The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

by Greg Iles

  Smuts glared. Such conduct by anyone else in the old man's presence

  would be unthinkable, yet Stanton made it rule.

  "Robert," Horn said, "when will our next payment from the Colombians

  arrive?"

  Stanton tried in vain to mask his surprise at this question "What?

  Oh. It's coming in by ship next week, remember?

  Brazilian gold this time. Supposedly it's never even seen the inside of

  a bank."

  Horn leaned his head back and smiled. His good eye looked past Stanton

  and settled on a fragrant eucalyptus tree.

  "And how will our gold get from this mysterious ship to here?"

  "By helicopter," the Englishman said, frowning now. "I told you that

  yesterday."

  Pieter Smuts looked quizzically at his master.

  "Yes," Horn said, "yes that's right. You did."

  Everyone looked up at the sound of the garden gate. Ilse stood there,

  her blond hair uncombed, her eyes swollen from lack of sleep.

  "Guten Morgen, " Horn called. "Please join us."

  Ilse edged toward the table, her wary eyes on Stanton.

  With an effort that stunned all present, Alfred Horn struggled from his

  wheelchair and stood until Ifse had seated herself in the wrought-iron

  chair Smuts offered her. Jiirgen Luhr rose immediately to deliver the

  apology demanded by Horn, but before he could speak, Lord Granville slid

  his chair away from the table.

  "If the company will excuse me," he mumbled. "My apologies."

  While everyone stared, Stanton rose and left the garden by way of a

  glass door leading into the main house.

  Inside Horn House, Stanton hurried to Alfred Horn's study and I locked

  the door. He felt surprisingly calm, considering what he was about to

  do. He lifted the telephone receiver and dialed a London number that he

  had committed to memory.

  "Shaw," growled a tired voice.

  "This is Granville."

  "Where are you?" Sir Neville Shaw asked sharply.

  'Where do you think?"

  "Good Christ, are you mad?"

  "Shut up and listen," Stanton snapped, feeling his pulse start to race.

  "I had to call from here. They won't let me go anywhere else.

  Look, you've got to call it off."

  " What? "

  "He knows, I'm telling you. Horn knows about Casilda.

  I don't know how, but he does."

  "He can't know."

  "He does!"

  There was a long pause. "There's no stopping it now," Shaw said

  finally. "And your information on Horn's defenses had better turn out

  to be,good, Granville, or you'll answer to me. Don't call again."

  The line went dead. Stanton felt sweat running down the small of his

  back. The die was cast. Somewhere off the coast of Mozambique, a man

  named Burton waited to change his life forever. Perhaps Alfred was

  merely toying with me, Stanton thought hopefully. Smuts had evinced no

  more suspicion than was usual. Yet Stanton had but one choice in any

  case-hold firm. If he could do that for eight hours, Horn's days of

  power would end, and he would be free. London would be satisfied, and

  one of the largest conglomerates in the world would become the property

  of Robert Stanton, Lord Granville in fact, as well as in name.

  For a brief moment, Stanton worried that Ilse might betray his advances

  of last night, but he dismissed the thought. If she had intended to do

  that, she would have done it already.

  Unlocking the study door, he set out for the garden in better spirits

  than he had been in for some time. All he had to do now was find a way

  into the basement complex before the attack came. He had never entered

  it before, but he would today.

  He could hardly wait.

  11:00 A.M. MV Casilda: Madagascar Channel, Off Mozambique The laden

  helicopters lifted off the deck of the ship like pregnant birds, but

  they lifted. Juan Diaz, the pilot of the lead chopper, looked over to

  see that his compadre flying the second ship had taken off safely.

  He had. Diaz turned to the tanned Englishman sitting in the seat beside

  him.

  "They're up, English. Where we going?"

  Alan Burton tossed a folded sheet of paper into the Cuban's lap.

  A mineral suey map of Southern Africa. "Fl stop, Mozambique," he said.

  "Just follow the lines on the map, sport."

