by Iles, Greg
Major Karami snorted and left the flight deck.
This particular Yakovlev aircraft—popularly known as the Yak-42—had begun its life as an Aeroflot jetliner, then passed into Libyan commercial service. But for this mission Major Karami had ordered it configured as an Air Zimbabwe commercial airliner. Karami smiled with satisfaction as he walked through the stripped cabin of the plane. Lining both walls of the Yak-42 were fifty heavily-armed Libyan commandos; and filling the centre section from front to rear were pallets stacked high with weapons, ammunition, a small truck, and at the rear of the cabin, lashed to the fuselage by chains, a 105-millimetre artillery piece.
Karami nodded to his company commanders as he made his way through the tangle of legs and equipment and stopped beside the small pickup truck. The bed of the Toyota had been padded with wrestling mats, and its sides fitted with cleats sized to take chains. Ostensibly the truck had been brought along to tow the 105mm howitzer into position. Only Major Karami knew what special cargo its bed and suspension had been modified to accept. When they got a little closer to their destination, however, Karami would let his men in on the secret. For what force could withstand the fury of Arabs come to claim the weapon that would finally wipe the Jews from the sands of Palestine?
1.40 a.m. Northern Transvaal, Republic of South Africa
Burton scrambled over the lip of the Wash and down the slope to where Juan Diaz half-sat, half-lay in the slowly drying mud. He had bandaged the Cuban’s wound as best he could; it was crusted with blood but not suppurating. Diaz opened his eyes when he heard Burton approach.
“Well, English?” he croaked.
“No chance,” Burton said bitterly. “It’s worse than it looked last night. Fidel’s chopper blew itself all over the runway. It’s a wonder we weren’t cut to pieces. The tail of that Lear looks like scrap metal.”
“The lateral fins?” Diaz asked hopefully. “Or the vertical?”
“Left lateral’s completely gone. Vertical’s got more holes than a Swiss cheese.”
“Shit! What now, amigo?” Diaz tried to smile. “We’re dead men, eh?”
“Not bloody likely,” Burton said with an optimism he didn’t feel. “That’s an airstrip up there, isn’t it! This place is too damned remote to service by road. It’s bound to be just a matter of time before another plane lands.”
Diaz squinted sceptically at the Englishman.
“And when it does, sport,” said Burton, tapping his submachine gun against his chest, “I’m going to climb aboard and watch Captain Juan Diaz fly our wet arses right out of here.”
The Cuban grinned, exposing dazzling white teeth. Burton pulled some more brambles around the little depression he had expanded into a hiding place during the night. A patrol from the house had come by just after last night’s attack. It had missed them, but Burton wasn’t sure the shelter would stand up to daylight scrutiny. “I tell you, Juan boy,” he said wistfully, “it’s times like this I wish I was back in England, fishing a stream in Cotswolds.”
“Why aren’t you?”
Burton smiled sheepishly. “I’m persona non grata there, sport. Occupational hazard. Her Majesty takes a rather dim view of soldiering for pay. Not like your scruffy boss in Havana. The only thing waiting for me in England’s a bloody jail cell.”
Diaz tried to smile in sympathy.
“I had a chance to go back free and clear,” Burton said quietly. “Last night. But we ballsed it up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean while you were working for a Colombian drug baron, I was working for Her Majesty’s Government. My pay was full reinstatement of British citizenship. I don’t know why everyone wants the old man in that fortress dead. I don’t care much, either. Maybe his drugs are ending up in London, and the bloody House of Lords wants him discreetly blotted from their universe.” Burton grinned. “By God, if I thought I had half a chance, I’d give it another go on my own. I know, I know—English loco, right?” Diaz nodded, then grimaced in pain.
Burton checked the barrel of his MP-5 for mud. “Who needs England, anyway?” he muttered. He fixed his gaze on the rim of the ravine. “You’ve got one job, Juan boy—stay alive until I can commandeer some air transport. Then it’s straight back to civilization. Comprende?”
