by Graaff's remarks. Why didn't I ask to see their passports? he
wondered. But he knew why. Because the longer he had stared into the
earnest eyes of the German policeman, the more convinced he'd become
that the man was telling the truth. There was some kind of crisis going
on. And what was the harm in calling the general, anyway? Jaap Steyn
prided himself on keeping a hand in evy.case that directly affected his
office. And if two foreigners asking to speak to the general on a
matter of national security didn't directly affect his office, what did?
Barnard reached for the phone and dialed General Steyn's home number. He
listened to it ring three times, then hung up with an oath.
Graaff was probably right. Better to wait until they knew they had a
problem before bothering the general. The- Visagie interrogators would
know everything about the strangers in a few hours, and South Africa's
political battles kept General Steyn busy enough without jerking him
away from his morning coffee to deal with a non-event.
Captain Barnard took his car keys from his desk and wrote a note to his
secretary. He'd been working all night. He was going home to shower,
shave, and have a bite of breakfast.
He would be back around ten A.M. It will all be sorted out by then, he
thought as he slipped out of the office. But then he remembered the
German policeman's sober gaze. And he wondered.
CHAPTER FORTY
605 A. M. mI-5 Headquarters. Charles Street, Loodon Sir Neville Shaw
looked up as Wilson rushed into his dim office. His deputy shook a thin
piece of paper in his right hand.
'Cable, Sir Neville!'
'Well read it, man! What's the bloody rush?'
Wilson shoved the message across the desktop. 'Personal for you, sir.'
Shaw tore open the seal and read:
DIRECTOR GENERAL mIs:
THE MEN YOU SENT ARE DEAD STOP LORD GRENVILLE IS DEAD STOP YOU BROKE A
SOLEMN AGREEMENT MADE MORE THAN THIRTY YEARS AGO STOP I AM NO LONGER
BOUND BY TERMS OF THAT AGREEMENT STOP I'VE NEVER KNOWN AN ENGLISHMAN WHO
KEPT 141S WORD STOP SECRET NOW HELD AT MY DISCRETION STOP BETTER LUCK
NEXT TIME
HESS
Shaw felt his hands begin to shake. 'Good God,' he murmured.
'Burton's dead.' He looked up, his face red and blotchy.
'Wilson! Do you have those files I told you to get?'
'In my office safe, sir. I don't believe the Foreign Office has noticed
them missing yet.'
'Damn the Foreign Office! Shred those files, t en incinerate them in
the basement! Do it yourself and do it now!'
Wilson moved toward the door, then paused and looked back at his
superior.
'I was a bloody fool to order Swallow off the case,' Shaw said hoarsely.
'She could have killed Hess herself.'
Wilson's eyes narrowed. 'You mean Horn, sir?'
Shaw looked up with red eyes. 'Horn is Hess, Wilson.
Haven't you got that yet?'
Wilson took a step backward.
Shaw looked down at the wrinkled map on his desk.
'Swallow could still be in South Africa,' he muttered. 'By God she
might be able to save us yet. Wilson, put out a message to every
resource we have in South Africa. Anyone who contacts agent Swallow
should order her to call me here. And if she calls us for any reason,
you put her through to me immediately. Do you understand?'
'Yes, sir!'
Shaw's eyes sparkled with excitement. 'By God, I should have used that
harpy in the first place! Murder has always been woman's work.'
655 A.M. Protea Hof Hotel, Pretoria
Swallow had been waiting outside room 604 for twelve hours, and her
patience had almost run out. In the half-dozen times she had approached
the door, only once had she heard any conversation from the two men
inside. For the hundredth time she glanced at her watch.
Almost seven A.M.
Maids would be coming on duty any moment. To hell with it, she thought,
I'm going in. She already had a plan. Taking a last glance at the
door, she headed downstairs to use the lobby telephone.
Inside room 604, Professor Natterman lay flat on the bed in a haze of
morphine, fever, and pain. Thanks to Aaron's expert medical training,
the gunshot wounds had at least stopped bleeding, if not hurting. The
professor had spent the night wrestling with despair.
Rudolf Hess was alive, as he had predicted, yet he would not be at Horn
House to confront the old Nazi. And worse, Hauer had told Detective
Schneider where to find his photocopy of the Spandau papers, wiping out
any hope of his publishing an exclusive translation of the papers. All
night Natterman had clutched his only consolation to his of the Spandau
pages. A dawn began to creep around the edges of the dra Natterman
wondered when or if Hauer would call back.
Would the South Africans give Hauer the troops Stern had told him to ask
for? And if so, could Ilse survive such an assault?
Natterman glanced over at the other bed. Aaron Haber lay there,
watching a silent television. The young commando had lain that way most
of the night, except when he took time out to check Natterman's
bandages. He'd said he muted the sound so that he could hear anyone
approaching the door. Natterman wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow.
The hotel air-conditioning whooshed straight out of the window shattered
by Borodin's sniper.
Natterman jumped as a sharp knock sounded at the door.
Aaron came to his feet like a leopard startled from sleep, his Uzi
cocked and pointed at the door. Natterman could just see the door from
where he lay. As the Israeli tiptoed toward it, the knock sounded
again. Aaron flattened himself against the foyer wall.
'Who's there?' he called.
'Messenger,' said a male voice. 'Telegram, sir.'
Aaron's brow knit in furious thought. 'Telegram from who?'
'From a Meneer Stern, sir.'
The young commando's blood quickened. 'Shove it under the door!'
