Spandau Phoenix

by Iles, Greg

  A collective sigh of relief went up throughout the plane.

  Stern chuckled and touched Natterman’s sleeve. “I’m afraid my contribution to this epic will have to wait for the second leg of our journey.”

  Natterman studied the Israeli’s tanned, angular face. “You said information was the first reason you brought me with you, Stern. What was the second?”

  Stern looked away from the professor. When he looked back, his eyes were dark and hard. “Phoenix kidnapped your granddaughter, Professor. You are her closest blood relative. That makes you my direct line into Phoenix. I’m not sure how yet, but I think you might just be my best weapon against them.”

  Natterman leaned thoughtfully back in his seat as the pilot stretched his holding pattern into a smooth approach and made a flawless landing on the main runway. A security gate with metal-detection and X-ray equipment awaited the deplaning passengers at the end of a long passage, but when Stern presented his wallet to the senior security officer, he and Natterman were waved through.

  “That’s no small trick in this country,” Natterman said. “Is it, Stern? What exactly did you do for a living before you retired?”

  Stern didn’t answer. He was searching the concourse for something or someone he apparently expected to find waiting.

  “You must be with the Mossad,” Natterman guessed. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Stern kept watching the crowd. “I go back a lot further than the Mossad, Professor. You should know that.”

  “Yes, but it’s something similar, I’ll bet. Something unsavoury.”

  “Gadi!” Stern cried. Suddenly the Israeli was moving across the concourse at great speed, not running, but taking long strides that seemed to swallow distance effortlessly. Natterman tried to pick out Stern’s objective but couldn’t, until he reappeared out of the milling crowd with one arm draped affectionately around a dark young man of about twenty-five. “Professor Natterman,” Stern said, “meet Gadi Abrams, my great-nephew.”

  “My pleasure, Herr professor,” said the young man graciously, extending a sun-browned hand.

  “Guten Abend, ” said Natterman, turning to Stern. “Is this one of the ‘packages’ we stopped to pick up?”

  “Yes, Professor, one of three.”

  Two smiling young men appeared from behind Gadi Abrams. They extended dark-tanned hands to Natterman, nodded politely, then embraced Stern as if they hadn’t seen the older man for many months.

  “Aaron, Yosef,” said Stern, “this is Professor Natterman of the Free University of Berlin.”

  The young men nodded courteously, but said nothing. Both appeared to be about Gadi’s age, if not younger, and both carried canvas overnight bags. Stern began walking down the concourse toward a row of expensive restaurants, talking quietly to his nephew as he moved.

  Natterman tried to keep close enough to the pair to overhear their conversation. Aaron and Yosef padded along behind at a discreet distance. Stern finally turned into a restaurant styled after a French cafe—the only one open at this hour. He waved away a bald waiter who started toward them with a sheaf of menus.

  “What about the plane, Gadi?” he asked in Hebrew. “How long?”

  “You won’t believe this, Uncle, but a flight leaves for Johannesburg in ninety minutes.”

  “S’iz bashert, ” Stern breathed. “it is meant to be. Nonstop?”

  “One stopover. Athens.”

  “Good enough.”

  “You don’t seem surprised, Uncle. Lucking onto a flight to South Africa on such short notice? I couldn’t believe it.”

  “It wasn’t luck, Gadi. I called an old friend of mine in the air force and requested a bit of creative rescheduling.”

  “You’re kidding. They can do that?”

  “I really wasn’t sure. My faith in mankind is renewed.”

  Gadi laughed infectiously. “It’s very good to see you again, Uncle. Travelling first class, as usual?”

  Professor Natterman could contain himself no longer. As far as he was concerned, the conversation had taken a sudden turn into outer space. “Stern,” he interrupted. “Would you please tell me why we are sitting here in this godforsaken airport while my granddaughter is in mortal danger in South Africa?”

  Stern switched back to German. “Professor, your manners leave quite a bit to be desired. However, I do appreciate your motive. In ninety minutes we board an El Al flight to Johannesburg, from whence we shall begin our search for your granddaughter. We are only one day behind Hauer and Apfel, and we know the time and location of their rendezvous with the kidnappers. The Burgerspark Hotel at eight tomorrow night, remember? And remember this also: that our interests happen to coincide is for you a lucky twist of fate. For me that remains to be seen.”

  The Israeli’s words infuriated Natterman, but since he knew Stern could simply abandon him in the airport, he decided to remain silent.

  “Now,” said Stern, “I suggest we all have something to eat. I expect everyone to sleep during the flight. Once we land in South Africa, we won’t have much time for it.” He summoned the waiter with a flick of his eyes. Everyone took one of the flimsy paper menus.

  “Cheer up, Professor,” Stern said. “You and Gadi should have quite a lot to talk about. He took his degree in history just last year.”

  “Really?” said Natterman. “He looks more like a soldier than a scholar to me.”

  Gadi stiffened.

  “You have a good eye, Professor,” Stern said, sending his nephew a quick glance. “You may prove to be more of an asset than I thought.”

