by Iles, Greg
In spite of her perilous situation—or perhaps because of it—Ilse accepted the invitation.
“Linah?” Horn called. The tall Bantu woman appeared instantly. “Escort Frau Apfel to the billiards room.”
Ilse rose to go.
“And Frau Apfel,” Horn said, “would you ask Pieter to join me when he has finished his game?”
Ilse nodded.
“You won’t see me until tomorrow afternoon, possibly not until tomorrow evening. Pieter will show you around the estate in the morning. Certain rooms are locked, but you have the run of the house and grounds otherwise. Please refrain from using the telephone until the matter of the papers has been resolved.”
With the touch of a button Horn wheeled his chair around the table. “May I see your hand?”
Puzzled, Ilse slowly extended her hand. Before she knew what was happening, the wizened old man had bent his head and lightly kissed it. She felt a sudden chill, but whether from physical revulsion or some deeper fear, she could not tell.
“I apologize for the young Englishman’s rudeness,” Horn said. “I shouldn’t tolerate it, but his grandfather and I worked together during the war.” Horn smiled wistfully. “His grandfather was a very special man, and I feel some responsibility for his heir. Gute Nacht, my dear.”
The tall Bantu housekeeper took Ilse’s elbow and led her into the hall, where she let Ilse take the lead. Ilse had the feeling that the woman’s arm was but a fraction of an inch behind her own, ready to seize her if necessary. The long hall opened into a large gallery, which in turn gave onto two more beyond, each great room joined by means of a wide arch. Ilse gasped. As far as she could see, the walls were lined with paintings. She knew a little about art, but the works she saw in the first room required no training to appreciate. The strokes of the great masters speak to a part of the psyche deeper than thought, and these were no reproductions. Each canvas glowed with immanent passion; Ilse’s eyes danced from painting to painting in wonder. “My God,” she murmured. “Where are we?”
Linah caught hold of Ilse’s arm and tugged her along like an awestruck child. Even the marble floors bore their share of the treasure. Classical sculptures, some over twelve feet high, rose like marble ghosts from pedestals in the centre of each room. Ilse noticed that no work in any of the rooms seemed modern. Nothing had the asymmetrical distortions of Picasso, the geometric puzzles of Mondrian, or the radically commonplace ugliness of the “sculpture” so common in Berlin office parks. Everything was soft, romantic, inward-pulling. Had she not been so stunned, she might have noticed that all the objets d’art—Egyptian and Greek sculpture, paintings from Holland, Belgium, and France—had come from countries plundered behind the merciless boot of the Wehrmacht during the ‘thirties and ‘forties. But she didn’t notice. She simply stared until the dazzling exhibition ended and she found herself in the dark, wood-panelled billiards room where Pieter Smuts and the young Englishman had finished their second game.
“Well, take your bloody winnings!” Lord Grenville snapped.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Smuts retorted, grinning. He pocketed the crisp fifty-pound note that the Englishman handed over as casually as a wrinkled fiver.
“Herr Smuts?” Ilse said. “Herr Horn wishes you to join him.”
The Afrikaner’s smile faded as he hurried into the hallway.
“Up for a game, Fraulein?” the Englishman asked, tilting his cue toward Ilse.
“It’s Frau,” Ilse corrected coldly. “And I’d prefer to return to my room.”
As Linah turned to lead her out, Ilse got the impression that the Bantu woman approved of her decision not to remain. But as she followed the housekeeper out, she felt a light touch on her arm. “Why not stay a moment?” whispered the Englishman. “It might do wonders for your husband’s health.”
Ilse froze. Without even thinking, she told Linah that she’d changed her mind. She would play one game before she retired. The tall Bantu eyed the Englishman warily through the door. “I watch for Madam in the hall,” she said. “You come soon.”
“Soon,” Ilse promised, closing the door. “What do you know about my husband?” she asked pointedly.
“Not so fast, Fraulein.” The Englishman racked the balls for another game. “Why don’t you try being friendly? Since we’re the only two civilized people in this godforsaken place.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? Couldn’t you tell at dinner? They’re mad as hatters, both of them! I’m almost mad myself from listening to them. I’m also the only chance you have of getting yourself and your husband out of here alive. Break.”
