by Greg Iles
officials conducted more than a cursory search of her holds. If they
had, they would almost certainly have discovered the two large crates
secreted in the stacks of bolted denim, which contained a rather
amateurish assortment of assault rifles, ammunition, and grenades.
They might even have discovered the special cargo hidden in Alan
Burton's cabin, but the Englishman doubted it. He had hidden the mortar
tube well.
In spite of this luck, Burton was angry. The man who had contracted for
his services had led him to believe that his companions on this mission
would know what they were about. They did not. Burton was the only man
in the entire unit who knew this part of Africa, and, excepting the
pilots, he was the only professional of the lot. The Cubans were all
right, but there were only two of them-the pilots. The sloppiness of
the Colombians was appalling. Burton considered them a rabble-no better
than d bandits. From his first contact with them, serious doubts about
the mission had begun to eat at his confidence.
He lit a Gauloise and cursed the luck that had forced him to work under
these circumstances. The company stank, but what could he do?
He wasn't complaining about the money-the Colombian paid cash on the
barrel head and lots of it. The Cuban pilots were getting six thousand
in flight pay, plus salary, and Burton's bonus was twice that.
But he had not taken this assignment for the money. He had taken it for
The Deal. The Deal was a mysterious and wondrous arrangement of a kind
he had never before heard-a solemn pact between a government and an
exiled mercenary.
The price to be paid was not money, but a treasure that only one
government in the world could pay. Burton didn't like to think about
The Deal too much, for fear it would evaporate like every other precious
hope in his life. Only in a few unguarded moments, on the foredeck at
dawn watching the sea, had he caught himself thinking of green hills, of
an old stone cottage, the smell of hothouse orchids, and sharing a pint
with a man much like himself. At those times he would angrily push the
visions from his mind.
He had enough to worry about. He worried what would happen if the
Cubans discovered what lay inside one of the elongated boxes labelled
RPG. Two million rand in gold was enough money to tempt even a man of
Burton's high professional standards, and he doubted the Cuban pilots
had any such pretensions. Strangely,'the Colombians didn't worry him on
that score. They would know enou h about the price I 9
of betraying their master to keep clear of such temptations.
But their lack of combat experience did worry him. He'd heard them
boasting about violent shootouts in and around Medellfn, but such
hooliganism hardly qualified them to face the kind of opposition they
were likely to meet in Africa.
They'll find out soon enough, he thought bitterly.
Burton expected a message today, relaying the latest situation from the
target. There was supposedly an informer in side the target-an
Englishman, no less-which Burton found very interesting. At least he
isn't a bloody Colombian, he thought. Burton hoped the strike order
would come today.
He was ready to get off the goddamn ship.
As he smoked beneath the blue wheelhouse awning, a thin, deeply tanned
man emerged from a hatch in the afterdeck and walked over to the
helicopters. it was one of the Cuban pilots-a bright-eyed youngster
named Diazchecking the moorings of the choppers. Spying Burton, he made
an O.K. signal with his thumb and forefinger, then disappeared back down
the hatch.
Burton flipped his Gauloise over the side rail and walked out to the
helicopters. Maybe a few of them know what they're about after all, he
thought. Maybe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
6.55 Pm. Horn House: The Northern Transvaal The Learjet appeared low in
the east, a fiery arrow hurtling down the vast African sky. The dying
sun glittered on the metal-skinned apparition as it settled onto the
freshly laid asphalt runway. It taxied to the short apron, then turned
slowly until it faced back up the strip, shimmering like a bird of prey
next to Horn's helicopter.
A khaki-colored Range Rover Uundled out to meet the plane. Pieter
Smuts, dressed impeccably as a major of the South African Reserve,
stepped from the driver's seat. He stood at attention, waiting for the
Lear's short staircase to drop to the tarmac. He noticed that the
aircraft bore no corporate or national insignia, only numbers painted
across the gracefully swept tail fin.
When the jet's door finally opened, two dark-skinned Arabs stepped out.
Each carried an automatic weapon that, from where Smuts stood, appeared
to be the Israeli Uzi.
Hats off to the competition, he thought dryly. The bodyguards made a
great show of checking the area for potential threats. Then one of them
barked some Arabic through the open hatchway. Smuts marched smartly
toward the bottom of the staircase.
Four Arabs filed out of the aircraft and down the steps.
Two wore flowing robes and sandals, two wore Western business suits.
Smuts greeted the shorter of the two robed Arabs.
"Mr. Prime Minister?"
"Yes. Greetings, Mr.-?"
"Smuts, sir. Pieter Smuts, at your service. If you gentlemen will
follow me into the vehicle, please."
The taller of the two robed Arabs-a man with pie] black eyes and a
desert chieftain's mustache-surveyed the vast expanse of grass and scrub
around them, then smiled.
"This is not so different from our own country," he said.
The other Arabs laughed and nodded.
"Now," he said, "let us go to meet the man we have come to see."
Smuts led them to the Rover.
When they reached the main entrance of Horn House, all the
servants-medical staff excluded-stood outside awaiting their arrival.