  Burton turned and looked back at the two rows of Colombians who sat

  shoulder-to-shoulder against the cabin walls of the JetRanger.

  With their dark faces, scruffy beards, and bandolier ammunition belts,

  they looked like armed migrant workers. Sick ones, at that. The

  greenish cast of their skin suggested that by leaving the ship, they

  would merely exchange their seasickness for airsickness. Burton didn't

  care what they looked like, as long as they could cause some commotion.

  He could do the job alone if someone provided a sufficient diversion.

  He was glad the end of the mission had finally arrived, not least

  because they were finally leaving the Casilda. He didn't care if he

  never saw another ship in his life.

  "I'm supposed to fly by these goddamn chicken scratches?" Juan Diaz

  complained, shaking the map in the Englishman's face.

  Burton gave the Cuban a black look."'That's what you're being paid for,

  sport. Now let's move."

  "What about a flight plan?" Diaz asked. The two choppers still hovered

  over the old freighter.

  'You're holding it," said Burton. "I can show you the landmarks.

  Just watch for enemy aircraft."

  The Cuban narrowed his eyes. "How do I know who is the enemy?"

  Burton grinned. "It's everybody, sport. Simple enough?"

  After a grim moment of reflection, Diaz nudged the stick, and as one the

  two JetRangers moved out over the ocean, toward the coastline, toward

  Africa.

  11.25 A.m. 'Room 520, The Stanley House, Pretoria

  Gadi Abrams let the drapes fall closed and turned back to Stern.

  "Still no sign of them, Uncle. No Hauer, no Apfel."

  Stern got up from one of the beds and rolled his shoulders. He had said

  little since last night's fiasco at the Burgerspark Hotel.

  "They're probably holed up in some cheap hotel, waiting for the

  rendezvous at the Voortrekker Monument."

  Professor Natterman was pacing out the far end of the room. "So why are

  we watching the Protea Hof?" he snapped.

  "We can always intercept them at six at the Voortrekker Monument," Stern

  replied. "But I think Hauer might return to the Protea Hof before

  then."

  Natterman snorted with contempt. "What about that woman?" he asked.

  "Are you sure it was the same woman from the plane?"

  "Absolutely," Gadi said. "From the description you gave and the perfume

  I smelled in the hall, I have no doubt at all."

  "Who is she, then?" Natterman asked. "What does she want?"

  "She wants me," said Stern.

  "What makes you say that?" Gadi broke in. "Nobody knows where you

  are."

  Stern half-smiled.

  "Who wants you dead?" Professor Natterman asked.

  "Who doesn't?" said Gadi. "The Syrians want him, the Libyans, the

  Palestinians ... you name it. That's why he has to live where he does."

  Stern shot his neph
ew a warning glance; then his face softened. "I

  suppose it doesn't matter," he said. "Remember the kibbutz I described

  to you, Professor? My retirement home? Well, it's no ordinary

  kibbutz."

  "How do you mean?"

  "It's a special settlement for men like me. Retired fieldmen.

  Men who have prices on their heads."

  Gadi grinned. "Uncle Jonas's head carries the highest price in town."

  Stern frowned.

  "But Gadi said the woman on the plane was European, said Natterman. "Not

  Arabic."

  "Precisely," said Stern. "And of the European countries, only one has

  agents who might want me dead."

  "England?" Natterman asked, his eyes alight.

  Stern ran his hand across his chin. "I know who the Englishwoman is.

  Her name is Swallow. Or it was, many years ago. But right now she

  concerns me much less than the big fellow who checked in here this

  morning."

  "I say he's a friend of Hauer's," Gadi declared. "Backup from watching

  Hauer's room. He's right beneath us, by the though I don't think he

  knows it."

  "Why do you insist he's German?" Stern challenged.

  "Don't give me that, Uncle. A Jew can smell a German, can't he?

  No offense, Professor."

  "None taken. A German can smell a Jew just as well."

