Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

it might be?" he asked calmly.

"Yes, sir. I believe they are British agents. They've been with us

since the airport."

Hauer heard a sharp intake of breath as Hans slid down in his seat. "And

how would you know that?" he asked.

"I saw many British agents in India," Salil explained.

"I've seen that car at the airport many times before. The young man

driving it, though, I have not."

Hauer rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. Hans tried to turn around,

but Hauer restrained him. "I've changed my mind, driver," he said.

"We'll check into the Burgerspark after all."

"Very good, sir."

Hans opened his mouth to protest, but Hauer whispered: "There's already

a room there in your name. We might as well let the kidnappers think

you're really staying there.

"Driver?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Could you lose that car after we check into the Burgerspark? I'd make

it worth your trouble."

"Certainly, sir!" the Indian replied, foreseeing a very good tip

indeed. "You are in most excellent hands!"

'The taxi climbed from the airport road onto the northbound side of

Highway 21-the left side of the road, Hauer noticed, as in England-where

a few lorries rumbled languidly toward Pretoria. Hauer wondered what he

and Hans would find in the capital city. Had Ilse Apfel really been

brought there? Or did she still wait somewhere back in snowbound

Berlin? Was she still alive? The professional in Hauer doubted it, but

some deeper part of him still held out hope. For Hans's sake, he

supposed. He flattened his palm against the taxi's window and felt the

heat. Strange, this sudden change of seasons, he thought. But he liked

it. He felt good, and he knew he would feel even better once he'd met

the enemy face to face.

"Thirty minutes to Pretoria, sir," Salil sang out.

"No hurry," Hauer lied, watching Hans carefully. "No hurry at all."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

2.'45 A.m. The Northern Transvaal.

The Republic of South Africa Ilse awakened slowly, like a diver fighting

to the surface of a deep black lake. Finally aware, she found herself

in a bed, tucked beneath cotton bedcovers. She was naked.

Tacky residue from the tape that had bound her on the jet made the

sheets stick to her skin. She tried to remember how she had lost her

clothes, but could not. Her eyes darted around the room. The bedroom

was sparsely but expensively furnished: an antique bureau, a chair, an

end table, and the bed. No windows, just two doors-one half-open and

leading to a bathroom, the other closed. No telephone. Nothing offered

any clue as to where she was or what lay beyond the four walls.

Wrapping the blanket tight around her, she climbed out of the bed and

tried the closed door. It was locked. A moment later she found the

note. It lay on the teak bureau, weighted by a silver hand mirror.

Written in German on a small white card were the words: Frau Apfel,

Welcome to Horn House. Please make Yourself presentable. All will be

made clear at dinner Alfred Horn When Ilse saw her face reflected in the

hand mirror, she put a quivering finger to her cheek.

Her fine blond hair hung in lank, dirty strands, and her usually

luminous eyes looked gray and opaque beneath swollen lids. The shock of

seeing herself in such a state drove her into the adjoining bathroom.

Standing before a long mirror, she dropped the blanket from her

shoulders and saw the welts left by the tape. Her neck, wrists, and

ankles bore the angry red marks. Sudden panic wriggled in her chest;

gooseflesh rose like quills on her arms and thighs. There were other

marks too: deep blue bruises mottling her breasts and thighs. they

reminded Ilse of the times when she and Hans had made love mo rougmy,

except ... this was different somehow. She looked as though she had

been fighting someone. Had she-?

Oh God, she thought wildly, suddenly remembering. The lieutenant!

The arrogant animal who had exposed himself to her on the plane!

He had drugged her! Ilse remembered the needle lancing into her

immobilized arm. The possibility that she had been raped while

unconscious hit her in a hot, nauseous wave. Barely able to keep her

balance, she stumbled into the shower and cranked on the hot water until

it @early scalded. She scrubbed her skin raw while the steaming spray

obliterated her tears. Where was she? She had been airborne for a long

time, she knew that. Her entire body ached. she felt as though she had

slept thirty hours Or more. She vaguely remembered the plane touching

down-a jarring bump followed by murmured voices She did not

understand-but it had lifted off again and she'd slipped back into a

black void.

Rather than feel the hot water drain away slowly, Ilse shut it off

altogether and let the frigid spray shock her back to reality. She

screamed once, twice, but endured the icy torrent until her head pounded

from the cold. Shutting it off at last, she wrapped one towel around

her waist and used another to dry her hair.

In the bureau drawer she found some lotion, which she applied liberally

to her swollen wrists and ankles. The air in the bedroom felt strangely

warm. She let the towel fall and reached for her clothes, then with a

start remembered that she had none. As she bent to retrieve her towel,

she caught her reflection in a dressing mirror.

Straightening up, she stared at her belly, drawn taut and flat from lack

of food.

With her forefinger she traced a line from her pubic triangle to her

navel. How long? she wondered. How long before You begin to show,

little one? A sftwge serenity slOwlY warmed Ilse,s heart. In spite of

the desperate situation, she felt a powerful conviction that she had but

one obligation now-to survive. Not for herself, but for her child. And

with this realization came a resolution: no matter what horrors or indig

nines she might face in the next hours or days, she would not act in any

way that might cause her harm. Not even she wanted to die.

Because harm done to her would be harm done to her baby, and that was

simply unacceptable. She still felt nauseated, which was surprising

because so far she had not experienced any morning sickness.

Then with a shiver she again recalled the needle on the plane. Oh no,

she thought dizzily, her mouth suddenly dry. Could the drug have hurt

my baby-?

Without warning, the bedroom door banged open. Ilse froze in terror.

Looming in the doorway stood a black woman who appeared to be at least

six feet tall. She could have been thirty or sixty; her ebony skin was

smooth, but her deep eyes glowed like ancient onyx stones.

"Madam will dress," she said in stilted German. She stepped forward and

set a soft bundle on the edge of the bed.

Ilse recognized the bundle as her clothes. They had been washed and

neatly folded. "Where am I?" she asked. "What day is this?"

"Madam will dress, please," the woman repeated in a deep, resonant

voice. She pointed to the small end table by, the bed. "It is nearly

three of the clock. I come in one quarter of the hour. Dinner then."

Before Ilse could speak again, the giant black woman, f@ slipped out and

shut the door. Ilse sprang forward, but the doorknob would not turn.

Alone again, she fought back another wave of tears and reached for her

clothes.

Alfred Horn sat in his wheelchair in the study, his hunched back to a

low fire. He watched his Afrikaner security chief put down a red

telephone. "Well, Pieter?"