was Professor Georg Natterman.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
2.25 P.M. The Northern Transvaal One mile, northeast of the village of
Giyani, the Zulu pulled the Range Rover onto the gravel shoulder and
climbed out.
-ie Hans stayed put. The Zulu shielded his eyes and stared back @Own
the long highway. Lean as an impala, he looked as if ne were scanning
the veld for game herds. Whenever a car or truck whizzed past, he
stared into the vehicle as if searching for someone he knew.
Hans was getting angry. They had been on the road for hours, and they
had stopped like this twice@ before. After a quick glance at the Zulu,
Hans climbed out of the Rover on the shoulder side and looked around.
Back toward Pretoria, the sun burned down relentlessly, shimmering like
a layer of oil just above the road. To the north, however, Hans saw a
vast wall of slate gray clouds. Beneath the leaden ceiling, sheets of
rain rolled south toward the Rover, seeming to qM the night behind.
'In,' the Zulu commanded, scampering back into the driver's seat.
When Hans climbed into the backseat, he found a thin black arm dangling
a long black cloth before his eyes. 'No, he said.
The Zulu dropped the blindfold in Hans's lap and turned back to the
windshield. His posture told Hans that unless he obeyed, the vehicle
would not move one inch further toward his wife.
Hans cursed and tied the scarf around his eyes. 'Now,' he muttered,
'move your ass.'
The next thirty minutes felt like a G-force test. The Zulu swung off of
the road immediately, and the bone-crashing ride that followed would
have totaled a vehicle less sturdy than the Range Rover. Hans peeked
around the blindfold when he could, trying to maintain some rough idea
of their progress, but taking accurate directional bearings was
impossible. By the time they finally leveled out, his head had taken
several vicious knocks and the.Zulu's goal of disorienting him had been
well and truly achieved.
The road surface felt like rock scrabble now, but that didn't help Hans.
All he could do was press himself into the rear seat and wait for
journey's end. Thirty minutes later the Rover stopped and the Zulu
ordered him out. When Hans's feet hit the ground, the Zulu pushed him
against the side of the vehicle and searched him. He immediately
discovered the knife taped to Hans's ribs, and ripped it away from the
skin. He told Hans to wait.
When Hans heard receding footsteps, he pulled off the blindfold.
He stood before an enormous building unlike any he had ever seen.
Before he could examine it in any detail, however, a great teak door
opened and a tall blond man stepped out, his well-tanned arm extended in
greeting.
'Sergeant Apfel?' he said. 'I'm Pieter Smuts. I hope the ride wasn't
too rough. Come inside and we'll see about getting you more
comfortable.'
'My wife,' Hans said awkwardly, holding his ground.
'I've come for my wife.'
'Of course. But inside, please. Everything in good time.'
Hans followed the Afrikaner into a majestic reception hall and down a
long corridorIn a cul-de-sac full of shadows, they stopped beside two
doors. Smuts turned to him.
'The Spandau papers,' he said softly.
'Not until I see my wife,' Hans retorted, raising himself to his full
height-which was about eye level with the Afrikaner.
'First things first, Sergeant. That was our agreement.
When we are satisfied that no copies'exist, you will be reunited with
your wife.'
Hans made no move to comply.
A brittle edge crept into the Afrikaner's voice. 'Do you intend to
break our agreement?'
Hans held his breath, struggling to cling to the illusion that he had
entered Horn House with bargaining power. It was now painfully clear
that he had not. He had probably.
made the worst mistake of his life by coming here. He had gone against
the advice of the one man who might have been able to help him, and now
Ilse would pay the price for his stupidity.
Smuts saw Hans's pain as clearly as if he had burst into tears.
He opened a door and motioned for Hans to enter the small bedroom
beyond. 'The papers,' he repeated.
Like a zombie Hans withdrew the tightly folded pages.
Smuts did not even look at them. He slipped the wad into his pants like
pocket change, then nodded curtly. 'I'll be back soon,' he said. 'Get
some rest.'
'But my wife!' Hans cried. 'You've got to take me to her! I've done
everything you asked!'
'Not quite everything,' Smuts admonished. 'But enough, I think.'
He closed the door solicitously, like a well-tipped bellman. , 'Wait!'
Hans shouted, but the Afrikaner's footsteps faded into silence.
Hans tried the door, but it was locked. It's out of my hands now, he
thought hopelessly@. Is that what I wanted all along? He wondered how
long the procedure to detect photocopying would take. He was still
wondering that when the countless hours without sleep finally
overpowered him. He collapsed onto the small bed, his mouth moving
silently as exhaustion shut down his frazzled -brain. For the first
time since childhood, Hans Apfel fell asleep with a prayer on his lips.
When the Afrikaner jerked him awake ten minutes later, Hans knew that
his desperate gamble had failed. Smuts's eyes burned with feral fire,
and though he spoke even more quiedy than before, violence crackled
through his every syllable like static electricity.
'You have made a grave mistake, Sergeant. I will ask you only once.
Your wife's life depends upon your answer.
Where are the three missing pages?'
Hans felt as if he had suddenly been sucked high into the stratosphere.
His ears seemed to stop up. He couldn't breathe. 'I-I don't
understand,' he said stupidly.
Smuts turned and reached for the doorknob.
'Wait!' Hans cried. 'It's not my fault! I don't have the other