Ilse took a cue from the wall, walked to the table and opened the game by sinking the one and the five. She didn’t know what to make of the arrogant Englishman. She suspected this was a trick to extract information from her, yet a voice deep inside her said to try to use this man—to try anything that might help her escape.
“How did you come to be here?” she asked. “I assume you weren’t kidnapped, like me?”
The Englishman chuckled. “Not exactly… But I wouldn’t be averse to leaving, I can tell you that. For some years now Herr Horn and I have been involved in a very profitable business arrangement. Until recently it’s been mostly from a distance. Alfred knew my grandfather—William Stanton, Lord Grenville—before the war. I’m afraid my character runs a bit differently than my grandfather’s, though. My primary interest is making money. Along with certain other distractions.”
“Herr Horn is not interested in money?”
“Not for its own sake, no. He’s very political. Fancies himself a bloody Messiah, if you want to know. He and my grandfather did something big in England during the war, though neither of them ever told me what. Alfred has some kind of political agenda that dictates every move he makes. All very hush-hush. And very silly, if you ask me.”
“Does he ask you?”
The Englishman tried an extravagant bank shot and muffed it. “No,” he said, “he doesn’t.”
“Lord Grenville,” Ilse mused. “Is that a real title?”
“Yes, actually. I really am a lord. My name is Robert Stanton, Lord Grenville. Call me Robert, if you like.”
“What about the other man?”
“The Afrikaner? Smuts? He’s a commoner. A real bastard.” Stanton chuckled. “A real common bastard, that’s him. He’s Horn’s chief of security. I don’t like him, but I stay clear of him, you know? He’d like to cut my throat some dark night.”
“Why doesn’t he?”
“Alfred protects me. Or he has up till now, at any rate. But my protector’s patience wears thin Ilse.”
Ilse pocketed the three, nine and fifteen before missing the seven in the side pocket.
“Very nice, Fraulein.” Stanton eyed Ilse’s hips. “Yes, I’m getting the feeling that dear Alfred’s use for me is rapidly coming to an end. And I don’t fancy waiting for the axe to fall.”
“Exactly what business are you and Herr Horn in?”
Stanton sank the twelve with a crack. “Import-export.”
“IX what?”
“Drugs. And money, of course. Lots of pretty pounds.”
“Pharmaceutical drugs?”
Stanton laughed. “The odd lot now and then. But we generally handle drugs in their more elementary state. Morphine base—poppies, ether, coca paste …”
“Narcotics are the basis of Herr Horn’s empire?”
“No, no. He’s ninety percent legitimate now. But our little joint venture provides him with quite a bit of untraceable cash. That’s a valuable commodity in the business world, as you probably know, rarer and rarer these days.”
“I see.”
“Don’t think ‘legitimate’ carries any great moral weight, though. Alfred brokers chemicals to Iraq for weapons, conventional arms to the third world, nuclear and computer technology to half a dozen maniac governments—it makes the narcotics business look like a bloody jumble sale.”
�
��So what exactly do you want from me?” Ilse asked warily.
Stanton stepped close to her. “I want to know what the old man’s planning,” he whispered. “Something big is in the works, and I think he’s going to let you in on it. The old bird’s got the idea you’re some kind of avatar of Teutonic womanhood. He’s mad about you.”
“No,” Ilse said quickly, fighting a strong feeling that Stanton’s words were true. “You’re wrong.”
“Spare me, Fraulein. I can see it.”
Ilse moved to leave, but Stanton barred the door. “If you find out anything,” he said, “you come see me. I can help you.” Ilse tried to pass, but Stanton remained in front of her. “If you don’t,” he warned, “neither you nor your husband will get out of this house alive, I guarantee it.”
Ilse stopped trying to pass and looked into, Stanton’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing at all, love. But you think about it. Do you really believe that one-eyed madman brought you all the way here just to send you smiling back to Germany? Five thousand bloody miles?”
