CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
7,05 Pm. MozambiquelSouth Africa Border The helicopters stormed
northward on the Mozambique side of the border, hugging the plain
between the Lebombo Mountains and the Limpopo River. Occasionally they
jinked westward long enough for Burton to take bearings. The Englishman
knew this part of Africa well, and the Kruger Park had enough landmarks
to keep him oriented.
The border itself, a garish scar of bare earth bisected by a huge
electric fence, divided two countries that might have been different
continents. On the Mozambique side, a desolate war-ravaged plain
stretched toward the sea. On the South African side, the lushness of
the Kruger Park began immediately. Wide green troughs of river in
vegetation snaked westward out of sight. Forests of mopane, Sycamore
fig, and Natal mahogany sheltered herds of elephant and zebra, white
rhino and lion.
'Take her back up!' Alan Burton ordered.
Juan Diaz breathed a sigh of relief. The Cuban pilot prided himself on
his flying skill, but this crazy English gringo had badgered him about
the altitude until he wondered if the man had a secret death wish.
Burton pointed to the north and shouted above the rotor noise 'We want
to keep on this heading until we see the Olifants River! Then we'll
veer west and cross the park at treetop level!' He showed Diaz the map.
'The house we want lies about halfway between the western edge of the
park and this little town here.' Burton pointed to Giyani, then
indicated an X marked about fifteen kilometers from the western edge of
the Kruger Park.
Diaz nodded, then returned his gaze to the plain below.
'The Kruger Park's about the size of Wales,' Burton told him.
'But it's thin-runs north to south.'
Diaz ignored him.
'Probably never heard of Wales, eh?' Burton laughed.
'The Prince of Wales?'
Diaz shook his head. Either the Cuban hadn't understood or he simply
did not want to be bothered. Burton switched to a more relevant
subject. 'That fence down there,' he yelled, pointing westward, '11,500
volts! They fry a whole gang of Mozambican refugees on that thing every
year.
Bloody awful.'
The Cuban grimaced. He knew about dead refugees.
Glancing back into the cabin of the JetRanger, Burton looked the
Colombian soldiers over again. The presence of 'Alberto, the big MNR
observer, made them look even more unprofessional. 'What do you think
of our South American friends, Diaz?' he yelled.
The Cuban pilot did not share Burton's confidence in the deafness of the
Colombians. He pulled the Englishman's head down near his own.
'Banditos, ' he muttered. 'No soldiers.' He cut his eyes back toward
the cabin, then crossed himself so that only Burton could see.
'Bloody hell.' Burton had hoped Diaz might know something encouraging
about the Colombians that he didn't. Suddenly the Englishman sighted a
silver serpentine glittering beneath the dark clouds to the north.
'There's the river!'
he shouted, Diaz nodded, then banked westward and dove for the plain.
Their sister ship followed closely, behind and to the right.
The green sea of the Kruger Park rushed toward them.
The JetRangers skimmed over the border fence and swept westward over the
verdant foliage below. Burton saw a herd of antelope raising a huge
cloud of dust as they fled the noise of the approaching choppers. Diaz
pointed to the dark cloud ceiling above them.
'Much rain when it comes?'
'Buckets this time of year!'
Diaz frowned, but Burton smiled wryly. The weather didn't worry him;
that was the pilots' problem. But the accuracy of his intelligence
reports did. Who in hell was the English informer who supposedly waited
inside the target house? Probably anything but a soldier, Burton
thought ruefully. The informer had reported that Alfred Horn relied
primarily upon isolation for security-isolation and a neo-Nazi security
chief. Burton wondered if the informer would even recognize defensive
measures if he saw them. Swallowing his anxiety, he slapped Diaz on the
back and grinned.
'Rain's good for us!' he yelled. 'Better cover!'
Diaz glanced doubtfully back into the cabin where the bearded Colombians
crouched. He dropped a little closer to the trees.
Horn House: The Northern Transvaal
Ilse sat opposite Alfred Horn at the long mahogany dining table and
stared sullenly at her plate. All the other chairs were empty. In
spite of their furious efforts, she and Stern had been unable to break
out of the bedroom before Linah arrived to take them to dinner. Stern
had pleaded an unsettled stomach, so Ilse had come alone. She wondered
if the old Israeli was still trying. As Linah leaned over her left
shoulder to pour white wine, she looked up at Horn.
'Where is everyone?' she asked, trying to hold her voice steady.
'Pieter has work to do,' Horn replied. 'And of course your grandfather
remains in your bedroom.' He smiled. 'I believe he would rather finish
reading that notebook I gave him than eat.'
Ilse lifted her fork and tried to make a show of eating.
Stern had advised her to carry on as she had been, but now that she knew
Hans was almost surely somewhere inside the house, she couldn't contain
herself. 'Where is my husband?' she cried suddenly.
Horn looked up slowly from his plate. 'He has not yet arrived, my
dear.'
'Liar! He's here!'
Horn swallowed some wine, then set his crystal goblet on the table.
'Who told you that?' he asked quietly. 'Your grandfather?'
'No one. I ... I just feel it.'
'Ah, woman's intuition. An overrated faculty, I've found.
Do not worry, your Hans will arrive soon.'
Ilse 9 uivered with anger. 'You're lying,' she said stubbornly.
'Hans is here.'
Horn slammed his frail hand against the table, rattling the silver.
