'I'll just wrap these for you.' After another long look at Hans, he
disappeared through a narrow doorway behind the counter.
'Why does he keep staring at you?' Hauer muttered. 'Is he queer?'
'He thinks I'm a goddamn tennis star.'
After a moment, Hauer nodded with reliel 'What about guns?' Hans asked
again. 'The rendezvousis tonight. Eight o'clock.'
'Hans, if the kidnappers are smart-and so far they have been-they'll
just sniff you out tonight. You didn't take the' plane they told you
to. That will put them off balance. For all they know, a hundred
Interpol agents are going to descend on the Burgerspark Hotel tonight.
No, they'll either send a drone or telephone you with further
instructions. My, guess is they'll call.'
Hans looked far from satisfied. 'I'd feel a lot better if I had a
pistol, and there are dozens right in that case.'
'True,' Hauer acknowledged. 'But I don't see any silencers, do you? We
can't go around Pretoria firing off pistols.
Our badges are worthless here. Plus, I don't want to subject our papers
to even a cursory background check.'
While Hans sulked, Hauer glanced around the store. 'All right,' he said
resignedly. 'You see that rack over there?' He pointed across the
store to a large display of hunting bows.
Hans nodded.
'Go over and tell that salesman you want the smallest crossbow he has
with a seventy-pound draw, and six of I sharpest bolts he has.' Hauer
pulled a wad of bills from his trousers pocket and peeled off four
hundred rand.
Still looking longingly at the gun case, Hans took the money.
'Here you are, gentlemen.' The salesman had reappeared in the doorway
with a small brown-wrapped parcel. 'That comes to, ah . . .'
He trailed off, looking past Hauer.
Hauer turned and followed his gaze. The salesman was staring at Hans,
who now stood with his hands on his hips, scrutinizing a rack of
expensive tennis racquets with an expert's disdainftil eye.
The salesman cleared his throat. 'Could I show you something else, er
... sir?'
Hans continued to stare silently at the racquets.
The salesman reached out timidly and touched Hauer's sleeve.
'Pardon me, sir, but isn't he ... ?'
Slowly Hans turned to the salesman and smiled the confiding, slightly
embarrassed smile celebrities use when they would prefer that no one
make a fuss over them. 'Could I possibly see a few racquets?'-he asked.
'Estusas? Preferably the N100O.'
The salesman almost tripped over his feet in his haste to get around the
counter. 'Why certainly, sir. I am at your complete disposal.' He
blushed. 'I'm a terrific fan, you know. We have just the racquet you
want, and I'm positive that a very agreeable discount could be arranged
-' ' ' As the gushing salesman led his prize across the store, Hans
looked back over his shoulder and glared pointedly at Hauer, then at the
gun case, talking all the way. 'Normally my racquets are supplied
directly from the factory,' he explained, 'but the stupid airline put my
bag aboard the wrong plane .
Stunned by Hans's boldness, Hauer took 9;ie look around the store for
surveillance cameras, slipped quickly behind the gun case, dropped to
his knees and went to work on the
lock.
When Hans stepped out of the store twenty minutes later, he saw Hauer
waiting for him at the end of the block, surrounded by shopping bags.
Stuffing a large, oblong parcel under his arm, he jogged awkwardly up
the street.
'Don't tell me,' said Hauer. 'You bought the tennis racquet.'
'The crossbow,' Hans muttered. 'I wasn't sure you could break into the
gun case.'
Hauer opened his jacket slightly. The handgrips of two gleaming black
pistols jutted from his waistband. 'Walthers.
Matched pair. A child could have sprung the lock on that case.'
He closed his jacket and laughed softly. 'That was pretty good acting
in there, Boris. You almost had me convinced.'
'Let's just get the hell out of here,' Hans snapped. 'I had to sign six
autographs before they let me out of the store.'
At that moment Salil pulled his taxi smoothly up to the curb.
'Your carriage awaits,' said Hauer. He reached down and picked up the
boxed rifle, scope, and camera, and loaded them into the trunk of the
Indian's Ford. 'Let's go shoot some pictures.'
11:44 A.M. mI-5 Headquatlers, Charles Street, London, England Sir
Neville Shaw had not slept in his office for quite some time-not since
the Falklands War, his deputy had reminded him. But now he lay sound
asleep on a squeaky cot he had ordered brought to his office early this
morning. When Deputy Director Wilson came barging into the office
without even a perfunctory knock, Shaw came up off the cot like he had
as a child during the Blitz.
'What in God's name is it?' he bellowed. 'World War Three?'
Wilson was breathless. 'It's Swallow, sir. She's picked up Stern.'
Shaw pounded his fist on his thigh. 'By God, I knew that woman could do
it!'
'She boarded his plane at Ben-Gurion. They're airborne now, and Stern
is definitely headed for South Africa. Not only did Swallow overhear
Stern say that he had part of the Spandau papers, but she also heard him
discussing the involvement of the Duke of Windsor in the Hess affair.'
'Good Christ! Discussing it with whom?'
'A German his professor. He's a relative of one of the tory Berlin
policemen who found the Spandau papers. Swallow thinks Stern plans to
use him to make contact with HE and ApfelShe called from the aircraft
telephone. She u a verbal code from the nineteen sixties, sir. It took
a crypto team two hours to dig the cipher key out of the basement.'
Shaw left his cot and walked toward his desk. 'With Swallow on his
tail, Stern's as good as dead. We can count on getting whatever portion
of the papers he's carrying.'
Wilson looked uncomfortable. 'if Swallow does kill Stern, sir, do YOu
think the fact that she's retired is enough to shield us from an Israeli
