Horn sopped his wheelchair and whirled to face the Libyan. 'The German
Army,' he said quietly.
The Arab's eyelids fell, hooding the yellow sclera of his eyes.
'More questions?' Horn challenged.
Fearin a deal-breaking dispute, Prime Minister Jalloud stepped between
the two men. 'The major has a great curiosity, Herr Horn.
He's known as a zealous military historian in our country.'
Karami ignored him. 'You must have fought in the Second World War, Herr
Horn. Were you SS?'
Horn spat contemptuously on the marble floor. 'I said the army, Major,
not Himmler's lapdogs. The Wehrmacht was my home!' Horn had taken all
he intended to from this arrogant Bedouin. 'Listen to me, Arab. In
1941 the mufti of krusalem went to Berlin to beg the Fuhrer's help in
destroying the Jews of Palestine. The Fuhrer generously armed the
Arabs'-Horn stabbed a finger #t Karami-'yet still your fathers could not
push the Jews into the sea! I hope you do better this time!'
Major Karami shook with rage, but Horn simply turned his wheelchair away
and whirred off down a long corridor.
Jalloud shot Karami an angry glance. 'Fool! What are you trying to
do?'
'Just testing the old lion's claws, Jalloud. Calm yourself.'
'Calm myself?' The prime minister caught hold of Karami's robe.
'If you wreck this negotiation, Qaddafi will have your head on a spike!
And mine with it!'
Karami easily pulled his arm free. 'If you had half the cunning of a
rug peddler, Jalloud, you'd see that this old Nazi needs us as much as
we need him. Probably more.'
Karami reached out and laid his forefinger lightly on Jailoud's cheek.
'When our business is done,' he vowed, 'I will gut that old man for-his
insult.'
Jalloud stared at Karami with horror, but the major only smiled.
'Hurry!' the interpreter whispered. 'He's already around the corner!'
'Let us go, my friend,' Karami said pleasantly. 'We'll see what else
our host has to offer us.' He started down the hall.
Jalloud followed slowly. He didn't know exactly what the
second-in-command of the Libyan People's Army had in mind, but he knew
already that he didn't like it. He also knew that the fanatical,
impulsive dictator who still held the reins of power in Tripoli would
probably love it. 'Allah protect us,' he murmured, hurrying after the
receding figure of Karami. 'From ourselves, if no one else.'
Ilse Apfel opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of her bedroom
prison cell. How did I get here? she wondered. As she lay there,
trying to gather her thoughts, a key scratched in the door.
Ilse sat up slowly, her eyes on the knob. It turned slowly; then the
door burst open. Robert Stanton stood there wobbling, with two crystal
goblets in one hand and a bottle of cognac in the other. The Englishman
smiled crookedly.
'Guten Abend, Frdulein!' he bellowed.
While Ilse stared, he stepped in, closed the door, and propped himself
haughtily against it.
'Get out of my room,' she said forcefully.
'Now, now, Fraulein, let's just relax and have a sip of something nice,
shall we?'
'I'll scream,' Ilse threatened, though she knew it sounded ridiculous.
'Wonderfully solid house, this,' Stanton said, grinning.
'Damned near soundproof, I should think.'
Ilse summoned her coldest voice. 'If you touch me, Herr Horn will make
you pay.'
Stanton raised an eyebrow. 'The old goat's taken quite a fancy to you,
it's true. But he's terribly busy just now, hobnobbing with the Great
Unwashed. He doesn't have time for domestic squabbles. So, it's up to
us to have a good time while the business gets done.' Stanton poured
two brimming glasses of Remy Martin V.S.O.P spilling as much again on
the floor.
The mention of the Arabs brought the earlier meeting back in a rush.
'Business?' Ilse echoed. 'You're aware of what he's doing, and you
call it business? Aren't you an Englishman, for God's sake?'
'The genuine article,' Stanton said with a mock bow. 'I told you, my
blood's nearly as blue as the queens.'
'Then why don't you try to stop him?'
Stanton shrugged. 'What's the point? Alfred stopped listening to me
long ago. Although what he thinks he can get from those flea-ridden
Arabs, I haven't the slightest idea.
Poppies, I suppose. Very old hat. He certainly can't sell them
anything-they've got their own sources of supply in the trade, haven't
they? Rather like trying to sell them oil, what? Now, come her-e and
give us a kiss.'
'My God,' Ilse whispered. 'You don't even know what he's doing!
What he's selling!'
Stanton lurched forward, sloshing cognac onto her blot 'I don't care if
he's selling the- bloody crown jewels, love.
I'm well out of it now and ... darling, you make quite a dish in those
natty secretary's clothes. Makes one quite anxious to see what you look
like out of them.'
Leering through a haze of alcohol, Stanton set the bottle on the bedside
table, drained his glass and smashed it against the door with a
flourish.
Ilse struggled to stay calm. 'Lord Granville,' she said evenly, 'you're
drunk. You don't know what you're don Herr Horn will have you killed if you do this. Don't you know that?'
Stanton laughed raucously, then,his face grew deadly serious. 'I advise
you to choose your allies with care,' he said, wagging a finger in her
face. 'Very soon dear Alfred may no longer be in a position to have
anyone killed.'
Ilse thought swiftly. She was afraid, but not in the way she had been
on the X-ray table. This babbling Englishman was no Pieter Smuts.
'All right, then,' she said. 'I suppose there's nothing I can do.' As
Stanton watched fascinated, Ilse lifted the bottle of Rdmy Martin and
swigged from the mouth of the bottle.
