by Iles, Greg
When the interpreter’s voice faded, there was silence in the room. The Libyans, watching Horn closely, failed to notice the shock whiten Ilse’s face as she realized the implications of the young scientist’s words. She had not seen the Libyan flag emblazoned on Major Karami’s lighter, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have recognized it. But she knew enough science to understand that these men were discussing atomic weapons. It took all of her willpower to remain seated and silent. She watched the remainder of the meeting through a gauzy haze of unreality, like someone who has stumbled onto the scene of a bloody traffic accident.
Alfred Horn, however, watched the Libyans as affably as if he were negotiating the price of Arabian horses.
Prime Minister Jalloud finally broke the silence. “We are prepared to pay any reasonable price for these items, Herr Horn. In the currency of your choice, of course. Dinars, dollars, pounds, marks, ecus, rand … even gold bullion. The question is, are these items available at any price? Do you actually have access to them?”
Alfred Horn smiled. This was the moment he had been waiting for—not for weeks or months or years, but for decades. For a lifetime. He could barely suppress the excitement he felt on the threshold of realizing his life’s work. “Gentlemen,” he said softly. “Allow me to be frank.”
The Libyans nodded and leaned forward. Ilse held her breath, praying she would awaken from the nightmare. Pieter Smuts remained impassive as ever, his gray eyes glued to his master’s face.
“For over a decade,” said Horn, “your leader has sought to obtain nuclear weapons. He has attempted to develop a manufacturing capability in your home country, and also to purchase weapons ready-made from other nations. The first avenue proved impossible; students from your country aren’t even allowed to study nuclear physics in the great universities of the world. And the second option, while theoretically possible, has proved to be an embarrassing circus of bribery, scandal, and hoaxes. The Chinese sent you packing in ‘seventy-nine. India backed out of a proposed deal and refused to fulfill her obligations to you, even after you cut oil shipments to New Delhi by one million tons. Belgium yielded to US pressure, and Brazil has refused to give any valuable assistance, in spite of the fact that you sold them massive amounts of arms in ‘eighty-two … The Arabs tensed in fury, but Horn continued reeling off his grocer’s list of Libyan misadventures in a voice that was its own arbiter of truth.
Finally Prime Minister Jalloud, white with indignation, rose from his chair. “We did not come here to be insulted, sir! If you have nothing but words for us, there are other suppliers!”
“Like Edwin Wilson?” Horn countered. “And his grubby Belgian compatriot Armand Donnay? The uranium they offered you might—I say might—have been worth using as nose-weights for jets, but I doubt it. You’re lucky you had young Sabri to recognize Wilson’s proposition as garbage.”
The young physicist nodded modestly, but Major Karami said, “Perhaps we planned to irradiate their uranium at our Tajoura reactor, to produce plutonium for a weapon of our own.” But Dr Sabri’s sarcastic expression instantly undercut this feeble attempt to save face.
“Gentlemen,” Horn said soothingly, “I did not bring you here to insult you. I merely state these facts so that the true basis of our negotiations will be plain, and so that you will understand the necessity of paying the price I ask.”
The mention of money placated the Arabs somewhat. It suggested that the man in the wheelchair—whatever his opinion of them—might actually have access to the materials they had come to purchase. And that was all that mattered.
“Go on,” said Jalloud, taking his seat again.
“Here is the situation as I see it,” said Horn. “As we speak, the world does not even perceive Libya as a nuclear threshold country. Your requirements, however, paint a significantly different picture. The need for highly-enriched uranium, triggers, and sculpted tubes tells me that you are building your own weapon, and that you have probably already obtained all the necessary components other than those you seek from me. Your request for an absolute minimum of fifteen kilograms of U-235 or five kilograms of plutonium suggests that you have procured tamper/reflector technology and are trying to build the smallest bomb you can—possibly even a portable weapon. Am, I correct?”
No one disputed him.
Horn turned directly into the lens of the softly humming video camera that had been forgotten by everyone in the room but him. “I propose something quite different,” he said solemnly. “I am offering you an aircraft-deliverable nuclear weapon with a forty-kiloton yield, completely assembled with fissionable core, ready for detonation.”