  Gadi glared at Natterman. "His name's Schneider, which is German

  enough. We'll know what he is for sure in an hour, in any case. Tel

  Aviv is checking him out. By the way, they told me Hauer was one of the

  sharpshooters at the Munich Olympics. How did you know that?"

  Stern half-smiled. "I had one of my notorious intuitions when I read

  his police file. We might be able to use that somehow."

  "Could this Schneider be part of Phoenix?" asked Yosef Shamir.

  The young commando wore a large white bandage around his forehead.

  "Maybe he threw the grenade last night. Maybe he was the one who hit me

  with the door."

  "That was Hauer," Stern said firmly.

  "Who fired the gunshot?" asked Yosef. "I was only semiconscious in

  that stairwell, but I'm certain I heard a shot."

  "Nothing about it in this morning's newspapers," Gadi said.

  "There was no body in the stairwell. If our German cops shot at

  someone, they must have missed."

  Stern smiled. "I think it went this way: Swallow's grenade panicked the

  Germans. They fled down the stairs, Apfel in front. They ran into

  trouble, Apfel panicked and fired his gun. I read Hauer's police file.

  If he'd fired his gun, he wouldn't have missed."

  "I'll keep that in mind when we meet him," Gadi said soberly.

  "You're not going to meet him!" Natterman flared. "He's given you all

  the slip!"

  Stern padded slowly over to the hotel window. "Hauer is coming back to

  the Protea Hof," he declared, parting the drapes and staring across at

  the seven-story hotel. "I don't know how I know it, but I do."

  One floor below the Israelis, Kripo detective Julius Schneider held the

  telephone against his sweating cheek as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  Beside him lay his hat, half a sandwich, and two empty bottles of beer.

  Into his ear came the angry drawl of Colonel Godfrey Rose.

  "You too proud to take a tip from a Russian, Schneider?"

  "No, Colonel."

  "Kosov gave me the name of the son of a bitch who mutilated Harry.

  I think he suspected it all along. He's a Russian too, you believe

  that? Name's Borodin, Yuri Borodin.

  Twelfth Department, KGB. According to Kosov, he's a real hotshot.

  Renegade out for glory, that type. I guess that's what Kosov meant

  about you watching your back."

  Schneider made a sound in his throat that was halfway between a growl

  and a sigh. "So, Borodin could have seen me leaving Major Richardson's

  apartment. He could be following me now."

  "Could be, Schneider. Have you located Hauer and Apfel yet?"

  "I'm watching their hotel room now. They aren't in it, though."

  "Hmm. You decided how you're gonna handle Hauer?

  You gonna try to take the papers?"

  "I don't know yet. Hauer may have better ideas than I do about crushing

  Phoenix."

  Rose was silent for a moment. "Yeah, well, the Russians are getting

  pretty itchy about Phoenix themselves. Kosov heard that a low-ranking

  Stasi agent cracked under torture this morning. Seems he's a member of

  something called Bruderschaft der Phoenix. The Russians are already

  talking to the State Department about setting up a special interAllied

  commission to deal with the Rudolf Hess case, Phoenix, and all related

  affairs. Sort of an international Warren Commission."

  "A what, Colonel?"

  "Never mind, Schneider." There was a sibilant rustle of paper in the

  background. "You want a quick rundown on Yuri Borodin's file?

  Reads like the friggin' Count of Monte Cristo."

  "Please."

  "Got a pencil?"

  The German heaved his bulk back on the bed and closed his eyes.

  "I'm ready."

  2.02 Pm. Bronberrick Motel. South of Pretoria The moment Hauer saw the

  note, he knew that Hans had tricked him. He knocked Hans's abandoned

  Walther aside and read swiftly: I'm sorry, Captain. I've thought it

  through, and I feel the risks of an armed exchange are just too great. I

  couldn't tell you before, but Ilse is carrying a child I didn't want to

  lie about the time of the rendezvous, but I knew you'd never let me try

  it this way. Please don'tfollow me. I'll meet you back here when I've

  got Ilse. [Here the name "Hans" had been signed, then scratched

  through.] If it @goes bad, I want you to know I don't blame you for

  anything in the past. We found each other in time. Your son, Hans.

