Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

my bloody Beretta!"

Ilse's face remained expressionless, but Horn's eyes began to shine. "I

knew it, Pieter," he said triumphantly. "She couldn't stand by and

watch me die. She is a true German!"

Horn rolled his chair forward and took Ilse's hand. "Did you kill Lord

Granville, my child?"

Ilse said nothing.

"She's in shock," Horn murmured, shaking his head. "It is a miracle,

Pieter. Fate brought this woman here to me."

While appreciative of Ilse's actions, Smuts would not have carried the

praise so far. "Sir," he said carefully, "it appears to me that Frau

Apfel acted purely by reflex. She was trying to escape. She saw a

murder about to be committed; she fired blindly to prevent it. I don't

think we should attach more significance to it than that."

Ignoring Smuts, Horn squeezed Ilse's hand in his own.

"My child," he said softly, "by your action tonight you not only saved

my life, but your husband's also."

"But sir!" Smuts protested. "Think what you're saying."

"Silence, Pieter!" Horn exploded. "I want half a million rand

transferred to the Deutsche Bank in Berlin, under Frau Apfel's name."

He smiled at Ilse. "For the child," he said.

"Pieter told me that you are pregnant, my dear."

Smuts stared incredulously at his master. This was insane.

He had never seen the old man make decisions based on sentimentality.

Somehow, the Apfel woman had acquired a dangerous amount of influence

over Alfred Horn, and that influence was obviously growing. A tragic

accident might soon be required.

A sudden roar from outside rattled the shattered window.

From his position by the hidden door, Stern saw a line of tracers arc

out toward the rim of the bowl.

"What of the attack?" Horn asked.

"The house is secure," Smuts said tersely.

"And Oberieutnant Luhr?"

"A good man. That's him firing the Vulcan."

Horn smiled. "I imagine your little toys came as something of a

surprise to Robert's friends. eh?"

Smuts grinned nastily.

"Do you know who they are yet?"

"We'll round up the bodies tonight. Then we'll see."

Horn nodded, then turned to Ilse and spoke softly. "Pieter will take

you to your husband now. A matter of minutes. Do you hear me, child?"

Motionless until now, Ilse suddenly began to shiver. A single tear

streaked her face. She looked as if she might collapse.

"Take her now, Pieter," Horn commanded. "Schnel "Sir!" The Afrikaner

snapped into motion.

Realizing that he had only moments to reach safety, Stern ducked back

into the shrine room and reached for the telephone. He was about to

punch in the number of the Protea Hof when he heard a voice coming from

the phone. His throat tightened in disbelief. Who could it be?

One of Smuts's soldiers? Did it really matter? Closing his palm over

the mouthpiece, Stern stuck his head back through the little door.

He saw the Vulcan's bright red tracer beam climb the distant ridge,

searching out more victims. Horn, too, had wheeled his chair around to

watch. The tracer beam jinked back and forth beyond the dark horizon,

steadied a moment, then lurched into the sky. For an instant the end of

the deadly arc became visible-then it detonated in a huge fireball.

The shock wave blasted a sheet of rain and glass into the room.

Several shards fell onto Horn's lap, but the old man didn't seem to

notice. He reached for a button on the arm of his wheelchair, preparing

to turn. Stern hunkered down, hoping to see the gray face once more in

the light. He heard the hum of the wheelchair's electric motor, saw the

face in profile-then his survival instinct overrode his curiosity. He

scrambled back into the secret room and pulled the door shut behind him.

When he put the phone to his ear, the voice was still talking. With a

silent curse he slipped the receiver back into its cradle. There would

be no call to Hauer. Stern estimated he had less than a minute to

become Professor Natterman again.

Alan Burton lay belly-down in the mud, humping it with the infantryman's

desperate love. Even before he heard the apocalyptic roar of the Vulcan

gun, he had seen the deadly tracer beam reach out from the tower. Now

the gunner was raking repeatedly over the corpses of the Colombians-for

corpses they surely were. When a stream of armor-piercing slugs

intersects a human body at the rate of sixty-six hundred rounds per

minute, the result cannot be described.

Burton had seen it before; he had no desire to again.

Apparently Alberto did. Four times already the big guerilla had lifted

his head over the rim of the bowl to watch the slaughter. The last time

he must have gotten his fill, because Burton could hear the giant

African whimpering beside him in the mud. When one of their escape

helicopters exploded behind them, Alberto began babbling to himself. The

incoherent syllables sounded vaguely religious to Burton, and the

Englishman decided that a bit of prayer might not be out of order, even

for a confirmed old sinner like himself.

When the terrible roar of the Vulcan diminished to desultory bursts,

Alberto tried to jump up and race back to the airstrip. Burton pressed

him violently back into the mud. As far as Burton knew, they still had

one operable helicopter and, hopefully, a pilot. But to run for it now

would be suicide. Any idiot could see that the gunner in the turret was

using night-vision equipment. Burton could picture the smug bastard,

perched up there behind his monstrous weapon, waiting for one desperate

survivor to jump up and bolt for the airstrip. Burton didn't intend to

be the moron who tried that.

But Alberto did. After the Vulcan had lain silent for ninety seconds,

the big African rose tentatively to his knees and beckoned Burton to

follow. The Vulcan burped just once: the three-second burst flashed up

the slope like a lightning bolt. Approximately ninety bullets tore into

Alberto's body, eviscerating and then decapitating him. The mangled

hulk that thudded into the mud next to Burton would be food for the

jackals in an hour.

The Englishman decided not to wait around to see the feast. The Deal be

damned, he thought bitterly. Maybe Shaw will give me another chance.

God knows I didn't have much of one today. With movements so subtle

only a serpent would perceive them, Burton slithered backward through

the mud until he dropped below the Vulcan's angle of fire.

Then he jumped to his feet and ran as he never had in his life, low to

the ground, but fast. When he felt the ground rising beneath his feet,

he knew he was nearing the airstrip.

The Wash brought him up short. Three feet of water raged through its

bottom now, but Burton tobogganed down the steep slope as if the torrent

represented safety rather than potential death. Hoisting his MP-5

submachine gun high above his head, he waded into the flood. It took

superhuman strength to hold himself upright against the current, but he

made it across. He scrambled up the far side of the ravine in twenty

seconds flat and found himself staring into the face of Juan Diaz.

"Madre de Dios!" the Cuban cried.

"The helo?" Burton gasped, his chest heaving.

"They got ours, English. But Fidel-the other pilot-he's waiting for us.

Come! Before they shoot the runway again!"

They ran. Burton could see the airstrip ahead, a glistening asphalt

line. Horn's Learjet waited silently on the apron like a falcon sitting

out a storm. The surviving helicopter stood about forty meters from the