors in

seconds. It took Hauer a moment to get his bearings, but within fifteen

seconds he was knocking on the door of suite 811.

Hans opened the door after scrutinizing him through the fisheye

peephole. "See anyone?"

Hauer stepped into the suite. "No, but I went through the lobby pretty

fast."

"The room's empty," Hans informdd him. "Do you think they'll call, or

send somebody up?"

"I think they'll call." Hauer glanced at his watch. "In one minute

we'll know for sure."

Gadi Abrams adjusted the headphones he was wearing and looked up at

Jonas Stern. "Hauer's inside," he said.

Stern nodded. "Let's see if anyone shows up."

The unexpected ring of the telephone in the Israelis' room startled both

Gadi and Stern. Gadi asked sharply, "Who t sides our own men knows

we're here?"

Stern tightened his lips. "No one. Except maybe the kidnappers."

He lifted the receiver. "Yes?"

"Someone's trying to hit us!" shouted a voice in Hebrew.

"The professor's stark naked!"

"Yosef.?" Stern said. "Yosef, what's happened? Where are you?"

"In the professor's room! Just after we left Natterman, someone came in

here looking for the papers. A woman. I used the phone because she

blew the professor's radio to pieces. He's hysterical!"

Stern touched the bulge in his pocket where the three Spandau pages lay.

"Yosef, stay whore you are. Stay on the line@' , "Telephone ringing in

Apfel's room," Gadi said, pressing the headphones to his ears.

"Yosef," Stern instructed, "wait five seconds, then start calling suite

811. Make certain the professor is ready, and keep trying until you get

through."

Yosef rang off.

Hans jumped a foot off the bed when the ringing telephone fulfilled

Hauer's prediction. Hauer glanced at his watch: eight Pm.

exactly. Hans darted between the beds and snatched up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Sergeant Apfel?" said a male voice.

"Yes!"

"You know the Voortrekker Monument?"

"What? Wait ... yes, the big brown thing. I saw it as I drove into

town."

"Be there tomorrow at ten A.M. Come alone. Ten A.M. Do you have that?

The Voortrekker Monument. Ten in the morning. Alone."

"What about my wife? Will Ilse be there?' "You be there. If you're not

alone, she dies."

The caller broke the connection.

Hans dropped the receiver onto the floor, @ face slack.

"Well?" said Hauer. 'What did they sayt' Hans stood silent for several

seconds. "They want me to meet them tomorrow," he said finally. "At

the Voortrekker -Monument."

Hauer nodded excitedly. "That's a good place for us. Very public.

That's where I'll lay out our terms for the exchange.

What time is the rendezvous?"

A strange calm seemed to settle over Hans. His eyes seemed unfocus@d.

He sat down hard on the bed.

"What time, Hans?" Hauer repeated softly, his eyes straying to the

door. "What time is the rendezvous?"

Hans looked up, straight into his father's eyes. "Six," he said in a

robotic voice. "Six Pm. at the Voortrekker Monument."

Down the hall and around the corner, Gadi Abrams shook his fist in

triumph. "The rendezvous is at six," he murmured, "at the Voortrekker

Monument. Apfel's off the line, but I didn't hear him hang up." Gadi

pressed the headphones to his dark head. "No phone ringing. Come on,

Professor -- ." Suddenly Gadi jumped up and pulled off the headphones.

"the professor can't get through! Apfel didn't hang up the phone!"

Stern forced himself to think clearly. His well-planned operation was

unraveling around him. Snatching up the phone, he tried to call Yosef

and the professor. "Busy," he said.

"They're still trying to reach Hauer. That means the stairs won't be

covered."

"Aaron has to stay at the elevator box," Gadi said quickly.

"You've got to keep trying to reach the professor. That leaves me to

cover the stairs." The young commando picked up his Uzi and started for

the door. He had not heard it open.

With the mute surprise of a man watching the earth split open at his

feet, Gadi watched a small round fragmentation grenade rolling toward

him through the foyer. The door slammed shut.

"Grenade!" he shouted.

While Stern-a veteran of three desert wars and countless guerilla

actions@over behind the far bed, Gadi Abrams proved the boast he had

made minutes before about the sayaret matkal commandos. With the

reflexes of a gifted soccer player, he stopped the grenade's forward

motion with his right foot, then kicked it sideways into the bathroom.

Then he hurled himself backward into the space between the two double

beds.

Hauer was leaning out of the door down the hall, straining his ears for

the slightest sound, when Swallow's grenade exploded in the bathroom of

room 820.

"Donnerwetter!" he roared. "What the hell was that?"

Reaching back blindly, Hauer wrenched Hans through the door.

"Stay with me!" he commanded. "And don't use your gun unless you

absolutely have to!"

Hauer dragged Hans toward the fire stairs, away from the explosion. They

crashed through the metal door at speed, careening headlong down

concrete steps like teenaged hoodlums. As they passed a large,

red-painted 5, Hauer caught hold of Hans's jacket.and pulled him against

the wall. He clapped a hand over Hans's mouth and listened for any

sound of pursuit. At first he heard only their own ragged gasps.

Then a slow creak, as of someone attempting to silently open a disused

fire door, echoed through the stairwell.

When the crash came, Hauer knew that their pursuer had given up all hope

of stealth. He shoved Hans downward and charged after him.

They took each flight in two leaps, only lightly touching the rails as a

guide. On the third-floor landing Hauer grabbed Hans and growled a

dozen words into his ear, then slipped through the fire door while Hans

continued downward. Hauer drew his stolen Walther-then he recalled his

warning to Hans. The explosion upstairs would draw all attention to the

eighth floor. If he fired the unsilenced Walther here, he would

certainly draw some attention to himself.

With a curse of frustration he slipped the Walther back into his pocket

and waited.

Four floors above him, Yosef Shamir flung himself down the stairs like a

man possessed. From the moment he'd gotten off the telephone with

Stern, the young commando had been hauling his instincts. Stern had

ordered him to stay put, but from what Natterman had told him, Yosef

feared that the woman with the machine pistol was now on her way up to

find Stern. Leaving Natterman to complete the call to the Germans on

his own, Yosef had raced upstairs to help Gadi and Stern. He had

reached the seventh floor.when he heard the door just above him crash

open. He slipped quietly through the seventh floor door just in time to

see Hauer and Hans rush past him down the stairs. With a sudden sick

feeling, Yosef realized he was probably -the sole remaining link to

Stern's quarry. The young Israeli bounded down the fire stairs with no

regard for safety, his mind only on regaining contact with the Germans.

When the steel edge of the fire door materialized in front of him like a

phantom, time slowed down. Yosef twisted his body to avoid the deadly

obstacle, but he simply couldn't move fast enough.

The door caught the side of his forehead, opening a three-inch gash and

dropping him like a stone on the landing.

Hauer threw his weight against the third-floor fire door and forced

Yosef's unconscious body out of the way, then knelt to examine him. He

didn't recognize the face, but he hadn't expected to. Yosef's pockets

were empty. No wallet, no coins, no clue to his name or nationality.

Even his clothes had no labels. On impulse Hauer took hold of Yosef's

head and lifted it to search for the tattooed eye ...

A scream of agony rebounded up through the stairwell. A man's scream.

Then a pistol shot exploded.

"Jesus!" Hauer cried. He dropped Yosef's head on the concrete and

raced down the steps after Hans.

As Gadi Abrams came to his knees and leveled his Uzi at the smoke-filled

foyer, the first spray of bullets from Swallow's Ingrain tore into room

820. Gadi hit the floor and cursed in fury. Either the gunman was

using a silencer, or the grenade had blown out his eardrums.

Beneath the far bed he saw Stern speaking into his walkie-talkie.

"Aaron, this is Jonas. We are pinned down here. Please respond."

Stern waited while Gadi rose up and peppered the door with a burst from

his silenced Uzi. "Aaron!" Stern tried again. "Please respond!"

"He can't hear you!" Gadi shouted. "Too much concrete between him and

us! We've got to storm our way out, Uncle! We're going to lose the

Germans otherwise. It's the only way!" The young commando leapt to his

feet.

Feeling a surge of adrenaline unlike any since the '73 war in Sinai,

Jonas Stern clutched his own Uzi, rose up, and followed his shouting,

blasting nephew'into the smoke of battle.

Hauer found Hans on the garage landing, standing silently over a corpse.

The body was blond and fair-skinned and looked about thirty-five. Its

right hand gripped a pistol.

"I told you not to use your gun!"

"I didn't!" Hans shot back.

Then Hauer saw the knife. The German knife from sporting goods store.

It was buried to the hilt in the d man's left side. "I'll be damned,"

he said.

He fell to his knees and searched the dead man's clothes.

He immediately found a British passport-which he placed in his own

pocket-and a wallet, from which he removed the money. Robbery was the

most plausible option under the circumstances. He glanced quickly

behind the dead man's ears for the Phoenix tattoo, but saw no mark. It

took a considerable effort to dislodge Hans's knife. Hauer wiped it

clean on the corpse's jacket, then slipped the knife into his belt.

"Who is he?" Hans murmured.

"Worry about it later. Let's go."

As Hauer turned and grabbed the door handle, he felt motion behind him.

He turned again, then froze. Hans had snatched up the corpse by the

collar and he was screaming, screaming in German at the top of his

lungs: "Where is she, gotidamn you? Where is my wife?"

Gadi and Stern burst out of room 8@O to find an empty hallway. A

strange, cloying scent lingered in the air. Perfume.

