by Greg Iles
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 s
omething
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."