Diaz coughed horribly. Burton touched the Cuban’s forehead. It felt cool and clammy. A fishy paleness had spread beneath his olive skin. “Can you do it, lad? Can you hold out?”
“Fucking-ay, English,” Diaz grunted. “You get me a plane, and I’ll fly the whore out.”
“That’s the ticket.” Burton patted the Cuban on his good shoulder.
“But you better hurry, amigo,” Diaz coughed, gripping his torn side. “I can fly drunk, stoned, or bleeding, but I can’t fly dead.”
Burton nodded grimly.
1.40 p.m. The Union Building. Pretoria
Captain Barnard slammed down the phone and glared at his watch. He had been trying in vain to reach General Steyn since ten-thirty. When the general failed to show up for work this morning, Barnard had assumed he was simply late. But by ten a.m. Barnard knew something was wrong. No one answered at General Steyn’s home, and none of the government ministries knew where he was. As Barnard continued his round of calls, a disturbing image kept coming back to him: the resolute eyes of the German police captain. Barnard was certain that Captain Hauer believed he possessed information vital to South Africa’s security. Hauer might be insane, but he was sincere. The Afrikaner ground his teeth in frustration.
Major Graaff had told him that the Visagie police interrogators would have the prisoners’ story by lunchtime, yet Bernard had received no further word regarding them. Bernard had never liked Major Graaff, but in the NIS, like the army, you had to go along to get along. Especially with superiors. Barnard almost jumped out of his skin when the phone on his desk rang.
“General Steyn’s office,” he answered.
“Barnard?” boomed a husky voice.
“General Steyn! Where are you?”
“I’m out at the Pretoria office of Phoenix AG. The directors here seem to think that some type of shenanigans may be going on in their defence division. I felt I should handle it myself. Phoenix works on some very sensitive projects, you know.”
Captain Barnard felt sweat on the back of his neck. “Excuse me, General, but how did you learn about this problem?”
“Graaff called me at home this morning. He’s right on top of this. Seems he’s friendly with the people over here at Phoenix. He was the one who suggested I handle it personally, in fact.”
“Where is Major Graaff now, GeneraI?”
“I haven’t the foggiest, Barnard.”
“General,” Captain Barnard said hoarsely, “I think we’ve got a problem.”
2.05 p.m. Visagie Straat, Pretoria
When General Jaap Steyn strode through the doors of the Visagie police station, the desk sergeant knew that his afternoon had just been shot to hell. The chief of South Africa’s ruthlessly efficient intelligence service was a bluff, red-faced giant of a man. He stalked straight up to the high desk and planted himself like an admiral on the prow of a flagship.
“Sergeant!” he bellowed. “I want to see your foreign prisoners immediately. Where are they?”
“Um … yes, sir. Well, one is in the cellblock and the other … I believe Major Graaff is supervising his interrogation.”
“Lead on, Sergeant!”
The desk sergeant wasn’t sure if the NIS general had legal authority to give orders to a municipal police officer, but risking his career to find out didn’t seem like the best of options. He jumped down from his stool and led General Steyn and Captain Barnard to a heavy steel door at the back of the station. He nodded once, then fled down the hall.
General Steyn grunted and pushed open the door. Inside he saw two bull-necked policemen holding-a shirtless, grey-haired man against a cinder-block wall. The man’s face was covered with sweat and blood. Major Graaff held a rubber trunch
eon high above his head, poised to strike.
“That will do, Major,” General Steyn said icily.
Graaff whirled. When he saw his furious general filling the door, he froze, the truncheon still above his head. He looked back at his muscular accomplices, but after one look at General Steyn they released their bruised captive and came to stiff attention. Hauer slid slowly to his knees.
“Captain Barnard,” General Steyn ordered, “place Major Graaff under arrest. You men clean the prisoner up and bring him and his companion to the visiting room.” General Steyn stalked out.
Barnard drew a pistol and levelled it at Graaff. “Give me an excuse, you bloody bastard.”
