Before he contacted Hauer, however, he intended to check out the local Russian situation. Because no matter what Kosov was telling Colonel Rose, the KGB would be here in South Africa—probably chasing the Spandau papers. Schneider wondered where they would be based. The South African government allowed no Soviet embassies on its soil; he had checked. Thus the KGB had no legal residency from which to conduct operations. That complicated things. In fact it made him downright nervous. And the more he thought about it, the surer he became that he would be making a mistake if he talked to Hauer before he knew exactly where the Russians were. He would not have to look far.
Yuri Borodin stood four places behind Schneider in the sweltering heat. The Twelfth Department agent had easily stayed clear of the German during the flight from Frankfurt. Borodin travelled First Class, and he had spent the entire flight in the second-story lounge of the 747. He laughed as detective Schneider lumbered through the Customs comparing his own spare frame to the German’s, he saw a mental image of a sleek Jaguar following a double decker bus. It did not occur to him to wonder what was likely to happen if the Jaguar hit the bus head-on.
9.14 a.m. Bronberrick Motel. South of Pretoria
Hauer closed the door to the dank-smelling motel room and leaned against a battered veneer desk. After much searching last night, he and Hans had finally taken this rathole on the N-1 motorway, ten miles south of the capital.
Hans sat sullenly on a twin bed, fanning, himself with a newspaper he’d found in the mildewed bathroom. His knife was jammed into his belt; his Walther lay a few inches from his right hand.
“I found another car,” said Hauer, his face slick with sweat. “A Ford. From a small firm, just what we wanted. I dumped the Toyota in an underground garage.”
“Good,” Hans replied without looking up.
“I really think it would be safer if you came along with me now.”
“You don’t need help to calibrate the scope, and I’m not taking any chances on missing the rendezvous.”
“You’re not going to the rendezvous,” Hauer said, pocketing the keys. “Don’t you realise this rendezvous is where I will use our leverage to turn the tables on the kidnappers? If you show up, Phoenix will assume you have the papers with you. They’ll simply kidnap you, then kill you. I’m going to the Voortrekker Monument alone. You’ll keep the papers safe here.”
Hans nodded slowly. “I see. But I’m still not going with you now. Anything could happen out there. You could kill us just by forgetting to drive on the left side of the road. Where would we be then?”
Hauer nodded pensively. “All right. But don’t leave this room for anything, understand? I’ll be back in three or four hours. After I zero-in the scope, I’m going to scout for an exchange location. I saw a stadium on the map that looks good. I’ll be back long before six.”
Hans forced a smile. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Fasten the chain behind me.”
Hans stood to see him out.
“And for God’s sake get some sleep, would you?” Hauer said. “Ilse wouldn’t even recognize you like this.”
As soon as he heard Hauer’s car pull away, Hans picked up the telephone. “This is room sixteen—call me a taxi,” he told the desk clerk, his voice edgy. “Bitte? Of course I can pay for it!” He slammed down the phone and trudged over to the bathroom. The mirror was cracked in a starburst pattern, causing his reflection to stare back at him like the jumbled pieces of a jigsaw. Hauer was right. He looked as bad as he felt—bloodshot eyes, sallow cheeks, dirty blond hair sticking out in all directions. If he didn’t sleep soon, he would collapse where he stood. All night he had lain awake in the stifling heat, listening to Hauer’s steady snoring, fighting the solitary hours of his imagination. From the moment he had learned the Spandau diary was incomplete, fear had been working in him, tapping in the back of his brain like a dull pick hammer.
Hans turned the cold tap, wet a washrag, and brought it to his stubbled face. The water felt good, but it didn’t improve his appearance. He stuck his head under the tap and soaked his hair, then smoothed it as best he could. He hadn’t planned to lie to Hauer about the rendezvous time. But when he heard the cold voice on the phone last night in the Burgerspark suite, some deep part him had simply overridden his conscious will. He believed in Hauer’s abilities—If anyone could save him his father could. But what if no one could?
Throughout the night, vague images had turned to nightmares. Hans had seen some miraculous rescues during his short tenure with the police department, but he had seen many other cases, too, where anonymous Berliners had died by gunfire, stab wounds, and many other ways. The harder he tried to shut those cases out, the clearer they became in his mind. He thought of Weiss’s gouged and bloody chest, of the dead blond girl from the Havel, fished out of the muck by a grappling hook two days after the “safe” police rescue operation. The police had used the ransom as bait—they always did—a half-million Deutschemarks in cash. But the kidnappers had managed to withhold the girl just long enough to escape.
