Spandau Phoenix (68 page)

Wilson looked uncomfortable. "if Swallow does kill Stern, sir, do YOu think the fact that she's retired is enough to shield us from an Israeli protest?"

,Protest! What do we care about one scruffy Yid? You can bet Stern asked for it somewhere up the line. The Zionist terrorists in Palestine were a damned sight mo re ruthless than your Palestinian today, Wilson.

A damned sight!" Shaw rubbed his hands together anxiously. "South Africa," he murmured. "How in blazes did that old fox figure that Out?"

Wilson looked puzzled. "I'm not sure what you mean, but Swallow overheard Stern discussing the wife of Sergeant Apfel. Frau Apfel seems to have been kidnapped by someone in South Africa who is demanding the Spandau papers as ransom."

For a moment Shaw seethed to have lost his breath.

"Where's my bloody ship, Wilson?"

"Ship, sir?" Wilson reddened. "Oh, yes. Lloyd's List has the MV

Casilda bound for Tanzania. However, I managed to get hold of some American satellite photos which show her anchored in the Mozambique Channel, off Madagascar.

There are two helicopters lashed to her decks."

"Thank God," Shaw said under his breath.

"Sir Neville?" Wilson said softly. "Does that freighter have something to do with the Spandau affair?"

"Better if you don't know just yet, Wilson. If all this blows up in my face, you'll be able to swear you never knew a bloody thing."

"For God's sak Wilson looked distraught. e, Neville, at least let me help you!"

Shaw pursed his lips thoughtfully. "All right, man. If you really want to help, I've got something that's just your line of country."

"Name it."

"There are some files I need. If this thing goes sour, we'll want them shredded and burned in a hurry." Shaw picked up a pen and scrawled three names on a sheet of notepaper.

"Might be a bit sticky, but you've done this kind of thing before." He handed over the paper.

Wilson read the names: Hess, Rudolf Steuer, Helmut Zinoviev, V V "And where are these files, sir?"

"The Public Records Office." Shaw watched Wilson closely.

"Although technically they're Foreign Office files.

There is also a Hess file in the War Office, but it's sealed until 2050.

I don't think anyone could get at that."

Wilson swallowed hard. "You mean ... you want me to steal files from the Foreign Office?"

"Be thankful it's only paper, man. There are much dirtier jobs involved in this case."

Wilson met Shaw's steady gaze. "Won't the missing files be noticed?"

"Probably." Shaw reached into a drawer and withdrew a thick, dog-eared file. "That's why I m giving you this." He handed the folder across to Wilson. :It's also a Hess file, but it's been ...

amended. The Zinoviev and Steuer files simply have to disappear, but you can fill the Hess gap with that. It was prepared in the early seventies, after we were forced.by statute to reveal certain information on Hess. It was our insurance against the day some hothead like Neil Kinnock started pressing for radical disclosures. I think it will serve very well in this situation." Shaw sighed contentedly.

"Now pour us a Glenfiddich, eh, Wilson? You look like you need one."

1:L?5 Pm. Room 604, The Protea Hof Hotat Pretoria

Hauer looked forlornly around the hotel room. He had steeled himself for an explosion that never came. Perhaps Hans was simply too exhausted to get upset. And then perhaps it was something else. His reaction did not fit the stimulus, and that bothered Hauer. The fact that three pages of the Spandau diary were missing clearly reduced the chances of getting Ilse back alive; yet when Hauer had revealed that the pages were missing, Hans hadn't said a word. fris eyes had widened in disbelief; he'd rubbed his temples, seen to sag a little; but he had not shouted at Hauer for pilfer the papers on the plane, or blasted Professor Natterman for his cowardice, or tried to attack Hauer as he had done to the professor at the cabin. He'd simply stood up and walked into the bathroom. Hauer could hear water running in the sink now.

He unboxed the Nikon N/2000 camera with macro/micro lens that he had bought at the sporting goods store. Then he set up the special tripod he had bought to facilitate the time exposures. Less than a foot high, the squat instrument had short, splayed legs and fully pivoting head. It reminded him of a robot from a 1950s science fiction movie. He set it up on the table near the window and opened the drapes; then he mounted the Nikon.

"Hans!" he called to the bathroom. "I need the papers!"

Thirty seconds later Hans emerged from the bathroom with the crinkled foil packet containing the Spandau papers.

He handed it to Hauer without a word.

"Cover the door," Hauer said. "if anyone knows where we are, now is the time they'll hit us."

Instead of drawing the Walther from his waistband, Hans leaned over and picked up the crossbow held bought.

Hauer gingerly unwrapped the foil while Hans loaded a stubby, razor-sharp bolt. "I'm going to bracket the f-stops," he said. "I'll shoot at the widest aperture flash at one@eth of a second. Then progressively longer exposures until we'reach two full seconds, just to make sure."

Hans said nothing.

"I know you're still worried about the pictures, but Ilse said the kidnappers could detect whether photocopies o'f the papers had been made. This is no different than looking at the papers. We've got no choice, Hans. We're going to have to trade the original Spandau papers for Ilse. This is our fallback. Besides, to crack Phoenix in Berlin, Ive're going to need a copy of the papers, plus the evidence in the fire safe at Steuben's house."

Hauer worked his way through the exposures for the first page-seven shots altogether-then carefully set it aside.

Hans handed over the second page; Hauer repeated the procedure.

The first roll of film ran out halfway through page four. While Hauer reloaded the Nikon, he heard Hans whisper: "Damn that old man."

Hauer kept working while he talked. "It isn't the professor's fault, Hans. That blond Afrikaner got them, and whoever killed him got the papers. The professor should have told us about the missing pages, but you know why he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to admit he'd lost them.

He knew you'd go crazy, and to no avail. We couldn't have done anything about it anyway."

