Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

"Major Karami makes a lot of people nervous," said Jalloud, glancing

past Dr. Sabri. At the rear of the cabin, sitting on a pile of

embroidered pillows, six very dangerouslooking soldiers quietly smoked

cigarettes. Qaddafi had assured Jalloud that he'd ordered them loading

of the weapon, but Jallc doubted this. On the last trip two security

guards had been considered adequate escort. Jalloud was almost certain

that these men had been handpicked from Ilyas Karami's personal

bodyguard.

"I'm not so sure we are flee of Major Karanii," he whispered, cutting

his eyes toward the guards.

Dr. Sabri peered around the prime minister's kefflyah and looked at the

sullen group. "Don't say that," he said quietly.

"Allah protect us, don't even think it."

Twenty-eight miles behind the Lear, Major Ilyas Karami stepped onto the

flight deck of a Soviet-built Yakovlev-42

airliner and leaned down into the pilot's ear. "Should I go over it for

you again?" he asked.

"It's net necessary, Major," the pilot replied.

"Good." Karanii laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Because what I told my commandos goes for you pilots too. Any man that

makes a mistake on this mission will lose his head when we return to

Tripoli."

The pilot strained to keep his hands steady on the controls.

Ilyas Karaiti's threats Were never empty.

"And his testicles will be in his mouth,",Karami added.

The plane lurched violently, as if buffeted by turbulence.

"I'm sorry, Major!" the pilot croaked.

"Low-pressure pocket," the copilot covered quickly.

Major Karami snorted and left the flight deck.

This Yakovlev aircraft-popularly known as the Yak-42

-had begun its life as an Aeroflot jetliner, then passed into Libyan

commercial service. But for this mission Major Karami had ordered it

configured as an Air Zimbabwe commercial airliner. Karami smiled with

satisfaction as he walked through the stripped cabin of the plane.

Lining both walls of the Yak-42 were fifty heavily-armed Libyan

commandos; and filling the center section from front to rear were

pallets stacked high with weapons, ammunition, a small truck, and at the

rear of the cabin, lashed to the fuselage by chains, a 105-millimeter

artillery piece.

Karami nodded to his company commanders as he made his way through the

tangle of legs and equipment and stopped beside the small pickup truck.

The bed of the Toyota had been Padded with wrestling mats, and its sides

fitted with cleats sized to take chains. Ostensibly the truck had been

brought along to tow the 105mm howitzer into position.

Only Major Karami knew what special eargo its bed and suspension had

been modified to accept. When they got a little closer to their

destination, however, Karami would let his men in on the secret. For

what force could withstand the fury of Arabs come to claim the weapon

that would finally wipe the Jews from the sands of Palestine?

O40 A-Ai. Northern Transvaal, Republic of South Africa

Alan Burton scrambled over the lip of the Wash and down the slope to

where Juan Diaz half-sat, half-lay in the slowly drying mud. He had

bandaged the Cuban's wound as best he could; it was crusted with blood

but not suppurating. Diaz opened his eyes when he heard Burton

approach.

"Well, English?" he croaked.

"No chance," Burton said bitterly. "It's worse than it looked last

night. Fidel's chopper blew itself all over the runway. It's a wonder

we weren't cut to pieces. The tail of that Lear looks like scrap

metal."

"The lateral finst' Diaz asked hopefully. "Or the vertical?"

"Left lateral's completely gone. Vertical's got more holes than a Swiss

cheese."

"Shit! What now, amigo?' Diaz tried to smile. "We re dead men, eh?"

"Not bloody likely," Burton said with an optimism he didn't feel.

"That's an airstrip up there, isn't it! This place is too damned remote

to service by road. It's bound to be just a matter of time before

another plane lands."

Diaz squinted skeptically at the Englishman.

"And when it does, sport," said Burton, tapping his submachine gun

against his chest, "I'm going to climb aboard and watch Captain Juan

Diaz fly our wet arses right out of here."

The Cuban grinned, exposing dazzling white teeth. Burton pulled some

more brambles around the little depression he had expanded into a hiding

place during the night. A patrol from the house had come by just after

last night's attack. It had missed them, but Burton wasn't sure the

shelter would stand up to daylight scrutiny.

"I tell you, Juan boy," he said wistfully, "it's times like this I wish

I was back in England, fishing a stream in Cotswolds."

"Why aren't you?"

Burton smiled sheepishly. "I'm persona non grata there, sport.

Occupational hazard. Her Majesty takes a rather dim view of soldiering

for pay. Not like your scruffy boss in Havana. The only thing waiting

for me in England's a bloody jail cell."

Diaz tried to smile in sympathy.

"I had a chance to go back free and clear," Burton said quietly.

"Last night. But we ballsed it up."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean while you were working for a Colombian drug baron, I was working

for Her Majesty's Government. My pay was full reinstatement of British

citizenship. I don't know why everyone wants the old man in that

fortress dead.

' 9

I don't care much, either. Maybe his dru s are ending up in London, and

the bloody House of Lords wants him discreetly blotted from their

universe." Burton grinned. "By God, if I thought I had half a chance,

I'd give it another go on my own. I know, I know-English loco, right?"

Diaz nodded, then grimaced in pain.

Burton checked the barrel of his MP-5 for mud. "Who needs England,

anyway?" he muttered. He fixed his gaze on the rim of the ravine.

"You've got one job, Juan boy- Stay alive until I can commandeer some

air transport. Then it's straight back to civilization. Comprende?"

Diaz coughed horribly.

Burton touched the Cuban's forehead. It felt cool and clammy. A fishy

paleness had spread beneath his olive skin.

"Can you do it, lad? Can you hold out?"

"Fucking-ay, English," Diaz grunted. "You get me a plane, and I'll fly

the whore out."

"That's the ticket." Burton patted the Cuban on his good shoulder.

"But you better hurry, amigo," Diaz coughed, gripping his torn side. "I

can fly drunk, stoned, or bleeding, but I can't fly dead."

Burton nodded grimly.

1.40 Piw. The Union Building. Pretoria Captain Barnard slammed down

the phone and glared at his watch. He had been trying in vain to reach

General Steyn since ten-thirty. When the general failed to show up for

work this morning, Barnard had assumed he was simply late.

But by ten A.M. Barnard knew something was wrong. No one answered at

General Steyn's home, and none of the government ministries knew where

he was. As Barnard continued his round of calls, a disturbing image

kept coming back to him: the resolute eyes dr the German police captain.

Barnard was certain that Captain Hauer believed he possessed information

vital to South Africa's security. Hauer might be insane, but he was

sincere. The Afrikaner ground his teeth in frustration.

Major Graaff had told him that the Visagie police interrogators would

have the prisoners' story by lunchtime, yet Bernard had received no

further word regarding them. Bernard had never liked Major Graaff, but

in the NIS, like the army, you had to go along to get along.