'In Mozambique? The usual African complement. Transport craft, helos,
a few outdated fighters. But the South Africans have it all.'
The Cuban crossed himself and dropped the chopper even closer to the
plain.
'You didn't think an incursion into South Africa would be a stroll on
the beach, did you?'
Suddenly a torrent of what sounded like gibberish to Diaz burst out of
the African ether and filled the cabin. Burton leaned forward and began
transmitting in a slower, broken version of the same language. When he
finished, he replaced the transmitter and settled back into his seat
with a trace of a smile on his lips.
'Takes me back, that does.'
'What was that shit?'
'Portuguese, sport. Language of a lost empire.'
'Everything still okay?' the pilot asked nervously.
'Bloody marvelous, I'd say.'
Burton felt like a different man after the confinement of the ocean
voyage. He was glad to be back in Africa. The only complication so far
had been the 'observer' that the MNR guerilla chief had foisted on him.
The observer was a giant black named Alberto who carried a frightening
arsenal of grenades, knives, and pistols. But when Burton thought of
The Deal, he refused to let Alberto worry him. The guerilla looked like
more of a soldier than any of the Colombians, and if he got in the way,
Burton could always kill him. The Englishman reckoned there might be a
good deal of killing 1
before this mission was done. But that was all right. England had
never seemed closer than it did just now.
6.07 Pm. Horn House, The Northern Transvaal Jonas Stern waited alone in
the vast reception hall of Horn House, praying that Ilse Apfel possessed
more nerve and presence of mind than her overwrought husband.
By all rights she should be in worse shape, emotionally speaking.
But something about the way Natterman had talked about the girl gave
Stern hope. Maybe she had the sand to do it.
Maybe'Herr Professor?'
The voice emanated from a dark hallway to Stern's left.
He turned to see Pieter Smuts emerge from the shadows.
'That's right,' said Stern, putting his full concentration into each
syllable of German. 'Professor Emeritus Georg Natterman, of the Free
University of Berlin. Who are you?' Smuts smiled bleakly. 'I believe
you have something for me, Professor?'
Stern regarded the Afrikaner with imperious detachment.
'Where is my granddaughter?'
'First the papers.'
Playing the role of arrogant academic to the hilt, Stern raised his chin
and looked down his nose at Smuts. 'I'll not give the Spandau papers to
anyone but the man who can prove they are his rightful property.
Frankly, I doubt anyone here can do that.'
The Afrikaner grimaced. 'Herr Professor, it is only my employer's
extreme patience which has kept me from-' An invisible bell cut Smuts
off in mid-sentence. 'One moment,' he said, and disappeared down the
hall from which he had come.
Glancing around the grand reception hall, Stern wondered what madman had
constructed this surreal schloss on the highveld. He took a couple of
tentative steps down the opposite corridor, but Smuts's returning
footsteps brought him back almost immediately.
'Follow me, Herr Professor,' the Afrikaner said stiffly.
In the dimly lit library, Alfred Horn sat motionless behind an enormous
desk, his one good eye focused on the man he believed to be Professor
Georg Natterman.
Stern hesitated at the door. He had expected to be brought before a
young English nobleman named Granville, not a man twenty years his
senior.
'Come closer, Herr Professor,' Horn said. 'Take a seat.'
'I'll stand, thank you,' Stern said uncertainly. He saw little more
than a shadow at the desk. He tried to determine the shadow's
nationality by its voice, but found it difficult. The man spoke German
like a native, but there were other inflections too.
'As you wish,' Horn said. 'You wanted to see me?'
Stern squinted into the gloom. Slowly, the amorphous features of the
shadow coalesced into the face of an old man.
A very old man. Stern cleared his throat. 'You are the man responsible
for my granddaughter's abduction?'
'I'm afraid so, Professor. My name is Thomas Horn. I'm a well-known
businessman in this country. Such tactics are not my usual style, but
this is a special case. A member of your family stole something that
belongs to some associates of mine . . .'
Horn sat so still that his mouth barely moved when he spoke. Stern
tried to concentrate on the old man's words, but somehow his attention
was continually drawn to the face@r what little he could see of it. A
low buzz of alarm began to insinuate itself into his brain. With a
combat veteran's sensitivity to physical wounds, Stern quickly noticed
that the old man had but one eye. Watery and blue, it flicked
restlessly back and forth while the other stared ever forward, seeing
nothing. My God! Stern thought. Here is Professor Natterman's
one-eyed man!
'... but I am a pragmatist,' Horn was saying. 'I always take the
shortest route between two points. In this case that route happened to
run through your family. You have a fine granddaughter, a true daughter
of Deutschiand But in matters such as this-matters with political
implications-even family must take second place.'
Stern felt sweat heading on his neck. Who in God's name was this man?
He tried to recall what, Natterman had said about the one-eyed man.
Helmut ... That was the name the professor had mentioned. But of course
Natterman had thought 'Helmut' was a code name for the real Rudolf Hess.
Stern felt his heart thud in his chest. It can't be, he thought
quickly. It simply cannot be.
'And so you see how simple it is, Professor,' Horn concluded.
'For the Spandau papers, I give you back your family.'
Stern tried to speak, but his mind no longer controlled his vocal cords.
