by Greg Iles
tickle the ear.
When the woman smiled, the waiter thought the smile was for him, but he
was wrong. It was for Jonas Stern.
Swallow had acquired her target.
225 A.M. Jon Smuts Airpoll, Johannesbarg
The taxi was a small, clapped-out Ford. It stood out sharply from the
short line of Rovers and Mazdas, which were mostly new and owned by the
same two taxi companies.
Hauer chose a taxi over the shuttle bus because he wanted speed and
privacy. The forty-mile taxi ride to Pretoria would be outrageously
expensive, but money was the least of their worries. He chose the old
Ford because he wanted a driver with some character-an entrepreneur.
"English?" the driver asked with a strong Indian accent.
"Swiss," Hauer replied.
The driver switched to a strange but fluent German. Oddly enough, the
Teutonic consonants did not prevent the dark ypung man from speaking
with the singsong inflection of his native country. "And where do you
wish to go?" he crooned.
"You speak German?" Hauer said, surprised.
"Most happily, yes. Taught to me by a cousin on my mother's side.
His father was a houseboy to the German ambassador in New Delhi.
He knew the language well and I picked it up quite easily when they
moved back to Calcutta.
I pick up all languages easily. A wonderful aid in my humble profession
. .
Hans sank back into the Ford's rear seat and listened to the Indian's
spiel, luxuriating in the stability of the automobile.
"Listen," Hauer said, breaking the Indian's flow, "we need to get to
Pretoria. My son and I are stockbrokers.
We've come to South Africa to do a little business, but also to have a
little fun, you understand?"
"Most certainly, sir," said the driver, sensing the possibility of a
generous tip.
"For this reason we'd like you to take us to a somewhat cheaper
establishment than you might expect-a fleabag, one might say."
"I understand perfectly, sir," the driver assured him, appraising Hauer
in the rearview mirror.
"Then drive," said Hauer. "And keep your eyes on the road."
The Ford jumped to life and joined the stream of taxis moving out of the
airport like a line of beetles.
"Salil is my name," the Indian sang out. "At your service."
Hauer said nothing.
"Sir?" Salil tried again.
"What is it?"
"I believe I understand your requirements perfectly. But might I
suggest that for gentlemen such as yourselves, a fleabag-as you so
accurately call it-might be just the type of place where you are most
quickly noticed? Why not one of the higher-priced hotels? If you have
the money, of course. You would blend right in, and no one would think
of asking questions. Privacy is at a premium in such places."
Hauer considered this. "Any suggestions?" he asked, liking the idea
better the more -he thought about it.
"The Burgerspark is an excellent hotel."
Hans jumped as if struck physically.
"Where else?" Hauer asked quickly.
"The Flfotea Hof is also a fine hotel, sir." Salil glanced furtively at
his rearview mirror.
"The Protea Hof it is."
While the taxi sped northward, Hauer peered out at the ultramodern
skyline of Johannesburg, the City of Gold. Dozens of brightly lit
skyscrapers towered above a dense network of elevated freeways.
Compared to this futuristic metropolis West Berlin looked like a sooty
hand-me-down.
South Africa looked nothing like what Hauer had expected.
Already he sensed the change in altitude, the huge expanses of space
around him.
"Sir?" Salil said, catching Hauer's eye in the rearview mirror.
"Yes?"
"Would you be interested to know that someone is following us?"
Hauer clutched Hans's shoulder to keep him from turning. "Any idea who
it might be?" he asked calmly.
"Yes, sir. I believe they are British agents. They've been with us
since the airport."
Hauer heard a sharp intake of breath as Hans slid down in his seat. "And
how would you know that?" he asked.
"I saw many British agents in India," Salil explained.
"I've seen that car at the airport many times before. The young man
driving it, though, I have not."
Hauer rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. Hans tried to turn around,
but Hauer restrained him. "I've changed my mind, driver," he said.
"We'll check into the Burgerspark after all."
"Very good, sir."
Hans opened his mouth to protest, but Hauer whispered: "There's already
a room there in your name. We might as well let the kidnappers think
you're really staying there.
"Driver?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Could you lose that car after we check into the Burgerspark? I'd make
it worth your trouble."
"Certainly, sir!" the Indian replied, foreseeing a very good tip
indeed. "You are in most excellent hands!"
'The taxi climbed from the airport road onto the northbound side of
Highway 21-the left side of the road, Hauer noticed, as in England-where
a few lorries rumbled languidly toward Pretoria. Hauer wondered what he
and Hans would find in the capital city. Had Ilse Apfel really been
brought there? Or did she still wait somewhere back in snowbound
Berlin? Was she still alive? The professional in Hauer doubted it, but
some deeper part of him still held out hope. For Hans's sake, he
supposed. He flattened his palm against the taxi's window and felt the
heat. Strange, this sudden change of seasons, he thought. But he liked
it. He felt good, and he knew he would feel even better once he'd met
the enemy face to face.