In that moment the air in the conference room seemed to turn to water. Although the Arabs knew their leader would not view the videotape for many hours yet, they also knew that the words spoken by the old man in the wheelchair were for him alone. Their presence had become irrelevant. Horn spoke softly to the humming camera. “I can offer you a weapon of the implosion or the gun-assembly type, and, subject to certain conditions, I can continue to provide these weapons at the rate of one every forty days.”
Major Karami’s black eyes glittered as he fumbled for another cigarette. At length Jalloud asked softly, “Are you serious, sir?”
Horn’s single burning eye was answer enough.
Major Karami regained his composure first. “And what is the price of this great gift?” he asked warily. “There are only so many billions of dinars in our treasury.”
“Not a single piece of gold do I desire,” Horn rasped.
“What then?” Jalloud asked, puzzled. “Oil?”
“My price, Herr Prime Minister, is control. I will provide you with a single weapon. You will not stockpile it and wait for more weapons. You will use it—and against a target specified by me.” Horn raised a spindly finger. “Only then will more weapons be provided.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Major Karami exploded. “Why not use it yourself? We have our own targets and we’ll use our weapons as we see fit! Your price is too high!”
“One moment, Ilyas,” Jalloud cautioned. “What is your target of preference, Herr Horn?”
“Thank you for asking,” Horn said softly. “It so happens that the target I want destroyed coincides with the one your leader has unsuccessfully tried for years to destroy—the State of Israel. To be exact, Tel Aviv.”
Ilse let out a short gasp from her chair behind Horn.
“Tel Aviv!” Karami exclaimed, unbelieving. He turned to Jalloud. “Does he speak the truth?”
“Do you?” the prime minister asked.
“Tel Aviv,” Horn murmured. “I want the Jews wiped from the face of the earth.”
“As do we!” Jalloud retorted. “But what good is one weapon to us? If we have to wait forty days for another, we will be annihilated. The Zionists have two hundred nuclear bombs.”
Horn smiled. “Yes, they do. But think for a moment. I assume you do not want Palestine rendered permanently uninhabitable. You merely wish the Jews pushed into the sea, yes? Tel Aviv is the first step on the road to reclaiming Jerusalem. If skilfully managed, your attack could even be made to appear as an Israeli nuclear accident.”
Major Karami seemed to be debating with himself. “Herr Horn,” he said hesitantly, “Israel’s air defences are the toughest in the world. Even with the best of luck, it would be difficult to guarantee that a single plane carrying this warhead could get through to Tel Aviv. And even if it did, we would have no chance to mask our responsibility for the attack.”
Horn saw that admitting this weakness had cost the Libyan major dearly. “I appreciate your frankness,” he said. “If you would prefer, I could arrange to deliver a slightly smaller, warhead—a thirty-kiloton yield—that could be fitted with a timer and concealed inside a large crate. It would not be nearly as compact as the American SADM—the famous “suitcase bomb”—but it could fit easily inside a small truck.”
Prime Minister Jalloud started to speak, but Major Karami restrained h
im. “I believe we can do business,” he said hoarsely, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. “Are there any other restrictions?”
“Time,” Horn replied. “I want Tel Aviv destroyed within ten days.”
Stunned, Major Karami sat back in his chair. Horn’s words coursed through his veins like a powerful narcotic. After endless years of cowering beneath the Zionist nuclear threat, Libya would finally possess the means to strike back! Karami clenched and unclenched his fists in anticipation of wielding the deadliest sword ever to fall into Muslim hands. Then he went still. “How do we know that you actually have access to such weapons?” he asked. He was almost afraid to hear the answer—afraid that his heady dreams of conquest would disappear like smoke from a tent fire.
Horn smiled. “Because I have one in the basement complex of this house, ready for Dr Sabri’s inspection. If you gentlemen will follow me …”
Gasps went up around the table. The Arabs began shaking each other’s hands and talking rapidly among themselves. The interpreter did not even attempt to translate the effusive congratulations that filled the room.