Ilse shook her head in denial.
“Come on, Fraulein, you’re no fool.” Stanton caught Ilse’s shoulders and drew her tight against him. “I’ll tell you something else for free,” he said heavily. “Alfred’s got the right idea, but he’s much too old for you.” He pressed his mouth hard against hers.
Ilse twisted her head away roughly. “Let go of me! Let me go!”
Stanton groped for her breasts. Truly frightened now, Ilse caught his arms and tried to push him away. Just as he got one hand free and raised it to strike, someone flung open the door. Tall and menacing, the Bantu housekeeper fixed her imperious gaze on the Englishman. “Time for bed, Madam,” she said in a dangerous voice.
“Yes—yes, thank you, Linah,” Ilse stammered.
“Bloody wog,” said Stanton. “You ought to keep out of where you’re not wanted. I’m going to talk to Master about you.”
Her face unchanged, Linah pulled the door shut and led Ilse to her bedroom.
“Thank you,” Ilse said again.
Linah looked deep into her eyes. “Careful with the English, Madam,” she said in her deep voice. “He is spoilt, and does not understand ‘no’.”
Ilse listened hopefully as Linah shut the door, but the lock clicked fast.
Back in the dining room, Alfred Horn addressed Smuts liked a general briefing his adjutant before a battle. “The airstrip extension?”
“One hundred feet to go, sir. They finished the southeast end at dusk. It should set up fine by tomorrow night.”
“Is the basement secure?”
“Tight as a Zulu drum.”
“What about the conference room video cameras? We must have a record of this meeting. Our fallback plan depends on it.”
“All four cameras loaded and in position, sir.”
“Any questions for me, Pieter?”
“What about the policeman in the basement? Lieutenant Luhr.”
Horn’s face hardened. “He’s fine where he is until after the meeting.”
“And the girl?”
“I’m quite taken with her, Pieter. I’ve asked her to sit in tomorrow night as my secretary.”
“What!” “
“No arguments,” Horn said. “I’ve decided.”
“But the Arabs won’t stand for a woman there!”
Horn smiled. “What can they say? I am the only man who possesses the commodity they want. They certainly can’t afford to make trouble about a secretary.”
Smuts shook his head. “What about Stanton? He’s getting insufferable.”
“I agree,” said Horn. “But you should have known his grandfather, Pieter, a visionary. It’s a good thing he’s not around to see his heir.”
Smuts grunted in agreement.
“Let Robert take this last delivery, Pieter. Two million rand in gold bullion is worth waiting for, I think. Then he’s yours.” Smuts grinned a death’s-head grin.
“Less than twenty-four hours now,” Horn intoned. “The wheels are in motion.” He looked up. “Take me to the study, Pieter. I want to sit by the fire.”
“Should I get the chair?”
“No. I feel strong. Tonight I walk like a man.”
“A man among men, sir,” Smuts said reverently.
“Thank you, Pieter. The last of a breed, it’s true.”
Together the two men—one ancient, the other in his mid-forties—set out upon the long journey to the study, where the old one would await the dawn with bright, unsleeping eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
6.30 a.m. Horn House: The Northern Transvaal
Ilse had no warning of the horror to come. She had awakened several times during the night, but the periods of sleep had been mercifully dreamless. When her door opened, she expected to find the tall Bantu housekeeper waiting behind it. Instead she saw Pieter Smuts, Horn’s Afrikaner security chief. Smuts’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I’m here to give you the threepenny tour,” he announced.
“That’s not really necessary,” Ilse said uneasily. “I’m sure I can find my way around.”
Smuts sighed with enough resignation to indicate he would remain in the doorway as long as he had to. After closing the door and dressing, Ilse allowed herself to be led out of the room and down the long corridor. The lanky Afrikaner towered above her. Again she felt like a child being led through a museum. Smuts delivered his information in a monotone.
“Horn House,” he said, “stands in one of the most isolated regions of South Africa—the northeast corner of the northern Transvaal. Boer country. The nearest town is Giyani to the west, and the nearest landmark to the east is the Kruger National Park. Not many roads up here to speak of.”
