Spandau Phoenix

  He tried to discern the subtle differences between the anatomical parts, then groaned as the outlines of two pendulous breasts emerged from the shadow of the internal organs.“It’s a bloody woman!” he cursed. Then he noticed the small radiopaque ID-plate image on the top left corner of the film. It read: Linah #004, 4-08-86. Stern unclipped the film, thrust it back into the folder and dropped it on the floor. The outside of the next folder read: Stanton, Robert B. #005. He dropped it. Smuts, Pieter #002. The next file also belonged to Smuts. After three more names he did not recognize, he returned to the storage shelves. The first folder he pulled out measured an inch thick by itself. The top-left corner read: Horn, Thomas Alfred #001.

  With shaking hands Stern removed the top film from the file and clipped it to the viewing screen. It showed two views of a hand positioned to reveal a hairline fracture that Stern couldn’t see and cared nothing about. He jerked the film from the screen and let it fall to the floor. The next three films showed a series of intestinal views enhanced by the ingestion of barium sulfate. These, too, Stern let fall. A comprehensive X-ray anthology followed: grossly arthritic knees, lumbar spine, cervical spine—Stern tossed them all onto the growing pile at his feet. Finally he found what he wanted—an X-ray of Alfred Horn’s chest. With mounting anticipation, he clipped the top edge of the film into the clamp and stepped back.

  No breasts on this film. Stern began with what he clearly recognized—the spine. The ribs climbed both sides of the spine like curved white ladders. The lungs were the dark ovals behind them. A triangular white blob overlaid the spine. The heart, thought Stern. He knew the heart to be situated slightly left of centre in the body—a fact he had learned during a silent killing course as a young man in Palestine. So the left lung should be… here. He touched the film with his right forefinger. Now…compare. Check each lung against the other until I find a discrepancy.

  He immediately found several. Opaque disks the size of small coins seemed to float like celestial bodies in the dark lung spaces. These disks were small scars left by a mild case of tuberculosis. Stern did not know this, but he soon dismissed the disks as unrelated to what he sought. The first suspicious thing he saw was a kind of widening of two rib bones at one spot in the left lung. They seemed thicker than the other ribs, more built up somehow, not quite as smooth.

  Stern had an idea. Pulling another stack of films from Horn’s folder, he rifled through them until he found what he wanted—an oblique X-ray of Horn’s chest—a picture shot from the side, with both arms held above the head. When he pinned this film to the screen, the mark he sought jumped out at him like a contrail against the sky. He swallowed hard, raised a quivering finger to the film. Crossing the dark left lung in a hazy, transverse line was the scar of a rifle bullet. A rifle bullet fired seventy-one years ago. The opaque track diffused rapidly into the surrounding shadows, but the path of the old bullet fragments was plainly visible. With his heart pounding, Stern counted downward from the collarbone to the scarred area—one rib at a time. …four …five …six …seven.”

  He switched back to the first X-ray—the posterior/anterior view—and carefully counted down again, this time searching for the ribs with the strange built-up areas. “…three …four …five …six”—Stern felt sweat dropping

  into his eyes—“seven.”

  “My God,” he murmured, feeling a catch in his throat. “Hess IS alive.” Simultaneously a voice reverberated in his brain: The bomb for Tel Aviv is real! Folding the two stiff chest X-rays in half, Stern thrust them inside his shirt between Zinoviev’s notebook and his pounding heart. He quickly gathered up the discarded films and folders from the floor, shoved them back into the shelves, then slipped quietly out of the X-ray room and into the dark hallway.

  He sprinted to the library. In the musty darkness he tripped, picked himself up, then moved carefully on toward the tall bookshelves. Feeling his way across them to the corner, he found the tiny brass knob. He turned it. He had already resolved that if he found anyone other than Hess himself inside the secret shrine room, he would kill him.

  The room was empty. Stern sat down behind the mahogany desk and breathed deeply. He wanted to slow his racing heart. Above him the bronze Phoenix screamed silently. From the wall to his left a hundred Nazis gazed at him. As Stern reached for the phone to call Hauer at the Protea Hof, he froze. Someone had been in the room since his visit.

