Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

Glancing across the aisle for the first time in several minutes, Stern

saw that his three young companions had awakened. They were listening

wide-eyed, like children around a campfire. The Haganah years Stern had

spoken of resonated like myths in the hearts of the young sabres, and

they stared at him like a hero of another age.

Beyond that, they now knew something about their mission. They %yere to

be given the chance of a lifetime-the chance to strike back through the

pages of history-to punish men who had never been justly punished-men

who had tried to make the State of Israel a stillborn nation! Stern's

commandos were lean and hard in body and spirit, and from that moment on

they were as soldiers in a holy war.

Four rows ahead of them, another soldier also awaited her chance to

strike. As the El Al jetliner soared southward through the glorious

vault of sky, the woman code-named Swallow reveled in the knowledge that

she could destroy Jonas Stern right now.

Stern had the least part of the Spandau diary, but what did she care for

papers? If she killed Stern here, of course, she would die.

She thought of Sir Neville Shaw, the nerveless director general of mI-5.

She certainly felt no loyalty to that old serpent. Shaw and men like

him had used her ruthlessly throughout her career, wielding her like a

razor-sharp sword, all the while ignoring her quest for private justice.

But what of England, that hazy, increasingly obsolete concept? In spite

of her coldness, Swallow had always possessed a strong, rather maudlin

streak of patriotism.

Was preserving British honor worth deferring her sweet revenge for one

more day? Professor Natterman had spoken of ghosts from the past.

Swallow knew that once she unmasked herself-today, tomorrow,

whenever-she would be one ghost that Jonas Stern would be very surprised

to see.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

11.40 A.M. PrOtOri8

More than fifty knives of all types gleamed inside the brightly lit

display case. Hauer leaned over until his nose touched the glass.

This immediately drew the attention of a nearby salesman, a freckled,

red-haired man of about "Any particular style you're looking for, sir?"

he asked in a British accent. ,Are you looking for a souvenir, or might

you be doing some hunting with it?"

"Good point," Hauer said in English. "Could be doing some hunting.

Still, we don't want anythingtoo big. Quality, that's the thing."

"Of course, sir. I believe I've got just what you need."

When the young man moved down the row of display cases, Hans leaned

close to Hauer. "What about a gun?" he whispered.

Hauer didn't reply. This was their fifth stop of the day, and he was

beginning to feel overexposed. After checking into the Burgerspark

Hotel and changing their Deutsche marks for rand, they had slipped out

the rear entrance of the hotel and into their taxi. They clung to the

amuests Of the Ford while Salil made short work of their British tall

car.

The loquacious Indian had shepherded them around the city while they

purchased several changes of clothes and enough food to last two days

without leaving whatever hotel room they finally settled into.

Salil had also recommended the large sporting goods store.

"Here you are, sir," the salesman said, proudly holding out a sleek

six-inch knife for Hauer's inspection- e Hauer took the weapon and

turned it in the light. H halted it in his palm, feeling the balance.

The knife had a plain varnished handle-not nearly so ornate as the

engraved showpieces glinting in the display case-but Hauer's approval

was evident.

"I see you know your knives, sir," said the salesman.

"Made in West Gen-nany that was. Solingen steel, finest in the world."

Hauer flicked the knife back and forth with practiced ease.

"We'll take two."

The salesman's smile broadened. Already these two tourists had

purchased an expensive hunting rifle, scope, and a Nikon camera with

mini-tripod and hand-held light meter. "I notice your accent, sir," he

said with a sidelong glance at Hans. "German, are you?"

"Swiss," Hauer said quickly.

"Ah." The salesman realized he had asked the wrong question.

"I'll just wrap these for you." After another long look at Hans, he

disappeared through a narrow doorway behind the counter.

"Why does he keep staring at you?" Hauer muttered. "Is he queer?"

"He thinks I'm a goddamn tennis star."

After a moment, Hauer nodded with reliel "What about guns?" Hans asked

again. "The rendezvousis tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Hans, if the kidnappers are smart-and so far they have been-they'll

just sniff you out tonight. You didn't take the' plane they told you

to. That will put them off balance. For all they know, a hundred

Interpol agents are going to descend on the Burgerspark Hotel tonight.

No, they'll either send a drone or telephone you with further

instructions. My, guess is they'll call."

Hans looked far from satisfied. "I'd feel a lot better if I had a

pistol, and there are dozens right in that case."

"True," Hauer acknowledged. "But I don't see any silencers, do you? We

can't go around Pretoria firing off pistols.

Our badges are worthless here. Plus, I don't want to subject our papers

to even a cursory background check."

While Hans sulked, Hauer glanced around the store. "All right," he said

resignedly. "You see that rack over there?" He pointed across the

store to a large display of hunting bows.

Hans nodded.

"Go over and tell that salesman you want the smallest crossbow he has

with a seventy-pound draw, and six of I sharpest bolts he has." Hauer

pulled a wad of bills from his trousers pocket and peeled off four

hundred rand.

Still looking longingly at the gun case, Hans took the money.

"Here you are, gentlemen." The salesman had reappeared in the doorway

with a small brown-wrapped parcel. "That comes to, ah . . ."

He trailed off, looking past Hauer.

Hauer turned and followed his gaze. The salesman was staring at Hans,

who now stood with his hands on his hips, scrutinizing a rack of

expensive tennis racquets with an expert's disdainftil eye.

The salesman cleared his throat. "Could I show you something else, er

... sir?"

Hans continued to stare silently at the racquets.

The salesman reached out timidly and touched Hauer's sleeve.

"Pardon me, sir, but isn't he ... ?"

Slowly Hans turned to the salesman and smiled the confiding, slightly

embarrassed smile celebrities use when they would prefer that no one

make a fuss over them. "Could I possibly see a few racquets?"-he asked.

"Estusas? Preferably the N100O."

The salesman almost tripped over his feet in his haste to get around the

counter. "Why certainly, sir. I am at your complete disposal." He

blushed. "I'm a terrific fan, you know. We have just the racquet you

want, and I'm positive that a very agreeable discount could be arranged

-' ' " As the gushing salesman led his prize across the store, Hans

looked back over his shoulder and glared pointedly at Hauer, then at the

gun case, talking all the way. "Normally my racquets are supplied

directly from the factory," he explained, "but the stupid airline put my

bag aboard the wrong plane .

Stunned by Hans's boldness, Hauer took 9;ie look around the store for

surveillance cameras, slipped quickly behind the gun case, dropped to

his knees and went to work on the

lock.

When Hans stepped out of the store twenty minutes later, he saw Hauer