This favorably impressed the Arabs, who walked disdainfully past the
white-clad line and into the great marble reception hall. Almost
immediately a low whirnng sound drew their attention to the far side of
the high-ceilinged room. A section of the wall slid swiftly back,
revealing Alfi-ed Horn sitting in his wheelchair inside a twometer wide
cubicle. On his gaunt body, the black suit and tie he wore gave him a
rather funereal air. But something else about him had changed. The
artificial eye was gone. Tonight Horn wore a black eyepatch in its
place. Combined with the wheelchair, the eyepatch gave the wizened old
man the quiet dignity of a battle-scarred war veteran.
"Guten Abend, gentlemen," he rasped. "Would you join me in the
elevator, please?"
The elevator Horn occupied led down to a basement complex one hundred
meters below the house. Only from this basement could one reach a
second elevator that led up into the observatory tower of Horn House.
When it became obvious that only four could fit comfortably into the
elevator with the wheelchair, he ordered Smuts to wait with the Arab
bodyguards.
"We'll see you in a few minutes, sir," Smuts said.
By the time the Afrikaner's party arrived at the secondfloor conference
room, Horn and his Arab guests were already seated around a great round
table of polished Rhodesian teak. A large aluminum briefcase lay closed
on the table before one of the business-suited Arabs. Linah had brought
up chilled Perrier. Prime Minister Jalloud turned to the door and
softly addressed one of the bodyguards.
"Malahim, we feel quite secure in Herr Horn's care. We wish you to wait
downstairs for us. The housekeeper will give you refreshments."
The bodyguard melted away from the door. Smuts closed the door, locked
it, then stood at attention beside it.
"Herr Horn," Prime Minister Jalloud said uncomfortably, "Our Esteemed
Leader has asked us to obtain your pennission to make a video recording
of this negotiation, so that he may witness what transpires here
tonight. He understands if you prefer not to have your face recorded,
but in that case he asks if we might make an audio recording instead."
The room hung in tense silence. Alfred Horn laughed silently. He had
four video cameras recording the meeting already. "You have video
equipment in that case?" he asked.
"Yes," Jalloud replied, worn'ed that he might already have overstepped
the bounds of propriety.
"Set it up then. By all means. In negotiations of this magnitude, it
is necessary to have an accurate record."
An audible sigh of relief went up in the conference room.
At the snap of Jalloud's fingers an Ar-ah opened the aluminum case and
busied himself with a camcorder and tripod.
"I have a request of my own, gentlemen," Horn said. "I too keep records
of meetings, but I'm old-fashioned. Do you mind if my personal
secretary takes notes?"
"Certainly not," Jalloud replied courteously.
Horn pressed a button. In a few seconds the door opened to reveal a
stunning young blonde wearing a severely cut blue skirt and blouse.
Ironically, the two Arabs who affected Western dress seemed most shocked
by Ilse's sudden appearance.
"As you can see, gentlemen, said Horn, "my secretary is a woman.
Is that a problem?"
There were some uncomfortable glances, but Jalloud ended any discussion
before it could begin. "If you wish it, Herr Horn, it is so.
Let us begin."
Ilse took a seat behind Horn, crossed her legs, and held a notepad ready
to take down anything Horn might instruct her to. She ignored the Arabs
completely, her attention on Horn's eyepatch.
Jalloud said, "Herr Horn, allow me to introduce my companions. To my
right is Major Ilyas Karami, senior military adviser to Our Esteemed
Leader. He is understandably out of uniform."
The tall, mustached Arab wearing robes stood and nodded solemnly.
"To my left," Jalloud continued, "is Dr. Hamid Sabri, our nuclear
physicist. Do not let his youth mislead you. In ou country he is the
preeminent expert in his field."
A bookish young man wearing a business suit stood and bowed his head.
'And finally," Jalloud concluded, "All Jumah, my personal interpreter.
He speaks excellent German and humbly waits to serve you."
"Excellent," Horn said in German. Until now they had all spoken a very
uncomfortable.English.
"And I," the robed Arab said proudly, "am Abdul Salam Jalloud, prime
minister of my country."
"Of course," Horn said ' "Do you mind if I smoke?"
Instantly the Arabs brought out packs of American cigarettes and lit up.
Horn accepted an Upmann cigar from Smuts's@ pocket supply. As Smuts lit
the cigar, Horn noticed a rectangular swatch of color emblazoned on
Major Karami's gold lighter. A solid field of blue-green-the flag of
Libya. A military man to his bones, Horn thought. The homeland is
never far from his mind. A quick glance at Smuts told Horn that his
security chief had also noticed the lighter.
"Perhaps you gentlemen should begin by stating your requirements," Horn
suggested. "That should give us a clear idea of where we stand."
Jailoud yielded the floor to Dr. Sabri, the physicist. The
bespectacled young Libyan spoke soft, precise Arabic.
Jumah the interpreter translated whenever he paused for breath.
"What we need," Dr. Sabri began, "is fissile material. Either highly
enriched uranium (U-235) or plutonium (Pu-239). We need as much of
either isotope as you can supply, both if possible. At the very least,
we need fifteen kilograms of uranium or five kilograms of plutonium. By
'highly enriched' I mean uranium enriched to at least eighty percent
purity. Anything less is useless to us. We also need triggers@ither
lens or krytron types-and sculpted steel support tubes."
He paused nervously. "These are our requirements," he concluded, and
resumed his seat.
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 U.S. 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'rr 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."
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
triggers, and sculpted tubes tells me that you are uranium, 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