"Who the hell was that?" Gadi shouted. 'The Germans?

They must be in one of these rooms."

"They're gone!" Stern called from the door of suite 811.

"Come on!"

Together they raced to the elevator. As the doors slid shut, Stern

tried again to reach Aaron at the elevator-control box.

"Aaron!" he cried. "Forget the elevator! Try to stop the Germans!

Aaron!"

In the concrete basement of the hotel, Aaron Haber heard Stern's

crackling commands as: "Aaron! ... elevator! ...

-stop the Germans!" Dutifully, the young Israeli threw the switch that

stopped the elevator between the fourth and third floors.

When the car jolted to a stop, Stern and Gadi stared at each other with

ashen faces. Gadi punched the button to @:open the door, but got no

response. He tried to pry the doors "Open with his Uzi, but they

wowdn't budge. Whirling around in fury, he saw no one. Stern had sat

down on the :floor of the elevator and leaned against the veneer wall,

his eyes closed.

"Chfld's play," he said softly. "Isn't that what you said?"

Hauer wrenched the rented Toyota over to the curb in front of a

government sandstone office building. He leavt out of the car, ran to

the left front wheel well, and crouched down. Eight seconds later he

was back beside Hans, holding a heavy paper packet covered with duct

tape. The packet held the Spandau papers and the photos Hauer had shot

during the afternoon.

"So much for the Burgerspark," Hauer said. "We're not going back to the

Protea Hof, either. Our passports are obviously blown."

Hans rocked back and forth in the passenger seat.

"That explosion sounded like a grenade," said Hauer.

"Who in hell could have thrown it? The kidnappers?"

"We got out," Hans muttered. "That's all that matters. We just have to

stay alive until the rendezvous tomorrow."

"We need cover," said Hauer. "This time we ignore our friendly cabbie's

advice, though. This time we're going to a real fleabag.

Somewhere we won't need any identification at all."

Hans nodded. "How do we find that?"

"Just like we would in Berlin."

Hauer let in the clutch and pulled onto Prince's Park Straat, then

turned southwest onto R-27. He slowed at each intersection and peered

down the side streets. He knew what he wanted: garish neon, street

people, liquor advertisements, the howl of bar music. The universal

siren song that draws the lonely and the bored and the hunted to the

dark marrow of every city in the world. From what Hauer had learned

already, he suspected it would be easier to find such a place in

Johannesburg than in Pretoria. But he knew that anonymity could he had

anywhere for a price.

With Hans watching the streets fanning north, he drove on.

826 Pm. Horn House: The Northern Transvaal

Alfred . Horn sat beneath the greenish glow of a banker's lamp in his

dark study. Opposite him, immersed in shadow, Pieter Smuts awaited his

questions.

"They're gone?" Horn said quietly.

"They're gone."

"Comments?"

Smuts glowered from the shadows. "I don't like Major Karami. I don't

trust him. I think it was a mistake to show him the plutonium.

It was a mistake to show him the Phoenix mark."

Horn laughed softly. "Is there anyone you do trust, Pieter?"

"Myself. You. No one else."

"You must have a little faith in human greed, Pieter. The Arabs want

the weapon too desperately to risk losing it through treachery.

Now, what of the cobalt case?"

"Can't be done, sir. Not in ten days."

Horn let out a sigh of exasperation. "What about using a standard

cobalt jacket?"

Smuts shrugged. "It would work, but the Libyans would reallize what

they were dealing with. They'd probably reive the jacket before the

strike. The only way we can fool them is by having the bomb case itself

seeded with cobalt.

And our metallurgists are having serious problems. We had ays getting

the cobalt itself, and the casting is far from pie. It's the rush, sir.

If we could slow down a bit, go back to the original plan-" "Out of the

question!" Horn snapped. "I may be dead in twenty days.

The British are coming for me, I'm certain of that." What will the bomb

do without the cobalt?"

"To be honest, sir, the short-term damage will be just as severe without

it. And with the prevailing winds in Israel at is time of year, a

direct forty-kiloton strike on Tel Aviv ay well take out most of the

population of Jerusalem with radiation alone."

Horn nodded slowly.

muts reached out of the shadows and laid four videocases in the pool of

light on Horn's desk. "There," he said ;efully, "is the proof of Libyan

involvement with the ib. I must ask again, sir. Why trust the Arabs at

all? My and I can place the weapon inTel Aviv ourselves, and can use a

standard cobalt jacket. Your original goal will be accomplished with

half the risk and twice the likelihood of success."

Horn shook his head. "Not half the risk, Pieter. You would be at risk.

I cannot allow that. Besides, Israeli Intelligence is very good.

This must be a genuine Arab attack. Only that'll bring about the

outcome I want. If the Libyans fail, you will get your chance. But

we'll speak of that no more for now.

Tell me, what of our German policeman?"

"I made the call myself. Sergeant Apfel took it. I think Hauer might

be with him, but it doesn't matter. One of my men is meeting Apfel

tomorrow morning at the Voortrekker Monument. We'll kill Hauer there if

he shows up, and we'll have both Apfel and the papers here by tomorrow

after-, noon."

Horn toyed with his eyepatch. "And what has dear Lord.

Granville been up to?"

Smuts wrinkled his nose in disgust. "He's spoken to no@ one outside the

house. I'm monitoring all the phones -to @ .

make sure. He's got his eye on Sergeant Apfel's wife, though, I can

tell you that."

Horn's face hardened. "See that he makes no trouble for her."

"I'll see he makes no trouble for anyone ever again."

"Not yet, Pieter," Horn said gently. "We're not sure of anything yet."

"He asked me again if he could go up in the tower."

Horn smiled wryly. "Robert is a good boy, Pieter, but he's mixed up.

We don't want him to know all ou we?"

Smuts snorted. "Have you seen that runny nose? I think he's using what

he's selling." The Afrikaner drew a short, double-edged dagger from his

belt and light. "I tell you, one false step and I'll cut his balls off

and feed them to him with parsley."

Horn cackled softly. "Gute Nacht, Pieter."

Smuts stood and sheathed his knife. "Good night, sir." As the

Afrikaner passed Ilse's bedroom, he listened at the door. He heard

nothing. Had the hall light been on, he might, have noticed the dark

bloodstains on the carpet. But it wasn't, and he didn't. He moved on.

He had a treat waiting in his room. A village girl from Giyani-a

virgin, if the headman could be believed-no more than thirteen, and

black as coal dust. Alfred Horn's Aryan princess could sleep the night

in peace; Smuts knew what he liked: kajftr girl with the smell of coal

smoke still on her. When he first came into the bedroom, he liked to

ask if they'd brought their passes with them. Sometime ones were so

scared they broke down and cried good way to set the tone for the

evening.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

5.'56 A. M. Jan Smuts Airport.' Johanne$bUrg The South'African Airways

747 landed with the dawn.

Asthejettaxieduptothetenninal,KripodetectiveJulius Schneider collected

his flight bag from the overhead compartment and prepared to deplane as

quickly as possible.

TWelve hours was too long to sit in a seat booked for a dead man.

Schneider edged his bulk into the crush of honeymooners, big-game

hunters, and businessmen jamming the aisle, -all the while wishing that

Colonel Rose could have managed to get him a military flight. He took a

deep breath when he finally made it out of the aircraft. The anxious

passengers and the South African summer heat had combined to produce a

singularly unpleasant closeness, even at dawn.

"What a change," he muttered, thinking of the snowdrifts he'd left

behind at Frankfurt. He slung his flight bag over his shoulder and

headed for Customs.

Standing in the long queue, Schneider looked impatiently at his watch.

He wanted to get to a telephone as soon as he could. If he was lucky,

he thought, he might trace Hauer's and Apfel's false passports to a

hotel before they got moving for the day. He wondered what Hauer was

doing now.

Schneider did not know Hauer personally, but,he knew his reputation. He

figured a lone wolf like Hauer would keep an open mind long enough to

listen to his arguments about -Phoenix. Schneider didn't give a damn

about the Spandau papers; all of Rose's ranting about them meant little.

What Schneider wanted was to sever all contact between Wilhelm Funk's

neo-Nazi fanatics in West Berlin and their Stasi counterparts in the

East, and then to drive both Phoenix groups back into the dark hole from

which they had sprung.

His instincts told him Dieter Hauer was the man to help him do that.

Before he contacted Hauer, however, he inten o-ut the local Russian

situation. Because no Kosov was telling Colonel Rose, the KGB would be

here in South Africa-probably at the he o p chasing the Spandau papers.

Schneider wondered where they would be based. The South African

government allowed no Soviet embassies on its soil; he had checked. Thus

the KGB had no legal residency from which to conduct operatioms. That

complicated things. In fact it made him downright nervous. And the

more he thought about it, the surer he became that he would be making a

mistake if he talked to Hauer before he knew exactly where the Russians

were.

He would not have to look far. Yuri Borodin stood four places behind

Schneider in the sweltering heat. The Twelfth Department agent had

easily stayed clear of the German during the flight from Frankfurt.

Borodin ( traveled First Class, and he had spent the entire flight in

the second-story lounge of the 747. He laughed as detective Schneider

lumbered through the Customs comparing his own spare frame to the

German's, he saw a mental image of a sleek Jaguar following a double

decker bus. It did not occur to him what was likely to happen if the

Jaguar hit the bus head-on.