"Thirty minutes to Pretoria, sir," Salil sang out.
"No hurry," Hauer lied, watching Hans carefully. "No hurry at all."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
2.'45 A.m. The Northern Transvaal.
The Republic of South Africa Ilse awakened slowly, like a diver fighting
to the surface of a deep black lake. Finally aware, she found herself
in a bed, tucked beneath cotton bedcovers. She was naked.
Tacky residue from the tape that had bound her on the jet made the
sheets stick to her skin. She tried to remember how she had lost her
clothes, but could not. Her eyes darted around the room. The bedroom
was sparsely but expensively furnished: an antique bureau, a chair, an
end table, and the bed. No windows, just two doors-one half-open and
leading to a bathroom, the other closed. No telephone. Nothing offered
any clue as to where she was or what lay beyond the four walls.
Wrapping the blanket tight around her, she climbed out of the bed and
tried the closed door. It was locked. A moment later she found the
note. It lay on the teak bureau, weighted by a silver hand mirror.
Written in German on a small white card were the words: Frau Apfel,
Welcome to Horn House. Please make Yourself presentable. All will be
made clear at dinner Alfred Horn When Ilse saw her face reflected in the
hand mirror, she put a quivering finger to her cheek.
Her fine blond hair hung in lan
k, dirty strands, and her usually
luminous eyes looked gray and opaque beneath swollen lids. The shock of
seeing herself in such a state drove her into the adjoining bathroom.
Standing before a long mirror, she dropped the blanket from her
shoulders and saw the welts left by the tape. Her neck, wrists, and
ankles bore the angry red marks. Sudden panic wriggled in her chest;
gooseflesh rose like quills on her arms and thighs. There were other
marks too: deep blue bruises mottling her breasts and thighs. they
reminded Ilse of the times when she and Hans had made love mo rougmy,
except ... this was different somehow. She looked as though she had
been fighting someone. Had she-?
Oh God, she thought wildly, suddenly remembering. The lieutenant!
The arrogant animal who had exposed himself to her on the plane!
He had drugged her! Ilse remembered the needle lancing into her
immobilized arm. The possibility that she had been raped while
unconscious hit her in a hot, nauseous wave. Barely able to keep her
balance, she stumbled into the shower and cranked on the hot water until
it @early scalded. She scrubbed her skin raw while the steaming spray
obliterated her tears. Where was she? She had been airborne for a long
time, she knew that. Her entire body ached. she felt as though she had
slept thirty hours Or more. She vaguely remembered the plane touching
down-a jarring bump followed by murmured voices She did not
understand-but it had lifted off again and she'd slipped back into a
black void.
Rather than feel the hot water drain away slowly, Ilse shut it off
altogether and let the frigid spray shock her back to reality. She
screamed once, twice, but endured the icy torrent until her head pounded
from the cold. Shutting it off at last, she wrapped one towel around
her waist and used another to dry her hair.
In the bureau drawer she found some lotion, which she applied liberally
to her swollen wrists and ankles. The air in the bedroom felt strangely
warm. She let the towel fall and reached for her clothes, then with a
start remembered that she had none. As she bent to retrieve her towel,
she caught her reflection in a dressing mirror.
Straightening up, she stared at her belly, drawn taut and flat from lack
of food.
With her forefinger she traced a line from her pubic triangle to her
navel. How long? she wondered. How long before You begin to show,
little one? A sftwge serenity slOwlY warmed Ilse,s heart. In spite of
the desperate situation, she felt a powerful conviction that she had but
one obligation now-to survive. Not for herself, but for her child. And
with this realization came a resolution: no matter what horrors or indig
nines she might face in the next hours or days, she would not act in any
way that might cause her harm. Not even she wanted to die.
Because harm done to her would be harm done to her baby, and that was
simply unacceptable. She still felt nauseated, which was surprising
because so far she had not experienced any morning sickness.
Then with a shiver she again recalled the needle on the plane. Oh no,
she thought dizzily, her mouth suddenly dry. Could the drug have hurt
my baby-?
Without warning, the bedroom door banged open. Ilse froze in terror.
Looming in the doorway stood a black woman who appeared to be at least
six feet tall. She could have been thirty or sixty; her ebony skin was
smooth, but her deep eyes glowed like ancient onyx stones.
"Madam will dress," she said in stilted German. She stepped forward and
set a soft bundle on the edge of the bed.
Ilse recognized the bundle as her clothes. They had been washed and
neatly folded. "Where am I?" she asked. "What day is this?"
"Madam will dress, please," the woman repeated in a deep, resonant
voice. She pointed to the small end table by, the bed. "It is nearly
three of the clock. I come in one quarter of the hour. Dinner then."
Before Ilse could speak again, the giant black woman, f@ slipped out and
shut the door. Ilse sprang forward, but the doorknob would not turn.