Hauer faced General Steyn across the long wooden table used to separate prisoners from their visitors. He had a bloody towel wrapped around his bared shoulders. Captain Barnard stood stiffly behind his superior. Gadi Abrams sat at Hauer’s left. Hauer had brushed aside their concern over his injuries and immediately gone over to the offensive. “I simply don’t have time to explain everything you want to know, General,” he repeated. “Stern needs your help.”
“I’m afraid that’s just not good enough,” General Steyn said. “Jonas Stern is a good friend of mine, a damn fine intelligence officer. He’s a friend to this country. But I simply cannot agree to help without knowing more.”
Hauer sighed. Stern had told him to call out the NIS in full strength—to request whatever was necessary to take Alfred Horn’s isolated fortress by storm. But after what he had seen of Major Graaff, Hauer didn’t share Stern’s confidence in the South Africans who would be called upon to carry out that attack.
“General, did Captain Barnard inform you of the code word Stern told me to repeat to you?”
General Steyn’s jaw muscles flexed. “He did.”
“And still you won’t agree to help me?”
“Captain Hauer, the South African government does not yield to blackmail. If by some remote misfortune Jonas Stern has seen fit to confide in you the true meaning of that code word—and if you have been trumpeting it about—I may decide that Major Graaff’s tactics were lenient. Do you understand? Now, do you know the meaning of that code word?”
Hauer nodded slowly. “It’s Hebrew. Literally, it means going up to Zion.”’ General Steyn’s face flushed. “Leave us please, Captain Barnard.”
Barnard reluctantly obeyed.
“General,” Hauer said gravely, “Aliyah Beth is a secret contingency plan that mandates the evacuation by sea and air of South Africa’s entire nuclear weapons arsenal and fuel stocks to Israel in the event of armed insurrection by the black population. This move will be considered a redeployment of weapons, as the warheads will remain under the control of the South African government.”
“My God, ” General Steyn breathed. “Stern’s gone mad.”
“No!” Hauer argued. “General, Stern knew that the dimensions of this crisis are such that any other consideration pales beside it. I’m telling you that a nuclear threat exists right now—inside this country!”
General Steyn slammed his fist down on the table. “Then I’ll have the bloody details—right now, Captain! Even if I have to torture you myself to get them!”
“You wouldn’t get them in time, General. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. Don’t you understand? Your men can’t be trusted. Major Graaff was on your personal staff, for God’s sake! One phone call from an informant could bring about the very disaster that Stern is trying to avert. A nuclear weapon could be detonated before we leave this building!”
General Steyn came to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor. Startled, Captain Barnard rushed in with pistol drawn. “It’s all right, Barnard,” the general said. The Afrikaner towered over Hauer. “Tell me something, Captain. What does Stern have to do with this? How is Israel involved?”
Hauer had been dreading this question. “General,” he said slowly, “all I can tell you is that a madman possesses a nuclear weapon within the borders of your country. It could be detonated at any moment. In my opinion, any political considerations are secondary.”
“Political considerations are never secondary, Captain. More’s the pity. What about Thomas Horn? What’s he got to do with all this?”
Hauer knew he had to tread carefully. Very. “General, how would you describe Herr Horn’s ties to the South African government?”
“Well, he’s what some would call a powerbroker, a behind-the-scenes type. Very reclusive. But I understand he’s a force to be reckoned with in the ultraconservative enclaves. Very chummy with the old Afrikaner stock. It’s the military Horn’s tied to, you see. As you probably know, during the last few decades South Africa has been forced to become self-sufficient in many areas, especially defence. We build everything ourselves—from bullets to heavy artillery and aircraft. We’re damned proud of it, too. As you might imagine, anyone with Thomas Horn’s industrial clout is courted constantly. His money and factories have produced untold amounts of ordnance for the army. He’s involved in some very sensitive defence projects. I imagine—” General Steyn’s voice faltered. “My God. Horn is the source of this nuclear threat? But … but he’s one of the most patriotic men in the country!”
“Perhaps,” Gadi said, speaking for the first time, “Mr Horn isn’t who he appears to be.”
General Steyn eyed the Israeli suspiciously. “Just who the devil do you think he is, lad?”
