Spandau Phoenix (70 page)

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 . .