9.14 A. M. Bronberrick Motel. South of Pretoria

Hauer closed the door to the dank-smelling motel leaned against a

battered veneer desk. After much searchinglast night, he and Hans had

finally taken this ratho the N-1 motorway, ten miles south of the

capital.

Hans sat sullenly on a twin bed, fanninl, himself with ,he'd found in

the mildewed -bathroom. His knife jammed into his belt; his Walther lay

a few inches from his right hand.

"I found another car," said Hauer, his face slick with sweat. "A Ford.

From a small firm, just what we wanted.

I dumped the Toyota in an underground garage."

"Good," Hans replied without looking up.

"I really think it would be safer if you came along Hauer pressed.

"You don't need me to help you calibrate the scope. And I'm not taking

any chances on missing the rendezvous."

"But you're not going to the rendezvous," Hauer said, pocketing the

keys. "Didn't you realize that? This rendezvous is where I use our

leverage to turn the tables on the kidnappers. If you show up, Phoenix

will assume you have the papers with you. They'll simply kidnap you,

then kill you. I'm going to the Voortrekker alone. You'll keep the

papers safe here."

Hans nodded slowly. "I see. But I'm still not going with you now.

Anything could happen out there. You could kill us just by forgetting

to drive on the left side of the road.

Where would we be then?"

Hauer nodded pensively. "All right. But don't leave this room for

anything, understand? I'll be back in three or four hours After I

zero-in the scope, I'm going to scout for an exchange location. I saw a

stadium on the map that looks good. I'll be back long before six."

Hans forced a smile. "I'll be waiting."

"Fasten the chain behind me."

Hans stood to see him out.

"And for God's sake get some sleep, would you?" Hauer said. "Ilse

wouldn't even recognize you like this."

As soon as he heard Hauer's car pull away, Hans picked up the telephone.

"This is room sixteen," he told the desk clerk, his voice edgy. "Call

me a taxi. Bitte? Of course I can pay for it!"

He slammed down the phone and trudged over to the lav The mirror was

cracked in a starburst pattern, causing reflection to stare back at him

like jumbled pieces of a . Hauer was right. He looked as bad as he

felt. bllodshot eyes, sallow cheeks, dirty blond hair sticking out in

all directions. If he didn't sleep soon, he would collapse where he

stood. All night he had lain awake in the stifling heat, listening to

Hauer's steady snoring, fighting the solitary hours of his imagination.

From the moment he had learned the spandau diary was incomplete, his

fears had been working in him, tapping in the back of his brain like a

dull pick hammer.

Hans turned the cold tap, wet a washrag, and brought it to his stubbled

face. The water felt good, but it didn't improve his appearance.

He stuck his head under the tap and soaked his hair, then smoothed it as

best he could. He hadn't planned to lie to Hauer about the rendezvous

time. But when he heard the cold voice on the telephone The driver

rolled his eyes and jerked his thumb toward the @ backseat. Hans

climbed in and the cab screeched away.

phone last night in the Burgerspark suite, some deep part him had simply

overridden his conscious will. He believem- The Voortrekker Monument

sits atop a hill @ miles in Hauer's abilities. If anyone could save

Ilse by using lo his father could. But what if no one could? Hans had

seen miraculous rescues during his short tenure with the police

department. But he had seen other cases, too. And the harder he tried

to shut those cases out, the clearer they becam in his mind.

Throughout the night vaigue images had turned to sean nightmares.

The dead blond girl from the Havel, fished out of the muck by a

grappling hook two days after the safe" police rescue operation.

Anonymous Berliners had died by gunfire, by stab wounds, other ways. Et,

Weiss's gouged and bloody chest. He thought of the from the Havel. The

police had used the ransom as bait they always did. A half-million

Deutschemarks in @ash._B the kidnappers had managed to withhold the girl

just long enough to escape. For Hans the lesson was clear. No plan was

fail-safe. And no matter how deeply he believed Hauer's commitment, he

could not risk seeing Ilse pulled from that river, or one like it. Who

could predict how d kidnappers would react when Hauer tried to turn

their operation back against them?

Rational men would probab make a deal. But rational men did not tattoo

eyes on the scalps or gouge religious symbols into the chests of Jews.

At the veneer desk, Hans scribbled a note to Hauer on the back of a

promotional flyer. Then he picked from the bed and laid it on top of

the note.

The ring of the telephone startled him.

growled the desk clerk.

Hans took a long last look at his pistol, but could not take it where he

was going. He rea the mildewed mattress and withdre@ the Sp, which he

had stolen while Hauer showered. He into his shirt (beside the knife he

had taped to he stepped out into the glaring sun. A blue M idling in

the parking lot. He walked over to the dow.

"You know the Voortrekker Monument?" he English.

south of central Pretoria. Visible from most parts of the city, this

dun-colored building is the spiritual symbol of the Afrikaner nation.

Its domed Hall of Heroes holds a huge frieze 'commemorating the Great

Trek of the Boer pioneers, who fled northward from British colonial rule

in 1838. Hans caught a glimpse of the massive dome as his driver exited

the N-1 freeway, then swung back under and headed west.

imb . ing the monument hill, he realized he would be ten minutes early

for his rendezvous.

min He paid off the cab, then moved as instructed to a spot dimctly

beneath the frieze in the Hall of Heroes and studied it like a Muslim

who has finally reached Mecca. The tourists shuffling around him were

mostly Afrikaners. With his classic German looks, Hans thought he

probably looked as Afrikaner as the rest. He was wrong.

Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he whirled to see a Bantu man of medium

height-a Zulu, actually, but Hans knew nothing of such distinctions-with

a large camera bag slung over his shoulder. Hans failed to notice the

irony of a black'man visiting the monument that memorialized the

conquest of his native country. The Zulu never once glanced up at the

frieze. He hurried out of the building and down the slope, Hans

scrambling after him. A shining blue Range Rover waited at the base of

the hill. The Zulu indicated that Hans should get into the rear seat.

Hans climbed in.

"You have the papers?" asked-the Zulu in broken German.

Hans nodded. "Are you taking me to my wife?"

Without a word the Zulu started the engine and drove down the hill, then

swung the Range Rover onto R-28 and beaded into central Pretoria. He

drove until they intersected the N-1 freeway, then climbed into the

northbound traffic.

Hans looked blankly out the window as the suburbs gave way to gaudy

storefronts, liquor stores, and finally the government matchboxes of

black settlements outside the city.

Hans fingered the knife beneath his shirt. The thought of what the

kidnappers might do if they realized the diary was incomplete made his

bowels squirm, but what choice did he have? At least by acceding to

their demands he had gained a chance to try to explain the missing

pages. In the middle of some football stadium, with a dozen guns

sighted on Ilse and himself, anything could happen.

Suddenly Hans felt his throat tighten. Though he had been @ng straight

at the back of the Zulu's head, his conscious @d had only now registered

what his eyes were seeing.

Behind the Zulu's right ear-in plain sight-was the ominous design

sketched in the Spandau papers: the eye-the mark of Phoenix! Yet unlike

Funk's men, this tribesman wore no tattoo. The eye had been branded

onto his scalp with a red-hot iron! The ugly, whitish-pink keloid scar

chilled Hans's blood. He @tared, hypnotized by the mark.

What did it really symbolize? Follow the Eye, the Spandau papers had

charged. Yet it seemed to Hans that the eye was following him!

"How ... how far do we have to go?" he stammered, trying to keep his

anxiety in check.

The Zulu said nothing.

Hans touched the haft of the knife in his shirt. Obviously the black

man didn't intend to reveal anything about the upcoming rendezvous. Hans

forced his eyes away from the scar and concentrated on the road. The

shimmering highway stretched in a seemingly endless line across the

veld, toward a destination Hans could only pray would reunite him with

]Ilse. If the kidnappers were as hard as the land they now passed over,

he thought, their chances of getting out alive were small. He caught

himself wondering if he should have told Hauer the truth about the

rendezvous after all. Maybe Hauer could have pulled off the exchange.

Maybe ...

"Too late now," he muttered.

"Bine?" the Zulu said sharply.

"]Vichts!" Hans snapped. He tried not to stare at the branded eye as

the Range Rover droned on.

10:45 A.m. Horn House. The Northern Transvaal

Linah had set out a fine brunch in the enclosed garden near the

southwest turret of the estate. Subtropical fruit trees splashed

blossoms of color against the high stone walls.

Alfred Horn and his security chief sat together drinking coffee and

speaking quietly.

"And what of Captain Hauer?" the old man asked.

Smuts shrugged. "I had four men at the Voortrekker to kill him, but he

never showed up."

"Could he be following Sergeant Apfel?"

Smuts shook his head. "He might try, but my driver will know if he

does. We'll have no problems from Hauer."

Horn nodded.

"How long do you expect it will be before we hear something from the

Arabs? Three days? A week?"

"I've already heard," Horn said casually, and took a sip of his coffee.

"Qaddafl himself called me an hour ago. He has accepted our terms. What

did I tell you, Pieter? If you want a job done quickly, hire a hungry

man. Prime Minister Jalloud will return tomorrow night with men to

transport the weapon."

"Tomorrow night!" Smuts exclaimed. "I had no idea it would be that

soon. Two hours ago I sent half my men back to then-tine."

Horn smiled. "That was a little premature, Pieter. But I shouldn't

worry. There will be no problems with the Libyans. And if there were,

I am confident that you-could protect us from that. You have had years

to prepare year defenses."