Hans sat silently.

"Listen," said Hauer. "Natterman was stupid to put these blank sheets in with the papers. It made the missing pages twice as obvious.

When we make the exchange, we'll use only the six matching pages.

The kidnappers won't know the difference."

Hans's opinion of this theory was painfully clear on his face.

"You know better than that," he said softly. "They have Ilse, and she knows exactly what I found. She can describe it down to the-" Hans's mouth stopped moving. "Phoenix would torture her to find those things out!"

"Stop talking like that!" Hauer snapped. "Ilse's smart.

She'll tell them what they want without a fight. Look, Hans, all we need is Ilse in the open and ten seconds to get her clear. The kidnappers won't have more than ten seconds to examine the papers.

That's the situation I intend to arrange.

Anything else is unacceptable."

"Ten seconds is enough time to count pages," Hans observed.

Hauer sighed heavily. "At the cabin you said you trusted me, Hans. Now you've got to prove it. We've got the leverage here, not them. They know they'll never get the papers back if they kill Ilse.

The moment they make contact, we set out our terms for the exchange.

They have to accept them.

And once they accept our terms, we've got them."

Hans met Hauer's eyes. "But do we have Ilse?"

Hauer picked the last diary page up off the bed, shot his last seven exposures, then removed the film from the camera. He folded the Spandau papers into quarters, then eighths, then he wrapped the aluminum foil tightly about them again.

"I'm going to find a lab that can process the film in an hour or two,"

he said, slipping the cartridges into his pocket.

"I want you to sleep while I'm gone. You've been up for thirty-six hours, and I've been up longer than that. Airplane sleep doesn't count.

The Burgerspark rendezvous is at e tonight.

Call the desk and set a wake-up call for seven-thirty."

Hans looked up stonily. "You expect me to steep now?"

"Just shut off the light and breathe deeply. You won't last five minutes. You should see your eyes right now. They look like they're bleeding."

Working his jaw muscles steadily, Hans finally said, "Shouldn't I keep the papers here?"

Hauer considered this. Hans had held the papers until now . . .

"They're safer on the move," he said suddenly. He slipped the packet into his trouser pocket and headed for the door. "Get some sleep.

I'll see you when we wake up."

Outside the hotel the sun burned down without mercy.

Hauer wished he'd thought to bring a hat. Moving watchidly through the tree-lined streets, he tried to gauge their chances of success. Tonight would be their first and possibly only chance to turn the tables on the men who held Ilse, the men behind Phoenix. And with no backup to rely on, every move could be their last. Hauer needed time to think. And most critical now, he needed sleep. Maybe worse than he ever had in his life. He could feel the sun sapping his energy by the minute.

He paused in the shade of a purple-blossomed jacaranda tree. He leaned against its trunk, folded his arms, and waited for a taxi. None passed.

He did not know that in South Africa taxis may not legally cruise for business, but must wait in ranks at designated locations.

Struggling to keep his eyes open, he wondered if Hans might be right.

Would the kidnappers make their main move at the Burgerspark tonight?

Would they risk showing themselves this early in the game?

He didn't think so, but this wasn't Berlin. Maybe on their own territory the bastards would act with impunity. Maybe he should find a place to hide the papers before the rendezvous. Maybe"T i!"

ax A red Madza driven by an enterprising soul made an illegal U-turn and screeched up to Hauer's shade tree. For a moment Hauer thought the driver was Salil, the talkative Indian, but it was only his exhausted mind playing tricks on him. A tanned Afrikaner leaned out of the window.

"Where to, mate?" he asked in English.

"I need some film developed," Hauer replied. "Fast."

"How fast?"

"Yesterday."

"Got money?"

"All I need."

"Right," said the driver. "Get in, then."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I30 Pm. Horn House, Northern Transvaal, RSA Seated in his motorized wheelchair on the north lawn, Alfred Horn chewed an Upmann cigar while Robert Stanton, Lord Granville, paced nervously around him, gulping from an enormous Bloody Mary. For an hour the young Englishman had been ranting about "corporate expansion." The corporation he referred to was the illegal and wholly invisible one which carried on the lucrative drug-and currencysmuggling operations he had administered for Alfred Horn for the past eight years. The old man had sat silent during most of the tirade. He was curious, but not about increasing his illegal profits. He was curious about Stanton himself.

Today the young nobleman's voice had the semblance of its usual brashness, but something in it did not quite ring true.

He was drunk, and Horn intended to give him as much rope as he would take.

"I don't even know why I'm trying," he lamented. "Do you realize how much money we have lost in the past three days, Alfred? Over two million pounds! Two million. And I have no idea why. You shut down our entire European operation without a word of explanation."

"To whom do I owe explanations?" Horn rasped.

.Well ... to no one, of course. But Alfred"certain people might get angry if we don't resume operations very soon.

We have commitments."

A faint smile touched Horn's lips. "Yes," he said softly.

"I'm curious, Robert, this gold that is scheduled to anive day after tomorrow. Why is it coming by ship? Normally those deliveries are made by air."

This question surprised Stanton, but he recovered quickly.

"The final leg will still be made by air," he said. "By helicopter. I don't know why, Alfred. Perhaps the currency export restrictions were tightened at Colombia's airports.

Perhaps it was easier to take the gold out by ship. Who knows?"

"Indeed." Horn glanced at the thin face of Pieter Smuts.

"Tell me, Robert, do you miss England? You've been with us a month now."

Stanton took a huge swallow of his Bloody Mary. "Glad to be away from the bloody place. It's winter there, isn't it?

Though I must admit I'd like to get down to Jo'burg for a weekend.

Not much female companionship to choose from here. I don't have the fancy for dark meat Smuts has. I suppose it's an acquired taste."