by Iles, Greg
“For God’s sake!” Hauer pleaded, coming to his feet. “There’s no time for that!”
Without warning, the door to Captain Barnard’s office banged open and a short, heavy-set Afrikaner with carrot hair and lobster-red skin marched in. The sounds of early morning office traffic filtered through the doorway until the newcomer slammed it shut. He looked quizzically at Hauer, then at Gadi, and finally at Captain Barnard. Hauer was struck with a strange certainty that the red-haired man had been summoned by the duty officer, for the guard took up position in a corner with one hand on his holstered pistol.
“What’s all this then, Barnard?” the red-haired man asked sharply.
Captain Barnard stood. “Major Graaff, this is Captain Dieter Hauer of the West Berlin police. Captain Hauer, this is Major Graaff, General Steyn’s senior staff officer. Major, Captain Hauer claims to have very important information for General Steyn. He refused to discuss it with me, so I decided to wait until seven and call the general. As a matter of fact, I was just about to call—”
“Wake the general?” Graaff looked as if he were being asked to arrange a papal audience. “What the devil are you men doing here? Out with it!”
Hauer eyed Major Graaff uncomfortably. “Our message is for General 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, Barnard. 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, Barnard. 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 Graaff 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 travelling 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 every 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 dialled 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
6.05 a.m. MI-5 Headquarters. Charles Street, London
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 MI-5: 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 HIS 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, then 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.”
6 55 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, i
f 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, Hauer 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—his knowledge of the contents of the Spandau pages. A dawn began to creep around the edges of the dark, 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 levelled, 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 signalled 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 aeroplane.” 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. She jammed the barrel of the Ingrain inside his gaping mouth.
“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 caricature of a grandmother with her blue-rinse hair and the 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 rendezvous. Stern didn’t know where he was going himself.”
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 dialled 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 yo
ur 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. 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 rising from the grave, Aaron Haber lurched up from the narrow space between the bed and the bathroom wall. Natterman’s heart leaped with joy and astonishment. Dark blood covered the young commando’s neck and chest, but his eyes burned wildly. Swaying like a drunken madman, he steadied his .22 automatic and fired four shots in rapid succession. Swallow was so desperate to reach the safety of the foyer that she actually leaped into Aaron’s bullets. Two slugs slammed into her left shoulder, but the others went wild. She staggered into the foyer, spun around and collapsed. Hoping that the impact of the fall had cleared her weapon, she scrambled to her knees, thrust her Ingrain around the corner and pulled the trigger.
Aaron fired the instant he saw the gun barrel appear. His bullet tore the gun from Swallow’s hand. It spun through the air and landed against the wall, too far away for either of them to reach. All Aaron had to do was step around the corner to finish the woman off. He started forward, then wobbled to a standstill. Bright blood pumped through his shirt.