Smuts looked uncertain. "Did Qaddafl mention Major K?" Smuts nodded

suspiciously. "Karami is planning some kind of double-cross. I'm

certain of it. I'd better make additional security arrangements."

Horn smiled cagily. "You might want to make some arrangements before

tonight, Pieter. I have the feeling we may need a few extra men."

Smuts squinted curiously At his master. But before he could ask for

clarification, Lieutenant Jiirgen Lahr opened a sliding glass door and

marched toward the table. Horn eyed the tall German suspiciously, but

Smuts waved a greeting.

"Guten Morgen, Herr Oberleutiiant." "Guten Morgen! " Luhr replied,

clicking his heels together smartly. He inclined his head first to

Horn, then Smuts.

"Sit," Smuts commanded.

"Just a moment," Horn interjected. "Show me your mark, Herr

Oberleutnant."

Instantly Luhr moved to the old man's wheelchair and leaned down so that

Horn could inspect the tiny tattoo behind his ear. Horn actually licked

his finger and rubbed the mark to make sure it was indelible. When he

was satisfied, he gave Luhr permission to sit down.

"Danke, " said Luhr, taking a chair and sitting ramrod straight.

Horn stared at Luhr some time before speaking. His one flickering eye

lingered on the blond hair, the hard blue eyes, the trim figure and

classical features. He nodded slowly. The young policeman had sparked

something in his memory.

"Has your stay in our cell taught you some respect for orders?"

Luhr had prepared for this. "Sir, I drugged Frau Apfel only for her

welfare, I assure you. She struggled so hard against her bonds that I

feared she might injure herself."

Horn's single eye glazed like a chip of ice. "There is no excuse for

insubordination! A man who disobeys orders is a threat to everyone

around him!"

Luhr wiped a sheen of perspiration from his forehead.

"But," Horn went on in a softer tone, "my security chief seems to think

I should give you a second chance. He speaks highly of your work in

Berlin."

Luhr raised his chin proudly.

"Frau Apfel will be joining us soon, Herr Oberleutnant.

When she arrives at table, you will issue an immediate apology.

Then the matter will be closed.. Clear?"

"Absolutely," Luhr said solemnly. He had never balked at licking the

proper pair of boots.

While Linah poured coffee for Luhr, the sound of someone talking softly

drifted around the corner of the house.

Shortly Lord Granville appeared, wearing dark sunglasses and muttering

to himself. A huge white square of gauze was taped high on the left

side of his head, but it did little to conceal the massive purple bruise

that extended from behind his ear to his left eye.

"My God!" Smuts exclaimed, as the Englishman wobbled to the table.

"What have you done now, Robert?" Horn asked wearily.

"Got pissed again. Literally. Took a fall in the loo last night that

would have killed a bloody wildebeest. Didn't break the skin, though,

thank God. I'd have bled to death on the spot." He pulled a silver

flask from his pocket and poured two jiggers of brandy into his coffee.

"King and country," he toasted, and drained the mixture.

Smuts glared. Such conduct by anyone else in the old man's presence

would be unthinkable, yet Stanton made it rule.

"Robert," Horn said, "when will our next payment from the Colombians

arrive?"

Stanton tried in vain to mask his surprise at this question "What?

Oh. It's coming in by ship next week, remember?

Brazilian gold this time. Supposedly it's never even seen the inside of

a bank."

Horn leaned his head back and smiled. His good eye looked past Stanton

and settled on a fragrant eucalyptus tree.

"And how will our gold get from this mysterious ship to here?"

"By helicopter," the Englishman said, frowning now. "I told you that

yesterday."

Pieter Smuts looked quizzically at his master.

"Yes," Horn said, "yes that's right. You did."

Everyone looked up at the sound of the garden gate. Ilse stood there,

her blond hair uncombed, her eyes swollen from lack of sleep.

"Guten Morgen, " Horn called. "Please join us."

Ilse edged toward the table, her wary eyes on Stanton.

With an effort that stunned all present, Alfred Horn struggled from his

wheelchair and stood until Ifse had seated herself in the wrought-iron

chair Smuts offered her. Jiirgen Luhr rose immediately to deliver the

apology demanded by Horn, but before he could speak, Lord Granville slid

his chair away from the table.

"If the company will excuse me," he mumbled. "My apologies."

While everyone stared, Stanton rose and left the garden by way of a

glass door leading into the main house.

Inside Horn House, Stanton hurried to Alfred Horn's study and I locked

the door. He felt surprisingly calm, considering what he was about to

do. He lifted the telephone receiver and dialed a London number that he

had committed to memory.

"Shaw," growled a tired voice.

"This is Granville."

"Where are you?" Sir Neville Shaw asked sharply.

'Where do you think?"

"Good Christ, are you mad?"

"Shut up and listen," Stanton snapped, feeling his pulse start to race.

"I had to call from here. They won't let me go anywhere else.

Look, you've got to call it off."

" What? "

"He knows, I'm telling you. Horn knows about Casilda.

I don't know how, but he does."

"He can't know."

"He does!"

There was a long pause. "There's no stopping it now," Shaw said

finally. "And your information on Horn's defenses had better turn out

to be,good, Granville, or you'll answer to me. Don't call again."

The line went dead. Stanton felt sweat running down the small of his

back. The die was cast. Somewhere off the coast of Mozambique, a man

named Burton waited to change his life forever. Perhaps Alfred was

merely toying with me, Stanton thought hopefully. Smuts had evinced no

more suspicion than was usual. Yet Stanton had but one choice in any

case-hold firm. If he could do that for eight hours, Horn's days of

power would end, and he would be free. London would be satisfied, and

one of the largest conglomerates in the world would become the property

of Robert Stanton, Lord Granville in fact, as well as in name.

For a brief moment, Stanton worried that Ilse might betray his advances

of last night, but he dismissed the thought. If she had intended to do

that, she would have done it already.

Unlocking the study door, he set out for the garden in better spirits

than he had been in for some time. All he had to do now was find a way

into the basement complex before the attack came. He had never entered

it before, but he would today.

He could hardly wait.

11:00 A.M. MV Casilda: Madagascar Channel, Off Mozambique The laden

helicopters lifted off the deck of the ship like pregnant birds, but

they lifted. Juan Diaz, the pilot of the lead chopper, looked over to

see that his compadre flying the second ship had taken off safely.

He had. Diaz turned to the tanned Englishman sitting in the seat beside

him.

"They're up, English. Where we going?"

Alan Burton tossed a folded sheet of paper into the Cuban's lap.

A mineral suey map of Southern Africa. "Fl stop, Mozambique," he said.

"Just follow the lines on the map, sport."

Burton turned and looked back at the two rows of Colombians who sat

shoulder-to-shoulder against the cabin walls of the JetRanger.

With their dark faces, scruffy beards, and bandolier ammunition belts,

they looked like armed migrant workers. Sick ones, at that. The

greenish cast of their skin suggested that by leaving the ship, they

would merely exchange their seasickness for airsickness. Burton didn't

care what they looked like, as long as they could cause some commotion.

He could do the job alone if someone provided a sufficient diversion.

He was glad the end of the mission had finally arrived, not least

because they were finally leaving the Casilda. He didn't care if he

never saw another ship in his life.

"I'm supposed to fly by these goddamn chicken scratches?" Juan Diaz

complained, shaking the map in the Englishman's face.

Burton gave the Cuban a black look."'That's what you're being paid for,

sport. Now let's move."

"What about a flight plan?" Diaz asked. The two choppers still hovered

over the old freighter.

'You're holding it," said Burton. "I can show you the landmarks.

Just watch for enemy aircraft."

The Cuban narrowed his eyes. "How do I know who is the enemy?"

Burton grinned. "It's everybody, sport. Simple enough?"

After a grim moment of reflection, Diaz nudged the stick, and as one the

two JetRangers moved out over the ocean, toward the coastline, toward

Africa.

11.25 A.m. 'Room 520, The Stanley House, Pretoria

Gadi Abrams let the drapes fall closed and turned back to Stern.

"Still no sign of them, Uncle. No Hauer, no Apfel."

Stern got up from one of the beds and rolled his shoulders. He had said

little since last night's fiasco at the Burgerspark Hotel.

"They're probably holed up in some cheap hotel, waiting for the

rendezvous at the Voortrekker Monument."

Professor Natterman was pacing out the far end of the room. "So why are

we watching the Protea Hof?" he snapped.

"We can always intercept them at six at the Voortrekker Monument," Stern

replied. "But I think Hauer might return to the Protea Hof before

then."

Natterman snorted with contempt. "What about that woman?" he asked.

"Are you sure it was the same woman from the plane?"

"Absolutely," Gadi said. "From the description you gave and the perfume

I smelled in the hall, I have no doubt at all."

"Who is she, then?" Natterman asked. "What does she want?"

"She wants me," said Stern.

"What makes you say that?" Gadi broke in. "Nobody knows where you

are."

Stern half-smiled.

"Who wants you dead?" Professor Natterman asked.

"Who doesn't?" said Gadi. "The Syrians want him, the Libyans, the

Palestinians ... you name it. That's why he has to live where he does."

Stern shot his nephew a warning glance; then his face softened. "I

suppose it doesn't matter," he said. "Remember the kibbutz I described

to you, Professor? My retirement home? Well, it's no ordinary

kibbutz."

"How do you mean?"

"It's a special settlement for men like me. Retired fieldmen.

