by Greg Iles
"You hold a piece of living history in your hand, Professor," Horn said
solemnly. "A piece no historian has ever seen before. May of 1941 was
a critical juncture in the march of Western civilization. A time of
great opportunities ." He sighed. "Missed opportunities. I'd like you
to read that while we verify the Spandau papers. Perhaps it will help
you to do what no one else has yet been able to do-solve the Hess
mystery."
Stern looked down at the book in his hands. It was a notebook, he saw,
bound in black leather with a name stamped in gold on its cover: V V
Zinoviev. The name meant nothing to Stern. What was he holding in his
hands? Had this man Horn threatened to kill Ilse Apfel in order to
suppress one clue to the Hess enigma, only to give the man he thought to
be her grandfather another? Was he a fool? Of course not.
He was a snake allowing the sparrow one last song before it felt the
fangs strike. Any knowledge that "Professor Natterman" gained from the
Zinoviev notebook in the next few hours would perish with him.
"Come closer, Professor," Horn said, raising his chin like a connoisseur
examining an antique for authenticity. "Do you have Jewish blood in
your family?"
The flickering blue eye fixed on Stern and bored in, searching for the
slightest hint of deception. Stern struggled to maintain his calm.
During the helicopter flight he had worried that his rusty German would
give him away, yet no one seemed to have noticed it. Would it be his
Semitic nose that betrayed him? That put the final bullet through his
heart?
"Nein, " he said, forcing a smile. "This nose has been the bane of my
life, Herr Horn. There's some Arab blood far back down the line, I
think. It almost cost me my life several times during the thirties."
"I can imagine," Horn said thoughtfully. "So. The Spandau papers. You
have brought them to me?"
Horn's cadaverous face seemed to waver ghostlike in the shadows.
As if by its own volition, Stern's right hand burrowed into his trouser
pocket and brought out the missing pages. Before he even realized what
he meant to do, he had lurched forward and laid the three sheets on
Horn's desk.
"You have it all now," he blurted. "Make what you wish of it.
Just give me back my granddaughter."
He turned and moved zombie-like toward the door. His eyes focused on
the handle as he neared it.
"Herr Professor?"
Stern froze.
Horn's warbling voice floated through the darkness like a phantom,
ancient and unreal. "I called the Document Centre in Berlin. They
informed me that you were at the Siege of Leningrad.
This shouldn't be too great an ordeal for an old Wehrmacht soldier.
Have a rest, see your granddaughter. All will soon be back to normal,
and you and I will exchange old war stories. And don't forget to read
the Zinoviev book."
Stern peered through the shadows. The conversation seemed to have tired
the old man. The face which had looked so alive at the beginning of the
meeting now sagged as if drained by chronic pain. Stern groped behind
him for the door. Pieter Smuts turned the knob and slipped into the
hall ahead of him. Stern saw Horn raise a skeletal arm in farewell, and
then Smuts pulled the door shut.
Dazed, Stern followed the tall Afrikaner down the long corridor toward
the reception hall. They crossed it, then walked the length of several
dim passages. Stern felt like Alice being led through the warrens of
the looking-glass world.
Finally, Smuts stopped before a door and opened it.
Stern saw a striking young blond woman dressed in a smart navy skirt and
white blouse. From Natterman's description, he recognized Ilse Apfel
immediately, but he was still so deep in frenzied speculation about the
old man that he failed to notice the shock on her face.'Ilse looked from
Smuts to Stern, then back to Smuts. She started to speak, then held her
tongue, waiting for the Afrikaner to explain the intrusion. Smuts said
nothing. Ilse's eyes moved up and down Stern's lean frame, lingering on
his unfamiliar face, finally settling on Professor Natterman's patched
tweed jacket. Smuts-who was nominally quite sensitive to subtleti of
human behavior-put Ilse's awkwardness down to surprise.
"I hope you both appreciate Herr Horn's generosity," he said.
The words woke Stern from his trance. Instantly he registered the
dangerous bafflement on Ilse's face. Steady, girl, he thought. Steady
"Ilse!" he cried. "My little Enkelkinder! Come to me!" He took a
step forward and held out his arms- Come on girl, get it.
Without quite understanding why, Ilse moved forward.
First hesitantly, then in apparent jubilation, she rushed to the
stranger and pressed her head against his jacket, clinging to him like a
child. She would never know why she did it. It was an impulse, a
tingling flash of inexplicable certainty like those that sometimes hit
her as she watched the stock quotes flickering across the toteboard at
work. She didn't question it, she simply obeyed.
"My little darling," Stern said soothingly, stroking Ilse's cheek.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, Opa, yes," Ilse murmured. "Can we go home now?"
"Not yet, little one. Not quite yet. But soon."
Stern glared at Smuts over Ilse's blond hair. "Could we have some
privacy?" he asked icily.
A tight grimace plucked,at the corner of the Afrikaner'S mouth, but he
left them.
Ilse immediately pulled away from Stern and opened her mouth to speak.
