by Greg Iles
Steyn," he said. "I'm sorry, Major, but that's the way it has to be."
Graaff's skin grew even redder. "You've got some bloody nerve, Jerry."
He turned to Barnard. "I'm surprised you didn't throw these characters
into a cell!"
"They mentioned Thomas Horn, sir," Captain Barnard said, surprised by
Graaff's vehemence. "I think he may be in danger."
"Thomas Horn?" Graaff's eyes narrowed. "What's he got to do with
this?"
"They won't say, sir."
"They won't. We'll see about that."
"They also mentioned what they said was a code, Major.
What was it, Captain Hauer?"
Hauer didn't like the look of Major Graaff at all, but he'd already
given the code to Captain Bernard. Maybe it would light a fire under
Graaff. "The code is Aliyah Beth," he said Graaff's eyes narrowed.
"Means nothing to me, Barnard."
Gadi flushed with anger.
"Why don't I call the general?" Captain Barnard suggested. "It's
almost seven."
"Nonsense!" scoffed Major Graaff. "Not until we've found out what
these characters are up to. Send them over to Visagie police station.
Let the interrogators have a go at them. We'll soon get to the bottom
of this. Call Visagie, Bernard. Have them send over a van." While
Bernard made the call, Major Graaff glanced disapprovingly at Gadi.
"Who's this dark one then? I don't like the look of him."
Captain Barnard tried once more. "You don't think perhaps I should call
the general?"
"Don't be an idiot, Bernard. We'll know everything about this lot by
lunchtime. I'll speak to the general then if it's worth bothering him
about. They're probably journalists, trying to poke their noses where
they don't belong."
Hauer considered telling Major Graaff about Aaron Haber-the "insurance"
they had waiting at the Protea Hof-but something told him to keep
silent, at least for the time being.
Major Graaff's police escort arrived in less than fifteen minutes.
They brought handcuffs, but Gtaaff waved them aside. "These buggers
won't be making any trouble." He laughed. "They're fellow police
officers, after all. Where are their papers, Barnard?"
Captain Barnard looked sheepish.
Graaff shook his head. "Damn it, man, it's a wonder they didn't kill
you and take the place over."
"It wouldn't have mattered," Hauer told him. "We're traveling under
false papers."
"Are you, now?" Graaff said. "Well, let's just toddle down to the
police station, shall we?" The major shoved his prisoners through the
door.
Captain Barnard got up and closed the door. He was strangely irritated
by Graaff's remarks. Why didn't I ask to see their passports? he
wondered. But he knew why. Because the longer he had stared into the
earnest eyes of the German policeman, the more convinced he'd become
that the man was telling the truth. There was some kind of crisis going
on. And what was the harm in calling the general, anyway? Jaap Steyn
prided himself on keeping a hand in evy.case that directly affected his
office. And if two foreigners asking to speak to the general on a
matter of national security didn't directly affect his office, what did?
Barnard reached for the phone and dialed General Steyn's home number. He
listened to it ring three times, then hung up with an oath.
Graaff was probably right. Better to wait until they knew they had a
problem before bothering the general. The- Visagie interrogators would
know everything about the strangers in a few hours, and South Africa's
political battles kept General Steyn busy enough without jerking him
away from his morning coffee to deal with a non-event.
Captain Barnard took his car keys from his desk and wrote a note to his
secretary. He'd been working all night. He was going home to shower,
shave, and have a bite of breakfast.
He would be back around ten A.M. It will all be sorted out by then, he
thought as he slipped out of the office. But then he remembered the
German policeman's sober gaze. And he wondered.
CHAPTER FORTY
605 A. M. mI-5 Headquarters. Charles Street, Loodon Sir Neville Shaw
looked up as Wilson rushed into his dim office. His deputy shook a thin
piece of paper in his right hand.
"Cable, Sir Neville!"
"Well read it, man! What's the bloody rush?"
Wilson shoved the message across the desktop. "Personal for you, sir."
Shaw tore open the seal and read:
DIRECTOR GENERAL mIs:
THE MEN YOU SENT ARE DEAD STOP LORD GRENVILLE IS DEAD STOP YOU BROKE A
SOLEMN AGREEMENT MADE MORE THAN THIRTY YEARS AGO STOP I AM NO LONGER
BOUND BY TERMS OF THAT AGREEMENT STOP I'VE NEVER KNOWN AN ENGLISHMAN WHO
KEPT 141S WORD STOP SECRET NOW HELD AT MY DISCRETION STOP BETTER LUCK
NEXT TIME
HESS
Shaw felt his hands begin to shake. "Good God," he murmured.
"Burton's dead." He looked up, his face red and blotchy.
"Wilson! Do you have those files I told you to get?"
"In my office safe, sir. I don't believe the Foreign Office has noticed
them missing yet."
"Damn the Foreign Office! Shred those files, t en incinerate them in
the basement! Do it yourself and do it now!"
Wilson moved toward the door, then paused and looked back at his
superior.
"I was a bloody fool to order Swallow off the case," Shaw said hoarsely.
"She could have killed Hess herself."
