telephone against his sweating cheek as he sat on the edge of the bed.
Beside him lay his hat, half a sandwich, and two empty bottles of beer.
Into his ear came the angry drawl of Colonel Godfrey Rose.
'You too proud to take a tip from a Russian, Schneider?'
'No, Colonel.'
'Kosov gave me the name of the son of a bitch who mutilated Harry.
I think he suspected it all along. He's a Russian too, you believe
that? Name's Borodin, Yuri Borodin.
Twelfth Department, KGB. According to Kosov, he's a real hotshot.
Renegade out for glory, that type. I guess that's what Kosov meant
about you watching your back.'
Schneider made a sound in his throat that was halfway between a growl
and a sigh. 'So, Borodin could have seen me leaving Major Richardson's
apartment. He could be following me now.'
'Could be, Schneider. Have you located Hauer and Apfel yet?'
'I'm watching their hotel room now. They aren't in it, though.'
'Hmm. You decided how you're gonna handle Hauer?
You gonna try to take the papers?'
'I don't know yet. Hauer may have better ideas than I do about crushing
Phoenix.'
Rose was silent for a moment. 'Yeah, well, the Russians are getting
pretty itchy about Phoenix themselves. Kosov heard that a low-ranking
Stasi agent cracked under torture this morning. Seems he's a member of
something called Bruderschaft der Phoenix. The Russians are already
talking to the State Department about setting up a special interAllied
commission to deal with the Rudolf Hess case, Phoenix, and all related
affairs. Sort of an international Warren Commission.'
'A what, Colonel?'
'Never mind, Schneider.' There was a sibilant rustle of paper in the
background. 'You want a quick rundown on Yuri Borodin's file?
Reads like the friggin' Count of Monte Cristo.'
'Please.'
'Got a pencil?'
The German heaved his bulk back on the bed and closed his eyes.
'I'm ready.'
2.02 Pm. Bronberrick Motel. South of Pretoria The moment Hauer saw the
note, he knew that Hans had tricked him. He knocked Hans's abandoned
Walther aside and read swiftly: I'm sorry, Captain. I've thought it
through, and I feel the risks of an armed exchange are just too great. I
couldn't tell you before, but Ilse is carrying a child I didn't want to
lie about the time of the rendezvous, but I knew you'd never let me try
it this way. Please don'tfollow me. I'll meet you back here when I've
got Ilse. [Here the name 'Hans' had been signed, then scratched
through.] If it @goes bad, I want you to know I don't blame you for
anything in the past. We found each other in time. Your son, Hans.
Hauer stood rock still as waves of anger and panic swept over him.
He dug the foil packet from his pocket and ripped it open. The
negatives he had taken at the Protea Hof were there, but the Spandau
papers were gone. In,their place lay five sheets of crumpled motel
stationery. Hauer tried to breathe calmly. Hans had struck out on his
own to meet the kidnappers. He had to accept that. It wasn't hard to
understand. Not if the hostage was your wife, and she was carrying your
child. Yet Hans was his son. Ilse was his daughter-in-law. And the
child she was carrying-Hauer felt a thick lump in his throat-that child
was his grandchildhis blood their. Hauer sat down hard on the bed. For
the last twenty years he had lived alone, resigned to a solitary life.
Yet in the past forty-eight hours he had been given not only a son, but
a family. And now he had lost that family. He read the note again.
Your son, Hans.
'Fool,' he muttered.
It took him twenty minutes to reach the Voortrekker Monument. All the
way he cursed himself for leaving Hans alone. He had known something
like this might happen, that Hans had been walking an emotional razor
edge. This morning, while zeroing-in his rifle scope, he had almost
packed up the gun and driven straight back to the motel.
But he hadn't. He had finished with the rifle, then gone ahead and
scouted for an exchange location. And he'd found one, an empty soccer
stadium. Perfect. Damn!
Hauer saw no sign of Hans at the Voortrekker Monument.
For an hour he circled the base of the dun-colored building on foot, but
he knew it was hopeless. Hans was gone-maybe dead already.
Faced with this heart-numbing reality, Hauer realized he had but one
slim chance to save his son's life. When the kidnappers realized that
the Spandau papers were incomplete, they would demand answers.
And when they got them, they might-just might come looking for Captain
Dieter Hauer. He would make it very easy for them to find him.
In the Ford again, he checked his map. Then he swung east and headed
back toward the Protea Hof Hotel. He pulled straight up to the
main,entrance, removed a long leather case from the Ford's trunk, and
tipped the doorman to park the car. The hunting rifle felt heavy but
reassuring against his leg as he strode toward the elevators. In a
European city the oddly shaped case might have attracted unwelcome
attention, but in South Africa rifles are as common golf clubs.
Their room looked just as they'd left it yesterday. In a shaft of light
leaking through the drawn drapes, Hauer saw the clothes and food they
had bought still lyfng in crumpled shopping bags on the beds.
Hans's loaded crossbow leaned in the corner space between the near bed
and the bathroom wall. Hauer laid his rifle on the bed. Then he felt
the hairs on his neck stiffen.
There was someone else in the room. He turned very naturally, as if
unaware of any danger. There. Sitting in the chair by the window.
A thin shadow silhouetted against the dark drapes. Hauer jerked his
Walther from his waistband and dived behind the bed, pulling back the
slide as he hit the carpet.
'Don't be alarmed, Captain,' said a deep, familiar voice.
'It's only me. I managed to get here in spite of you.'
Hauer thrust his pistol over the top of the mattress, put two pounds of
pressure on the trigger, then slowly lifted his eyes above the edge of
the bed. Sitting in a nan-ow shaft of light coming through the drapes
