Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

tube well.

In spite of this luck, Burton was angry. The man who had contracted for

his services had led him to believe that his companions on this mission

would know what they were about. They did not. Burton was the only man

in the entire unit who knew this part of Africa, and, excepting the

pilots, he was the only professional of the lot. The Cubans were all

right, but there were only two of them-the pilots. The sloppiness of

the Colombians was appalling. Burton considered them a rabble-no better

than d bandits. From his first contact with them, serious doubts about

the mission had begun to eat at his confidence.

He lit a Gauloise and cursed the luck that had forced him to work under

these circumstances. The company stank, but what could he do?

He wasn't complaining about the money-the Colombian paid cash on the

barrel head and lots of it. The Cuban pilots were getting six thousand

in flight pay, plus salary, and Burton's bonus was twice that.

But he had not taken this assignment for the money. He had taken it for

The Deal. The Deal was a mysterious and wondrous arrangement of a kind

he had never before heard-a solemn pact between a government and an

exiled mercenary.

The price to be paid was not money, but a treasure that only one

government in the world could pay. Burton didn't like to think about

The Deal too much, for fear it would evaporate like every other precious

hope in his life. Only in a few unguarded moments, on the foredeck at

dawn watching the sea, had he caught himself thinking of green hills, of

an old stone cottage, the smell of hothouse orchids, and sharing a pint

with a man much like himself. At those times he would angrily push the

visions from his mind.

He had enough to worry about. He worried what would happen if the

Cubans discovered what lay inside one of the elongated boxes labelled

RPG. Two million rand in gold was enough money to tempt even a man of

Burton's high professional standards, and he doubted the Cuban pilots

had any such pretensions. Strangely,'the Colombians didn't worry him on

that score. They would know enou h about the price I 9

of betraying their master to keep clear of such temptations.

But their lack of combat experience did worry him. He'd heard them

boasting about violent shootouts in and around Medellfn, but such

hooliganism hardly qualified them to face the kind of opposition they

were likely to meet in Africa.

They'll find out soon enough, he thought bitterly.

Burton expected a message today, relaying the latest situation from the

target. There was supposedly an informer in side the target-an

Englishman, no less-which Burton found very interesting. At least he

isn't a bloody Colombian, he thought. Burton hoped the strike order

would come today.

He was ready to get off the goddamn ship.

As he smoked beneath the blue wheelhouse awning, a thin, deeply tanned

man emerged from a hatch in the afterdeck and walked over to the

helicopters. it was one of the Cuban pilots-a bright-eyed youngster

named Diazchecking the moorings of the choppers. Spying Burton, he made

an O.K. signal with his thumb and forefinger, then disappeared back down

the hatch.

Burton flipped his Gauloise over the side rail and walked out to the

helicopters. Maybe a few of them know what they're about after all, he

thought. Maybe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

6.55 Pm. Horn House: The Northern Transvaal The Learjet appeared low in

the east, a fiery arrow hurtling down the vast African sky. The dying

sun glittered on the metal-skinned apparition as it settled onto the

freshly laid asphalt runway. It taxied to the short apron, then turned

slowly until it faced back up the strip, shimmering like a bird of prey

next to Horn's helicopter.

A khaki-colored Range Rover Uundled out to meet the plane. Pieter

Smuts, dressed impeccably as a major of the South African Reserve,

stepped from the driver's seat. He stood at attention, waiting for the

Lear's short staircase to drop to the tarmac. He noticed that the

aircraft bore no corporate or national insignia, only numbers painted

across the gracefully swept tail fin.

When the jet's door finally opened, two dark-skinned Arabs stepped out.

Each carried an automatic weapon that, from where Smuts stood, appeared

to be the Israeli Uzi.

Hats off to the competition, he thought dryly. The bodyguards made a

great show of checking the area for potential threats. Then one of them

barked some Arabic through the open hatchway. Smuts marched smartly

toward the bottom of the staircase.

Four Arabs filed out of the aircraft and down the steps.

Two wore flowing robes and sandals, two wore Western business suits.

Smuts greeted the shorter of the two robed Arabs.

"Mr. Prime Minister?"

"Yes. Greetings, Mr.-?"

"Smuts, sir. Pieter Smuts, at your service. If you gentlemen will

follow me into the vehicle, please."

The taller of the two robed Arabs-a man with pie] black eyes and a

desert chieftain's mustache-surveyed the vast expanse of grass and scrub

around them, then smiled.

"This is not so different from our own country," he said.

The other Arabs laughed and nodded.

"Now," he said, "let us go to meet the man we have come to see."

Smuts led them to the Rover.

When they reached the main entrance of Horn House, all the

servants-medical staff excluded-stood outside awaiting their arrival.

This favorably impressed the Arabs, who walked disdainfully past the

white-clad line and into the great marble reception hall. Almost

immediately a low whirnng sound drew their attention to the far side of

the high-ceilinged room. A section of the wall slid swiftly back,

revealing Alfi-ed Horn sitting in his wheelchair inside a twometer wide

cubicle. On his gaunt body, the black suit and tie he wore gave him a

rather funereal air. But something else about him had changed. The

artificial eye was gone. Tonight Horn wore a black eyepatch in its

place. Combined with the wheelchair, the eyepatch gave the wizened old

man the quiet dignity of a battle-scarred war veteran.

"Guten Abend, gentlemen," he rasped. "Would you join me in the

elevator, please?"

The elevator Horn occupied led down to a basement complex one hundred

meters below the house. Only from this basement could one reach a

second elevator that led up into the observatory tower of Horn House.

When it became obvious that only four could fit comfortably into the

elevator with the wheelchair, he ordered Smuts to wait with the Arab

bodyguards.

"We'll see you in a few minutes, sir," Smuts said.

By the time the Afrikaner's party arrived at the secondfloor conference

room, Horn and his Arab guests were already seated around a great round

table of polished Rhodesian teak. A large aluminum briefcase lay closed

on the table before one of the business-suited Arabs. Linah had brought

up chilled Perrier. Prime Minister Jalloud turned to the door and

softly addressed one of the bodyguards.

"Malahim, we feel quite secure in Herr Horn's care. We wish you to wait

downstairs for us. The housekeeper will give you refreshments."

The bodyguard melted away from the door. Smuts closed the door, locked

it, then stood at attention beside it.

"Herr Horn," Prime Minister Jalloud said uncomfortably, "Our Esteemed

Leader has asked us to obtain your pennission to make a video recording

of this negotiation, so that he may witness what transpires here