Alone again, she fought back another wave of tears and reached for her
clothes.
Alfred Horn sat in his wheelchair in the study, his hunched back to a
low fire. He watched his Afrikaner security chief put down a red
telephone. "Well, Pieter?"
"Linah says Frau Apfel is awake now, sir."
"She slept so long," Horn said worriedly. "I don't mind waiting dinner,
of course, even until three in the morning.
But it seems very odd."
Pieter Smuts sighed wearily. "Sir, do you really think you have time to
dally with this young girl?"
"Pieter, Pieter," Horn admonished. "-It's much more than that. I don't
expect you to understand, but it's been years since I dined with a real
German.
And a Frau at me this indulgence."
Smuts looked unconvinced.
"What is she like, Pieter? Tell me.
"She's quite young. Early twenties, I'd guess. And bea tiful, I must
admit. Tall and slender with fair skin."
"Her hair?"
"Blond."
"Eyes?"
Smuts hesitated for an instant. "I didn't see her eyes, sir.
She was unconscious when she arrived."
"Unconscious?" Horn asked sharply"I'm afraid so."
"But I instructed that no drugs of any kind be used."
"Yes, sir. I'm afraid Frau Apfel arrived in rather poor condition, sir.
She had bruises about her legs and torso. I ordered the doctor to
examine her. She wasn't sexually molested, but he thinks the police
lieutenant who accompanied her from Berlin probably used an intravenous
barbiturate to quiet her."
Quivering with rage, Horn wheeled around to face the fire. "Can no one
follow orders!" he screeched. "Where is the swine?"
Smuts heard the old man wheezing, as if unable to get enou h oxygen.
"Hq's in one of the basement cells, sir. Do you have a particular
punishment in mind?"
Horn did not reply, but when he finally@ turned back around, his
distorted face had regained its composure. "All in good time," he
mumbled. "Help me, Pieter."
Smuts moved behind the wheelchair, but the old man -shook his head
impatiently. "No, come around front."
"Beg your pardon, sir?"
."Help me up," Horn demanded.
"Up, sir?"
"Do it!"
Smuts bent slightly and with slim but powerful arms drew the old man
bodily out of the chair. "Are you sure, sir?" he @Absolutely," Horn
croaked, trying to subdue the pain in ruined leg joints. "The Jungfrau
will see me as a natural n before she sees me as ... an invalid. Even
after these it two years, Pieter, I still can't accept it. That 1, once
a mfior athlete, should be reduced to this. It's obscene."
'It comes to all of us, sir," Smuts commiserated.
that's no comfort. None at all. Is dinner ready?"
"When you are, sir."
Horn's dun legs trembled. "Let's go, then."
"Take my arm, sir."
"Only to the hallway, Pieter. Then I'm on my own."
Smuts nodded. He knew the old ma
n was in great pain, but he also knew
that if Alfred Horn meant to walk to the dining room under his own
power, nothing would stop him.
Seated in the huge dining room, Ilse tried desperately to conceal the
panic that knotted her stomach. She sensed the presence of the tall
black woman behind her, watching.
Fighting the urge to turn, she concentrated on the spectacular table.
She had never seen such splendor gathered in one place before:
Hutschenreuther china rimmed with eighteenkarat gold; fine lead crystal
from Dresden; antique silver from Augsburg. The fact that each piece
was of German manufacture reassured her. On the plane she had worried
that her captors might take her out of the country; now she felt Hans
could not be too far away. As she stared up into a sparkling
chandelier, Alfi-ed Horn appeared in the doorway and strode with slow
dignity to the head of the table.
"Guten Abend, Frau Apfel," he said, inclining his white-haired head with
courtly grace.
Ilse's heart leaped. The moment she saw the frail old man, she knew
that he had the power to free her. In spite of Horn's advanced age, his
gaze burned with an intensity Ilse had seen in very few men during her
life. She stamd to her feet, but the strong hands of the Bantu woman
pressed her firmly back into her seat.
Struggling to silence the screams of his arthrific knees, Alfred Horn
seated himself. "Please," he said, "do me the honor of sharing my table
before we discuss any details of this awkward situation. There will be
no chains or rubber hoses here. You might even find this to be an
enjoyable evening, if you but allow yourself to. Sit, Pieter."
Smuts took the nearest chair to Horn's left.
"Allow me to introduce myself," the old man said. "I am Alfred Horn,
master of this house. The man across the table from you is my security
chief, Pieter Smuts." Horn frowned at a large wooden clock hanging over
the buffet to his right' "And any moment now," he added, "we should be
joined by a young man wh@' A sudden flurry of footsteps in the hall
heralded the arrival of the tardy guest, a young man who hurried in and
took the seat next to Ilse without a word. He looked to be about Hans's
age, perhaps a couple of years older. His ne was short and thick, his
head a size too large-indeed all is features seemed a little
oversized-and his sandy hair, though freshly combed, was wet. Beneath