The Jason Directive

by Robert Ludlum

  “Paul!” Jessica shouted. She made the inference a moment before he did. “Stop her!”

  It was too late. There was the barely audible pop of a subdermal ampoule, and the woman threw her head back, as if in ecstasy, her face flushing to a purplish red. She made a soft, almost sensual panting sound, which subsided into a gargling sound deep in her throat. Her jaw fell open, slack, and a rivulet of saliva dribbled from the side of her mouth. Then her eyes rolled up, leaving only the whites visible through her half-parted lids.

  From unseen speakers, the ghostly voices sang.

  Gaudete in ilio,

  quem no viderunt in terris multi,

  qui ipsum ardenter vocaverunt.

  Gaudete in capite vestro.

  Janson put a hand on Márta Lang’s long neck, feeling for a pulse, even though he knew there would be none. The signs of cyanide poisoning were hard to miss. She chose death before surrender, and Janson was hard-pressed to say whether it represented an act of courage or one of cowardice.

  We always have a choice, the dead woman had said. We always have a choice. Another voice, from decades past, joined it in his memory: one of the Viet Cong interrogators, the man with the steel-framed glasses. Not to decide is to decide.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The console on the secretary-general’s desk chimed. Helga’s voice: “I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s Mr. Novak again.”

  Mathieu Zinsou turned to the high commissioner for refugees, a former Irish politician who combined a vigorous style with a fair amount of loquacity; she was currently feuding with the under secretary-general for humanitarian affairs, who had been conducting turf battles with unyielding and unhumanitarian fervor. “Madame MacCabe, I’m terribly sorry, but this is a call I must take. I think I’ve understood your concerns about the strictures coming from the Department of Political Affairs, and I believe that we can address them if we all reason together. Ask Helga to arrange a meeting among the principals.” He rose and bowed his head in a courtly gesture of dismissal.

  Then he picked up the phone. “Please hold for Mr. Novak,” a woman’s voice said. A few clicks and electronic burps, and Peter Novak’s voice came on: “Mon cher Mathieu,” he began.

  “Mon cher Peter,” Zinsou replied. “Your munificence in even considering what we discussed must be honored. Not since the Rockefellers donated the land on which the U.N. complex sits has a private individual offered to—”

  “Yes, yes,” Novak interrupted. “I’m afraid, though, that I’m going to decline your invitation to dinner.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have something more ceremonial in mind. I hope you’ll agree with my thinking. We have no secrets, have we? Transparency has always been a paramount U.N. value, no?”

  “Well, up to a point, Peter.”

  “I shall tell you what I propose, and you tell me if you think I’m being unreasonable.”

  “Please.”

  “I understand that there will be a meeting of the General Assembly this Friday. It has always been my fantasy to address that august body. Foolish vanity?”

  “Of course not,” Zinsou said quickly. “To be sure, few private citizens have ever addressed it … .”

  “But nobody would begrudge me the right and privilege—I think I can say that without fear of contradiction.”

  “Bien sûr.”

  “Given that a great many heads of state will be present, the level of security will be high. Call me paranoid, but I find that reassuring. If the U.S. president is present, as seems possible, there will be a Secret Service detail on the case as well. All very reassuring. And I shall probably be accompanied by the mayor of New York, who has always been so friendly toward me.”

  “An extremely public and high-profile appearance, then,” Zinsou said. “That is not like you, I must say. Remote from your reclusive reputation.”

  “Which is exactly why I suggest it,” the voice said. “You know my policy: always keep them guessing.”

  “But our … dialogue?” Confusion and anxiety roiled within him; he struggled not to let it show.

  “Not to worry. I think you’ll find that one never has more privacy than when one is in the public eye.”

  “Goddamn it!” Janson yelled. He was reviewing the tape recording of Demarest’s last phone call.

  “What could I have done differently?” Zinsou asked, and his voice held both fear and self-reproach.

  “Nothing. If you’d been too insistent, it would only have aroused his suspicions. This is a deeply paranoid man.”

  “What do you make of this request? Bewildering, no?”

  “It’s ingenious,” Janson said bluntly. “This guy has more moves than Bobby Fischer.”

  “But if you wanted to flush him out …”

  “He’s thought of that and has taken precautions. He knows the forces against him are ultra-compartmentalized. There’s no way the Secret Service could ever be let in on the truth. He’s using our own people as a shield. That’s not all. He’ll be walking up the ramp to the General Assembly Building with the mayor of New York by his side. Any attempt on his life would endanger a well-known politician. He’s entering into an arena of incredibly tight security, with eagle-eyed security details attached to national leaders from around the world. There’ll be the equivalent of a force field around him at all times. If an American operative tried to take a shot, the resulting inquiry would probably blow everything sky-high. As long as he’s in the General Assembly, we can’t touch him. Can’t. Imagine it—he’ll be thronged. Given all his generosity around the world, it’ll be considered an honor for the international community—”

  “To welcome a man who seems to be a light unto the nations,” Zinsou said, grimacing.