  Hauer stood rock still as waves of anger and panic swept over him.

  He dug the foil packet from his pocket and ripped it open. The

  negatives he had taken at the Protea Hof were there, but the Spandau

  papers were gone. In,their place lay five sheets of crumpled motel

  stationery. Hauer tried to breathe calmly. Hans had struck out on his

  own to meet the kidnappers. He had to accept that. It wasn't hard to

  understand. Not if the hostage was your wife, and she was carrying your

  child. Yet Hans was his son. Ilse was his daughter-in-law. And the

  child she was carrying-Hauer felt a thick lump in his throat-that child

  was his grandchildhis blood their. Hauer sat down hard on the bed. For

  the last twenty years he had lived alone, resigned to a solitary life.

  Yet in the past forty-eight hours he had been given not only a son, but

  a family. And now he had lost that family. He read the note again.

  Your son, Hans.

  "Fool," he muttered.

  It took him twenty minutes to reach the Voortrekker Monument. All the

  way he cursed himself for leaving Hans alone. He had known something

  like this might happen, that Hans had been walking an emotional razor

  edge. This morning, while zeroing-in his rifle scope, he had almost

  packed up the gun and driven straight back to the motel.

  But he hadn't. He had finished with the rifle, then gone ahead and

  scouted for an exchange location. And he'd found one, an empty soccer

  stadium.
Perfect. Damn!

  Hauer saw no sign of Hans at the Voortrekker Monument.

  For an hour he circled the base of the dun-colored building on foot, but

  he knew it was hopeless. Hans was gone-maybe dead already.

  Faced with this heart-numbing reality, Hauer realized he had but one

  slim chance to save his son's life. When the kidnappers realized that

  the Spandau papers were incomplete, they would demand answers.

  And when they got them, they might-just might come looking for Captain

  Dieter Hauer. He would make it very easy for them to find him.

  In the Ford again, he checked his map. Then he swung east and headed

  back toward the Protea Hof Hotel. He pulled straight up to the

  main,entrance, removed a long leather case from the Ford's trunk, and

  tipped the doorman to park the car. The hunting rifle felt heavy but

  reassuring against his leg as he strode toward the elevators. In a

  European city the oddly shaped case might have attracted unwelcome

  attention, but in South Africa rifles are as common golf clubs.

  Their room looked just as they'd left it yesterday. In a shaft of light

  leaking through the drawn drapes, Hauer saw the clothes and food they

  had bought still lyfng in crumpled shopping bags on the beds.

  Hans's loaded crossbow leaned in the corner space between the near bed

  and the bathroom wall. Hauer laid his rifle on the bed. Then he felt

  the hairs on his neck stiffen.

  There was someone else in the room. He turned very naturally, as if

  unaware of any danger. There. Sitting in the chair by the window.

  A thin shadow silhouetted against the dark drapes. Hauer jerked his

  Walther from his waistband and dived behind the bed, pulling back the

  slide as he hit the carpet.

  "Don't be alarmed, Captain," said a deep, familiar voice.

  "It's only me. I managed to get here in spite of you."

  Hauer thrust his pistol over the top of the mattress, put two pounds of

  pressure on the trigger, then slowly lifted his eyes above the edge of

  the bed. Sitting in a nan-ow shaft of light coming through the drapes

  was Professor Georg Natterman.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  2.25 P.M. The Northern Transvaal One mile, northeast of the village of

  Giyani, the Zulu pulled the Range Rover onto the gravel shoulder and

  climbed out.

  -ie Hans stayed put. The Zulu shielded his eyes and stared back @Own

  the long highway. Lean as an impala, he looked as if ne were scanning

  the veld for game herds. Whenever a car or truck whizzed past, he