Men who have prices on their heads."

Gadi grinned. "Uncle Jonas's head carries the highest price in town."

Stern frowned.

"But Gadi said the woman on the plane was European, said Natterman. "Not

Arabic."

"Precisely," said Stern. "And of the European countries, only one has

agents who might want me dead."

"England?" Natterman asked, his eyes alight.

Stern ran his hand across his chin. "I know who the Englishwoman is.

Her name is Swallow. Or it was, many years ago. But right now she

concerns me much less than the big fellow who checked in here this

morning."

"I say he's a friend of Hauer's," Gadi declared. "Backup from watching

Hauer's room. He's right beneath us, by the though I don't think he

knows it."

"Why do you insist he's German?" Stern challenged.

"Don't give me that, Uncle. A Jew can smell a German, can't he?

No offense, Professor."

"None taken. A German can smell a Jew just as well."

Gadi glared at Natterman. "His name's Schneider, which is German

enough. We'll know what he is for sure in an hour, in any case. Tel

Aviv is checking him out. By the way, they told me Hauer was one of the

sharpshooters at the Munich Olympics. How did you know that?"

Stern half-smiled. "I had one of my notorious intuitions when I read

his police file. We might be able to use that somehow."

"Could this Schneider be part of Phoenix?" asked Yosef Shamir.

The young commando wore a large white bandage around his forehead.

"Maybe he threw the grenade last night. Maybe he was the one who hit me

with the door."

"That was Hauer," Stern said firmly.

"Who fired the gunshot?" asked Yosef. "I was only semiconscious in

that stairwell, but I'm certain I heard a shot."

"Nothing about it in this morning's newspapers," Gadi said.

"There was no body in the stairwell. If our German cops shot at

someone, they must have missed."

Stern smiled. "I think it went this way: Swallow's grenade panicked the

Germans. They fled down the stairs, Apfel in front. They ran into

trouble, Apfel panicked and fired his gun. I read Hauer's police file.

If he'd fired his gun, he wouldn't have missed."

"I'll keep that in mind when we meet him," Gadi said soberly.

"You're not going to meet him!" Natterman flared. "He's given you all

the slip!"

Stern padded slowly over to the hotel window. "Hauer is coming back to

the Protea Hof," he declared, parting the drapes and staring across at

the seven-story hotel. "I don't know how I know it, but I do."

One floor below the Israelis, Kripo detective Julius Schneider held the

telephone against his sweating cheek as he sat on the edge of the bed.

Beside him lay his hat, half a sandwich, and two empty bottles of beer.

Into his ear came the angry drawl of Colonel Godfrey Rose.

"You too proud to take a tip from a Russian, Schneider?"

"No, Colonel."

"Kosov gave me the name of the son of a bitch who mutilated Harry.

I think he suspected it all along. He's a Russian too, you believe

that? Name's Borodin, Yuri Borodin.

Twelfth Department, KGB. According to Kosov, he's a real hotshot.

Renegade out for glory, that type. I guess that's what Kosov meant

about you watching your back."

Schneider made a sound in his throat that was halfway between a growl

and a sigh. "So, Borodin could have seen me leaving Major Richardson's

apartment. He could be following me now."

"Could be, Schneider. Have you located Hauer and Apfel yet?"

"I'm watching their hotel room now. They aren't in it, though."

"Hmm. You decided how you're gonna handle Hauer?

You gonna try to take the papers?"

"I don't know yet. Hauer may have better ideas than I do about crushing

Phoenix."

Rose was silent for a moment. "Yeah, well, the Russians are getting

pretty itchy about Phoenix themselves. Kosov heard that a low-ranking

Stasi agent cracked under torture this morning. Seems he's a member of

something called Bruderschaft der Phoenix. The Russians are already

talking to the State Department about setting up a special interAllied

commission to deal with the Rudolf Hess case, Phoenix, and all related

affairs. Sort of an international Warren Commission."

"A what, Colonel?"

"Never mind, Schneider." There was a sibilant rustle of paper in the

background. "You want a quick rundown on Yuri Borodin's file?

Reads like the friggin' Count of Monte Cristo."

"Please."

"Got a pencil?"

The German heaved his bulk back on the bed and closed his eyes.

"I'm ready."

2.02 Pm. Bronberrick Motel. South of Pretoria The moment Hauer saw the

note, he knew that Hans had tricked him. He knocked Hans's abandoned

Walther aside and read swiftly: I'm sorry, Captain. I've thought it

through, and I feel the risks of an armed exchange are just too great. I

couldn't tell you before, but Ilse is carrying a child I didn't want to

lie about the time of the rendezvous, but I knew you'd never let me try

it this way. Please don'tfollow me. I'll meet you back here when I've

got Ilse. [Here the name "Hans" had been signed, then scratched

through.] If it @goes bad, I want you to know I don't blame you for

anything in the past. We found each other in time. Your son, Hans.

Hauer stood rock still as waves of anger and panic swept over him.

He dug the foil packet from his pocket and ripped it open. The

negatives he had taken at the Protea Hof were there, but the Spandau

papers were gone. In,their place lay five sheets of crumpled motel

stationery. Hauer tried to breathe calmly. Hans had struck out on his

own to meet the kidnappers. He had to accept that. It wasn't hard to

understand. Not if the hostage was your wife, and she was carrying your

child. Yet Hans was his son. Ilse was his daughter-in-law. And the

child she was carrying-Hauer felt a thick lump in his throat-that child

was his grandchildhis blood their. Hauer sat down hard on the bed. For

the last twenty years he had lived alone, resigned to a solitary life.

Yet in the past forty-eight hours he had been given not only a son, but

a family. And now he had lost that family. He read the note again.

Your son, Hans.

"Fool," he muttered.

It took him twenty minutes to reach the Voortrekker Monument. All the

way he cursed himself for leaving Hans alone. He had known something

like this might happen, that Hans had been walking an emotional razor

edge. This morning, while zeroing-in his rifle scope, he had almost

packed up the gun and driven straight back to the motel.

But he hadn't. He had finished with the rifle, then gone ahead and

scouted for an exchange location. And he'd found one, an empty soccer

stadium. Perfect. Damn!

Hauer saw no sign of Hans at the Voortrekker Monument.

For an hour he circled the base of the dun-colored building on foot, but

he knew it was hopeless. Hans was gone-maybe dead already.

Faced with this heart-numbing reality, Hauer realized he had but one

slim chance to save his son's life. When the kidnappers realized that

the Spandau papers were incomplete, they would demand answers.

And when they got them, they might-just might come looking for Captain

Dieter Hauer. He would make it very easy for them to find him.

In the Ford again, he checked his map. Then he swung east and headed

back toward the Protea Hof Hotel. He pulled straight up to the

main,entrance, removed a long leather case from the Ford's trunk, and

tipped the doorman to park the car. The hunting rifle felt heavy but

reassuring against his leg as he strode toward the elevators. In a

European city the oddly shaped case might have attracted unwelcome

attention, but in South Africa rifles are as common golf clubs.

Their room looked just as they'd left it yesterday. In a shaft of light

leaking through the drawn drapes, Hauer saw the clothes and food they

had bought still lyfng in crumpled shopping bags on the beds.

Hans's loaded crossbow leaned in the corner space between the near bed

and the bathroom wall. Hauer laid his rifle on the bed. Then he felt

the hairs on his neck stiffen.

There was someone else in the room. He turned very naturally, as if

unaware of any danger. There. Sitting in the chair by the window.

A thin shadow silhouetted against the dark drapes. Hauer jerked his

Walther from his waistband and dived behind the bed, pulling back the

slide as he hit the carpet.

"Don't be alarmed, Captain," said a deep, familiar voice.

"It's only me. I managed to get here in spite of you."

Hauer thrust his pistol over the top of the mattress, put two pounds of

pressure on the trigger, then slowly lifted his eyes above the edge of

the bed. Sitting in a nan-ow shaft of light coming through the drapes

was Professor Georg Natterman.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

2.25 P.M. The Northern Transvaal One mile, northeast of the village of

Giyani, the Zulu pulled the Range Rover onto the gravel shoulder and

climbed out.

-ie Hans stayed put. The Zulu shielded his eyes and stared back @Own

the long highway. Lean as an impala, he looked as if ne were scanning

the veld for game herds. Whenever a car or truck whizzed past, he

stared into the vehicle as if searching for someone he knew.

Hans was getting angry. They had been on the road for hours, and they

had stopped like this twice@ before. After a quick glance at the Zulu,

Hans climbed out of the Rover on the shoulder side and looked around.

Back toward Pretoria, the sun burned down relentlessly, shimmering like

a layer of oil just above the road. To the north, however, Hans saw a

vast wall of slate gray clouds. Beneath the leaden ceiling, sheets of

rain rolled south toward the Rover, seeming to qM the night behind.

"In," the Zulu commanded, scampering back into the driver's seat.

When Hans climbed into the backseat, he found a thin black arm dangling

a long black cloth before his eyes. 'No, he said.

The Zulu dropped the blindfold in Hans's lap and turned back to the

windshield. His posture told Hans that unless he obeyed, the vehicle

would not move one inch further toward his wife.

Hans cursed and tied the scarf around his eyes. "Now," he muttered,

"move your ass."