  “It’s very Demarest. ‘Hidden in plain view’ was one of his favorite descriptions. He used to say that sometimes the best hiding place was in the public eye.”

  “Essentially what he told me,” Zinsou mused. He looked at the pen in his hand, trying to transform it into a cigarette by the power of thought. “Now what?”

  Janson took a swallow of lukewarm coffee. “Either I’ll figure something out …”

  “Or?”

  His eyes were hard. “Or I won’t.” He walked out of the secretary-general’s office without another word, leaving the diplomat alone with his thoughts.

  Zinsou felt a tightness in his chest. In truth, he had slept poorly since he had first been briefed on the crisis by the president of the United States, who had only reluctantly acceded to Janson’s insistence that he do so. Zinsou was and continued to be utterly aghast. How could the United States of America have been so reckless? Except it wasn’t the United States, exactly; it was a small cabal of programmers. Planners, as Janson would say. The secret had been passed down from one presidential administration to another, like the codes to the country’s nuclear arsenal—and scarcely less dangerous.

  Zinsou personally knew more heads of state than anyone alive. He knew that the president was, if anything, underestimating the bloody tumult that would be unleashed were the truth of the Mobius Program ever to emerge. He pictured the prime ministers, presidents, premiers, party secretaries, emirs, and kings of a duped planet. The whole postwar entente would lay in tatters. Throughout the world’s trouble spots, scores of treaties and charters of conflict resolution would be falsified, invalidated, because their author would have been unmasked as an impostor—an American penetration agent. The peace treaty that Peter Novak negotiated in Cyprus? It would be shredded within hours, to mutual recriminations between the Turks and the Greeks. Each side would accuse the other of having known the truth all along; a pact that once seemed impartial would now be interpreted as subtly favoring the enemy. And elsewhere?

  Your currency crisis in Malaysia? Terribly sorry, old chap. We did that. The little dip in the sterling seven years ago that caused the economy of Great Britain to lose a few points of GDP? Yes, our exploitation of that made a bad situation much, much worse. Awfully sorry, don
’t know what we were thinking … .

  An era of relative peace and prosperity would give way to one bereft of both. And what of the Liberty Foundation offices throughout the developing world and Eastern Europe—exposed now as an undercover American intelligence operation? Many cooperating governments would simply not survive the humiliation. Others, to maintain credibility among their citizens, would suspend all relations with the United States and designate the former ally as an adversary. American-owned businesses, even those unrelated to the Liberty Foundation, would be seized by governments, their assets frozen. World trade would be dealt a devastating blow. Meanwhile, the planet’s embittered and disaffected would, at last, have a casus belli; inchoate suspicions would find a catalyst. Among both official political parties and broader resistance movements, the revelations would provide a rallying cry against the American imperium. The semi-unified entity that was Europe would finally coalesce—around a new shared enemy, with a united Europe squaring off against the United States.

  Who could defend it? Who would think to? Here was a country that had betrayed its closest and staunchest allies. A country that had secretly manipulated the levers of government across the planet. A country that would now incur the unmitigated wrath of billions. Even organizations that were dedicated to international cooperation would fall under suspicion. It would, very likely, spell the end of the United Nations, if not immediately, then in short order, in a tide of broadening rancor and suspicion.

  And that would mean—what was the American expression?—a world of trouble.

  The Caliph reread the cable he had just received, and felt a pleasurable glow of anticipation. It was as if overcast skies had parted to reveal a pure and luminous ray of sunlight. Peter Novak was going to be addressing the annual meeting of the U.N. General Assembly. The man—and he was, ultimately, no more than a man—would show his face at last. He would be greeted by insipid gratitude, by laurels and acclamation. And, if the Caliph had his way, by something more.

  Now he turned to the Mansur minister of security—plainly little more than a jumped-up carpet merchant, despite the rhetorical inflation of his title—and spoke to him in tones both courteous and commanding. “This meeting of the international community will be an important moment for the Islamic Republic of Mansur,” he said.

  “But of course,” replied the minister, a small, homely man who wore a simple white head wrap. On matters that did not concern Koranic orthodoxy, the leadership of this spavined, desolate little country was easily impressed.

  “Your delegation will be judged, rightly or wrongly, by its professionalism, comportment, and discipline. Nothing must go awry, even in the face of unknown and unexpected malefactors. The very highest level of security must be maintained.”