  Across from the desk, where there had been only red drapes before, hung a gigantic oil painting—twice life-size—of Adolf Hitler. Rendered in muted greens and browns, the dictator gazed down with sullen intensity at the Jewish intruder. Someone had pulled back the drapes to admire the Führer. Gooseflesh rose on Stern’s neck. His left cheek began to twitch. After working his dry mouth furiously, the old Israeli spat a wad of mucus across the desk onto the canvas. It struck Hitler just above his groin. Stern raised his left arm, made a fist, and shook it at the portrait. “Never again!” he vowed.

  He lifted the phone.

  4.55 a.m. Protea Hof Hotel, Pretoria

  Hauer came off the bed like a fighter pilot hearing a scramble alarm. Gadi and Aaron sat half-conscious against the foyer walls; Professor Natterman lay on the opposite bed, his right thigh wrapped in gauze, his eyes half-closed from the effect of the morphine.

  “Stern?” Hauer said. “It’s him!”

  The young commandos leapt to their feet. Natterman tried to sit up, then lay back groaning.

  “Get a pen and paper,” Stern ordered. “Write down everything I tell you.”

  Hauer looked at Gadi Abrams, who stood ready to copy down every syllable he repeated. “We’re ready,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  Stern spoke in a rapid whisper. “I’m being held at a private estate in the northern Transvaal. It’s situated halfway between the Kruger National Park and a village called Giyani. Have you got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “The house belongs to a man named Thomas Alfred Horn, H-O-R-N.”

  “H-O-R-N, Thomas Alfred Horn.”

  Behind Hauer, Professor Natterman gasped. His right arm shot out and caught Hauer’s sleeve. “Captain!”

  “Hold it, Stern. The professor—”

  “What did you say?”

  Natterman croaked.” What name did he just say?”

  Gadi read from his notes. “Horn, Thomas Alfred. H-O-R-N.”

  “Mother of God. It can’t be.”

  “Go on, Stern,” Hauer said angrily. “I think the professor is hallucinating.”

  “No, he recognizes the name.”

  “He’s alive!” Natterman cried. “I was right! Hess is alive!”

  Hauer pulled away from Natterman’s grasp. “Stern, the professor’s yelling about Rudolf Hess.”

  “You can tell the old fool he was right. Rudolf Hess is alive and reasonably well. He is also quite mad.”

  Natterman clawed at Hauer. “Give me the phone, Captain!”

  Hauer held the receiver away. “Stern said to tell you that you were right, Professor. That Rudolf Hess is alive. I think you’re both mad.”

  Natterman shook his head. “Perfectly sane, Captain. I understand it all now, every wretched bit of it. Alfred Horn was the name Hess’s double gave the farmer when he first parachuted into Scotland. My God, it’s so damned obvious!”

  “Hauer!” Stern snapped, his voice strained. “Forget about Hess. We’ve got a crisis here.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Mounting a rescue along the lines we discussed is no longer an option. Whatever security forces Hess has here, they were sufficient to repel a determined attack by a force larger than yours. The stakes have gone up, Hauer, up beyond belief. Yesterday you asked me what I was after. Well, I’ve found it. Last night Frau Apfel witnessed negotiations between Hess and a group of Arabs for a nuclear weapon.”

  Hauer’s eyes met Gadi’s. The young Israeli was watching him like a cat. “I haven’t seen the weapon myself,” Stern continued, “but I have no doubt whatsoever that it
exists.”

  “What about Hans?” Hauer asked. “And Ilse. Are they still alive?”

  “They are. But if you want to see your son alive again Captain, this is what you must do. Go to the Union Building—that’s the huge government building on the hill in central Pretoria. It’s floodlit every night. On the third floor you will find the office of General Jaap Steyn, chief of the National Intelligence Service. That’s S-T-E-Y-N. Jaap Steyn is a friend to me and to Israel. Explain the situation in the way you think best, but you tell him he needs to mount an assault of sufficient strength to reduce a fortified position. You’re at least four hours away from me now, so you’ll need to move fast. And keep Hess’s name out of this altogether. From this moment on we speak only of Alfred Horn.”

  “Just a damned minute,” Hauer protested. “You think I can just waltz into the offices of South African Intelligence and demand a paramilitary operation on the basis of wild accusations? They’ll laugh me out of the building. If they don’t clap me in irons first.”