Wilson's eyes narrowed. "You mean Horn, sir?"
Shaw looked up with red eyes. "Horn is Hess, Wilson.
Haven't you got that yet?"
Wilson took a step backward.
Shaw looked down at the wrinkled map on his desk.
"Swallow could still be in South Africa," he muttered. "By God she
might be able to save us yet. Wilson, put out a message to every
resource we have in South Africa. Anyone who contacts agent Swallow
should order her to call me here. And if she calls us for any reason,
you put her through to me immediately. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir!"
Shaw's eyes sparkled with excitement. "By God, I should have used that
harpy in the first place! Murder has always been woman's work."
655 A.M. Protea Hof Hotel, Pretoria
Swallow had been waiting outside room 604 for twelve hours, and her
patience had almost run out. In the half-dozen times she had approached
the door, only once had she heard any conversation from the two men
inside. For the hundredth time she glanced at her watch.
Almost seven A.M.
Maids would be coming on duty any moment. To hell with it, she thought,
I'm going in. She already had a plan. Taking a last glance at the
door, she headed downstairs to use the lobby telephone.
Inside room 604, Professor Natterman lay flat on the bed in a haze of
morphine, fever, and pain. Thanks to Aaron's expert medical training,
the gunshot wounds had at least stopped bleeding, if not hurting. The
professor had spent the night wrestling with despair.
Rudolf Hess was alive, as he had predicted, yet he would not be at Horn
House to confront the old Nazi. And worse, Hau
er had told Detective
Schneider where to find his photocopy of the Spandau papers, wiping out
any hope of his publishing an exclusive translation of the papers. All
night Natterman had clutched his only consolation to his of the Spandau
pages. A dawn began to creep around the edges of the dra Natterman
wondered when or if Hauer would call back.
Would the South Africans give Hauer the troops Stern had told him to ask
for? And if so, could Ilse survive such an assault?
Natterman glanced over at the other bed. Aaron Haber lay there,
watching a silent television. The young commando had lain that way most
of the night, except when he took time out to check Natterman's
bandages. He'd said he muted the sound so that he could hear anyone
approaching the door. Natterman wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow.
The hotel air-conditioning whooshed straight out of the window shattered
by Borodin's sniper.
Natterman jumped as a sharp knock sounded at the door.
Aaron came to his feet like a leopard startled from sleep, his Uzi
cocked and pointed at the door. Natterman could just see the door from
where he lay. As the Israeli tiptoed toward it, the knock sounded
again. Aaron flattened himself against the foyer wall.
"Who's there?" he called.
"Messenger," said a male voice. "Telegram, sir."
Aaron's brow knit in furious thought. "Telegram from who?"
"From a Meneer Stern, sir."
The young commando's blood quickened. "Shove it under the door!"
There was a pause. "I'm sorry, sir. Meneer Stern's instructions say I
must personally give this message to one of his boys."
Aaron nervously fingered his Uzi. "Which of his boys?"
"Meneer Stern does not say, sir."
Keeping his Uzi leveled, Aaron stepped warily up to the door and peered
through the peephole. Through the blurred fisheye lens he saw a thin
young black man wearing a blue messenger's uniform buttoned to the
throat. "Hold up the telegram," he said.
The young Bantu held up a piece of yellow paper, too far back for Aaron
to read. "I must hurry, sir," he said. "I have other stops to make."
Aaron muttered something in Hebrew, then reached for the door knob.
"Don't open it!" Natterman warned, but the young Israeli signaled him
to be quiet. Natterman heard the lock click; then the door opened and
caught against the chain.
"Hand it through," Aaron said from behind the door. "I'm not letting
you in."
After a moment's hesitation, a small black hand slipped the telegram
through the crack in the door. Aaron reached out, then froze.
A faint scent of body powder and perfume had wafted into the room.
For an instant Aaron flashed back to last night. He heard Gadi's voice
saying, ". . . and the perfume, I tell you, it was the same woman, the
woman from the airplane." In a fraction of a second Aaron comprehended
the danger, but he was too late.
Already a thin white hand had snapped through the four-inch space between
the door and its frame. The hand held a silenced Ingrain machine
pistol. As Aaron looked down in astonishment, the Ingrain spat three
times, blowing him off his feet and dropping him less than a foot from
the bloody stain where Yosef Shamir had died twelve hours ago.
Natterman tried to roll off the bed, but he was tangled beneath the
covers. He heard two more spits, then a clinking rattle. Swallow had
shot off the chain latch. He heard the door close, then a heavy thud.
Somehow Natterman knew who the killer was before he saw her. He
actually stopped breathing as the pale apparition glided swiftly to
Aaron's body. With one chilling glance at Natterman, the thin woman
bent down and tugged the Uzi from Aaron Haber's clenched hands.
Swallow, Natterman thought, remembering Stern's words. What's left of
the girl whose brother Stern killed while he sat on a toilet in a
British barracks a million years ago ...
