by Iles, Greg
For a moment Shaw seemed 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 something 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 sake, Sir Neville,” Wilson looked distraught. “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.”
1.25 p.m. Room 604, The Protea Hof Hotel, 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. His eyes had widened in disbelief; he’d rubbed his temples, seemed to sag a little; but he had not shouted at Hauer for pilfering the papers on the plane, nor blasted Professor Natterman for his cowardice, nor 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 a 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 he’d 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 hundredth 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 of 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, we’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. Aeroplane sleep doesn’t count. The Burgerspark rendezvous is at 8 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.”
&nb
sp; Outside the hotel the sun burned down without mercy. Hauer wished he’d thought to bring a hat. Moving watchfully 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…Taxi!”
A red Mazda 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.”
“Got money?”
“All I need.”
“Right,” said the driver. “Get in, then.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
1.30 p.m. Horn House, Northern Transvaal, RSA
Seated in his motorized wheelchair on the north lawn, Alfred Horn chewed an Upmann cigar while Robert Stanton, Lord Grenville, paced nervously around him, gulping from an enormous Bloody Mary. For an hour the young Englishman had been ranting about “corporate expansion”. The corporation he referred to was the illegal and wholly invisible one which carried on the lucrative drug- and currency-smuggling operations he had administered for Alfred Horn for the past eight years. The old man had sat silent during most of the tirade. He was curious, but not about increasing his illegal profits. He was curious about Stanton himself. Today the young nobleman’s voice had the semblance of its usual brashness, but something in it did not quite ring true. He was drunk, and Horn intended to give him as much rope as he would take.
“I don’t even know why I’m trying,” he lamented. “Do you realize how much money we have lost in the past three days, Alfred? Over two million pounds! Two million. And I have no idea why. You shut down our entire European operation without a word of explanation.”
“To whom do I owe explanations?” Horn rasped.
“Well … to no one, of course. But Alfred, certain people might get angry if we don’t resume operations very soon. We have commitments.”
A faint smile touched Horn’s lips. “Yes,” he said softly. “I’m curious, Robert, this gold that is scheduled to arrive day after tomorrow. Why is it coming by ship? Normally those deliveries are made by air.”
This question surprised Stanton, but he recovered quickly. “The final leg will still be made by air,” he said. “By helicopter. I don’t know why, Alfred. Perhaps the currency export restrictions were tightened at Colombia’s airports. Perhaps it was easier to take the gold out by ship. Who knows?”
“Indeed.” Horn glanced at the thin face of Pieter Smuts. “Tell me, Robert, do you miss England? You’ve been with us a month now.”
Stanton took a huge swallow of his Bloody Mary. “Glad to be away from the bloody place. It’s winter there, isn’t it? Though I must admit I’d like to get down to Jo’burg for a weekend. Not much female companionship to choose from here. I don’t have the fancy for dark meat Smuts has. I suppose it’s an acquired taste.” Stanton grinned. “There’s always the pretty new Fraulein, of course, our own Aryan princess.”
Horn’s solitary eye burned into Stanton’s face. “You will keep your distance from Frau Apfel, Robert,” he said sharply. “Is that absolutely clear?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, old boy. Not my type at all.” The young Englishman tried to look nonchalant, but he could not remain cool under the smoking gaze of Horn’s security chief. “Would you mind terribly not doing that, Smuts?” he said irritably. “Gives me the galloping creeps.”
Smuts continued to stare like a wolf at the edge of a dying fire.
After several moments, Horn said, “It won’t be long now, Robert, and everything will be back to normal. I have some business to take care of first, that is all. It’s a matter of security.”
Security, Stanton thought contemptuously. In two days you’re going to find out about bloody security. He slipped on a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses to hide his eyes while he considered his remarkable position. Three months ago, two very powerful people had decided they wanted Alfred Horn dead. One was a ruthless Colombian drug baron who wanted access to Phoenix’s European drug markets. Stanton clearly understood his motive—greed. The other was a rather terrifying gentleman from London named Sir Neville Shaw. Stanton knew nothing about his motive. All he knew was that both Shaw and the Colombian had asked him to assassinate Alfred Horn. With his own hands! Stanton had refused, of course. He didn’t want to murder the old man. Horn had made him rich—something his worthless title had never done. But the terrible pressure to kill the old man had not relented. The Colombian had threatened Stanton’s life, a threat Stanton could afford to ignore as long as he lived under Horn’s protection. Sir Neville Shaw had also begun with threats. I’ll bury your title under a mountain of dirt and blood, he’d said. Stanton had laughed. He didn’t give two shits about his title. Even as a child he had sensed that the name Grenville was held in quiet, profound contempt among most of the British peerage. That was one reason he’d turned to the life he had, and also why, upon his father’s death, he had accepted the aid and protection of Alfred Horn.