For Hans the lesson was clear—he would not risk Ilse’s life like that. No plan was fail-safe, and no matter how deeply he believed in Hauer’s ability and commitment, who could predict how the kidnappers would react when Hauer tried to turn their operation back against them? Rational men would probably make a deal. But rational men did not tattoo eyes on scalps or gouge religious symbols into the chests of Jews.
At the veneer desk, Hans hastily scribbled a note to Hauer on the back of a promotional flyer. He picked up the Walther pistol from the bed and took a long last look at it before laying it on top of the note–he could not take it where he was going. Then he reached under the mildewed mattress and withdrew the Spandau papers, which he had stolen while Hauer showered. He slipped them under his shirt, beside the knife he had already taped to his chest. The ring of the telephone startled him and he growled at the desk clerk, “Coming.”
He stepped out into the glaring sun where a blue Mazda was idling in the parking lot.
“You know the Voortrekker Monument?” he asked the driver, in English. The driver rolled his eyes and jerked his thumb toward the backseat. Hans climbed in and the cab screeched away.
The Voortrekker Monument sits atop a hill a few miles south of central Pretoria. Hans caught a glimpse of its massive dome as his driver exited the N-1 freeway then swung back under and headed west. Visible from most parts of the city, this dun-coloured building is the spiritual symbol of the Afrikaner nation. Its Hall of Heroes holds a huge frieze commemorating the Great Trek of the Boer pioneers, who fled northward from British colonial rule in 1838.
Hans paid off the cab at the entrance to the monument. Climbing the hill, he realized he would be ten minutes early for his rendezvous, but he moved as instructed to a spot directly beneath the frieze in the Hall of Heroes and studied it like a Muslim who has finally reached Mecca.
The tourists shuffling around him were mostly Afrikaners. With his classic German looks, Hans thought he probably looked as Afrikaner as the rest. He was wrong. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he whirled to see a Bantu man of medium height—a Zulu, actually, but Hans knew nothing of such distinctions—with a large camera bag slung over his shoulder. Hans failed to notice the irony of a black man visiting the monument that memorialized the conquest of his native country. The Zulu never once glanced up at the frieze. He hurried out of the building and down the slope, Hans scrambling after him.
A shining blue Range Rover waited at the base of the hill. The Zulu indicated that Hans should get into the rear seat. Hans climbed in.
“You have the papers?” asked the Zulu in broken German.
Hans nodded. “Are you taking me to my wife?”
Without a word the Zulu started the engine and drove down the hill, then swung the Range Rover onto R-28 and beaded into central Pretoria. He drove until they intersected the N-1 freeway, then climbed into the northbound traffic. Hans looked blankly out of the window as the suburbs gave way to ga
udy storefronts, liquor stores, and finally the government matchboxes of black settlements outside the city.
He fingered the knife beneath his shirt. The thought of what the kidnappers might do if they realized the diary was incomplete made his bowels squirm, but what choice did he have? At least by acceding to their demands he had gained a chance to try to explain the missing pages. In the middle of some football stadium, with a dozen guns sighted on Ilse and himself, anything could happen.
Suddenly Hans felt his throat tighten. Though he had been staring straight at the back of the Zulu’s head, his conscious mind had only now registered what his eyes were seeing. Behind the Zulu’s right ear—in plain sight—was the ominous design sketched in the Spandau papers: the eye—the mark of Phoenix! Yet unlike Funk’s men, this tribesman wore no tattoo. The eye had been branded onto his scalp with a red-hot iron! The ugly, whitish-pink keloid scar chilled Hans’s blood. He stared, hypnotized by the mark. What did it really symbolize? Follow the Eye, the Spandau papers had charged. Yet it seemed to Hans that the eye was following him!
“How … how far do we have to go?” he stammered, trying to keep his anxiety in check. The Zulu said nothing.
Hans touched the haft of the knife again. Obviously the black man didn’t intend to reveal anything about the upcoming rendezvous. Hans forced his eyes away from the scar and concentrated on the road. The shimmering highway stretched in a seemingly endless line across the veld, toward a destination Hans could only pray would reunite him with Ilse. If the kidnappers were as hard as the land they now passed over, he thought, their chances of getting out alive were small. He caught himself wondering if he should have told Hauer the truth about the rendezvous after all. Maybe Hauer could have pulled off the exchange. Maybe …
“Too late now,” he muttered.
“Bitte?” the Zulu said sharply.