Point taken, Ilse thought bitterly.
“The estate itself is one of a kind, as you’ll see when you get outside. The residential compound encompasses twelve thousand square feet of living space. We’ve got an indoor swimming pool, a gymnasium, an art gallery, an astronomical observatory, and something quite unusual for a private dwelling—a hospital. Because of Herr Horn’s advanced age, he suffers from a number of chronic conditions, but here he is able to obtain optimum health care at all times. The medical complex is at the end of this hall. We have a resident cardiologist on duty at all times.”
“My God,” Ilse said, genuinely shocked.
“The cost of maintaining this unit out on the veld like this would bankrupt a small town,” Smuts boasted, “but for Herr Horn … ah, here we are.”
They had come to a door with no knob; brass letters on its face read KRANKENHAUS. Smuts pushed open the door. “After you,” he said.
The astringent smell of alcohol and disinfectant wrinkled Ilse’s nose. She found herself in a large examining room replete with all the paraphernalia of modern medicine. Blood chemistry machines, centrifuges, autoclaves, and various instruments lined the shining countertops. Two doors were set in the opposite wall. Smuts led her to the one marked ICU. Behind it was a fully equipped intensive care facility. Cardiac monitor screens, a defibrillator cart, a ventilator, and two cylinders of oxygen waited beside an electric hospital bed.
Ilse wondered if Horn was in poorer health than he appeared. “Very impressive,”’ she said, not knowing what else to say.
Smuts nodded curtly and led her out, closing the door softly behind them. The other door was marked only with a warning symbol—three inverted yellow triangles inside a circle of black. Smuts opened the door and stepped inside, motioning for Ilse to follow.
“This is our X-ray unit,” he said. “It’s state of the art, but I’m afraid our cardiologist has to do double duty as a radiographer. He’s not too happy about that, as you might imagine.”
The moment Ilse stepped across the threshold, someone seized her violently from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. Before she could scream, Smuts stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth. The unseen attacker lifted her off her feet, then heaved her high and dropped h
er heavily onto a hard surface.
An ugly, sweating black face appeared above her; powerful hands crushed her flailing arms against the cold Formica while Smuts worked at something she could not see. Primal terror gripped her. Even without seeing the thick leather belts that now bound her to the table, Ilse registered and identified the sensation. Restraining straps, she thought wildly. White light speared into her brain from above.
“Be still!” Smuts shouted. “Be still!”
Ilse drew in all the breath she could and tried to scream, but the bunched handkerchief in her mouth choked her effort to an anguished groan. Her throat felt near to bursting. The man panting above her was so black he looked blue. He buckled a thick strap across Ilse’s chest, then forced her right cheek flat against the table and fastened another strap across her head. All she could see now was a huge lead shield. Pieter Smuts’s hard, angular face floated inside a thick bubble window set in its middle.
Ilse struggled to rise, but the heavy-buckled straps held her motionless. When she tried to shift even slightly, the straps scoured her flesh like sandpaper. As she lay there, chest heaving, Smuts stepped around the lead shield. From his right hand a long cable dropped to, the floor and snaked around the shield to the X-ray machine. With his left hand Smuts reached up and took hold of a hammerhead-shaped mechanism suspended above Ilse’s head. The X-ray tube. Painted a metallic orange, it hovered above Ilse like an alien being, a deadly thing that moved silently on tracks and cables. Smuts raised the housing to its highest position; then he returned to safety behind the lead shield.
Two seconds later every muscle in Ilse’s body constricted in terror. A deep electrical surge, a subsonic roar shuddered through the table, lasting three full seconds before it cease with a sharp clang. Ilse’s mouth went dry, her head beaded with sweat. Just as she realized what the sound signalled, it came again, the heart-stopping buzz of electricity converted into a barrage of irradiated particles and fired through her body like invisible bullets. Her teeth ground furiously as she fought the leather straps. The hide scraped her flesh raw. Again the awful sound came. Ilse heard herself screaming, the voice tiny and shrill and meaningless inside her head.
