Hotel Spyrios, located a few blocks from Syntagma Square, was built in the bland international-resort style; elevators were trimmed with resin-coated travertine, doors covered with a mahogany veneer, furnishings designed to sparkle in brochures but afford no unnecessary pleasures.
“Your room will be ready in five minutes,” the man at the front desk told him carefully. “You have a seat in the lobby and we’ll be right with you. Five minutes, no more.”
The five minutes, being metered out in Athenian time, were more like ten, but eventually Janson was given his key card, and he made his way to his ninthfloor hotel room. The ritual was automatic: he inserted the narrow key card in the slot, waited for the green diode to blink, turned the latch knob, and pushed the heavy door inward.
He felt burdened, and not simply by his luggage. His shoulders and upper back ached. The meeting with Marina had been every bit as wrenching as he’d expected. They had bonded, in their sense of loss, but only momentarily: he was its proximate cause, there was no getting away from that, and grief, separated, was doubled in intensity. How could Marina ever understand how bereft he himself felt, how harrowed he was by his own sense of guilt?
He noticed a smell of stale sweat in the room, suggesting that one of the cleaners had only just left. And the curtains were drawn, at an hour when they would normally have been left open. In his distracted state, Janson did not make the inferences that he was trained to make. Grief had interposed itself between him and the world like a gauzy scrim.
Only when his eyes adjusted to the light did he see the man who was seated in an upholstered chair, his back to the curtains.
Janson started, reaching for a gun he didn’t have.
“It’s been a long time between drinks, Paul,” the seated man said.
Janson recognized the man’s silky, unctuous tones, the cultivated English with just a slight Greek accent. Nikos Andros.
He was flooded with memories, few of them fond.
“I’m hurt, you visiting Athens and not telling me,” Andros continued, rising to his feet and taking a few steps toward him. “I thought we were friends. I thought I was somebody you’d look up for a drink, a glass of ouzo. Hoist one for old times’ sake, my friend. No?”
The pebbled cheeks, the small darting eyes: Nikos Andros belonged to another era in Janson’s life, to a temporal compartment he had sealed off when he left Consular Operations.
“I don’t care how you got in here—my only question to you is how you prefer to leave,” said Janson, who was past any displays of joviality. “Quickest would be off the balcony, nine stories down.”
“Is that any way to talk to a friend?” Andros wore his dark hair severely short; his clothing was, as always, expensive, neatly pressed, fastidious: the black blazer was cashmere, the midnight blue shirt was silk, his shoes a soft, burnished calfskin. Janson glanced at the nail grown long on Andros’s little finger, a foppish custom of certain Athenians, indicating a disdain for manual labor.
“A friend? We did business together, Nikos. But that’s all in the past. I doubt you’ve got anything to sell I’d be in the market for.”
“No time for ‘show and sell’? You must be a man in a hurry. No matter. I’m in the charity business today. I’m not here to sell information. I’m here to give you information. Absolutely gratis.”
In Greece, Nikos Andros was known as a conservator of the national treasures. A curator at the Piraeus Archaeological Museum and a crusader for preservation programs, he was frequently quoted on the subject of repatriation, regularly urging that the Elgin Marbles be returned to the country from which they were taken. He lived in a neoclassical villa in the leafy Athenian suburb of Kifissía, on the lower slopes of Mount Pendéli, and cut a colorful figure in Athens’s elite circles. His connoisseurship and erudition in classical archaeology made him a much-sought-after guest in the drawing rooms of the rich and powerful throughout Europe. Because he lived well, and occasionally made oblique reference to family money, he appealed to the Greek reverence for the anthropos kales anatrophes, the man of high breeding.