“Nichts!” Hans snapped. He tried not to stare at the branded eye as the Range Rover droned on.
10:45 A.m. Horn House. The Northern Transvaal
Linah had set out a fine brunch in the enclosed garden near the southwest turret of the estate. Subtropical fruit trees splashed blossoms of colour against the high stone walls. Alfred Horn and his security chief sat together drinking coffee and speaking quietly.
“And what of Captain Hauer?” the old man asked.
Smuts shrugged. “I had four men at the Voortrekker to kill him, but he never showed up.”
“Could he be following Sergeant Apfel?”
Smuts shook his head. “He might try, but my driver will know if he does. We’ll have no problems from Hauer.”
Horn nodded.
“How long do you expect it will be before we hear something from the Arabs? Three days? A week?” Smuts asked.
“I’ve already heard,” Horn said casually, and took a sip of his coffee. “Qaddafi himself called me an hour ago. He has accepted our terms. What did I tell you, Pieter? If you want a job done quickly, hire a hungry man. Prime Minister Jalloud will return tomorrow night with men to transport the weapon.”
“Tomorrow night!” Smuts exclaimed. “I had no idea it would be that soon. Two hours ago I sent half my men back to their wives!”
Horn smiled. “That was a little premature, Pieter. But I shouldn’t worry. There will be no problems with the Libyans. And if there were, I am confident that you could protect us from that. You have had years to prepare our defences.”
Smuts looked uncertain. “Did Qaddafl mention Major K? Karami is planning some kind of double-cross. I’m certain of it. I’d better make additional security arrangements.”
Horn smiled cagily. “You might want to make those arrangements before tonight, Pieter. I have the feeling we may need a few extra men.”
Smuts squinted curiously At his master. But before he could ask for clarification, Lieutenant Jürgen Luhr opened a sliding glass door and marched toward the table. Horn eyed the tall German suspiciously, but Smuts waved a greeting.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Oberleutnant.”
“Guten Morgen! ” Luhr replied, clicking his heels together smartly. He inclined his head first to Horn, then Smuts.
“Sit,” Smuts commanded.
“Just a moment,” Horn interjected. “Show me your mark, Herr Oberleutnant.” Instantly Luhr moved to the old man’s wheelchair and leaned down so that Horn could inspect the tiny tattoo behind his ear. Horn actually licked his finger and rubbed the mark to make sure it was indelible. When he was satisfied, he gave Luhr permission to sit down.
“Danke,” said Luhr, taking a chair and sitting ramrod straight.
Horn stared at Luhr some time before speaking. His one flickering eye lingered on the blond hair, the hard blue eyes, the trim figure and classical features. He nodded slowly. The young policeman had sparked something in his memory. “Has your stay in our cell taught you some respect for orders?”
Luhr had prepared for this. “Sir, I drugged Frau Apfel only for her welfare, I assure you. She struggled so hard against her bonds that I feared she might injure herself.”
Horn’s single eye glazed like a chip of ice. “There is no excuse for insubordination! A man who disobeys orders is a threat to everyone around him!”
Luhr wiped a sheen of perspiration from his forehead.
“But,” Horn went on in a softer tone, “my security chief seems to think I should give you a second chance. He speaks highly of your work in Berlin.”
Luhr raised his chin proudly.
“Frau Apfel will be joining us soon, Herr Oberleutnant. When she arrives at table, you will issue an immediate apology. Then the matter will be closed. Clear?”
“Absolutely,” Luhr said solemnly. He had never balked at licking the proper pair of boots.
While Linah poured coffee for Luhr, the sound of someone talking softly drifted around the corner of the house. Shortly Lord Grenville appeared, wearing dark sunglasses and muttering to himself. A huge white square of gauze was taped high on the left side of his head, but it did little to conceal the massive purple bruise that extended from behind his ear to his left eye.
“My God!” Smuts exclaimed, as the Englishman wobbled to the table.
“What have you done now, Robert?” Horn asked wearily.
“Got pissed again. Literally. Took a fall in the loo last night that would have killed a bloody wildebeest. Didn’t break the skin, though, thank God. I’d have bled to death on the spot.” He pulled a silver flask from his pocket and poured two jiggers of brandy into his coffee. “King and country,” he toasted, and drained the mixture.
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 Ilse had seated herself in the wrought-iron chair Smuts offered her. Jürgen Luhr rose immediately to deliver the apology demanded by Horn, but before he could speak, Lord Grenville 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 Grenville.”
“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, Grenville, 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 Grenville 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.