Neville Shaw's summons had come. Something had drawn Jonas Stern out of
Israel at last. Out of his sanctuary ...
Swallow's eyes popped open as Professor Natterman's voice crackled in
her ear receiver, breaking her reverie.
'Can't you see it, Stern?' he said forcefully. 'Somehow, for some
unknown reason, the past and present are coming toward some mysterious
meeting point ... a kin o completion. It's like the Bible. The sins of
the fathers, yes?
Or as the Buddhists teach, karma.' The old professor raised a crooked
finger and shook it slowly. 'You still think my suspicions about Rudolf
Hess are unfounded? If ghosts like Yitzhak Shamir can survive to haunt
the present, so can Hess. I tell you, Stern, the man is alive.'
Stern closed a strong hand over Natterman's upraised finger, hard enough
to cause pain. It infuriated the professor, but it shut him up.
Stern leaned back in his seat and sighed.
'I do wonder sometimes who is pulling the strings of this invisible
cabal. Is it Lord Granville, the young Englishman? Is it some madman?
Some would-be Aryan Messiah? Is it another ghost from the past? Your
Helmut, perhaps?'
Natterman fixed the Israeli with a penetrating gaze. 'Jonas,' he said
gravely, using Stern's first name for the first time. 'What will you do
if ... if we find that I am right? If we find living men who bear
direct responsibility for the Holocaust? Will you kill them?'
Stern ran a hand through his thinning hair. 'If we were to find such
men alive,' he said quietly, 'I would take them back to Israel.
Take them to Israel for a public trial. That is the only end from which
justice can come.'
Natterman scratched at his gray wisp of beard. 'You're a strong man,
Jonas. It takes great strength to show restraint.'
'I'm not that strong,' Stern murmured. 'If I couldn't get them back to
Israel, I would kill them without hesitation.'
Glancing across the aisle for the first time in several minutes, Stern
saw that his three young companions had awakened. They were listening
wide-eyed, like children around a campfire. The Haganah years Stern had
spoken of resonated like myths in the hearts of the young sabres, and
they stared at him like a hero of another age.
Beyond that, they now knew something about their mission. They %yere to
be given the chance of a lifetime-the chance to strike back through the
pages of history-to punish men who had never been justly punished-men
who had tried to make the State of Israel a stillborn nation! Stern's
commandos were lean and hard in body and spirit, and from that moment on
they were as soldiers in a holy war.
Four rows ahead of them, another soldier also awaited her chance to
strike. As the El Al jetliner soared southward through the glorious
vault of sky, the woman code-named Swallow reveled in the knowledge that
she could destroy Jonas Stern right now.
Stern had the least part of the Spandau diary, but what did she care for
papers? If she killed Stern here, of course, she would die.
She thought of Sir Neville Shaw, the nerveless director general of mI-5.
She certainly felt no loyalty to that old serpent. Shaw and men like
him had used her ruthlessly throughout her career, wielding her like a
razor-sharp sword, all the while ignoring her quest for private justice.
But what of England, that hazy, increasingly obsolete concept? In spite
of her coldness, Swallow had always possessed a strong, rather maudlin
streak of patriotism.
Was preserving British honor worth deferring her sweet revenge for one
more day? Professor Natterman had spoken of ghosts from the past.
Swallow knew that once she unmasked herself-today, tomorrow,
whenever-she would be one ghost that Jonas Stern would be very surprised
to see.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
11.40 A.M. PrOtOri8
More than fifty knives of all types gleamed inside the brightly lit
display case. Hauer leaned over until his nose touched the glass.
This immediately drew the attention of a nearby salesman, a freckled,
red-haired man of about 'Any particular style you're looking for, sir?'
he asked in a British accent. ,Are you looking for a souvenir, or might
you be doing some hunting with it?'
'Good point,' Hauer said in English. 'Could be doing some hunting.
Still, we don't want anythingtoo big. Quality, that's the thing.'
'Of course, sir. I believe I've got just what you need.'
When the young man moved down the row of display cases, Hans leaned
close to Hauer. 'What about a gun?' he whispered.
Hauer didn't reply. This was their fifth stop of the day, and he was
beginning to feel overexposed. After checking into the Burgerspark
Hotel and changing their Deutsche marks for rand, they had slipped out
the rear entrance of the hotel and into their taxi. They clung to the
amuests Of the Ford while Salil made short work of their British tall
car.
The loquacious Indian had shepherded them around the city while they
purchased several changes of clothes and enough food to last two days
without leaving whatever hotel room they finally settled into.
Salil had also recommended the large sporting goods store.
'Here you are, sir,' the salesman said, proudly holding out a sleek
six-inch knife for Hauer's inspection- e Hauer took the weapon and
turned it in the light. H halted it in his palm, feeling the balance.
The knife had a plain varnished handle-not nearly so ornate as the
engraved showpieces glinting in the display case-but Hauer's approval
was evident.
'I see you know your knives, sir,' said the salesman.
'Made in West Gen-nany that was. Solingen steel, finest in the world.'
Hauer flicked the knife back and forth with practiced ease.
'We'll take two.'
The salesman's smile broadened. Already these two tourists had
purchased an expensive hunting rifle, scope, and a Nikon camera with
mini-tripod and hand-held light meter. 'I notice your accent, sir,' he
said with a sidelong glance at Hans. 'German, are you?'
'Swiss,' Hauer said quickly.
'Ah.' The salesman realized he had asked the wrong question.
