The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

by Greg Iles

  Hauer'll kill Hess if gets the chance. That make you feel any better?"

  Shaw smiled with satisfaction. "Thank you, Colonel. I shall be in

  Berlin by noon."

  IL

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  826 A.M. Angolan Airspace

  At eighteen thousand feet the Lear 31-A turbojet knifed southward

  through the sky and down the length of Africa. In the sumptuously

  appointed passenger cabin, Prime Minister Abdul Bake Jalloud sipped from

  a glass of sherry and contemplated the excited face of Dr. Hamid Sabri.

  The bespectacled young physicist could barely restrain his enthusiasm.

  In a matter of hours he would be shepherding back to Libya the first

  nuclear weapon ever to stock an Arab arsenal. Prime Minister Jalloud

  was more subdued. Despite Muammar Qaddafi's repeated assurances that

  all was well, Jalloud could not shake a vague suspicion that something

  was not as it should be.

  "Are you all right, Excellency?" asked Dr. Sabri. "You look pale."

  "It's the food," Jalloud muttered. "I shouldn't have eaten anything."

  "I'm nervous myself," Sabri confessed. "I cannot wait to return home

  with the device."

  "I can't wait to return home, period," Jalloud murmured.

  This curious statement disconcerted the young scientist.

  He glanced through his window at the'clouds below. "Excellency?"

  he said quietly. "I must admit I am glad Major Karami is not

  accompanying us on this trip. He makes me uncomfortable. I do not

  believe Mr. Horn liked him either."

  "Major Karami makes a lot of people nervous," said Jalloud, glancing

  past Dr. Sabri. At the rear of the cabin, sitting on a pile of

  embroidered pillows, six very dangerouslooking soldiers quietly smoked

  cigarettes. Qaddafi had assured Jalloud that he'd ordered them loading

  of the weapon, but Jallc doubted this. On the last trip two security

  guards had been considered adequate escort. Jalloud was almost certain

  that these men had been handpicked from Ilyas Karami's personal

  bodyguard.

  "I'm not so sure we are flee of Major Karanii," he whispered, cutting

  his eyes toward the guards.

  Dr. Sabri peered around the prime minister's kefflyah and looked at the

  sullen group. "Don't say that," he said quietly.

  "Allah protect us, don't even think it."

  Twenty-eight miles behind the Lear, Major Ilyas Karami stepped onto the

  flight deck of a Soviet-built Yakovlev-42

  airliner and leaned down into the pilot's ear. "Should I go over it for

  you again?" he asked.

  "It's net necessary, Major," the pilot replied.

  "Good." Karanii laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.

  "Because what I told my commandos goes for you pilots too. Any man that

  makes a mistake on this mission will lose his head when we return to

  Tripoli."

  The pilot strained to keep his hands steady on the controls.

  Ilyas Karaiti's threats Were never empty.

  "And his testicles will be in his mouth,",Karami added.

  The plane lurched violently, as if buffeted by turbulence.

  "I'm sorry, Major!" the pilot croaked.

  "Low-pressure pocket," the copilot covered quickly.

  Major Karami snorted and left the flight deck.

  This 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 center 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-millimeter

  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 eargo 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?

  O40 A-Ai. Northern Transvaal, Republic of South Africa

  Alan 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 finst' 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 skeptically 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.

  ' 9

  I don't care much, either. Maybe his dru s are ending up in London, and

  the bloody Hou
se 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 Piw. 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 dr 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.

  Fspecially with superiors. Barnard almost jumped out of his skin when

  the phone on his desk rang.

  "General Steyn's office," he answered.

  "Bernard?" 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 defense

  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?"

  "Gruaff 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, GeneraIT' "I haven't the foggiest, Bernard."

  "General," Captain Barnard said hoarsely, "I think we've got a problem."

  2.05 Pm. 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?"

  "Urn ... yes, sir. Well, one is in the cellblock and the other ... I

  believe Major Graaff is supervising his interrogation. 19

  "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, grayhaired man against a

  cinder-block wall. The man's face was covered with sweat and blood.

  Major Graaff held a rubber truncheon 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

  ftoze, 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 Bernard," 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 leveled 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 NISin 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 trumpefing 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 now-inside this country!"

  General Steyn slammed his fist down on the table. "Then I'll have the

  bloody -details now, Captain! Even if I have to torture you 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 involvedt' 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 beri. "General, how would you

  describe -Herr Horn's ties to the South African government?"

  "Well, he's what some would call a power broker, a behind-the-scenes

  type. Very reclusive. But I understand he's a force to be reckoned

  with in the ultraconservative encloves. 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@specially defense. We build

  everything 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 defense projects. I imagine-" General Steyn's voice