In the corner behind Horn, Ilse’s face had gone slack. After Luhr’s drugs and the horror in the X-ray room, witnessing this nightmarish conclave had pushed her over the edge of endurance. As the Libyans filed out of the room behind Horn’s motorized chair, she slid awkwardly to the floor, tiny beads of cold sweat sparkling on her bloodless forehead.
7.30 p.m. Burgerspark Hotel, Pretoria
In a small room on the fourth floor of the Burgerspark Hotel, Jonas Stern reviewed his interception plan with his men. Gadi Abrams lounged on one of the hotel beds. Professor Natterman sat in a chair by the window, wearing a bulky bulletproof vest beneath his tweed jacket. Stern himself sat on the bed opposite Gadi. Yosef Shamir stood in the lobby four floors below, listening through a hand-held radio.
“Thirty minutes until the rendezvous,” Stern said. “Where’s Aaron?”
Just then they heard a key in the door. The young commando stepped in. “The elevator control box is in the basement,” he said. “I can stop the elevator wherever you want it.”
Stern nodded. “What about the radio?”
Aaron frowned and pulled a small walkie-talkie from his pocket. “I could hear you, but there’s static. And you were only on the fourth floor. With eight floors between us, I’m not so sure.”
“We’ll check it when we get up there.” Stern consulted a drawing he had made on a piece of hotel stationery. “All right, here it is. I’ve taken a second room on the eighth floor of this hotel. The closest I could get to suite 811—the room where Sergeant Apfel is registered—was 820. It’s down the hall, past the elevators, and around the corner. Gadi and I will be in that room. Yosef will be watching the lobby. Aaron will be in the basement. Professor Natterman will wait here.”
Stern tugged at the flesh beneath his chin. “Before we intercept Hauer and Apfel, I intend to let the kidnappers make contact in whatever way they choose. I suspect that they will call suite 811 and instruct our German friends to meet them at a different place. If they attempt to seize or kill the Germans, however, we will intervene.”
Stern looked over into the corner. There, in a large open suitcase, lay the fruits of one of the telephone calls he had made from Natterman’s Wolfsburg cabin. A Jewish arms dealer of Stern’s long acquaintance had had the suitcase ready when Stern arrived at his Johannesburg home this afternoon. In the suitcase lay five short-barrelled Uzi submachine guns, four silenced .22 caliber pistols, two of five walkie-talkies, silencers for the Uzis, and a small hoard of ammunition.
“Obviously,” said Stern, “Professor Natterman must make our initial contact with the Germans. Of the five of us, Captain Hauer knows only him. Hauer is likely to shoot anyone else who exposes himself too soon. Ideally, the professor will make the contact by telephone. When Yosef sees the Germans enter the lobby, he will radio Gadi and me in room 820. Gadi has already bugged suite 811, so we will be monitoring what transpires after Hauer and Apfel get inside. After the kidnappers have made their contact, we will call Professor Natterman here. Professor, you will immediately call suite 811. If you reach Hauer or Apfel, you will give the little speech we went over together.” Natterman nodded attentively.
“If you cannot reach them—because of a busy signal or anything else—we will go to the backup plan. Gadi and I will observe the Germans as they leave suite 811. If they take the stairs down, we will radio you here, whereupon you will walk immediately to the stairwell and wait for them.” Stern smiled encouragingly. “You don’t need to run, Professor. The stairwell is less than twenty metres from this room. Hauer and Apfel must cover four floors before they reach you. Natterman nodded again.
“If they take the elevator down, however, it gets a bit more complicated. In that case Gadi will radio Aaron in the basement, and Aaron will stop the elevator between floors—hopefully between the fourth and third. I will radio you,” Stern pointed his finger at Natterman, “and tell you to go to the elevator shaft. Yosef will be here with you. He will have come up from the lobby, after making certain that Hauer and Apfel are not being followed. He will pry open the elevator doors for you, and you will speak to Hauer while he is trapped below you. He’ll probably be trying to get out through the roof anyway.”
Natterman looked anxious. “The elevator scenario seems rather complicated.”
“It’s the only way we can insure contact without frightening Hauer away or getting killed ourselves.”