The next thirty minutes felt like a G-force test. The Zulu swung off of

the road immediately, and the bone-crashing ride that followed would

have totaled a vehicle less sturdy than the Range Rover. Hans peeked

around the blindfold when he could, trying to maintain some rough idea

of their progress, but taking accurate directional bearings was

impossible. By the time they finally leveled out, his head had taken

several vicious knocks and the.Zulu's goal of disorienting him had been

well and truly achieved.

The road surface felt like rock scrabble now, but that didn't help Hans.

All he could do was press himself into the rear seat and wait for

journey's end. Thirty minutes later the Rover stopped and the Zulu

ordered him out. When Hans's feet hit the ground, the Zulu pushed him

against the side of the vehicle and searched him. He immediately

discovered the knife taped to Hans's ribs, and ripped it away from the

skin. He told Hans to wait.

When Hans heard receding footsteps, he pulled off the blindfold.

He stood before an enormous building unlike any he had ever seen.

Before he could examine it in any detail, however, a great teak door

opened and a tall blond man stepped out, his well-tanned arm extended in

greeting.

"Sergeant Apfel?" he said. "I'm Pieter Smuts. I hope the ride wasn't

too rough. Come inside and we'll see about getting you more

comfortable."

"My wife," Hans said awkwardly, holding his ground.

"I've come for my wife."

"Of course. But inside, please. Everything in good time."

Hans followed the Afrikaner into a majestic reception hall and down a

long corridorIn a cul-de-sac full of shadows, they stopped beside two

doors. Smuts turned to him.

"The Spandau papers," he said softly.

"Not until I see my wife," Hans retorted, raising himself to his full

height-which was about eye level with the Afrikaner.

"First things first, Sergeant. That was our agreement.

When we are satisfied that no copies'exist, you will be reunited with

your wife."

Hans made no move to comply.

A brittle edge crept into the Afrikaner's voice. "Do you intend to

break our agreement?"

Hans held his breath, struggling to cling to the illusion that he had

entered Horn House with bargaining power. It was now painfully clear

that he had not. He had probably.

made the worst mistake of his life by coming here. He had gone against

the advice of the one man who might have been able to help him, and now

Ilse would pay the price for his stupidity.

Smuts saw Hans's pain as clearly as if he had burst into tears.

He opened a door and motioned for Hans to enter the small bedroom

beyond. "The papers," he repeated.

Like a zombie Hans withdrew the tightly folded pages.

Smuts did not even look at them. He slipped the wad into his pants like

pocket change, then nodded curtly. "I'll be back soon," he said. "Get

some rest."

"But my wife!" Hans cried. "You've got to take me to her! I've done

everything you asked!"

"Not quite everything," Smuts admonished. "But enough, I think."

He closed the door solicitously, like a well-tipped bellman. , "Wait!"

Hans shouted, but the Afrikaner's footsteps faded into silence.

Hans tried the door, but it was locked. It's out of my hands now, he

thought hopelessly@. Is that what I wanted all along? He wondered how

long the procedure to detect photocopying would take. He was still

wondering that when the countless hours without sleep finally

overpowered him. He collapsed onto the small bed, his mouth moving

silently as exhaustion shut down his frazzled -brain. For the first

time since childhood, Hans Apfel fell asleep with a prayer on his lips.

When the Afrikaner jerked him awake ten minutes later, Hans knew that

his desperate gamble had failed. Smuts's eyes burned with feral fire,

and though he spoke even more quiedy than before, violence crackled

through his every syllable like static electricity.

"You have made a grave mistake, Sergeant. I will ask you only once.

Your wife's life depends upon your answer.

Where are the three missing pages?"

Hans felt as if he had suddenly been sucked high into the stratosphere.

His ears seemed to stop up. He couldn't breathe. "I-I don't

understand," he said stupidly.

Smuts turned and reached for the doorknob.

"Wait!" Hans cried. "It's not my fault! I don't have the other

pages!"

"Dieter Hauer has them," Smuts said in a flat voice.

"Doesn't he?"

Hans gulped in surprise. "Who?" he asked lamely.

"Polizei Captain Dieter Hauer!" Smuts roared. "The man who helped you

escape from Berlin! What kind of game is the fool hying to play? Where

is he now?"

Hans felt suddenly faint. Phoenix knew everything. They had known from

the beginning. "Hauer doesn't have the pages, I ' I ' he said. "I

swear it. The pages were stolen in Germany.

Smuts grabbed him by the sleeve and jerked him across the room toward

the window. Hans was amazed by the strength in the wiry arm.

Pulling back the curtains, Smuts waved his arm back and forth across the

pane. Satisfied with what he saw, he motioned for Hans to step forward.

Puzzled, Hans put his face to the glass. When he saw what waited

beyond, every muscle in his exhausted body went rigid. Thirty meters

from the window, Ilse Apfel stood facing the house. Her hands were

bound with wire. Affixed@ to the wire was a long chain, held at the

other end by Hans'-@ Zulu driver. At the Zulu's feet lay an old black

tire; beside.

him stood Lieutenant Jiirgen Luhr of the West Berlin police Luhr wore

civilian clothes, but his tall black boots gleamed, in the sun.

seeing Hans in the window, Luhr smiled and pressed a Walther PI against

Ilse's left temple. Smuts caught Hans in a bear hug and held him still.

"Ilse!" Hans shouted.

Ilse moved her head slightly, as if she had sensed the, sound but could

not locate its source. When Luhr jabbed the' pistol barrel into her

ear, Hans jumped as if the gun had struck his own head. He sucked in a

rush of air to shout again, but Smuts cut him off.

"Scream again, Sergeant, and she dies. I presume you know that man out

there?"

Hans had only spoken to Jiirgen Luhr in person once, but he would never

forget it. Luhr had called him in for the, polygraph session at

Abschnitt 53, the call that had started, all the madness. Luhr was the

man who had gouged the Star of David into Erhard Weiss's chest. His

presence here, five thousand miles from Germany, compounded Hans's sense

of dislocation.

Smuts released Hans. "Step back from the window," he, commanded.

Hans didn't move.

"Step back!"

When Hans refused, Smuts gave another hand signal. The Zulu handed the

leash chain to Luhr, then reached down an lifted the tire high into the

air. As it hung suspended like a black halo over Ilse's head, amber

liquid sloshed out of it onto her hair. With a sadistic grin the Zulu

jerked the tire savagely down around Ilse's torso, pinning her arms to

her sides.

Smuts spoke from behind Hans. "Are you familiar with the 'necklace,'

Sergeant? It's a local native specialty. They fill an old tire with

gasoline, pin the victim's arms to his sides with the tire-thus the term

'necklace'-then they set the gasoline afire. The results are quite

ghastly, even to a , man of my wide experience. A human torch running

about Blind with rage, Hans hurled himself backward and hammered his

elbow into Smuts's chest. Then he whirled, lowered his head like a

bull, and drove the Afrikaner back toward the heavy door. The sudden

attack startled Smuts, but as the Afrikaner backpedaled toward the wood,

he bucked his knee into Hans's ribs-an upward blow so sharp and quick

that Hans did not even realize what had hit him. He went down gasping.

When he looked up, Smuts was standing across the room, arms folded,

glaring at him.

"Let her go!" Hans begged. "What has she done to you?"

"Where is Captain Hauer, Sergeant?"

Hans staggered to his feet and went to the window. Ilse's face had

taken on an ashen pallor. She had recognized the smell of gasoline, and

with it the terrible danger. She swayed -slightly on her feet. Luhr

jabbed his pistol at her. Behind Hans, Smuts lifted his hand yet again.

Grinning, Luhr reached into his pocket, withdrew a cigarette lighter,

and flicked it alight. He held the flame less than a meter from Ilse,

his arm stretched to its limit in case the gasoline vapor should

accidentally ignite.

"Don't make me do it, Sergeant," Smuts said into Hans's ear.

"Why give Lieutenant Luhr the enjoyment at your expense?"

"You fucking animal! Hauer's at the hotel!"

"Which hotel?"

"The Bronberrick Motel! Now let her go!"

Smuts raised his hand once more, and Luhr, his face red with anger and

disappointment, snapped his cigarette lighter ;hut. The Zulu shoved

roughly down on the tire until it lropped at Ilse's feet, then he led

her away.

like a dying chicken-"

"Let's go, Sergeant," said Smuts, pulling Hans toward the door.

"You've got a telephone call to make."

326 pm. Room 604. The Protea Hot Hotel

"I ought to shoot you!" Hauer growled. "You senile idiot!"

"Steady, Captain," Professor Natterman urged. "I told you I meant to

get here one way or another."

Hauer's mind reeled. How could he have been so stupid as to leave

Natterman holding a shotgun on the forger in Wolfsburg? The professor

had probably gotten the false passport names before he and Hans had

driven a mile from the cabin!

"Are you alone?" Hauer asked sharply.

Natterman's eyes flicked to the door. "Please don't overreact, Captain.

I was in no position to get here on my own."

"Who is with you?"

"Another old man like me. He's a Jew."

Hauer whirled around toward the foyer and covered the door with his

pistol. "Where is he?"

"Is Hans with you?" Natterman asked.

"Where is this Jew?"

Hauer's question was answered by a deep, unfamiliar voice. "I am

standing alone in the washroom," it said.

Hauer dived into the space between the bed and the bathroom wall,

clutching his Walther to his chest.

"I'm unarmed, Captain," said the voice.

"Shut up! Stay where you are!" Hauer jabbed his pistol at the

professor. "You too, damn you. Don't move."

Natterman snorted. "You're being ridiculous, Captain.

