Читать книгу Spandau Phoenix - Greg Iles - Страница 21

Deputy Director Wilson knocked softly at Sir Neville Shaw’s door, then opened it and padded onto the deep carpet of the director general’s office. Shaw sat at his desk beneath the green glow of a banker’s lamp. He took no notice of the intrusion; he continued to pore over a thick, dog-eared file on the desk before him.

“Sir Neville?” Wilson said.

Shaw did not look up. “What is it? Your hard boys arrived?”

“No, sir. It’s something else. A bit rum, actually.”

Sir Neville looked up at last. “Well?”

“It’s Israeli Intelligence, sir. The head of the Mossad, as a matter of fact. He’s sent us a letter.”

Shaw blinked. “So?”

“Well, it’s rather extraordinary, sir.”

“Damn it, Wilson, how so?”

“The letter is countersigned by the Israeli prime minister. It was hand-delivered by courier.”

“What?” Sir Neville sat up. “What in God’s name is it about?” His ruddy face slowly tightened in dread. “Not Hess?”

Wilson quickly shook his head. “No, sir. It’s about an old intelligence hand of theirs. Chap named Stern. Seems he’s been holed up in the Negev for the past dozen years, but a couple of days ago he quietly slipped his leash.”

Shaw looked exasperated. “I don’t see what the devil that’s got to do with us.”

“The Israelis—their prime minister, rather—seem to think we might still hold a grudge against this fellow. That there might be a standing order of some type on him. A liquidation order.”

“That’s preposterous!” Shaw bellowed. “After all this time?”

The deputy director smiled with forbearance. “It’s not so preposterous, Sir Neville. Our own Special Forces Club—which the Queen still visits occasionally, I’m proud to say—still refuses to accept Israeli members. They welcome elite troops from almost every democratic nation in the world, even the bloody Germans. Everyone but the Israelis, and they’re probably the best of the lot. And all because the older agents still hold a grudge for the murder of an SAS man by Zionists during the Mandate—”

“Just a minute,” Shaw interrupted. “Stern, you said?”

“Yes, sir. Jonas Stern. I pulled his file.”

“Jonas Stern,” Shaw murmured. “By God, the Israelis ought to be concerned. One of our people has been after that old guerilla for better than thirty years.”

Wilson looked surprised. “One of our agents, sir?”

“Retired,” Shaw explained. “A woman, actually. Code name Swallow. A real harpy. You’d better pull her file, in fact. Just in case she’s still got her eye on this fellow.” Shaw nodded thoughtfully. “I remember Stern. He was a terrorist during the Mandate, not even twenty at the time, I’ll bet. He swallowed his vinegar and fought for us during the war. It was the only way he could get at Hitler, I suppose. Did a spot of sticky business for us in Germany, as I recall.”

Wilson looked at Shaw in wonder. “That’s exactly what it says in the file!”

“Yes,” Shaw remembered, “he worked for LAKAM during the ’sixties and ’seventies, didn’t he? Safeguarding Israel’s nuclear development program.” Shaw smiled at his deputy’s astonishment. “No strings or mirrors, Wilson. Stern was a talented agent, but the reason I remember him so clearly is because of this Swallow business. I think she actually tried to assassinate him a couple of times. That’s why the Mossad sent that letter.”

“Do you really think this woman might pose a danger to him?”

Shaw shook his head. “I doubt Stern’s in England. Or even in Europe, for that matter. He’s probably sunning himself on Mykonos, or something similar. Which reminds me—did you find that freighter for me?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Lloyd’s puts her off Durban; she rounded the cape three days ago.”

Shaw rummaged through the stack of papers on his desk until he found a map of southern Africa. “Durban,” he murmured, running his finger across the paper. “Twenty knots, twenty-five … two days … yes. Well.”

Shaw brushed the map aside and thumped the stack of papers before him. “This is the Hess file, Wilson. No one’s cleared to read it but me—did you know that? I tell you, there’s enough rotted meat between these covers to make you ashamed of being an Englishman.”

Wilson waited for an explanation, but Shaw provided none. “About the Israeli letter, sir?” he prompted. “It’s basically a polite request to leave this Stern alone. How should I reply?”

“What? Oh. The Israeli prime minister is an old terrorist himself, you know.” Sir Neville chuckled. “And still looking after his own, after all these years.” His smile turned icy. “No reply. Let him sweat for a while, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And hurry those hard boys along, would you? I thought I had it tough with the P.M. climbing my back. An hour ago I got a call from the bloody Queen-Mother herself. She makes the Iron Lady sound like a French nanny!”

As Wilson slipped out, Sir Neville huffed and went back to the Hess file. On top lay a very old eight-by-ten glossy photograph. Scarred and faded, it showed a man in his late forties with dark hair, a strong jaw, and a black oval patch tied rakishly across his left eye. Shaw jabbed his heavy forefinger down on the eye patch.

“You started it all, you sneaking bastard,” he muttered. He slammed the file closed and leaned back in his chair. “Sometimes I wonder if the damned knighthood’s worth the strain,” he said. “Protecting skeletons in the royal bloody chest.”