Janson knew that the soigné curator grew up the son of a shopkeeper in Thessaloníki. He also knew that Andros’s hard-won social prominence was crucial to his sub rosa career as an information broker during the Cold War. It was a time when Athens sector was a center for networks run by the CIA and by the KGB alike, when human assets were often smuggled through the Bosporus Strait, when complex gambits involving the neighboring countries of Asia Minor were launched from the Aegean peninsula. Andros was perfectly detached from the larger play of superpowers; he was no more inclined to favor one side over another than a commodities broker was to favor one customer over another.
“If you have something to say,” Janson said, “say it and get the hell out.”
“You disappoint me,” Andros said. “I’ve always thought of you as a man of sophistication, worldliness, breeding. I’d always respected you for it. Transactions with you were more enjoyable than with most.”
For his part, Janson recalled his transactions with Andros as being particularly excruciating. Matters were simpler with those who understood the value of the commodity and were content with a straightforward value-for-value exchange. By contrast, Andros needed to be flattered and cajoled, not just paid. Janson remembered well his endless, wheedling requests for rare varieties of ouzo. Then there were his whores, the young women, and sometimes young men, who would accompany him at inappropriate junctures. As long as he himself was taken care of, he cared little whether he was jeopardizing the safety of others, as well as the integrity of the networks with which he made contact.
Nikos Andros had grown rich as a Cold War profiteer; it was as simple as that. Janson had contempt for such men, and though he could never afford to display this contempt when he might still require their goods and services, that time was long past.
“Who sent you?” Janson demanded.
“Oh dear,” Andros said. “Now you’re behaving like a koinos eglimatias, a common thug—a danger to yourself and others. You know, your acquaintances are divided between those who think you have changed since your days in Vietnam … and those who know you haven’t.”
Janson tensed visibly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” His face grew hot.
“Don’t I? You’ve left quite a few enemies from those days, a number of whom went on to pursue similar careers to your own. There are some who find it difficult to forgive you. In my travels, I myself have met one or two who, after a bottle of ouzo or two, will admit that they consider you a monster. It’s said that you gave evidence that got your commanding officer executed for war crimes—despite the fact that what you yourself did was as bad or worse. What a curious sense of justice you have, always pointed outward, like the guns of a fortress.”
Janson stepped forward, placed a hand on Andros’s chest, and slammed him hard against the wall. A clamoring filled his mind—then was silenced by sheer force of will. He had to focus. “What is it that you want to say to me, Andros?”
Something like hatred flashed in Andros’s eyes, and Janson recognized, for the first time, that his contempt was not unreciprocated. “Your former employers wish to see you.”
“Says who?”
“That’s the message I was asked to deliver. They wanted me to tell you that they need to talk to you. They want you to come in.”
Come in: a term of art, whose significance Andros appreciated as much as anyone. Come in—report to stateside headquarters, to submit to analysis, interrogation, or whatever form of debriefing was deemed appropriate. “You’re talking nonsense. If Cons Op command wanted me to come in, they wouldn’t give the message to a pampered sociopath like you. You’re a person who might work for anyone. I’d love to know who your real employer is today, message boy.”
“‘Message boy,’ you say.”
“That’s all you ever were.”
Andros smiled, and weblike creases formed around his eyes. “Do you remember th
e story behind the original Marathon? In the fifth century B.C., the Persians launched an invasion, landing at the coastal town of that name, Marathon. A message boy, Phidippides, was tasked with running to Athens to summon troops. The Athenian army, outnumbered four to one, launched a surprise offensive, and what looked like suicide turned out to be astonishing victory. Thousands of Persians lay dead. The rest fled to their ships, to try to attack Athens directly. A secret message had to be sent again to Athens, to tell them of the victory and of the impending assault. Once more, the message boy Phidippides was entrusted with the mission. Mind you, he’d been on the battlefield all morning himself, in heavy armor. No matter. He ran all the way, ran as fast as his feet could carry him, twenty-six miles, delivered the news, and then keeled over dead. Quite a tradition, that of the Greek message boy.”
“Surprise attacks and secret messages—I can see why the tale appeals to you. But you’re not answering my question, Andros. Why you?”