Herr Stern is harmless."

"You couldn't stay away, could you?" Hauer thought furiously for

several seconds. "All right!" he called finally.

"You in the toilet-walk out slowly- with your hands over your head! I

won't hesitate to shoot!"

"Can I put on the light?"

"No!" Hauer lay pr-one in the'space between the beds with only his head

and his gun hand exposed. When the tall silhouette appeared in the dim

foyer, Hauer trained his Walther on the man's head. "Start talking," he

growled. "And keep your hands up."

"My name is Jonas Stern," said the tall shadow. "I assure you that I

mean you no hartn, Captain. I suspect that my interest in this case is

similar to your own, and I would like to discuss it with you."

"Who do you work for?"

"For myself. But to give you a frame of reference, my native country is

Israel." Stern paused. "May I switch on the light now?"

"The bathroom light. That's enough to talk by."

Fluorescent light flickered from the small cubicle. The fixture buzzed

softly. Stern stood squarely in the pool of light so that Hauer would

feel at ease, but Hauer kept his Walther trained on him anyway.

As -the silhouette took on human features, Hauer noted the tanned,

angular face with its quick, piercing eyes.

"Captain Hauer," said Stern, "would you mind telling me where Sergeant

Apfel is now?"

"I'd rather find out how you arrived on my doorstep."

Stern's eyes met Hauer's with steady assurance. "Frankly, that would be

a waste of time. Suffice to say that I have been involved in this

situation since the first night at Spandau. I'm sure the most important

detail from your perspective is that I have the three missing Spandau

pages in my possession."

Hauer felt his heart stutter. So you're the one. You slashed that

Afrikaner's throat like a suckling pig. "You still haven't explained

your interest in this matter."

Stern sighed. "We're all concerned for the girl, Captain, let's have

that said. But I suspect that your interest, like mine, runs a bit

deeper than simple kidnapping. To the safety and future of Germany,

perhaps?"

Hauer waited.

"I am a Jew, Captain. An Israeli. I believe that the men who want

these Spandau papers pose a very serious threat to my country.

They may pose a different but equally perilous danger to democratic

Germany- I have come to root these men out."

"How do you propose to find them?"

"With your help."

Hauer shook his head in amazement. "You expect me to drag the two of

you along with me? Is that what you think?"

Stern smiled. "I do bring certain assets to the game."

Hauer raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Superior intelligence experience. The professor tells me that you have

counterterror training, Captain. That is of limited value under the

circumstances. We're not dealing with the Red Army Faction here. This

is the 'big league,' as the Americans say. I've fought in the secret

world for many years. I can keep you from making some very serious

mistakes."

Hauer shook his head. "I don't think your experience offsets your age.

This is a hostage situation. Speed and reflexes will be critical."

Stern suppressed his anger. "If you see this as rely a hostage

situation, you are fatally mistaken. We are at the edge of a web of

intrigue spun fifty years ago, a web that has grown more complex with

each passing year. Ilse Apfel is but a speck of dust trapped inside

it." Stern raised his hand and plucked an imaginary mote from the air.

"Every time you take a step toward her, Captain, the entire web shakes.

The spider knows where you are at every moment, and when you finally

make your move, you will find that it is you who are trapped."

"Interesting metaphor," said Hauer. "What lesson should I draw from

it?"

Stern smiled patiently. "Your attention should be fixed upon the spider

from the start, not the speck of dust. Eliminate the spider, you can

plunder the web at your leisure."

Hauer said nothing for a while. "I'll take my chances alone," he

answered finally. "I've handled a few spiders in my time."

Stern's jaw muscles tightened. "You'd stand a much better chance with

my help."

Hauer raised his Walther. "If information is all you have, Stern, you

can give that to me right now."

In the instant Hauer's finger hesitated on the trigger, Stern slipped

out of the door. He reappeared moments later. Behind him stood three

very fit young men. Their hard faces and burning eyes told Hauer

everything he needed to know about their probable areas of expertise.

"These are my other assets, Captain," Stern said. "Sayaret

matkal-Israeli commandos. You may have heard of them.

If you're any judge of men, you will recognize their value vis-A-vis our

particular situation."

Hauer instantly revised his estimate of Stern's possible contribution.

Even the elite officers of Germany's GSG-9

spoke of the sayaret matkal with respect.

"You!" he cried suddenly, recognizing the bandaged Yose Shamir from the

stairwell of the Burgerspark Hotel. "You were following me last night!"

Stern quickly interposed himself between Hauer and the young Israeli.

"Yosef was there-at my request," he explained. "I had hoped to meet you

at the Burgerspark myself, Captain, but unexpected trouble prevented me.

I'm only thankful you decided to return here this evening. I assume you

found another hotel last night after your brush with Yosef?"

Hauer nodded reluctantly.

"And you returned here because ...

"Because our distraught young husband decided to lie to me. He made

contact with the kidnappers on his own."

Stern closed his eyes.

"Oh,'no," Natten-nan groaned. "Why?"

"Because he realized that any attempt to free Ilse by force might well

bring about her death. I believe that was the same position you took

back in Germany, wasn't it, Professor? Also because Ilse is regnant."

Natterman's eyes widened.

"Is the boy mad?" Stern asked. "Doesn't he know the kidnappers will

kill both him and his wife no matter what he does?"

"No. I don't believe he does. He thinks with his heart, not his head."

"An often fatal mistake," Stern said dryly.

"Ilse is pregnant?" Natterman murmured.

Hauer walked to the window and opened the drapes. Van Der Walt Street

looked as calm as the Kurfijrstendamm on an early Sunday morning.

In the corner of the room, Aaron Haber picked up Hans's loaded crossbow

and showed it to his fellow commandos, an amused smile on his face.

Stern motioned for him to put it down.

"What had you planned to do before we arrived, Captain?" Stern asked.

"Play bait? Tell the kidnappers you had the missing pages of the

Spandau diary and try to turn their trap inside out?"

Hauer grunted. "That's about it."

"A dangerous game."

"The only one left."

"Not quite," said Stern. "You're forgetting something."

am?"

"I really have the missing pages. I would think they rate -us an

invitation to the Kidnapper's Ball, wouldn't you?"

Hauer's lips slowly spread into a smile.

Everyone froze as the telephone rang, faded.

"You answer it," Stern advised.

Hauer darted between the beds and picked up the receiver.

Yes?"

"Captain!"

Hauer kept his eyes on Stern. "Where are you?" he asked through

gritted teeth.

"I can't say," Hans replied. "I'm not sure, anyway. Captain, I've got

to have those missing diary pages. I made a mistake in leaving you, I'm

sorry. But these men really will kill Ilse unless they get all the

pages. They're insane!"

Hauer thought silently. "But I don't have the pages," he said at

length, still watching Stern.

"I know," Hans said quickly. "But you can find them.

You've got to! Go back to Germany! To the cabin! You can find them,

Captain, you must. It's simple police work!"

"Not so simple," Hauer stalled. "Not when I'm wanted for murder in

Germany."

"They can fix that!"

Hauer sealed the mouthpiece with his palm and whispered to Stern.

"Phoenix wants the rest of the diary. Do I tell them I have it?"

Stern shook his head vehemently. "They won't believe that. If you'd

really had the other pages, Hans would have found a way to steal them

before he went to the rendezvous."

"Hurry!" said Hauer, wondering why he was asking this strange old

Israeli for answers anyway.

Stern jabbed his finger at Professor Natterman. "He's got them.

Tell them the professor followed you and Hans to' South Africa, and that

he brought the missing pages with him."

Hauer shook his head angrily, but he could think of nothing else to say.

"Hans?"

"I'm here!"

"Can the kidnappers hear me?"

"Yes!"

"Don't hurt the girl," Hauer said slowly. "Do you hear me? Do not hurt

the girl. Her grandfather is here with me, and he has what you want."

AL@'

Hans gasped..

A new voice came on the line. "Listen well, Captain Hauer," said Smuts.

"You will send the old man to the same place as before, the Voortrekker

Monument. He must be there thirty minutes from now, alone, with the

missing pages. After we are satisfied that no copies exist, we will

release our prisoners. If you attempt to follow the vehicle that picks

up the professor, the driver will shoot him on the spot."

Smuts's voice went cold. "And you will never leave this country alive.

Do you understand?"

"Ja, " Hauer growled.

The phone went dead.

Hauer whirled on Stern. "Well, Herr Master-Spy, you've painted us into

some damned corner. They want the professor to deliver our last

bargaining chip to them, and'if we try to follow, they'll kill him.

Now three hostages will die instead of two."

Stern smiled enigmatically. "Captain, where is your imagination?"

Hauer flushed with anger. "I try to be practical when lives are at

stake."

"As do I," Stern said calmly. "But pragmatism alone is never enough.

You should know that, Captain. It is imagination that wins the day."

"And what miracle does your imagination suggest for this problem?"

"A simple one." Stern's eyes had settled on a bedfuddled Professor

Natterman. "Does your granddaughter carry any pictures of you in her

handbag, Professor?"

Natterman looked mystified. "I ... I don't believe so."

"Well," Stern said brightly, "there it is."

Hauer's eyes widened in comprehension.

Stern smiled. "It's the perfect solution, Captain. I become the

professor."

Hauer was shaking his head, but he knew that he had been trapped by a

master. Stern was already disrobing. "It's too risky," he objected.

"Let's have that jacket, Professor," said Stern. "I must wear something

Ilse can recognize immediately."

