Spandau Phoenix (95 page)

Five weeks ago, on the strength of Secret Finding 573, I ordered the liquidation of Hess's double [the real Alfred Horn] in Spandau Prison.

On my order the Foreign Office file on Hess has been sanitized. I have placed in my personal safe papers which washed ashore in Scotland on 11

May 1941, which were thought to have been ditched from Hess's plane.

These papers contain the names of many of the British coup conspirators.

The War Office file on Hess contains damaging information on the Duke of Windsor [which the Royal Family is frightfully anxious to keep buried], but that file is sealed until 2050. The F.O. file is sealed until 2016.

We should meet as soon as possible: Sir Neville Shaw Director General, mI-5

P.S. This unfortunate situation has been complicated by the arrest yesterday of an mI-6

intelligence analyst@who for seven years made available to agents of "Alfred Horn" some of our most sensitive intelligence secrets, including copies of American satellite photography. 'three weeks ago, this man inferred [from information which had been requested by Phoenix AGI that some type of attack [possibly nuclear] was imminent against the State of Israel. In a belated fit of conscience, he sent an anonymous warning to the Israeli Embassy in London. We cannot discount the possibility that my efforts to liquidate Hess prompted him to attempt some desperate action against Israel, but I consider this scenario unlikely. "Alfred Horn" does have significant uranium holdings in South Africa, but the possibility that he has acquired a nuclear device is infinitesimally small.

Deputy Director Wilson looked up at Shaw with horror on his face. "You don't really mean to send this?"

Shaw raised his eyebrows. "of course I do. As far as I'm concerned, the Hess secret is blown. I'll be sacked tomorrow, so what do I care?

I'm tired of protecting traitors, Wilson. It's time the world learned what a heroic mission this service performed in 1941. We saved Churchill and the dnd! I should write it up for the King, man.

We saved England's bloody 7-imesP' The blood drained from Wilson's cheeks.

"Surely you're joking, Sir Neville. You're overwrought."

"But I'm deadly serious."

The deputy director glanced behind him to the closed office door.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said soffly. He pulled a revolver from his coat pocket.

Shaw studied the gun. "A bit noisy for murder, don't you think?

Too many people around."

Wilson gave his superior a wintry smile. "Not murder, Sir Neville.

Suicide."

Shaw smiled appreciatively. "Ah. I'm about to crack under the strain of a failed operation, eh? You'll 'discover' me with my head bleeding over the Hess file, the mandarins will cover it up 'for the good of the service,' and you'll take my chair as director general. Is that it?"

Wilson nodded. "I've been laying the groundwork ever since you locked yourself in here like a hermit. The secretaries are already whispering about you."

Shaw sighed. "You were Horn's man all along, weren't you? As long as my efforts went toward keeping the secret, you went right along.

But you and your bloody uncle-Lord Amersham, isn't it?-you didn't know that some of the conspirator families had asked me to liquidate both Hess and Number Seven, did you? Gutless bastards. They claimed Horn had gone senile, that he had too much power. I saw the truth, though.

Glasnost had those blue-blooded cowards pissing their beds at night.

Gorbachev's whole program was openness, sweeping out the past.

Couldn't have that, could we? Our brave peers were scared silly that the Russians might not veto Number Seven's release next time around."

Shaw raised a forefinger. "And they were right, you know? ; Two days ago I learned that Gorbachev had recently indicated to Hess's son that he was on the verge of releasing Prisoner Number Seven."

Wilson kept his pistol pointed at Shaw's chest. "How did you kill Number Seven without my knowledge?" Shaw shrugged. "Easily. I used a retired SAS man Michael Burton. The whole Hess business has always been run outside official channels. That's why you knew nothin about the Casilda. But you found out in time, didn't YOU?

Wilson's face reddened. "I warned Horn."

You warned Hess about the raid."

"My God," muttered Shaw. "You didn't even know who you were working for, did you? Just like that idiot in MI-6.

