There was a pause. 'I'm sorry, sir. Meneer Stern's instructions say I
must personally give this message to one of his boys.'
Aaron nervously fingered his Uzi. 'Which of his boys?'
'Meneer Stern does not say, sir.'
Keeping his Uzi leveled, Aaron stepped warily up to the door and peered
through the peephole. Through the blurred fisheye lens he saw a thin
young black man wearing a blue messenger's uniform buttoned to the
throat. 'Hold up the telegram,' he said.
The young Bantu held up a piece of yellow paper, too far back for Aaron
to read. 'I must hurry, sir,' he said. 'I have other stops to make.'
Aaron muttered something in Hebrew, then reached for the door knob.
'Don't open it!' Natterman warned, but the young Israeli signaled him
to be quiet. Natterman heard the lock click; then the door opened and
caught against the chain.
'Hand it through,' Aaron said from behind the door. 'I'm not letting
you in.'
After a moment's hesitation, a small black hand slipped the telegram
through the crack in the door. Aaron reached out, then froze.
A faint scent of body powder and perfume had wafted into the room.
For an instant Aaron flashed back to last night. He heard Gadi's voice
saying, '. . . and the perfume, I tell you, it was the same woman, the
woman from the airplane.' In a fraction of a second Aaron comprehended
the danger, but he was too late.
Already a thin white hand had snapped through the four-inch space between
the door and its frame. The hand held a silenced Ingrain machine
pistol. As Aaron looked down in astonishment, the Ingrain spat three
times, blowing him off his feet and dropping him less than a foot from
the bloody stain where Yosef Shamir had died twelve hours ago.
Natterman tried to roll off the bed, but he was tangled beneath the
covers. He heard two more spits, then a clinking rattle. Swallow had
shot off the chain latch. He heard the door close, then a heavy thud.
Somehow Natterman knew who the killer was before he saw her. He
actually stopped breathing as the pale apparition glided swiftly to
Aaron's body. With one chilling glance at Natterman, the thin woman
bent down and tugged the Uzi from Aaron Haber's clenched hands.
Swallow, Natterman thought, remembering Stern's words. What's left of
the girl whose brother Stern killed while he sat on a toilet in a
British barracks a million years ago ...
Swallow glanced into the bathroom. She saw the Russians piled like
cordwood in the bathtub, and Yosef Shamir propped against the
white-tiled wall. Then she crossed immediately to Natterman, reached
down, and jerked his gag aside. When he opened his mouth to gasp for
breath, she jammed the barrel of the Ingrain inside it.
'Hello again, Professor,' she said in a low, flat voice.
'Where is Stern?'
Natterman felt the gun barrel against the back of his throat, as cold
and deadly as a snake's head. He desperately needed to gag, but he
didn't dare. The woman leaning over him was like a creature from a
mother with blue-rinse hair, yellowed pearls hanging round her wrinkled
throat'Jonas Stern!' Swallow snapped. 'Where is he?'
Natterman nodded his head carefully. Swallow removed the Ingrain from
his mouth. For a moment-thinking of Stern and his mission-Natterman
considered lying. He changed his mind when Swallow jammed the gun
barrel down onto the bloody bandage that Aaron had wrapped around
Natterman's wounded thigh.
'Alfred Horn!' he gasped. 'Stern went to see a man named Alfred Horn!'
Swallow jabbed the Ingrain deeper into Natterman's wound. 'Where to see
Alfred Horn?'
Natterman felt his stomach heave. 'Somewhere in the northern Transvaal!
That's all I know. It was a blind rendezfi vous. Stern didn't know
where he was going himsel ' While Swallow considered this, Natterman
looked past her to the floor. He saw black skin and white eyes. The
messenger. Now he understood the second thud. Swallow had shot the
Bantu boy in the throat. 'Stern was wrong,' he said, thinking aloud.
'He thinks you're after him. But you've come to destroy the Spandau
papers, haven't you?'
Swallow's nostrils flared. 'I've come for Stern. If he has the papers,
that's a bonus.'
Natterman glanced back at Aaron. The Israeli had fallen with his back
against the foyer wall. Except for the blood on his chest, he looked
like he was sleeping. Natterman remembered how innocent the young
commando had looked watching the soundless television. 'How do you do
it?' he asked.
'That boy was hardly more than a child.'
Swallow followed Natterman's gaze to Aaron's motionless body. She
shrugged. 'He was a soldier. Today was his day.'
Natterman shook his head. 'Every bullet has its billet, eh?'
'King William,' Swallow murmured, recalling the quote from her wartime
service. 'You're a philosopher?'
'I'm a fool. And you're a murderer, and a hypocrite as well.
That boy was probably someone's brother, too.'
Swallow smacked Natterman on the mouth with the Ingrain, drawing blood.
Her eyes, as cold and dark and empty as deep space, settled on his face.
Natterman had never in his life felt such fear, not even as a young
German soldier patrolling alone in the shadow of Russian tanks outside
Leningrad.
'You're going to kill me,' he said sotto voce.
'Not quite yet.' Swallow lifted the telephone receiver and dialed an
international number. As she waited for an answer, she casually pulled
off her blue-rinse hair. Natterman's eyes widened. Beneath the wig,
Swallow's hair was iron gray and cropped to within an inch of her skull.
She did not look like a grandmother anymore.
'Swallow,' she said harshly.
In London, Sir Neville Shaw's heart leaped. 'Good Christ! Where are
you?'
Swallow's knuckles whitened on the telephone. 'Listen to me, little
man. I'm giving you one last chance to tell me where Stern is.
He's gone to see a man named Alfred Horn.
I want to know where@' 'I'll tell you exactly where to find him!'