“Why can’t I just wait in the lobby for them?”
Stern sighed heavily. “Because we would then risk frightening the kidnappers away. And the kidnappers, Professor, are the men I came to South Africa to get.”
Natterman looked glum. “Can your men do all they’re supposed to? The timing seems close.”
Gadi Abrams grinned. “We are Sayaret Matkal, Professor,” he said proudly. “This is child’s play for us.”
Stern shot him a dark look. “Hauer will not be child’s play, Gadi. You boys have trained with GSG-9, so I shouldn’t have to amplify that. Captain Hauer is an extremely dangerous man. Don’t underestimate Sergeant Apfel either. He is under unimaginable pressure, and a man like that is capable of anything.”
Gadi nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”
Stern glanced at his watch, “Let’s move. Twenty minutes to the rendezvous, and we still need to test the radio reception from the basement.”
As one, Stern, Gadi, and Aaron collected their weapons from the suitcase and moved toward the door. “Good luck, Professor,” Stern said as they went out.
As Stern moved toward the elevators, Gadi fell back beside him and whispered, “I didn’t want to alarm anybody, Uncle, but what happened to our body armour?”
Stern grimaced. “Another buyer came along and offered more money.”
“But why give the Professor the one vest we have? You should be wearing it.”
Stern shook his head. “Natterman may have to stand in the stairwell and wait for Hauer and Apfel to come running down. There’s a strong chance Hauer will fire a reflex shot before he even recognizes the professor. That’s why he gets the vest.”
In room 401, Professor Natterman sat with the walkie-talkie clenched in his hand. It was sticky hot inside the armoured vest. He wanted to take it off, but he reasoned that if Stern had given him the only vest they had, he probably needed it. Setting the walkie-talkie on the table, he stood and stretched. His joints ached terribly from all the unaccustomed exercise. He had been on his feet for less than a minute when the door slid open. Facing the professor stood a woman wearing an expensively cut red skirt, a white blouse, and a red hat. She carried a Vuitton handbag in her left hand. It took Natterman several moments to realize that she also held a gun. Swallow stepped inside the room and closed the door.
“I’ve come for the Spandau papers, Herr Professor,” she said in a crisp, low voice, her British accent unmistakable. “Would you be so kind as to get them for me?”
“I … I don’t have them,” Natterman stammered.
“Stern has them?” Swallow asked sharply.
Stunned by her knowledge, Natterman said, “Who are you?”
Swallow’s lips drew back, exposing her small teeth in a fierce animal glare. “Does Jonas Stern have the papers?”
With a fool’s courage Professor Natterman grabbed for the walkie-talkie on the table. Swallow destroyed it with a three-shot burst from her silenced Ingrain machine pistol. “Take off your clothes,” she ordered. “Every stitch.”
When Natterman hesitated, Swallow jerked the Ingrain in his direction. “Do it!”
While Natterman, pale and shaking, removed his clothes, Swallow began searching the hotel room.
CHAPTER THIRTY
7.40 p.m. Horn House: The Northern Transvaal
Deep in the basement complex of Horn House, Alfred Horn shepherded his Libyan guests through a maze of stainless steel and glass and stone. Huge ventilator fans thrummed constantly, forcing filtered air down from the surface one hundred metres above. An intricate network of cooling ducts maintained the silicon-friendly environment required by the formidable array of computers purring against the walls; the brittle air also extended the life of the plentiful stored chemicals and weapons here.
The Libyans surveyed the labyrinth of tubing, hoods, and pipes in reverent silence. Only young Dr Sabri, the Soviet-educated physicist, found it hard to suppress his enthusiasm as he toured the lab. Most of the visible hardware had been produced by one or another of the various high-tech subsidiaries of Phoenix AG, but the man who controlled them all was about to reveal a product of very different pedigree. Horn gradually led the Libyans toward the rear of the basement, where something resembling a giant industrial refrigerator stood gleaming in the fluorescent light. Stretching from floor to ceiling and wall-to-wall, the aluminum-coated lead chamber awaited the men like a futuristic crypt. Three great doors without handles were set in its face.