Stern stifled her with an upturned palm, then pointed to the door.
Who are you? Ilse mouthed silently.
Stern leaned over until his lips touched the shell of Ilse's ear.
"A friend," he whispered. "Thank God you managed to suppress your
shock. I believe you just saved my life."
"It was the jacket," Ilse whispered excitedly. "You're wearing Opa's
jacket. At first I thought it was some kind of crazy trick, but-"
"No trick."
"Where is Opa?"
'He is safe. He's with Captain Hauer."
"And Hans? Is Hans safe?"
Stern nodded impatiently, as if Hans were merely a secondary problem to
be dealt with when and if possible. "Hans is here now. He tried to
trade the Spandau papers for your life, but failed."
Ilse's eyes widened. "Hans is here?"
"Yes, but we can't worry about that now. If we don't figure out exactly
where we are and get me to a telephone, we'll probably be dead within an
hour."
Ilse shook her head. "You'll need an airplane to get out of here."
"You know where we are?"
"Not exactly, but I've been outside. We're far out in the wilderness.
Near something called the Kruger Park, I think."
"The Kruger National Park?" Stern looked at his watch, estimating the
distance he had traveled by road and by helicopter. "Yes, that would be
about right." His voice grew urgent. "Ilse, I don't know how much you
know about the situation you are in. You may, like your grandfather,
see it as merely a squabble over the Rudol
f Hess case, but much more
than that. I believe that somewhere in this country there are men who
mean to cause great harm to.my country-Israel. Damn it!" Stern cried
suddenly. "What is hiding here? That bastard asked me if I had any
Jewish blood in my veins, aifd I-an Israeli-denied that I did!"
He threw the Zinoviev notebook onto the bed and tried the doorknob
again, shaking it furiously. Ilse reached out and clutched the sleeve
of her grandfather's jacket.
"You're right," she whispered. "About Israel."
"What?" Stern turned to face her. "What do you meant' "I mean that
Horn wants to destroy Israel."
Stern clutched her arms. "How do you know that? Out with it, girl!
Speak!"
"You're hurting me!"
Stern released her. "What are you talking about?"
Ilse brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Last night, Herr Horn
met with some Arabs up in the central tower of the estate. For some
reason he wanted me there, I don't know why. He offered to provide
these Arabs with a nuclear weapon@ne or more than one, I'm not sure. He
said he would provide it flee of charge if the Arabs would use it as
wished. He said there was a nuclear weapon somewhere beneath this
house."
Stern swallowed hard, his eyes burning into Ilse's. "Did you believe
him?"
She hesitated a moment; then she nodded very slowly.
"How did he say he wanted the weapon used?"
"He said he wanted it exploded inTel Aviv."
Stern felt his bowels roll. "When?"
"Within ten days, he said."
Stern crossed to the bed and picked up the thin black notebook Horn had
given him. Again he read the gold letters stamped on the cover: V V
Zinoviev. Still the name meant nothing. He slipped the notebook inside
his shirt, backed against the far wall, and without a sound threw
himself across the room and against the heavy wooden door.
Ilse screamed.
The door didn't budge. Stern gasped for breath, backed up, charged
again. His wiry frame smashed into the wood with a sound like a child
falling down stairs. Ilse cringed.
Tlwice more the old Israeli flung himself at the door, but it refused to
give. Bruised and winded, Stern raised his right leg and kicked at the
knob with all his strength.
"It's no good!" Ilse cried. "Please stop! You're hurting yourself!"
Stern did not even look at her. With a howl of rage he kicked at the
knob again. When it refused to yield, he backed up and launched his
body at the door yet again. This time the impact knocked him to his
knees. He got unsteadily to his feet and prepared to try again.
Ilse caught his arm, meaning to restrain him, but,when Stern whirled,
something in his eyes moved her into some region beyond logic, beyond
reason. She counted to three, and together they flung themselves
against the wood.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
7,05 Pm. MozambiquelSouth Africa Border The helicopters stormed
northward on the Mozambique side of the border, hugging the plain
between the Lebombo Mountains and the Limpopo River. Occasionally they
jinked westward long enough for Burton to take bearings. The Englishman
knew this part of Africa well, and the Kruger Park had enough landmarks
to keep him oriented.
The border itself, a garish scar of bare earth bisected by a huge
electric fence, divided two countries that might have been different
continents. On the Mozambique side, a desolate war-ravaged plain
stretched toward the sea. On the South African side, the lushness of
the Kruger Park began immediately. Wide green troughs of river in
vegetation snaked westward out of sight. Forests of mopane, Sycamore
fig, and Natal mahogany sheltered herds of elephant and zebra, white
rhino and lion.
"Take her back up!" Alan Burton ordered.
Juan Diaz breathed a sigh of relief. The Cuban pilot prided himself on
his flying skill, but this crazy English gringo had badgered him about
the altitude until he wondered if the man had a secret death wish.