At least his mother was South African."

The revolver shook in Wilson's hand. "Why was Hess allowed to live? Why did we let him out of England at all?"

Shaw smiled humorlessly. "We never had Hess, Wilson.

We only caught Ho e double Heydrich sent to confuse us. We never found out how Hess escaped, if he came here at all. mI-6 finally located him in Paraguay in 1958. The Israelis and other Nazihunters never found him because they weren't looking. As far as they knew, Rudolf Hess was locked inside Spandau Prison."

"Why didn't you kill Hess in Paraguay?"

Shaw snorted. "You think your friends are afraid of the Spandau papers?

Hess knew the name of every bloody British traitor involved in the coup attempt. He claimed he had taken steps that would make those names public in the event of his untimely death, and we believed him."

"But why kill number Seven after all this time? He'd held his silence for decades. Why should he break it?"

"Because his wife and daughter were dead," Shaw explained. "Had been for years. We kept Number Seven quiet by threatening his family, just as Hess must have. If Number Seven had been released from Spandau, he -might have discovered they were dead. And we would have lost our leverage. If the Russians hadn't vetoed his early release every year, we would have had to kill him years ago."

Sir Neville Shaw steepled his fingers. "Tell me one thing, Wilson. How much have you told Hess's people about Jonas SternT' "Nothing, until today. I assumed Swallow would kill Stern before he became a threat, and I didn't want to risk further direct contact.

Stern must have blown his cover himself Two hours ago Horn's security chief called me and asked if I knew anything about a Jew who had come after Horn."

Shaw nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose you intend to burn my memo?"

"Yes, actually."

Shaw reached out his hand. "Here. Let me shred it for YOU."

Puzzled, Wilson handed Shaw the letter, then watched incredulously as the mI-5 chief fed both pages into his highspeed shredder. "But .

.. why? What are you doing?"

Shaw smiled. "Don't worry, there's a copy in my safe.

But things haven't quite reached the stage where I feel compelled to send it." Shaw looked over Wilson's shoulder to a dark corner of the large office. "Sergeant," he said crisply, "please arrest Mr.

Wilson. The charge is treason."

Like a thousand fools before him, Wilson whirled to face an imaginary threat. When he looked back at Shaw, there was a silenced Browning HiPower pistol in the old knight's hand.

"Sorry, old boy," Shaw said, but he had already pulled the trigger.

Wilson's astonished eyes went blank as the bullet tore through his heart. He dropped dead on the floor without a sound.

Shaw calmly lifted his telephone and punched in a number. The call was answered immediately.

"Rose here," said a gruff voice with a Texas twang.

"Good morning, Colonel," said Shaw. "I am authorized to agree to your terms-if you believe the Hess secret can still be kept."

"As if you had any choice," Rose growled.

"About Jonas Stern," Shaw said dill-;dently. "Her Majesty's government doesn't want the Israelis getting hold of this story."

"I figure Stern's dead by now," Rose said. "Sir Neville."

Shaw sighed with forbearance. "Is there any further word from South Africa?"

"Negative. Your precious secret's in Captain Hauer's hands now.

Who knows what a friggin' Kraut'll do?" Rose laughed away from the phone. "Hey, Shaw, I've got a guy here, name of Schneider. He says Hauer'll kill Hess if gets the chance. That make you feel any better?"

Shaw smiled with satisfaction. "Thank you, Colonel. I shall be in Berlin by noon."

IL

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

826 A.M. Angolan Airspace

At eighteen thousand feet the Lear 31-A turbojet knifed southward through the sky and down the length of Africa. In the sumptuously appointed passenger cabin, Prime Minister Abdul Bake Jalloud sipped from a glass of sherry and contemplated the excited face of Dr. Hamid Sabri.

The bespectacled young physicist could barely restrain his enthusiasm.

In a matter of hours he would be shepherding back to Libya the first nuclear weapon ever to stock an Arab arsenal. Prime Minister Jalloud was more subdued. Despite Muammar Qaddafi's repeated assurances that all was well, Jalloud could not shake a vague suspicion that something was not as it should be.

