Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

Wilson shoved the message across the desktop. "Personal for you, sir."

Shaw tore open the seal and read:

DIRECTOR GENERAL mIs:

THE MEN YOU SENT ARE DEAD STOP LORD GRENVILLE IS DEAD STOP YOU BROKE A

SOLEMN AGREEMENT MADE MORE THAN THIRTY YEARS AGO STOP I AM NO LONGER

BOUND BY TERMS OF THAT AGREEMENT STOP I'VE NEVER KNOWN AN ENGLISHMAN WHO

KEPT 141S WORD STOP SECRET NOW HELD AT MY DISCRETION STOP BETTER LUCK

NEXT TIME

HESS

Shaw felt his hands begin to shake. "Good God," he murmured.

"Burton's dead." He looked up, his face red and blotchy.

"Wilson! Do you have those files I told you to get?"

"In my office safe, sir. I don't believe the Foreign Office has noticed

them missing yet."

"Damn the Foreign Office! Shred those files, t en incinerate them in

the basement! Do it yourself and do it now!"

Wilson moved toward the door, then paused and looked back at his

superior.

"I was a bloody fool to order Swallow off the case," Shaw said hoarsely.

"She could have killed Hess herself."

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "You mean Horn, sir?"

Shaw looked up with red eyes. "Horn is Hess, Wilson.

Haven't you got that yet?"

Wilson took a step backward.

Shaw looked down at the wrinkled map on his desk.

"Swallow could still be in South Africa," he muttered. "By God she

might be able to save us yet. Wilson, put out a message to every

resource we have in South Africa. Anyone who contacts agent Swallow

should order her to call me here. And if she calls us for any reason,

you put her through to me immediately. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

Shaw's eyes sparkled with excitement. "By God, I should have used that

harpy in the first place! Murder has always been woman's work."

655 A.M. Protea Hof Hotel, Pretoria

Swallow had been waiting outside room 604 for twelve hours, and her

patience had almost run out. In the half-dozen times she had approached

the door, only once had she heard any conversation from the two men

inside. For the hundredth time she glanced at her watch.

Almost seven A.M.

Maids would be coming on duty any moment. To hell with it, she thought,

I'm going in. She already had a plan. Taking a last glance at the

door, she headed downstairs to use the lobby telephone.

Inside room 604, Professor Natterman lay flat on the bed in a haze of

morphine, fever, and pain. Thanks to Aaron's expert medical training,

the gunshot wounds had at least stopped bleeding, if not hurting. The

professor had spent the night wrestling with despair.

Rudolf Hess was alive, as he had predicted, yet he would not be at Horn

House to confront the old Nazi. And worse, Hauer had told Detective

Schneider where to find his photocopy of the Spandau papers, wiping out

any hope of his publishing an exclusive translation of the papers. All

night Natterman had clutched his only consolation to his of the Spandau

pages. A dawn began to creep around the edges of the dra Natterman

wondered when or if Hauer would call back.

Would the South Africans give Hauer the troops Stern had told him to ask

for? And if so, could Ilse survive such an assault?

Natterman glanced over at the other bed. Aaron Haber lay there,

watching a silent television. The young commando had lain that way most

of the night, except when he took time out to check Natterman's

bandages. He'd said he muted the sound so that he could hear anyone

approaching the door. Natterman wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow.

The hotel air-conditioning whooshed straight out of the window shattered

by Borodin's sniper.

Natterman jumped as a sharp knock sounded at the door.

Aaron came to his feet like a leopard startled from sleep, his Uzi

cocked and pointed at the door. Natterman could just see the door from

where he lay. As the Israeli tiptoed toward it, the knock sounded

again. Aaron flattened himself against the foyer wall.

"Who's there?" he called.

"Messenger," said a male voice. "Telegram, sir."

Aaron's brow knit in furious thought. "Telegram from who?"

"From a Meneer Stern, sir."

The young commando's blood quickened. "Shove it under the door!"

There was a pause. "I'm sorry, sir. Meneer Stern's instructions say I

must personally give this message to one of his boys."

Aaron nervously fingered his Uzi. "Which of his boys?"

"Meneer Stern does not say, sir."

Keeping his Uzi leveled, Aaron stepped warily up to the door and peered

through the peephole. Through the blurred fisheye lens he saw a thin

young black man wearing a blue messenger's uniform buttoned to the

throat. "Hold up the telegram," he said.

The young Bantu held up a piece of yellow paper, too far back for Aaron

to read. "I must hurry, sir," he said. "I have other stops to make."

Aaron muttered something in Hebrew, then reached for the door knob.

"Don't open it!" Natterman warned, but the young Israeli signaled him

to be quiet. Natterman heard the lock click; then the door opened and

caught against the chain.

"Hand it through," Aaron said from behind the door. "I'm not letting

you in."

After a moment's hesitation, a small black hand slipped the telegram

through the crack in the door. Aaron reached out, then froze.

A faint scent of body powder and perfume had wafted into the room.

For an instant Aaron flashed back to last night. He heard Gadi's voice

saying, ". . . and the perfume, I tell you, it was the same woman, the

woman from the airplane." In a fraction of a second Aaron comprehended

the danger, but he was too late.

Already a thin white hand had snapped through the four-inch space between

the door and its frame. The hand held a silenced Ingrain machine

pistol. As Aaron looked down in astonishment, the Ingrain spat three

times, blowing him off his feet and dropping him less than a foot from

the bloody stain where Yosef Shamir had died twelve hours ago.

Natterman tried to roll off the bed, but he was tangled beneath the

covers. He heard two more spits, then a clinking rattle. Swallow had

shot off the chain latch. He heard the door close, then a heavy thud.

Somehow Natterman knew who the killer was before he saw her. He

actually stopped breathing as the pale apparition glided swiftly to

Aaron's body. With one chilling glance at Natterman, the thin woman

bent down and tugged the Uzi from Aaron Haber's clenched hands.

Swallow, Natterman thought, remembering Stern's words. What's left of

the girl whose brother Stern killed while he sat on a toilet in a

British barracks a million years ago ...

Swallow glanced into the bathroom. She saw the Russians piled like

cordwood in the bathtub, and Yosef Shamir propped against the

white-tiled wall. Then she crossed immediately to Natterman, reached

down, and jerked his gag aside. When he opened his mouth to gasp for

breath, she jammed the barrel of the Ingrain inside it.

"Hello again, Professor," she said in a low, flat voice.

"Where is Stern?"

Natterman felt the gun barrel against the back of his throat, as cold

and deadly as a snake's head. He desperately needed to gag, but he

didn't dare. The woman leaning over him was like a creature from a

mother with blue-rinse hair, yellowed pearls hanging round her wrinkled

throat"Jonas Stern!" Swallow snapped. "Where is he?"

Natterman nodded his head carefully. Swallow removed the Ingrain from

his mouth. For a moment-thinking of Stern and his mission-Natterman

considered lying. He changed his mind when Swallow jammed the gun