Burton pointed to the north and shouted above the rotor noise "We want
to keep on this heading until we see the Olifants River! Then we'll
veer west and cross the park at treetop level!" He showed Diaz the map.
"The house we want lies about halfway between the western edge of the
park and this little town here." Burton pointed to Giyani, then
indicated an X marked about fifteen kilometers from the western edge of
the Kruger Park.
Diaz nodded, then returned his gaze to the plain below.
"The Kruger Park's about the size of Wales," Burton told him.
"But it's thin-runs north to south."
Diaz ignored him.
"Probably never heard of Wales, eh?" Burton laughed.
"The Prince of Wales?"
Diaz shook his head. Either the Cuban hadn't understood or he simply
did not want to be bothered. Burton switched to a more relevant
subject. "That fence down there," he yelled, pointing westward, "11,500
volts! They fry a whole gang of Mozambican refugees on that thing every
year.
Bloody awful."
The Cuban grimaced. He knew about dead refugees.
Glancing back into the cabin of the JetRanger, Burton looked the
Colombian soldiers over again. The presence of 'Alberto, the big MNR
observer, made them look even more unprofessional. "What do you think
of our South American friends, Diaz?" he yelled.
The Cuban pilot did not share Burton's confidence in the deafness of the
Colombians. He pulled the Englishman's head down near his own.
"Banditos, " he muttered. "No soldiers." He cut his eyes back toward
the cabin, then crossed himself so that only Burton could see.
"Bloody hell." Burton had hoped Diaz might know something encouraging
about the Colombians that he didn't. Suddenly the Englishman sighted a
silver serpentine glittering beneath the dark clouds to the north.
"There's the river!"
he shouted, Diaz nodded, then banked westward and dove for the plain.
Their sister ship followed closely, behind and to the right.
The green sea of the Kruger Park rushed toward them.
The JetRangers skimmed over the border fence and swept westward over the
verdant foliage below. Burton saw a herd of antelope raising a huge
cloud of dust as they fled the noise of the approaching choppers. Diaz
pointed to the dark cloud ceiling above them.
"Much rain when it comes?"
"Buckets this time of year!"
Diaz frowned, but Burton smiled wryly. The weather didn't worry him;
that was the pilots' problem. But the accuracy of his intelligence
reports did. Who in hell was the English informer who supposedly waited
inside the target house? Probably anything but a soldier, Burton
thought ruefully. The informer had reported that Alfred Horn relied
primarily upon isolation for security-isolation and a neo-Nazi security
chief. Burton wondered if the informer would even recognize defensive
measures if he saw them. Swallowing his anxiety, he slapped Diaz on the
back and grinned.
"Rain's good for us!" he yelled. "Better cover!"
>
Diaz glanced doubtfully back into the cabin where the bearded Colombians
crouched. He dropped a little closer to the trees.
Horn House: The Northern Transvaal
Ilse sat opposite Alfred Horn at the long mahogany dining table and
stared sullenly at her plate. All the other chairs were empty. In
spite of their furious efforts, she and Stern had been unable to break
out of the bedroom before Linah arrived to take them to dinner. Stern
had pleaded an unsettled stomach, so Ilse had come alone. She wondered
if the old Israeli was still trying. As Linah leaned over her left
shoulder to pour white wine, she looked up at Horn.
"Where is everyone?" she asked, trying to hold her voice steady.
"Pieter has work to do," Horn replied. "And of course your grandfather
remains in your bedroom." He smiled. "I believe he would rather finish
reading that notebook I gave him than eat."
Ilse lifted her fork and tried to make a show of eating.
Stern had advised her to carry on as she had been, but now that she knew
Hans was almost surely somewhere inside the house, she couldn't contain
herself. "Where is my husband?" she cried suddenly.
Horn looked up slowly from his plate. "He has not yet arrived, my
dear."
"Liar! He's here!"
Horn swallowed some wine, then set his crystal goblet on the table.
"Who told you that?" he asked quietly. "Your grandfather?"
"No one. I ... I just feel it."
"Ah, woman's intuition. An overrated faculty, I've found.
Do not worry, your Hans will arrive soon."
Ilse 9 uivered with anger. "You're lying," she said stubbornly.
'Hans is here."
Horn slammed his frail hand against the table, rattling the silver.
"I will not tolerate this at my table! You will behave as a German
woman should or-" At that moment Pieter Smuts marched into the dining
room with Jiirgen Luhr on his heels. "Aircraft approaching the house,
sir," he announced. "fwo blips, so far. They're at the edge of the
Kruger Park now."
"What type of aircraft, Pieter?"
Smuts smiled coldly. "No radio contact, no IFF, but from their speed I
would guess helicopters."
Horn sighed deeply. "@ the bunkers manned?"
"Yes, sir." Smuts's face was taut. "Everyone's in place."
"And Lord Granville?"
The Afrikaner shook his head. "I'm not sure where he is."
While the men spoke, Ilse slid her right arm off of the table, taking
