Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

fifty years ago?"

"Nations have very long memories," Horn said.

"What happened to Rudolf Hess?" Ilse suddenly asked.

,The real Hess."

"He died," Horn said. "In Resistencia, Paraguay, in 1947.

I knew him well, and he died a bitter man, less than two years after his

beloved Fuhrer."

"Beloved?" Ilse echoed, horrified. "But the man in Spandau-who was

he?"

"No one," Horn said. "Anyone. The poor fool was part of a failed

gambit in foreign policy, that's all. But the result of that failure

was that he had to remain in prisons Hess for the rest of his life.

That is all in the past.

Unfortunately, your husband reopened this sticky little case, and now it

must be closed again. For me it is a small annoyance, but one cannot

ignore details. 'For want of a nail . . .' "

" 'For want of a nail,' " Ilse said thoughtfully, " 'the kingdom was

lost.' What is the 'kingdom' in this case?"

Horn smiled. "My company, of course. Phoenix AG."

Ilse looked thoughtful. "I don't recall seeing that name listed on any

stock exchange."

"I'm sure you don't. It's a private holding company. If I were to

furnish you with a list of my worldwide subsidiaries, however, I'm sure

you would recognize quite a few."

Smuts smiled at Horn's understatement.

Ilse was genuinely curious. "So you're multinational, then. How big

are you? Two, three hundred million in revenues?"

The young Englishman snickered.

"Three hundred million in assets," Horn corrected softly.

Ilse stared, incredulous. "But that would put your revenues at over a

billion dollars."

There was silence until Horn gracefully resumed the conversation.

"I see you have a keen interest in business. Why don't we excuse Pieter

and Lord Granville? You and I can continue our discussion without

boring them. Gentlemen?"

"But I find this discussion extremely interesting," the Englishman

protested.

"Nevertheless, " Horn said icily.

"How about some billiards, Smuts?" the Englishman asked gamely, trying

to preserve some illusion of free will.

Horn's stare commanded the reluctant Afrikaner to accept the invitation.

"Don't suppose I'd mind taking a few rand off you," Smuts said,

chuckling. He had a brittle laugh, like a man who finds humor only at

others' expense. He gave Horn a shallow bow as they went out.

"That man seems quite devoted to you," Ilse observed.

"Herr Smuts is my chief of security. His loyalty is absolute."

"Are you in danger?"

Horn smiled. "A man in my position makes enemies, Frau Apfel."

Suddenly Ilse's eyes glistened with moisture. The plea she had pressed

down deep in her heart welled up into her throat at last. "Sir, please,

isn't there some way that you could give my husband? He meant no harm!

If you only ew him, you would see-"

"Frau Apfel! Control yourself! We will not discuss the matter again

until your husband arrives. At that time I shall decide what is to be

done-not before. Is that clear?"

Ilse wiped her eyes with her linen napkin. "Yes ... yes, I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be sorry. Women are at the mercy of their emotions;

it's their biological flaw. If it weren't for that regrettable fact,

who knows what they might have aceomplished throughout history."

Ilse remained silent. She saw nothing to be gained by antagonizing her

captor further.

"Frau Apfel," Horn said, "the reason I excused the others was to invite

you to attend a business meeting with me tomorrow evening. :rhe

gentlemen I'm meeting have a rather medieval attitude toward your sex,

I'm afraid, so you would have to pose as my secretary. But I'm certain

you would find the negotiations extremely interesting." Horn raised his

chin.

"It will be the first meeting of its kind in history."

"It sounds bmin6us," Ilse said, trying to regain her composure.

"Let us say 'momentous' instead. It's only business, after all.

I'm sure the experience would prove invaluable to a young woman who

plans a career in the world of finance."

In spite of her perilous situation@r perhaps because of it-Ilse accepted

the invitation.

"Linah?" Horn called.

The tall Bantu woman appeared instantly.

"Escort Frau Apfel to the billiards room."

Ilse rose to go.

"And Frau Apfel," Horn said, "would you ask Pieter to join me when he

has finished his game?"

Ilse nodded.

"You won't see me until tomorrow afternoon, possibly not until tomorrow

evening. Pieter will show you around the estate in the morning. Certain

rooms are locked, but you have the run of the house and grounds

otherwise. Please refrain from using the telephone until the matter of

the papers has been resolved."

With the touch of a button Horn wheeled his chair around the table.

"May I see your hand?"

Puzzled, Ilse slowly extended her hand. Before she knew what was

happening, the wizened old man had bent his head and lightly kissed it.

She felt a sudden chill, but whether from physical revulsion or some

deeper fear, she could not tell.

"I apologize for the young Englishman's rudeness," Horn said. "I

shouldn't tolerate it, but his grandfather and I worked together during

the war." Horn smiled wistfully.

"His grandfather was a very special man, and I feel some responsibility

for his their. Gute Nacht, my dear."

The tall Bantu housekeeper took Ilse's elbow and led her into the hall,

where she let Ilse take the lead. Ilse had the feeling that the woman's

arm was but a fraction of an inch behind her own, ready to seize her if

necessary. The long.

hall opened into a large gallery, which in turn gave onto two more

beyond, each great room joined by means of a wide arch. Ilse gasped.

As far as she could see, the walls were lined with paintings. She knew

a little about art, but the works she saw in the first room required no

training to appreciate. The strokes of the great masters speak to a

part of the psyche deeper than thought, and these were no reproductions.

Each canvas glowed with immanent passion; Ilse's eyes danced from

painting to painting in wonder.

"My God," she murmured. "Where are we?"

Linah caught hold of Ilse's arm and tugged her along like an awestruck

child. Even the marble floors bore their share of the treasure.

Classical sculptures, some over twelve feet high, rose like marble

ghosts from pedestals in the center of each room. Ilse noticed that no

work in any of the rooms seemed modern. Nothing had the asymmetrical

distortions of Picasso, the geometric puzzles of Mondrian, or the

radically commonplace ugliness of the "sculpture" so common in Berlin

office parks. Everything was soft, romantic, inwardpulling.

Had she not been so stunned, she might have noticed that all the oh .

ets d'art-pgyptian and Greek sculpture, paintings from Holland, Belgium,

and France-had come from countries plundered behind the merciless boot

of the Wehrmacht during the 'thirties and 'forties. But she didn't

notice. She simply stared until the dazzling exhibition ended and she

found herself in the dark, wood-paneled billiards room where Pieter

Smuts and the young Englishman had finished their second game.

"Well, take your bloody winnings!" Lord Gren, snapped.

"Don't mind if I do," Smuts retorted, grinning. He pocketed the crisp

fifty-pound note that the Englishman handed over as casually as a

wrinkled fiver.

"Herr Smuts?" Ilse said. "Herr Horn wishes you to join him."

The Afrikaner's smile faded as he hurried into the hallway.