Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

the simplest mysteries" could be solved by reasoning out explanation for

any event. But this mystery-he had felt from the beginning-fell into

the 1 percent category.

ain international Airport 10.29 A.M. Frankfort Twelfth Department agent

Yuri Borodin sat eating a Wienerschnitzel in the large restaurant

overlooking the main runway of Flughafen Frankfurt. Every two minutes a

huge jet would swoop down from left to right across the giant picture

window and settle silently onto the tarmac. Borodin had seen everything

from Japan Airlines 747s to Aeroflot airliners to U.S. Air Force C-130s.

To the right of Borodin's Wienerschnitzel lay a red file a half inch

thick. It contained a concise summation of the KGB file on Rudolf Hess,

a multivolume collection of data amassed over fifty years.

A courier from Moscow had delivered the file to Borodin at the Frankfurt

Airport - Sheraton thirty minutes ago.

Borodin had scanned its contents with only desultory interest.

The file described a convoluted plot to kill the British heads of state

during World War Two, a plot involving highranking British Nazi

sympathizers, the British royal family, and a British communist cadre

manipulated by a tsarist Russian named Zinoviev and a young German agent

named Helmut Steuer. It told of the KGB's certainty that Spandau's

Prisoner Number Seven was not Rudolf Hess but his wartime double, and of

that double's murder just five weeks ago. KGB Chairman Zemenek stated

his belief that the killing had been done by an assassin paid by Sir

Neville Shaw of Britain's mI-5. Borodin admired the nerve and

resourcefulness shown by Vasili Zinoviev and Helmut Steuer, but the rest

of the story essentially bored him.

Except for the part about the blackmail. When Borodin saw how Churchill

had forced Joseph Stalin to keep silent about the Hess affair, he had

come instantly alert. Because he saw then how important the recently

discovered Spandau papers could be to KGB Chairman Zemenek. The Spandau

papers could conceivably clear the way for the Kremlin to tell the world

what it knew about British collaboration with the Nazis during the war,

and thus force them to share responsibility for the Holocaust. Borodin

also saw that if he were the man who recovered those papers, his already

advanced career would take a critical leap forward.

He had only one problem. At the end of the Hess file he had found a

message inserted by the chairman of the KGB.

It said: Borodin: General Secretary Gorbachev currently exploring

possibility of collaborating with U.S. State Department regarding joint

disclosure of the truth about Hess's mission. Do nothing to antagonize

any U.S. operatives you may encounter in pursuit of the Spandau papers.

British operatives fair game.

Zemenek Yuri Borodin wiped his mouth with his napkin, shoved his empty

plate aside, and pulled the file to him. He reread Chairman Zemenek's

note. At this point, he reflected, another agent in his position might

have trouble digesting the meal, since less than eighteen hours ago he

had tortured and executed an American Army Intelligence major. But

Borodin wasn't worried. The Hess file had told him one thing: if he

returned to Moscow with the Spandau papers, no one would ask whom he had

killed to get them.

He glanced at his watch. The next flight to South Africa took off in

just under four hours. Borodin chuckled. The big German.Kripo

detective had not arrived from Berlin yet, but he would, with

predictable German punctuality. And then he would lead Yuri Borodin to

the Spandau papers like an elephant leading a lion to water.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

n rsgo ll.-35 A.m. El Al Flight 331: Zoirea Al co The deadliest woman in

the world stepped out of the forward lavatory of the 747

looking like a grandmother on holiday, a role she assumed with ease.

Swallow's stylish outfit reflected modest wealth; her hair shone with

the almost-blue tint unique to elderly ladies still courting their

vanity; and she smelled of body powder and a very expensive vintage

perfume-an alluring concoction called Claire de Lune. She carefully

made her way up the first-class aisle, then, just as she passed Jonas

Stern, she stumbled. She cried out in Yiddish-a nice touch-and landed

directly beside Stern's seat. Gadi Abrams, who'd been sitting in the

seat across the aisle, leaped up and helped her to her feet.

"Thank you, young man," she said weakly, her face flushed with

embarrassment. "I'm afraid I'm not used to airplanes."

Stern glanced up. Had he met the woman's eyes, he might have seen the

danger; he might even have recognized her by the dark fire that burned

there. But he might not have. The road that had led Swallow to this

airplane was a long and tortuous one. In any case, he did not meet her

eyes. He glanced over at Professor Natterman, . who slept noisily

beside him, then went back to reading his El Al magazine.

"This flight seems as though it will never end," SwaHow complained.

4.ltls a long one," Gadi agreed.

"How much longer, do you think?"

"About five hours."

Swallow sighed. "It's worth it in spite of everything. My

granddaughter just turned eighteen months old, and I've yi to see her."

"She lives in JohannesburgT' Gadi inquired politely.

"No, Pietersburg. It's far to the north, I think."

Gadi nodded. "Are you all right now?"

"Yes, but I'd better sit down. Thank you again."

Swallow slowly made her way to her seat, one of three near the spiral

staircase leading up to the 747's cocktail lounge. After situating a

small pillow behind her head, she pulled a romance novel from her

handbag. Glancing up for a moment, she caught Gadi staring.

The Israelis were professionals-she had to admit that. Though Jonas

Stern sat only four rows behind her, his three young escorts had

surrounded him in a protective triangle. And with Stern in an aisle

seat, no one meaning harm to his slumbering companion could get to him

without going through all four Israelis first-an impossible task. Stern

himself, however, was a different matter. Swallow could have taken him

as she passed only moments ago.

In a way she had. While Gadi helped her up, she had pressed an

adhesive-barked microtransmitter against the underside of Stern's seat.

Everything the Israelis said during the remainder of the flight would be

pick@d up by a tiny receiver in the flesh-toned hearing aid she wore in

her right ear. The unit whistled for a few seconds as she dialed in the

frequency, but she could clearly hear Professor Natterman snoring in his

seat by the window.

"This is Captain Lev Ronen," announced a disembodied voice with the

accent of a Sabra, or native-born Israeli. "As a point of interest, we

are now crossing the equator. And about four hundred miles to our left

is Lake Victoria, Africa's largest lake and the source of the Nile. I'm

sure our first-time travelers will be glad to know that as we cross into

the southern hemisphere, the seasons are reversed. That means we're

flying into summer. We should arrive in Johannesburg on schedule at

5:40 Pm. South African time, and we hope everyone is having a pleasant

flight."

Gadi Abrams leaned across the aisle toward Stern. "Also about four

hundred miles to our left," he said, mocking the if, lo rth captain's o

icious tone, ,is Entebbe, site of the July u , 1976, rescue of-over a

hundred Israelis from the hands of international terrorists." His tone