shoulder-to-shoulder against the cabin walls of the JetRanger.
With their dark faces, scruffy beards, and bandolier ammunition belts,
they looked like armed migrant workers. Sick ones, at that. The
greenish cast of their skin suggested that by leaving the ship, they
would merely exchange their seasickness for airsickness. Burton didn't
care what they looked like, as long as they could cause some commotion.
He could do the job alone if someone provided a sufficient diversion.
He was glad the end of the mission had finally arrived, not least
because they were finally leaving the Casilda. He didn't care if he
never saw another ship in his life.
'I'm supposed to fly by these goddamn chicken scratches?' Juan Diaz
complained, shaking the map in the Englishman's face.
Burton gave the Cuban a black look.''That's what you're being paid for,
sport. Now let's move.'
'What about a flight plan?' Diaz asked. The two choppers still hovered
over the old freighter.
'You're holding it,' said Burton. 'I can show you the landmarks.
Just watch for enemy aircraft.'
The Cuban narrowed his eyes. 'How do I know who is the enemy?'
Burton grinned. 'It's everybody, sport. Simple enough?'
After a grim moment of reflection, Diaz nudged the stick, and as one the
two JetRangers moved out over the ocean, toward the coastline, toward
Africa.
11.25 A.m. 'Room 520, The Stanley House, Pretoria
Gadi Abrams let the drapes fall closed and turned back to Stern.
'Still no sign of them, Uncle. No Hauer, no Apfel.'
Stern got up from one of the beds and rolled his shoulders. He had said
little since last night's fiasco at the Burgerspark Hotel.
'They're probably holed up in some cheap hotel, waiting for the
rendezvous at the Voortrekker Monument.'
Professor Natterman was pacing out the far end of the room. 'So why are
we watching the Protea Hof?' he snapped.
'We can always intercept them at six at the Voortrekker Monument,' Stern
replied. 'But I think Hauer might return to the Protea Hof before
then.'
Natterman snorted with contempt. 'What about that woman?' he asked.
'Are you sure it was the same woman from the plane?'
'Absolutely,' Gadi said. 'From the description you gave and the perfume
I smelled in the hall, I have no doubt at all.'
'Who is she, then?' Natterman asked. 'What does she want?'
'She wants me,' said Stern.
'What makes you say that?' Gadi broke in. 'Nobody knows where you
are.'
Stern half-smiled.
'Who wants you dead?' Professor Natterman asked.
'Who doesn't?' said Gadi. 'The Syrians want him, the Libyans, the
Palestinians ... you name it. That's why he has to live where he does.'
Stern shot his nephew a warning glance; then his face softened. 'I
suppose it doesn't matter,' he said. 'Remember the kibbutz I described
to you, Professor? My retirement home? Well, it's no ordinary
kibbutz.'
'How do you mean?'
'It's a special settlement for men like me. Retired fieldmen.
Men who have prices on their heads.'
Gadi grinned. 'Uncle Jonas's head carries the highest price in town.'
Stern frowned.
'But Gadi said the woman on the plane was European, said Natterman. 'Not
Arabic.'
'Precisely,' said Stern. 'And of the European countries, only one has
agents who might want me dead.'
'England?' Natterman asked, his eyes alight.
Stern ran his hand across his chin. 'I know who the Englishwoman is.
Her name is Swallow. Or it was, many years ago. But right now she
concerns me much less than the big fellow who checked in here this
morning.'
'I say he's a friend of Hauer's,' Gadi declared. 'Backup from watching
Hauer's room. He's right beneath us, by the though I don't think he
knows it.'
'Why do you insist he's German?' Stern challenged.
'Don't give me that, Uncle. A Jew can smell a German, can't he?
No offense, Professor.'
'None taken. A German can smell a Jew just as well.'
Gadi glared at Natterman. 'His name's Schneider, which is German
enough. We'll know what he is for sure in an hour, in any case. Tel
Aviv is checking him out. By the way, they told me Hauer was one of the
sharpshooters at the Munich Olympics. How did you know that?'
Stern half-smiled. 'I had one of my notorious intuitions when I read
his police file. We might be able to use that somehow.'
'Could this Schneider be part of Phoenix?' asked Yosef Shamir.
The young commando wore a large white bandage around his forehead.
'Maybe he threw the grenade last night. Maybe he was the one who hit me
with the door.'
'That was Hauer,' Stern said firmly.
'Who fired the gunshot?' asked Yosef. 'I was only semiconscious in
that stairwell, but I'm certain I heard a shot.'
'Nothing about it in this morning's newspapers,' Gadi said.
'There was no body in the stairwell. If our German cops shot at
someone, they must have missed.'
Stern smiled. 'I think it went this way: Swallow's grenade panicked the
Germans. They fled down the stairs, Apfel in front. They ran into
trouble, Apfel panicked and fired his gun. I read Hauer's police file.
If he'd fired his gun, he wouldn't have missed.'
'I'll keep that in mind when we meet him,' Gadi said soberly.
'You're not going to meet him!' Natterman flared. 'He's given you all
the slip!'
Stern padded slowly over to the hotel window. 'Hauer is coming back to
the Protea Hof,' he declared, parting the drapes and staring across at
the seven-story hotel. 'I don't know how I know it, but I do.'
One floor below the Israelis, Kripo detective Julius Schneider held the