When Gadi didn’t reply, the general turned to Hauer.
“What is it you want me to do, Captain? Exactly?”
Hauer looked straight into General Steyn’s eyes. “I want you to place a small group of men under my command and give me until midnight before you call out the army.”
The general gaped in astonishment. “You’re mad! You’re asking me to place South African officers under the command of a foreign policeman? So that he can carry out an unsanctioned and illegal operation within this republic? Is that what you’re asking?”
“I’m not asking.” Hauer’s eyes were flat and steady. “I’m demanding it.”
General Steyn reddened in outrage. “You’re not in a position to demand a bloody toothpick!”
Hauer looked pointedly at his watch. “General, I have a man waiting in Pretoria for a telephone call. He has a full description of Plan Aliyah Beth. If he does not receive that call in the next twelve minutes, he will call the New York Times, the London Daily Telegraph, CNN, Der Spiegel—”
General Steyn raised his hand. “And if I don’t consider that a strong enough threat?”
“You may be personally responsible for the deaths of millions of people.”
Captain Barnard stood openmouthed in astonishment. He had never heard anyone speak to General Steyn like this, and the mention of hostile nuclear weapons on South African soil had all but pushed him over the brink. But General Steyn simply rubbed his right hand over his close-cropped scalp and said, “Excuse us for a moment, gentlemen… Barnard?”
When they had gone, Gadi leapt to his feet. “What the hell are you doing, Hauer? My uncle told you to get enough troops to flatten Horn’s estate. You’re asking for a small group of men! What are you up to?”
“I’m trying to save your damned country for you,” Hauer snapped. “Since you don’t have the presence of mind to do it yourself. Would you use your brain for one minute? Let’s say I tell General Steyn everything. Where the bomb is, who really has it, everything. What will he do? His first impulse will be to do what Stern wants—take a battalion up there and flatten Horn’s place. But guess what? While the good general is flying up to the Transvaal, he’s going to realize something. He’s going to realize that Alfred Horn’s target is not South Africa, eh? Because if it was, Horn could and would have sabotaged it a thousand ways before now. He’ll realize that Horn’s target must be outside South Africa, as we well know.
“And when General Steyn’s political bosses find that out, they’re going to realize that the smart thing for South Africa to do is to simply let the deal hap
pen. Let whoever’s buying that bomb land their plane, load it on board, and fly it right out of South Africa, thereby neutralizing the threat to their country.”
The colour drained from Gadi’s face. “They wouldn’t!”
“They damn well would,” Hauer asserted. “Even if they want to stop Horn, how can they? He’s got the ultimate blackmail weapon. If they attack him, he can detonate the weapon right where he is—inside South Africa. And I imagine someone in the South African government knows he’s crazy enough to do it.”
“All right,” Gadi said. “I see your point. But General Steyn isn’t going to give you any men.”
“He is,” Hauer said calmly. “On one condition.”
“What condition?”
Suddenly, the steel door clanged open. General Steyn marched in with Captain Barnard on his heels.
“Let’s see,” Hauer murmured to Gadi.
General Steyn stopped in front of Hauer. “Before I answer,” he said, “I want to hear exactly what you want.”
Hauer didn’t hesitate. He’d made his shopping list while he waited in the cell. “I want an armoured car. I want it mounted with a heavy machine gun, not a water cannon. I want five men from your elite counter-terror unit. I don’t want them to know where they’re going or what the mission is, but I want them to bring along their whole bag of tricks: flash-bang grenades, body armour, flares, combat shotguns, the works.”
“Mmm,” the general murmured. “Is that all?”
“No. One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“A Steyr-Mannlicher SSG.69.”
General Steyn glanced at Captain Barnard. “Our counter-terror team uses a different sniper rifle,” Barnard explained. “But I think we can get hold of a Steyr.”
Hauer was still watching General Steyn. “Do I get my men, General?”
“On one condition,” the Afrikaner said stiffly. “And it’s nonnegotiable.”
“I can’t imagine what it is,” Hauer said, almost smiling.
“I go with you.”