  “They’ll have no choice but to cooperate,” Stern said evenly. “My name should be sufficient to get Jaap Steyn moving, but in case it’s not, I’m going to give you some information that will ensure his cooperation. Write down every single word of this.”

  Hauer signalled Gadi to hand over the pen and paper. Stern spoke slowly. “There now exists between the Republic of South Africa and the State of Israel a secret military contingency plan called Aliyah Beth—Gadi can spell it for you later. In Hebrew, Aliyah Beth means ‘going up to Zion’. This plan mandates the clandestine removal of …”

  Hauer’s throat went dry as Stern proceeded to describe in detail the most sensitive protocol of the secret nuclear agreements between the Republic of South Africa and the State of Israel. “Is that true?” he asked, when Stern had finished.

  “Captain, with that information you will be able to blackmail General Steyn into giving you anything you want.”

  “Or force him to shoot me.”

  “No. To avoid that, leave Yosef behind at the hotel. Tell General Steyn that if you don’t check in with Yosef by telephone at prearranged times, he will forward the details of Plan Aliyah Beth to the Western press.”

  Hauer sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Stern. Yosef is dead. And Professor Natterman is wounded. Some Russians found us. We’ve got corpses piled in the bathroom like firewood.”

  “Then leave Aaron at the hotel instead,” Stern said tersely.

  “The Russians also got hold of our photos of the Spandau papers,” Hauer confessed.

  “You thick-headed Kraut!” Stern exploded. “Those rags mean nothing now! You just get those troops out here!”

  Hauer forced down his anger. “Listen, Stern, South African Intelligence isn’t going to give in to blackmail no matter what I threaten them with. German Intelligence wouldn’t.”

  “You must force them to. I’ve given you the leverage. But be careful. Horn didn’t gain access to a nuclear weapon by playing the recluse up in the Transvaal. He’s probably a key figure in their defence industries. Trust only General Steyn. His loyalty to Israel is beyond dispute. Anyone else, God only knows.”

  “Great.”

  “Oh, a tactical tip for you, Captain. There’s some type of rotary cannon on the roof here, and there could be any number of other surprises as well. Bring enough firepower to flatten this place if you have to. Now, could I speak to Gadi for a moment?”

  Hauer handed over the receiver.

  “Yes, Uncle?”

  “Listen to me, Gadi. Captain Hauer is going to give you my instructions. I want you to listen to him as if he were me. Do you understand? On this mission Hauer will be in command.” Gadi clenched the phone tighter. “I know it won’t be easy taking orders from a German, but I believe Hauer is the man to carry this through.”

  Gadi ground his teeth. “I understand, Uncle.”

  “Good. Because we are dealing with a nuclear weapon here, Gadi, possibly more than one. And it is targeted at Israel. At Tel Aviv, maybe Jerusalem.”

  Gadi felt his face grow hot.

  “The other crazy thing you heard is also true. Rudolf Hess is alive. If there is any way possible, I mean to get him away from here and take him back to Israel for trial. But if I can’t—or if for any reason you and Hauer cannot raise enough force to take this house—I will locate the weapon and try to detonate it.”

  Gadi felt his heart stop. “No, Uncle—”

  “I’ll have no choice, Gadi. Anything could happen before you get here. If you get here at all. It’s like the Osiraq reactor in Iraq, only a hundred times worse. Do you understand?”

  Gadi wiped the sweat from his forehead. “God in Heaven.”

  “Once you get within a few miles of here, you and every man with you will be within the blast radius.”

  “No one else will know,” Gadi said in Hebrew.

  “Good boy. There’s one more thing. Once you learn the exact coordinates of Horn House, I want you to call Tel Aviv and ask for Major-General Gur. Explain the situation, give him the coordinates, then say ‘Revelation’. That’s the IAF crisis code for imminent nuclear emergency. I doubt Jerusalem would give clearance for a raid here, but it’s worth a try. If we fail, perhaps the air force will make an attempt. Now, Gadi, I must go. It’s time to become the professor again. I hope to see you soon, my boy. Shalom.”

  Gadi swallowed. “Shalom, Uncle.”

  Stern disconnected.

  Hauer stared suspiciously at Gadi for a few moments, but he decided not to press. He shoved his Walther into his belt. “Let’s go blackmail some spies,” he said.