“Because, my friend, I happened to be in the neighborhood.” Andros smiled again. “I like to imagine that’s what the boy of ancient Greece panted before he collapsed. No, Janson, you’ve got it all wrong. In this case, the message belongs to the one who can locate its recipient. Thousands of carrier pigeons were sent out—this one happened to arrive. It seems that by the time your old colleagues got word you’d arrived in this country, they’d lost your scent. They needed me, with my network of connections. I know someone in just about every hotel, taverna, kapheneion, and ouzeri in this part of town. I put word out, I got word back. Do you think any American attaché could work as fast?” Andros revealed an even row of sharp-looking, almost feral teeth. “But then if I were you, I’d fret less about the singer and more about the song. You see, they’re especially anxious about talking to you because they need you to explain certain matters.”
“What matters?”
Andros sighed heavily, theatrically. “Questions have arisen concerning your recent activities that require an immediate explanation.” He shrugged. “Look, I know nothing of these matters. I merely repeat lines I have been given, like an aging actor in one of our epitheorisi, our soap operas.”
Janson laughed scornfully. “You’re lying.”
“You’re rude.”
“There’s no way that my former employers would entrust you with such an assignment.”
“Because I’m an outheteros? A nonpartisan? But, like you, I have changed. I am a new man.”
“You, a new man?” Janson scoffed. “Hardly new. Hardly a man.”
Andros stiffened. “Your former employers … are my present employers.”
“Another lie.”
“No lie. We Greeks are people of the agora, the marketplace. But you can have no market without competition. Free market, competition—eh? These things that get so much lip service from your politicos. The world has changed a great deal in the past decade. Once, the competition was lively. Now you have the agora to yourself. You own the market, and call it free.” He tilted his head. “So what is one to do? My erstwhile Eastern clients open their wallets and only the odd moth flutters out. Their main intelligence concern is about whether there will be enough heating fuel in Moscow this winter. I am a luxury they can no longer afford.”
“There are plenty of hard-liners at the KGB who would still value your services.”
“What use is a hard-liner without hard currency? There comes a time when one must choose sides, yes? I believe you often said that to me. I chose the side with—what’s the charming American expression you have?—the long green.”
“That was always your side. Money was your only loyalty.”
“It wounds me when you talk that way.” He arched his eyebrows. “It makes me feel cheap.”
“What game are you running, Andros? You trying to convince people that you’re on the U.S. intelligence payroll now?”
The Greek’s eyes flashed with anger and disbelief. “You think I would tell my friends that I was doing the work of this warm and fuzzy superpower? You imagine a Greek can boast of such a thing?”
“Why not? Make yourself seem important, like a real player … .”
“No, Paul. It would make me seem like an Americanofilos, a stooge of Uncle Sam.”
“And what’s so bad about that?”
Andros shook his head pityingly. “From others I might expect such self-delusion. Not from someone as worldly as you. The Greek people do not hate America for what it does. They hate it for what it is. Uncle Sam is loathed here. But perhaps I should not be surprised at your innocence. You Americans have never been able to wrap your minds around anti-Americanism. You so want to be loved that you cannot understand why there is so little love for you. Ask yourself why America is so hated. Or is that beyond you? A man wears big boots and wonders why the ants beneath his feet fear and hate him—he has no such feelings toward them!”
Janson was silent for a moment. If Andros had cemented a relationship with American intelligence, he was not doing so for the bragging rights: that much was true. But how much else was?
“Anyway,” Andros went on, “I explained to your old colleagues that you and I had especially cordial relations. An abiding trust and affection established over long years.”
That sounded like Andros all right: the glib, at-theready lies, the vacant assurances. Janson could well imagine it: if Andros had got wind that a contact was to be made, he might easily decide to angle for the job. Words coming from a trusted friend, Andros would have told the Cons Op liaison officer, are more likely to be received without suspicion.
