Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

Horn smiled thinly. "Far more dangerous. There is always the chance

that some unscrupulous individual or nation might attempt to steal

them."

The elevator closed with a hydraulic hiss.

"I'M sure this house is well protected," Karami baited.

"Did you see any security on your way in?" Horn asked gamely.

Karami's eardrums registered a painful relief of pressure as the

elevator rocketed toward the surface. He had already noted the lack of

security with great satisfaction. "No, I didn't."

"It's there, Major. Smuts is the best in his field."

"And what is his field, Herr Horn? Personal security?"

The old man smiled. "I believe the English term is 'asset protection.'

"Translate," Karami commanded. When the prime minister's interpreter

obliged, Karami said, "Ah. Was he a soldier, then, this Smuts? Where

did he train?"

Horn folded his spotted hands in his lap. "He served in the South

African army as a young man. But he has a varied background. By the

time I found him, he'd fought all over Africa."

The elevator opened on the ground floor.

"And who trained him in this 'as-set protection,' as you call it?"

Karami asked. "The South African Army?"

"I did," Horn said tersely, rolling into the spacious reception hall. "I

"With all due respect," Karanii called, who trained you?"

Horn sopped his wheelchair and whirled to face the Libyan. "The German

Army," he said quietly.

The Arab's eyelids fell, hooding the yellow sclera of his eyes.

"More questions?" Horn challenged.

Fearin a deal-breaking dispute, Prime Minister Jalloud stepped between

the two men. "The major has a great curiosity, Herr Horn.

He's known as a zealous military historian in our country."

Karami ignored him. "You must have fought in the Second World War, Herr

Horn. Were you SS?"

Horn spat contemptuously on the marble floor. "I said the army, Major,

not Himmler's lapdogs. The Wehrmacht was my home!" Horn had taken all

he intended to from this arrogant Bedouin. "Listen to me, Arab. In

1941 the mufti of krusalem went to Berlin to beg the Fuhrer's help in

destroying the Jews of Palestine. The Fuhrer generously armed the

Arabs"-Horn stabbed a finger #t Karami-"yet still your fathers could not

push the Jews into the sea! I hope you do better this time!"

Major Karami shook with rage, but Horn simply turned his wheelchair away

and whirred off down a long corridor.

Jalloud shot Karami an angry glance. "Fool! What are you trying to

do?"

"Just testing the old lion's claws, Jalloud. Calm yourself."

"Calm myself?" The prime minister caught hold of Karami's robe.

"If you wreck this negotiation, Qaddafi will have your head on a spike!

And mine with it!"

Karami easily pulled his arm free. "If you had half the cunning of a

rug peddler, Jalloud, you'd see that this old Nazi needs us as much as

we need him. Probably more."

Karami reached out and laid his forefinger lightly on Jailoud's cheek.

"When our business is done," he vowed, "I will gut that old man for-his

insult."

Jalloud stared at Karami with horror, but the major only smiled.

"Hurry!" the interpreter whispered. "He's already around the corner!"

"Let us go, my friend," Karami said pleasantly. "We'll see what else

our host has to offer us." He started down the hall.

Jalloud followed slowly. He didn't know exactly what the

second-in-command of the Libyan People's Army had in mind, but he knew

already that he didn't like it. He also knew that the fanatical,

impulsive dictator who still held the reins of power in Tripoli would

probably love it. "Allah protect us," he murmured, hurrying after the

receding figure of Karami. "From ourselves, if no one else."

Ilse Apfel opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of her bedroom

prison cell. How did I get here? she wondered. As she lay there,

trying to gather her thoughts, a key scratched in the door.

Ilse sat up slowly, her eyes on the knob. It turned slowly; then the

door burst open. Robert Stanton stood there wobbling, with two crystal

goblets in one hand and a bottle of cognac in the other. The Englishman

smiled crookedly.

"Guten Abend, Frdulein!" he bellowed.

While Ilse stared, he stepped in, closed the door, and propped himself

haughtily against it.

"Get out of my room," she said forcefully.

"Now, now, Fraulein, let's just relax and have a sip of something nice,

shall we?"

"I'll scream," Ilse threatened, though she knew it sounded ridiculous.

"Wonderfully solid house, this," Stanton said, grinning.

"Damned near soundproof, I should think."

Ilse summoned her coldest voice. "If you touch me, Herr Horn will make

you pay."

Stanton raised an eyebrow. "The old goat's taken quite a fancy to you,

it's true. But he's terribly busy just now, hobnobbing with the Great

Unwashed. He doesn't have time for domestic squabbles. So, it's up to

us to have a good time while the business gets done." Stanton poured

two brimming glasses of Remy Martin V.S.O.P spilling as much again on

the floor.

The mention of the Arabs brought the earlier meeting back in a rush.

"Business?" Ilse echoed. "You're aware of what he's doing, and you

call it business? Aren't you an Englishman, for God's sake?"

"The genuine article," Stanton said with a mock bow. "I told you, my

blood's nearly as blue as the queens."

"Then why don't you try to stop him?"

Stanton shrugged. "What's the point? Alfred stopped listening to me

long ago. Although what he thinks he can get from those flea-ridden

Arabs, I haven't the slightest idea.

Poppies, I suppose. Very old hat. He certainly can't sell them

anything-they've got their own sources of supply in the trade, haven't

they? Rather like trying to sell them oil, what? Now, come her-e and

give us a kiss."

"My God," Ilse whispered. "You don't even know what he's doing!

What he's selling!"

Stanton lurched forward, sloshing cognac onto her blot "I don't care if

he's selling the- bloody crown jewels, love.

I'm well out of it now and ... darling, you make quite a dish in those

natty secretary's clothes. Makes one quite anxious to see what you look

like out of them."

Leering through a haze of alcohol, Stanton set the bottle on the bedside

table, drained his glass and smashed it against the door with a

flourish.

Ilse struggled to stay calm. "Lord Granville," she said evenly, "you're

drunk. You don't know what you're don Herr Horn will have you killed if you do this. Don't you know that?"

Stanton laughed raucously, then,his face grew deadly serious. "I advise

you to choose your allies with care," he said, wagging a finger in her

face. "Very soon dear Alfred may no longer be in a position to have

anyone killed."

Ilse thought swiftly. She was afraid, but not in the way she had been

on the X-ray table. This babbling Englishman was no Pieter Smuts.

"All right, then," she said. "I suppose there's nothing I can do." As

Stanton watched fascinated, Ilse lifted the bottle of Rdmy Martin and

swigged from the mouth of the bottle.

She let some of the brandy dribble down her chin, her eyes fixed on

Stanton's. "Lock the door," she said. "I don't want to be

interrupted."

With an astonished gape Stanton turned around and lurched toward the

door. The half-full bottle of Remy Martin crashed against the base of

his skull like a glass avalanche.

He staggered and fell to the floor. Ilse rifled his pockets and found