  Separated from Jonas Stern by one thin wall, Lieutenant Jürgen Luhr held the silent telephone to his ear. Luhr had been unable to sleep after the exhilaration of the battle, and his wanderings through Horn House had eventually led him to Alfred Horn’s study. He’d been standing by the shattered picture window through which Ilse had blasted Lord Grenville when he’d seen a yellow light flashing on Horn’s desk. Hesitating but a moment, he had lifted the receiver and overheard the final few seconds of Stern’s conversation with Gadi. Now he stood still as stone, trying to comprehend what he had heard. It seemed impossible. Apparently Professor Natterman—or the Jew claiming to be Professor Natterman!—had made a call from somewhere inside this house. But to whom? From the little he’d heard, Luhr could not be sure.

  He would have suspected Dieter Hauer, but he’d heard the swine on the other end of the phone speak Hebrew, and Hauer wasn’t a Jew. Luhr was sure of one thing. Alfred Horn and his Afrikaner security chief would be very grateful to the man who informed them not only that they had a Zionist spy in their midst, but that they might soon be the target of an Israeli air strike! With his pulse racing, Luhr dashed into the hall to rouse the house.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  5.20 a.m. Horn House

  They came for Jonas Stern as the Gestapo had come for his father in Germany. Four heavy-booted soldiers burst through the door with pistols drawn and snapped on the overhead light, shouting at the top of their lungs: “Up Juden! Up! Schnell!

  The sudden light blinded Stern, for he had been lying fully clothed in the darkness. He leaped from the bed with his broken fork raised, but the click of pistol slides made him freeze where he stood. There was only one explanation for this. The worst had happened. Somehow, on the same night he had discovered that Alfred Horn was not who he pretended to be, Alfred Horn had discovered the same thing about him.

  Powerful hands seized Stern’s arms and lifted him off his feet. The soldiers—their khaki uniforms now replaced by Wehrmacht gray—frog-marched him into the corridor and hustled him along at the double. When Stern glanced up, he saw the cold black eye of a pistol barrel. Above it hovered the face of Pieter Smuts.

  “Where are you taking me?” asked Stern.

  “Where do you think, Jew?” the Afrikaner jeered, walking backward. “To see the Führer!”

  Stern stared across the mahogany desk with a lump in his thr
oat. Ghostlike and gray, the old man who called himself Alfred Horn sat hunched in his wheelchair, an expression of bemusement on his deeply lined face. As Stern stared, he felt a sudden stab of doubt. Concealed in his shirt were the X-rays that he believed would prove beyond doubt that Alfred Horn was Rudolf Hess. And yet … the old man sitting across from him no longer looked quite as he had before. Now, instead of a glass eye, Horn wore an eyepatch.

  All Stern could think of was Zinoviev’s description of Helmut Steuer: Helmut had worn an eyepatch. Had Helmut Steuer survived his mission after all? Was Rudolf Hess really dead? Had Helmut somehow managed to hunt down Hess’s X-rays to conceal the truth? Or had both men survived? Could it be that Hess had lived for a time as Alfred Horn, and then, after he died, Helmut had quite naturally taken over the false identity?

  Whatever his true identity, the old man sitting across from Stern was not wearing the plain khaki uniform Rudolf Hess had worn as Deputy Führer of the Reich. He was wearing a gray suit jacket much like the one Adolf Hitler had worn as Supreme Commander of German Armed Forces. And suspended around his neck was the Grand Cross, Nazi Germany’s highest military award. To Stern’s knowledge, Rudolf Hess had never won that decoration.

  Pieter Smuts stood rigid behind his master, eyes smouldering, mouth set in a grim line. Above him reared the bronze Phoenix; directly behind, the maps from which Stern had copied the coordinates he’d given Hauer. Stern sensed the soldiers standing behind him.

  “We seem to have a problem of mistaken identity,” Horn said. “Would you care to enlighten us, Herr Professor?”

  Stern stood still as a pillar of salt.

  Smuts nodded. One of the soldiers behind Stern smashed a savage fist into his right kidney. Stern crumpled, but managed to stay on his feet. As he straightened up, the two X-rays he had stolen from the medical unit made a crackling sound. Smuts came around the desk, ripped Stern’s shirt open and jerked out the films. He handed them to Horn; who held them up to his desk lamp and clucked his tongue softly.