Swallow glanced into the bathroom. She saw the Russians piled like
cordwood in the bathtub, and Yosef Shamir propped against the
white-tiled wall. Then she crossed immediately to Natterman, reached
down, and jerked his gag aside. When he opened his mouth to gasp for
breath, she jammed the barrel of the Ingrain inside it.
"Hello again, Professor," she said in a low, flat voice.
"Where is Stern?"
Natterman felt the gun barrel against the back of his throat, as cold
and deadly as a snake's head. He desperately needed to gag, but he
didn't dare. The woman leaning over him was like a creature from a
mother with blue-rinse hair, yellowed pearls hanging round her wrinkled
throat"Jonas Stern!" Swallow snapped. "Where is he?"
Natterman nodded his head carefully. Swallow removed the Ingrain from
his mouth. For a moment-thinking of Stern and his mission-Natterman
considered lying. He changed his mind when Swallow jammed the gun
barrel down onto the bloody bandage that Aaron had wrapped around
Natterman's wounded thigh.
"Alfred Horn!" he gasped. "Stern went to see a man named Alfred Horn!"
Swallow jabbed the Ingrain deeper into Natterman's wound. "Where to see
Alfred Horn?"
Natterman felt his stomach heave. "Somewhere in the northern Transvaal!
That's all I know. It was a blind rendezfi vous. Stern didn't know
where he was going himsel " While Swallow considered this, Natterman
looked past her to the floor. He saw black skin and white eyes. The
messenger. Now he understood the second thud. Swallow had shot the
Bantu boy in the throat. "Stern was wrong," he said, thinking aloud.
"He thinks you're after him. But you've come to destroy the Spandau
papers, haven't you?"
Swallow's nostrils flared. "I've come for Stern. If he has the papers,
that's a bonus."
Natterman glanced back at Aaron. The Israeli had fallen with his back
against the foyer wall. Except for the blood on his chest, he looked
like he was sleeping. Natterman remembered how innocent the young
commando had looked watching the soundless television. "How do you do
it?" he asked.
"That boy was hardly more than a child."
Swallow followed Natterman's gaze to Aaron's motionless body. She
shrugged. "He was a soldier. Today was his day."
Natterman shook his head. "Every bullet has its billet, eh?"
"King William,' Swallow murmured, recalling the quote from her wartime
service. "You're a philosopher?"
"I'm a fool. And you're a murderer, and a hypocrite as well.
That boy was probably someone's brother, too."
Swallow smacked Natterman on the mouth with the Ingrain, drawing blood.
Her eyes, as cold and dark and empty as deep space, settled on his face.
Natterman had never in his life felt such fear, not even as a young
German soldier patrolling alone in the shadow of Russian tanks outside
Leningrad.
"You're going to kill me," he said sotto voce.
"Not quite yet." Swallow lifted the telephone receiver and dialed an
international number. As she waited for an answer, she casually pulled
off her blue-rinse hair. Natterman's eyes widened. Beneath the wig,
Swallow's hair was iron gray and cropped to within an inch of her skull.
She did not look like a grandmother anymore.
"Swallow," she said harshly.
In London, Sir Neville Shaw's heart leaped. "Good Christ! Where are
you?"
Swallow's knuckles whitened on the telephone. "Listen to me, little
man. I'm giving you one last chance to tell me where Stern is.
He's gone to see a man named Alfred Horn.
I want to know where@' "I'll tell you exactly where to find him!"
Without wasting a second the mI-5 chief read out the overland directions
to Horn House. Swallow repeated them as they came, her head bobbing
with birdlike impatience, her eyes locked onto Natterman. When Shaw
finished reading the directions, he said, "I'm modifying your
assignment.
You can still do what you like with Stern, but I need more than the
Spandau papers now. I need Alfred Horn dead. You shouldn't have any
trouble recognizing him. He's an old man, rides in a wheelchair most of
the time. If you kill Alfred Horn, you can name your price."
Swallow laughed, a dry rattle. Her finger slipped inside the Ingrain's
trigger guard.'As Natterman stared in horror, she reached out casually
and laid the machine pistol against his cheek. Sir Neville Shaw's voice
warbled from the telephone. Swallow drew back her lips, exposing her
teeth like an animal preparing for a kill. Then her head snapped around
toward the foyer. She dropped the telephone and raised the Ingrain.
What is it? Natterman thought wildly. Is someone at the door?
He couldn't hear anything but his hammering heart.
Following Swallow's line of sight, he finally realized what she was
looking at with such alarm. Nothing! Where less than a minute ago the
bullet-riddled body of Aaron Haber had lain against the foyer wall, only
bloodstained wallpaper remained.
Shrieking like a demon, Swallow fired a sustained burst into the foyer,
then adjusted her aim to the bathroom wz The muted barks of the silenced
weapon modulated quickly into loud bangs. Her silencer was burning out.
Natterman threw off the sheets and rolled off the far edge of the bed.
He had been on the floor for less than five seconds when the firing
stopped. What the devil was happening? He raised his head above the
line of the bed.
Swallow was crouched at the end of the bed nearest the foyer, trying
frantically to clear the jammed receiver of her Ingrain. Like a man