"Are you all right, Excellency?" asked Dr. Sabri. "You look pale."

"It's the food," Jalloud muttered. "I shouldn't have eaten anything."

"I'm nervous myself," Sabri confessed. "I cannot wait to return home with the device."

"I can't wait to return home, period," Jalloud murmured.

This curious statement disconcerted the young scientist.

He glanced through his window at the'clouds below. "Excellency?"

he said quietly. "I must admit I am glad Major Karami is not accompanying us on this trip. He makes me uncomfortable. I do not believe Mr. Horn liked him either."

"Major Karami makes a lot of people nervous," said Jalloud, glancing past Dr. Sabri. At the rear of the cabin, sitting on a pile of embroidered pillows, six very dangerouslooking soldiers quietly smoked cigarettes. Qaddafi had assured Jalloud that he'd ordered them loading of the weapon, but Jallc doubted this. On the last trip two security guards had been considered adequate escort. Jalloud was almost certain that these men had been handpicked from Ilyas Karami's personal bodyguard.

"I'm not so sure we are flee of Major Karanii," he whispered, cutting his eyes toward the guards.

Dr. Sabri peered around the prime minister's kefflyah and looked at the sullen group. "Don't say that," he said quietly.

"Allah protect us, don't even think it."

Twenty-eight miles behind the Lear, Major Ilyas Karami stepped onto the flight deck of a Soviet-built Yakovlev-42

airliner and leaned down into the pilot's ear. "Should I go over it for you again?" he asked.

"It's net necessary, Major," the pilot replied.

"Good." Karanii laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Because what I told my commandos goes for you pilots too. Any man that makes a mistake on this mission will lose his head when we return to Tripoli."

The pilot strained to keep his hands steady on the controls.

Ilyas Karaiti's threats Were never empty.

"And his testicles will be in his mouth,",Karami added.

The plane lurched violently, as if buffeted by turbulence.

"I'm sorry, Major!" the pilot croaked.

"Low-pressure pocket," the copilot covered quickly.

Major Karami snorted and left the flight deck.

This Yakovlev aircraft-popularly known as the Yak-42

-had begun its life as an Aeroflot jetliner, then passed into Libyan commercial service. But for this mission Major Karami had ordered it configured as an Air Zimbabwe commercial airliner. Karami smiled with satisfaction as he walked through the stripped cabin of the plane.

Lining both walls of the Yak-42 were fifty heavily-armed Libyan commandos; and filling the center section from front to rear were pallets stacked high with weapons, ammunition, a small truck, and at the rear of the cabin, lashed to the fuselage by chains, a 105-millimeter artillery piece.

Karami nodded to his company commanders as he made his way through the tangle of legs and equipment and stopped beside the small pickup truck.

The bed of the Toyota had been Padded with wrestling mats, and its sides fitted with cleats sized to take chains. Ostensibly the truck had been brought along to tow the 105mm howitzer into position.

Only Major Karami knew what special eargo its bed and suspension had been modified to accept. When they got a little closer to their destination, however, Karami would let his men in on the secret. For what force could withstand the fury of Arabs come to claim the weapon that would finally wipe the Jews from the sands of Palestine?

O40 A-Ai. Northern Transvaal, Republic of South Africa

Alan Burton scrambled over the lip of the Wash and down the slope to where Juan Diaz half-sat, half-lay in the slowly drying mud. He had bandaged the Cuban's wound as best he could; it was crusted with blood but not suppurating. Diaz opened his eyes when he heard Burton approach.

"Well, English?" he croaked.

"No chance," Burton said bitterly. "It's worse than it looked last night. Fidel's chopper blew itself all over the runway. It's a wonder we weren't cut to pieces. The tail of that Lear looks like scrap metal."

"The lateral finst' Diaz asked hopefully. "Or the vertical?"