But then Shaw had changed tactics. Kill Horn, he’d said, and the Crown will allow you to keep the companies you own and operate under Horn’s supervision. Stanton had paused at that. Because the time was long past for Alfred Horn to pass on his empire to a younger man. For five years Stanton had been the majority stockholder of Phoenix AG, yet not one decision regarding the administration of the giant conglomerate had been made by him. His father had played a similar role before him, but his father had been allowed to make decisions—his father had been trusted. Robert was a mere figurehead, almost a joke. Yes, the time for change had come.
Yet Stanton could not do the dirty work himself; even if he succeeded in killing Horn, Pieter Smuts would tear him limb from bloody limb. No, the old man would have to be killed in such a way that Smuts and his security force died with him. Stanton had pondered this problem for a week, after which time he had hit upon a rather brilliant plan. He would simply bring together the two parties who shared a common goal. On a day trip to London he had communicated his plan to Shaw, then left the devious MI-5 chief to work out the details. Thus the present plan; thus the ship. All that remained now was the execution.
“Drunk already, are you?” Smuts goaded in his flat voice.
For once Stanton looked the Afrikaner dead in the eye. “Just thinking,” he said. “You should try it sometime, old sport.”
Ilse Apfel stood on a gentle swell of grass and stared across the vast highveld. She had fled Horn House after the nightmare in the X-ray room, running as far and as fast as she could. No one had stopped her, but Linah had followed at a respectful distance, pausing whenever Ilse did, keeping pace like a distant shadow. After Ilse’s panic had carried her nearly two miles from the house, she’d calmed down and smoothed out a place in the rough grass to rest.
Alfred Horn had spoken the truth at dinner. On this empty plateau there was simply nowhere to go. Not without a map, a gun, and a good supply
of food and water. Far to her left, scrawny, humped cattle grazed. Beyond them a pair of reddish horses pranced in the sun. A black haze hung low in the distance, touching the brown horizon. Though Ilse did not know it, the black smoke rose from the coal-fuelled cookstoves of a small native kraal, or village. Such smoke marked most native dwellings from Capetown to the Bantustan of Venda. In winter it was worse. Then the dark palls hung perpetually over the settlements, blocking out the sun. In South Africa electricity is a selectively provided commodity.
Ilse looked down at the sun-baked earth. What hope had she here, so far from Germany? What chance did her child have? Hans was on his way here now, if Horn could be believed. And from Smuts’s questions in the X-ray session, she thought there was a chance Hans’s father might be coming too. She hoped so. Even from Hans’s rare comments about Dieter Hauer, Ilse had gleaned that he was a highly respected, even feared, police officer. But what could he do against men like Pieter Smuts? Against Jürgen Luhr, who had slashed a helpless policeman before her eyes?
She thought of Alfred Horn. Lord Grenville was right about one thing—the old man had taken to her. Ilse had enough experience with men to recognize infatuation, and Horn had definitely fallen for her. And here, she realized, his infatuation might be the key to very survival. And to her child’s survival. She wonder what madness the old man had planned for tonight. From what Stanton had told her of Horn’s business dealings, meetings could augur no good for anyone. Still, she could not very well refuse to attend—not if she wanted to ingratiate herself further with Horn. And she might learn something that could help her escape.
Pulling a long blade of grass from the ground and started back toward the house. She had wandered further afield than she’d thought—Linah was no longer in sight. Before Ilse had covered fifty metres, she confronted something she had not seen on her way out: a shimmering stretch of hot asphalt running off through the grass and scrub. A road? Her heart quickened with hope. Then she saw the plane. Three hundred metres to her right, on a rough asphalt runway, Horn’s sleek Lear-31A. Ilse sighed hopelessly, and continued west.