Janson stared at the Greek interloper and felt a roiling sense of tension. They want you to come in.
But why? Those words were not used lightly among Janson’s former employers. They were not words that one could ignore without consequences.
“There’s something you’re not saying,” Janson prodded.
“I’ve told you what I was instructed to tell you,” Andros replied.
“You’ve told me what you’ve told me. Now tell me what you haven’t.”
Andros shrugged. “I hear things.”
“What things?”
He shook his head. “I don’t work for you. No pay, no play.”
“You son of a bitch,” Janson exploded. “Tell me what you know or—”
“Or what? What are you going to do—shoot me? Leave your hotel room stained with the blood of an American asset in good standing? That’ll clear the air, all right.”
Janson looked at him for a few moments. “I’d never shoot you, Nikos. But an agent of your new employers just might. After they learn about your connection to Noemvri.”
His reference to Greek’s notorious November 17 group, the elusive terrorist cell long sought by American intelligence, provoked an immediate reaction.
“There’s no such connection!” Andros snapped.
“Then tell them. They’re sure to believe you.”
“Really, you’re being exasperating. That’s a wholecloth invention. It’s no secret that I was opposed to the colonels, but connected to the terrorists? That’s preposterous. A slander.”
“Yes.” Something like a smile played around Janson’s lips.
“Well.” Andros fidgeted uneasily. “They wouldn’t believe you, anyway.”
“Only it wouldn’t come from me. Don’t you think I can still game the system? I’ve spent years in counterintelligence—I know just how to plant information so that it can never be traced back to me and so that it gains credibility with each remove from its source.”
“I believe you’re talking out of your ass.”
“A member of the Greek parliament unburdens himself to another, who, unbeknownst to him, is on the CIA payroll. Through cutaways and filters, the information ends up on a MemCon, a memorandum of conversation, filed with the local station chief. Who, by the way, hasn’t forgotten that the November 17 terrorists assassinated one of his predecessors. Source rating: highly credible. Report rating: highly credible. A question mark
goes by your name, in ink. Now your paymasters have quite an unpleasant dilemma. Even the possibility that a 17 Noémvri associate was receiving U.S. funds would create a scandal within the intelligence community. It would be a career-ender for anyone involved. If you’re the case officer, you could order an investigation. But is that an investigation you really want to risk? Because if the result is positive, the intelligence officers will have to cut their own throats. There’ll be an internal paper trail showing that American tax dollars lined the pockets of an anti-American terrorist. So what’s the alternative?” Janson maintained steady eye contact as he spoke. “What’s the safe thing? An accident? Maybe one of those whores you bring home has a special toy, and that night you don’t wake up. ‘Curator, conservator stricken by fatal heart attack’—that’s the news item, and everyone’s breathing a lot easier. Or maybe it’ll look like you’re the victim of a street crime, a mugging gone awry. Or rough trade that got rougher than you’d bargained for.”
“Ridiculous!” Andros said, with little conviction.
“On the other hand, the decision might be made to remove you from the rolls, erase any record of payment, and leave you alone. In fact, that’s entirely possible.” A beat. “Is that a chance you’re willing to bet on?”
Andros clenched and unclenched his jaw for a few moments; a vein visibly throbbed on his forehead. “The word is,” he said, “they want to know why you have sixteen million dollars in your Cayman Islands account. The Bank of Mont Verde. Sixteen million dollars that was not there only a few days ago.”
“More of your lies!” Janson roared.
“No!” Andros pleaded, and the fear in his eyes was real enough. “True or false, it’s what they believe. And that is no lie.”
Janson took a few deep breaths and looked at Andros hard. “Get out of here,” he said. “I’m sick of the sight of you.”
Without another word, Andros rushed out of Janson’s hotel, seemingly stricken by what he’d been compelled to reveal. Perhaps, too, he recognized that Janson had ordered him away for his own protection, lest the operative’s growing rage seek a physical outlet.
The Jason Directive Page 16