  Four tables away sat an expensively-dressed woman with blue-rinsed hair. She could have been anywhere between fifty and sixty—and she was obviously not an Israeli. A Louis Vuitton handbag lay on the table. Beside it stood a glass of orange juice. When the waiter enquired if the woman would like to order some food, she politely declined. Her voice was pitched low, but the waiter thought it very pleasant. In the babel of the Mideast, there was nothing like a crisp British accent to tickle the ear. When the woman smiled, the waiter thought the smile was for him, but he was wrong. It was for Jonas Stern.

  Swallow had acquired her target.

  2.25 a.m. Jon Smuts Airport, Johannesburg

  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 young 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 fleapit, one might say.”

  “I understand perfectly, sir,” the driver assured him, appraising Hauer in the rearvi
ew 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 fleapit—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 Protea Hof is also a fine hotel, sir.” Salil glanced furtively at his rearview mirror.

  “The Protea Hof it is.”

  While the taxi sped northward, Hauer peered out at the ultramodern skyline of Johannesburg, the City of Gold. Dozens of brightly-lit skyscrapers towered above a dense network of elevated freeways. Compared to this futuristic metropolis West Berlin looked like a sooty hand-me-down. South Africa looked nothing like what Hauer had expected. Already he sensed the change in altitude, the huge expanses of space around him.

  “Sir?” Salil said, catching Hauer’s eye in the rearview mirror.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you be interested to know that someone is following us?”

  Hauer clutched Hans’s shoulder to keep him from turning. “Any idea who it might be?” he asked calmly.

  “Yes, sir. I believe they are British agents. They’ve been with us since the airport.”

  Hauer heard a sharp intake of breath as Hans slid down in his seat. “And how would you know that?” he asked.

  “I saw many British agents in India,” Salil explained. “I’ve seen that car at the airport many times before. The young man driving it, though, I have not.”

  Hauer rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. Hans tried to turn around, but Hauer restrained him. “I’ve changed my mind, driver,” he said. “We’ll check into the Burgerspark after all.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Hans opened his mouth to protest, but Hauer whispered: “There’s already a room there in your name. We might as well let the kidnappers think you’re really staying there. Driver?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Could you lose that car after we check into the Burgerspark? I’d make it worth your trouble.”

  “Certainly, sir!” the Indian replied, foreseeing a very good tip indeed. “You are in most excellent hands!”

  “The taxi climbed from the airport road onto the northbound side of Highway 21—the left side of the road, Hauer noticed, as in England—where a few lorries rumbled languidly toward Pretoria. Hauer wondered what he and Hans would find in the capital city. Had Ilse Apfel really been brought there? Or did she still wait somewhere back in snowbound Berlin? Was she still alive? The professional in Hauer doubted it, but some deeper part of him still held out hope. For Hans’s sake, he supposed. He flattened his palm against the taxi’s window and felt the heat. Strange, this sudden change of seasons, he thought. But he liked it. He felt good, and he knew he would feel even better once he’d met the enemy face to face.

  “Thirty minutes to Pretoria, sir,” Salil sang out.

  “No hurry,” Hauer lied, watching Hans carefully. “No hurry at all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  2.45 a.m. The Northern Transvaal. The Republic of South Africa

  Ilse awakened slowly, like a diver fighting to the surface of a deep black lake. Finally aware, she found herself in a bed, tucked beneath cotton bedcovers. She was naked. Tacky residue from the tape that had bound her on the jet made the sheets stick to her skin. She tried to remember how she had lost her clothes, but could not. Her eyes darted around the room. The bedroom was sparsely but expensively furnished: an antique bureau, a chair, an end table, and the bed. No windows, just two doors—one half-open and leading to a bathroom, the other closed. No telephone. Nothing offered any clue as to where she was or what lay beyond the four walls.

  Wrapping the blanket tight around her, she climbed out of the bed and tried the closed door. It was locked. A moment later she found the note. It lay on the teak bureau, weighted by a silver hand mirror. Written in German on a small white card were the words:

  Frau Apfel, Welcome to Horn House. Please make yourself presentable. All will be made clear at dinner. Alfred Horn.

  When Ilse saw her face reflected in the hand mirror, she put a quivering finger to her cheek. Her fine blond hair hung in lank, dirty strands, and her usually luminous eyes looked gray and opaque beneath swollen lids. The shock of seeing herself in such a state drove her into the adjoining bathroom. Standing before a long mirror, she dropped the blanket from her shoulders and saw the welts left by the tape. Her neck, wrists, and ankles bore the angry red marks. Sudden panic wriggled in her chest; gooseflesh rose like quills on her arms and thighs. There were other marks too: deep blue bruises mottling her breasts and thighs. They reminded Ilse of the times when she and Hans had made love more roughly, 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 nearly 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 soft 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 indignities she might face in the next hours or days, she would not act in any way that might cause her harm. Not even if 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 s
ixty; 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 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 Frau. Grant me this indulgence.”

  Smuts looked unconvinced.

  “What is she like, Pieter? Tell me.”

  “She’s quite young. Early twenties, I’d guess. And beautiful, 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 were to be used.”