Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

barrel down onto the bloody bandage that Aaron had wrapped around

Natterman's wounded thigh.

"Alfred Horn!" he gasped. "Stern went to see a man named Alfred Horn!"

Swallow jabbed the Ingrain deeper into Natterman's wound. "Where to see

Alfred Horn?"

Natterman felt his stomach heave. "Somewhere in the northern Transvaal!

That's all I know. It was a blind rendezfi vous. Stern didn't know

where he was going himsel " While Swallow considered this, Natterman

looked past her to the floor. He saw black skin and white eyes. The

messenger. Now he understood the second thud. Swallow had shot the

Bantu boy in the throat. "Stern was wrong," he said, thinking aloud.

"He thinks you're after him. But you've come to destroy the Spandau

papers, haven't you?"

Swallow's nostrils flared. "I've come for Stern. If he has the papers,

that's a bonus."

Natterman glanced back at Aaron. The Israeli had fallen with his back

against the foyer wall. Except for the blood on his chest, he looked

like he was sleeping. Natterman remembered how innocent the young

commando had looked watching the soundless television. "How do you do

it?" he asked.

"That boy was hardly more than a child."

Swallow followed Natterman's gaze to Aaron's motionless body. She

shrugged. "He was a soldier. Today was his day."

Natterman shook his head. "Every bullet has its billet, eh?"

"King William,' Swallow murmured, recalling the quote from her wartime

service. "You're a philosopher?"

"I'm a fool. And you're a murderer, and a hypocrite as well.

That boy was probably someone's brother, too."

Swallow smacked Natterman on the mouth with the Ingrain, drawing blood.

Her eyes, as cold and dark and empty as deep space, settled on his face.

Natterman had never in his life felt such fear, not even as a young

German soldier patrolling alone in the shadow of Russian tanks outside

Leningrad.

"You're going to kill me," he said sotto voce.

"Not quite yet." Swallow lifted the telephone receiver and dialed an

international number. As she waited for an answer, she casually pulled

off her blue-rinse hair. Natterman's eyes widened. Beneath the wig,

Swallow's hair was iron gray and cropped to within an inch of her skull.

She did not look like a grandmother anymore.

"Swallow," she said harshly.

In London, Sir Neville Shaw's heart leaped. "Good Christ! Where are

you?"

Swallow's knuckles whitened on the telephone. "Listen to me, little

man. I'm giving you one last chance to tell me where Stern is.

He's gone to see a man named Alfred Horn.

I want to know where@' "I'll tell you exactly where to find him!"

Without wasting a second the mI-5 chief read out the overland directions

to Horn House. Swallow repeated them as they came, her head bobbing

with birdlike impatience, her eyes locked onto Natterman. When Shaw

finished reading the directions, he said, "I'm modifying your

assignment.

You can still do what you like with Stern, but I need more than the

Spandau papers now. I need Alfred Horn dead. You shouldn't have any

trouble recognizing him. He's an old man, rides in a wheelchair most of

the time. If you kill Alfred Horn, you can name your price."

Swallow laughed, a dry rattle. Her finger slipped inside the Ingrain's

trigger guard.'As Natterman stared in horror, she reached out casually

and laid the machine pistol against his cheek. Sir Neville Shaw's voice

warbled from the telephone. Swallow drew back her lips, exposing her

teeth like an animal preparing for a kill. Then her head snapped around

toward the foyer. She dropped the telephone and raised the Ingrain.

What is it? Natterman thought wildly. Is someone at the door?

He couldn't hear anything but his hammering heart.

Following Swallow's line of sight, he finally realized what she was

looking at with such alarm. Nothing! Where less than a minute ago the

bullet-riddled body of Aaron Haber had lain against the foyer wall, only

bloodstained wallpaper remained.

Shrieking like a demon, Swallow fired a sustained burst into the foyer,

then adjusted her aim to the bathroom wz The muted barks of the silenced

weapon modulated quickly into loud bangs. Her silencer was burning out.

Natterman threw off the sheets and rolled off the far edge of the bed.

He had been on the floor for less than five seconds when the firing

stopped. What the devil was happening? He raised his head above the

line of the bed.

Swallow was crouched at the end of the bed nearest the foyer, trying

frantically to clear the jammed receiver of her Ingrain. Like a man

rising from the grave, Aaron Haber lurched up from the narrow space

between the bed and the bathroom wall. Natterman's heart leaped with

joy and astonishment. Dark blood covered the young commando's neck and

chest, but his eyes burned wildly. Swaying like a drunken madman, he

steadied his .22 automatic and fired four shots in rapid succession.

Swallow was so desperate to reach the safety of the foyer that she

actually leaped into Aaron's bullets. Two slugs slammed into her left

shoulder, but the others went wild. She staggered into the foyer, spun

around and collapsed. Hoping that the impact of the fall had cleared

her weapon, she scrambled to her knees, @st her Ingrain around the

corner and pulled the trigger.

Aaron fired the instant he saw the gun barrel appear. His bullet tore

the gun from Swallow's hand. It spun through the air and landed against

the wall, too far away for either of them to reach. All Aaron had to do

was step around the corner to finish the woman off. He started forward,

then wobbled to a standstill. Bright blood pumped through his shirt.

Why doesn't she just run? Natterman thought angrily. She has the

information she wantedt And then he knew. Swallow meant to leave no

witnesses behind.

A horrible coughing spasm racked Aaron Haber's body.

He lunged forward, gurgled something in Hebrew, then dropped his pistol

and collapsed at the mouth of the foyer.

Natterman peered around the edge of the bed. The Israeli lay on his

stomach with his head pointed toward the door. Swallow's Ingrain lay at

his feet. Natterman's heart sank. The gun might as well have been ten

kilometers away. But as he jerked his head back behind the bed, he saw

something that stopped the breath in his lungs-Hans's crossbow, loaded

and lying beneath the bed. Yuri Borodin's gorillas had missed it during

their sweep. Natterman lay flat and stretched his arm to its limit ...

Swallow glided soundlessly out of the foyer and bobbed over the wounded

Israeli. A knife flashed in the air. Swallow reached for Aaron's hair,

meaning to jerk up his head and slash his throat, but at the last moment

she leaned toward his feet and grabbed for the Ingrain.

The decision cost her her life. The instant she moved, Aaron flipped

over onto his back and grabbed her by the waist. Unable to reach the

Ingrain, Swallow twisted in his arms and brought the knife down into his

chest. She raised it again for the deathblow, but Natterman struggled

up over the bed, steadied the crossbow, and fired.

The razor-tipped bolt speared through Swallow's breastbone with a

sickening crunch. Sucking for air she no longer needed, she pawed the

air in maniacal fury. Her last cry carried all the atrophied rage and

pain of her unfulfilled quest for vengeance: "Sterrm!"

Swallow collapsed on top of Aaron, preceding the young commando into