Hauer wanted to argue, but he could think of no better plan. He watched

enviously as the Israeli prepared to slip into the very center of his

metaphorical spider's web.

As Stern stripped, Professor Natterman leaned over and whispered in his

ear. "Remember what we talked about on the plane, Jonas? About the man

with one eye? About Hess-" Stern gently but firmly shoved Natterman

away. Naked to the waist, he handed his pistol to Gadi, then turned to

Hauer and smiled.

"Sorry, Captain," he said. "You're just too young for the job."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

337 Pm. Van der Wan Straat, Pretoria Yuri Borodin wiped his neck and

forehead with a silk handkerchief.

It was beastly hot in the van, with the oppressive closeness of

impending rain, and it stank. The van's engine was not running, so

there was no air conditioning. Borodin looked up. Five fleshy faces

stared dumbly back at him. Gorilles. That's what Borodin called them.

Embassy gorillas.

They were the KGB muscle available at every Russian embassy in the

world, and everywhere in the world they looked the same. Off-the-rack

suits, pomaded hair, big faces, big fists, and most of them smelled.

Of course there were no Russian embassies in South Africa, but there was

an illegal residency in Johannesburg. And the gorillas from the

residency had the same aroma, a cloying mix of body odor and aftershave.

"Crack a window," said Borodin.

The driver did.

"Gentlemen, Captain Dieter Hauer is in the hotel on my right, the Protea

Hof. With him are some scruffy fellows who look suspiciously like

Jews." Borodin clucked his tongue. "Germans and Jews ... an often

explosive combination."

One of the gorillas chuckled appreciatively. Ah, Borodin thought, a

rudimentary sense of humor "Across the street in the Stanley House," he

went on, "we have our restless Germqn Kripo detective. He's big, but he

shouldn't be much trouble. Two of you should be enough for him.

When he's dead, leave his ID but take his money." Borodin took a

Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine gun from a leather attache case. "The

rest of us will take room 604." He singled out the leanest of the

gorillas. "You know the window?"

The lean man lifted a Dragunov sniper rifle from his lap and zipped it

into a soft case. "Sixth floor," he said, "third window from the left."

Borodin screwed a long silencer onto the muzzle of his MP-5.

"Let's go."

3.-42 Pm. Room 604: The Protea Hof Hotel, Pretoria

Jonas Stern would have verbally crucified Gadi and his men for their

laxness, but had they not been so attuned to Stern's absence, they might

have defended themselves better. When the telephone rang, everyone

turned toward it thinking it was Stern. Hauer turned from the window,

Natterman from one of the beds, Yosef from the space between the other

bed and the bathroom wall, and most importantly, Aaron from the foyer.

No one heard the key gurning soffly in the door.

Closest to the phone, Gadi Ah@ams snatched it up and said, "Hello?

Hello? Uncle Jonas?"

In that instant of shared bewilderment, a rifle slug shattered the hotel

room window, missing Hauer by a centimeter.

Everyone whirled toward the crashing sound. A half second later one of

Borodin's gorillas charged through the foyer and bowled Aaron Haber over

like a child. Hauer looked wildly. His Walther lay on the bed six feet

away. He started to dive for it; then thii second gorilla came through

the door with his pistol aimed at Hauer's chest. Standing open mouthed

with the telephone to his ear, Gadi Abrar also was trapped in the

newcomer's line of fire.

Only Yosef Shamir moved to counterattack, Yosef who died. He had been

toying with Hans's crossbow in the narrow slot between the bed and the

bath when the Russians burst in. With lightning speed he dropped the

bow, drew his silenced .22 and fired three shots in rapid succession as

the second gorilla emerged from the foyer and barreled past him.

All three bullets embedded themselves high in the Russian's broad back.

He went down on top of his compadre who was wrestling with Aaron on the

floor. The .22 caliber slugs only slowed the Russian giant, but that

slowness saved his life. As Yosef stepped forward to finish him off,

Yuri Borodin somersaulted through the foyer and shot the young Israeli

through the throat.

By the time Gadi got his hand on Hauer's Walther, Borodin was covering

the entire room. Faced with the deadly MP-5 submachine gun, Hauer,

Gadi, and Aaron realized the futility of further resistance.

They slowly raised their hands, their eyes locked on Yosef's convulsing

body.

It took the young commando forty seconds to die, and no one spoke while

he did it. They had all seen death be@ -ore, and knowing that no help

would be called sed a solemn silence on both attackers and hostages.

Professor Natterman was the first to make a sound, chattering "Why?

Why?" to everyone and no one at the same time.

@"You," said Borodin, pointing his weapon at Hauer. Close the- drapes."

Hauer didn't move.

Borodin checked his watch. "Close the drapes within five seconds or you

will be shot by my sniper. Everyone against the window."

Hauer obeyed. Gadi and Aaron backed against the closed drapes and stood

beside Hauer. The gorilla that Yosef had shot was straining without

success to reach the wounds on his back, and moaning like a dying ox.

Borodin ordered the .. gorilla to take him into the bathroom and see to

the wounds; then he casually seated himself on the bed nearest Hauer.

Natterman sat gibbering on the bed opposite , but the immaculately

dressed Russian took no notice-took out a cigarette and lit it with

great deliberation.

"Gentlemen,"'he said in English, "I have come for the papers found at

Spandau Prison. Which one of you has them?" "None of us," Hauer

replied in the same language.

in took a drag from his cigarette. He had noticed the accent.

"You are Captain Hauer, I take it?"

Hauer nodded- "Who are you?"

Borodin smiled, revealing a dazzling set o . f Swiss dental :"Once

again, Captain, which of you has the papers?" "How did you find us?"

Gadi asked, stalling.

Borodin laughed softly. "A fat Kripo detective named Schneider lead me

right to you. I assume he's a friend of yours."

Yes darkened in confusion.

Borodin smiled. "Of course the detective is dead now, Captain.

As you will be if you don't give up the papers."

"I told you before, we don't have them."

Borodin's smile stretched to a grimace. He called one of the gorillas

back from the bathroom and barked several phrases at him in rapid

Russian. Of the captives, only Aaron Haber-the son of a Lithuanian

Jew-understood the exchange, but the color draining from his face told

the others all they needed to know. The big Russian jerked Aaron away

from the curtained window and kicked his legs out from under him. When

the young Israeli tried to rise, the Russian locked a thick forearm

around his neck and pressed the barrel of a silenced Browning 9mm pistol

into his ear.

"The foreplay is over, gentlemen," Borodin said. His voice had not

risen a single decibel, yet it had lost all trace of humanity.

Everyone in the room knew that the Russian would not hesitate to order

Aaron's execution. Yet the young commando made no sound. He left his

fate entirely in the hands of Gadi Abrams, who had been designated

senior officer by Stern just before he left to rendezvous with the

kidmappers.

"At the risk of sounding melodramatic," Borodin went on, "I'm going to

count to five. If I do not have the Spandau papers when I reach that

number, my loyal assistant will transform this young man's brain into

kosher caviar."

"We don't have them," Hauer said again.

Borodin counted quickly. "One, two, three, four-"

"Stop !"

Professor Natterman cried, surprising everyone.

"In God's name stop! Listen to me, you barbarian! Hauer is telling the

truth. Hans Apfel has the ori inal diary. Most of it, anyway. The Jew

who left here a few minutes ago has the rest. My granddaughter has been

kidnapped. We've come to exchange the papers for her life. Surely even

you can understand that?"

Borodin stared at the historian. "How does that help me, old man? I

need results, not excuses."

"There is a copy," Natterman explained. "A copy of the@ papers.

Photographs. You're Russian, correct? If you want to expose the truth

about Rudolf Hess, that's all you need."

Natterman pointed across the room at Hauer. "He has them.

I'm sorry, Captain, those papers mean far more to me than to you, but

they're simply not worth this boy's life."

Hauer stared at the old man with incredulity. This did not sound at all

like the fame-obsessed professor he had com( know.

Borodin raised the MP-5 to Hauer's face. "The photographs, Captain."

Hauer didn't move.

"Kill the Jew," Borodin said calmly.

"Bastard," Hauer muttered. He jerked the envelope from his hip pocket

and tossed it onto the bed.

Borodin held the negatives up to the overhead light, examined them

briefly, then slipped them into his inside coat pocket. "I assume that

none of you know the location of the people to whom your friend is

trading the original papers?"

"That's right," Natterman said.

Borodin chuckled. "I thought not. If you did, this wonderful little

commando unit wouldn't be sitting on its collective ass in a hotel

room."

In spite of the gun at his temple, Aaron cursed and tried to lash out at

the Soviet agent. Borodin stepped aside and called to one of the

residency men, "Dmitri! Leave their weapons, but take their

ammunition!"

Two minutes later Borodin stood smirking in the foyer, 'flanked by his

gorillas. The Russian who had not been wounded held a pillowcase

weighted with Uzi ammunition clips, boxes of shells, and loose .22

rounds.

"This soiree is over, gentlemen," Borodin said. "I'll take my leave

now." He accented his farewells with a broad flourish of his hand. "Do

svidamya! Shalom! Auf Wieders.ihen!" Borodin burst into laughter,

then motioned for one of the gorillas to open the door.

The moment the Russian holding the pillowcase turned the doorknob, the

door burst open and knocked him back ward against his wounded comrade.

From the window, Hauer gaped as the back of the wounded man's head