  The Mansur minister bobbed his head; he knew he was out of his depth and, to his credit, realized there was no point in pretending otherwise, at least in the presence of the master tactician who stood before him.

  “Therefore, I shall myself accompany the delegation. You need only provide the diplomatic cover, and I shall personally ensure that everything happens as it should.”

  “Allah be praised,” the small man said. “We could hope for nothing more. Your dedication will be an inspiration to the others.”

  The Caliph nodded slowly, acknowledging the tribute. “What I do,” he said, “is merely what must be done.”

  The narrow town house was elegant and yet anonymous-looking, a brownstone like hundreds of others in New York’s Turtle Bay neighborhood. The stoop was a gray-brown, with raised black grip stripes in diagonals across the steps. They would prevent slippage when the stairs became slick with rain or ice; the electronic sensors beneath the strips would also detect the presence of a visitor. The sun bounced off the thick, leaded glass of the parlor: it was purely ornamental in appearance, but proof against even heavycaliber bullets. Sterile Seven is what the deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency had called it: it was a safe house reserved by the Mobius planners for their occasional use, one of ten around the country. Janson would be protected here, he was assured; equally important, he would have access to the most sophisticated communications equipment, including direct access to the extensive data banks compiled by the joint intelligence services of the United States.

  Janson sat in the second-floor study, staring at a yellow pad. Janson’s eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep; a headache pounded behind his eyes. He had been in scrambler communication with the surviving members of the Mobius Program. None was sanguine, or even pretended to be.

  If Novak were arriving in the country, how would he do so? What were the chances that border control would alert them of his arrival? An advisory had gone out to every airport, private and public, in the country. Airport officials were notified that because of “credible threats” to Peter Novak’s life, it was crucial to report his whereabouts to a special security task force coordinated by the U.S. State Department and devoted to the protection of foreign dignitaries.

  He phoned Derek Collins, who was on Phipps Island, where the size of the National Guard contingent had been tripled. In the background he heard the jangle of a dog’s collar.

  “Gotta say, Butch has really taken to this place,” Collins said. “Hell, the sorry-ass mutt’s actually growing on me. With all that’s been happening, it’s kind of relaxing having him around. Of course, the workmen who were here yesterday fixing things up didn’t exactly take to him—he kept looking at them like they were food. But I bet you’re calling for a status report on other matters.”

  “What’s the word?”

  “The good news is, the cobra’s en route—we’re pretty sure, anyway. The bad news is, Nell Pearson’s body was discovered yesterday. The Mrs. Novak of record. Supposedly a suicide. Slit her wrists in her bathtub. So that thread’s been snipped off.”

  “Christ,” said Janson. “Think she was murdered?”

  “Naw, it was a ‘cry for help.’ Of course she was fucking murdered. But nobody will ever be able to prove it.”

  “What a goddamn waste,” Janson said. There was lead in his voice.

  “Moving right along,” Collins said bleakly, “nobody’s sighted Puma. Zip, nada, nothing. Four reports of look-alikes, quickly falsified. The fact is, our guy might not be arriving from overseas—he might already be in the country. And he’d find it child’s play to arrive incognito. This is a large, populous country with more than five hundred international airports. Our borders are inherently porous. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “This isn’t a time to talk about impossibilities, Derek,” the operative said.

  “Thanks for the pep talk, coach. You think every damn one of us isn’t working balls-out on this? None of us knows who’s going to get killed next. If you want to talk about impossibilities, though, you’ll be interested in the latest thinking around Foggy Bottom.”

  Five minutes later, Janson hung up with an unsettled feeling.

  Almost immediately afterward, the silver-gray phone on the green-baize-topped desk rang quietly, the quietness of the ring somehow lending it additional significance. It was the line reserved for White House communications.

  He picked up the phone. It was the president.

  “Listen, Paul, I’ve gone over and over it with Doug here. This address Demarest’s giving before the General Assembly—there could well be an implicit ultimatum here.”

  “Sir?”

  “As you know, he asked for the control codes to the entire Echelon system. I put him off.”

  “Put him off?”

  “Blew him off. I think the message he’s sending is pretty unambiguous. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he’s going to appear before the General Assembly and set an explosion. Lay the thing out, with the whole world hanging on his every word. That’s just a surmise. We could well be wrong. But the more we think about it, the more we think it’s a credible threat.”

  “Ergo?”

  “I hope to God he’s hit by a thunderbolt before
he can stand up and give that speech.”

  “Now that sounds like a plan.”

  “Barring that, I’ve decided to meet with him just beforehand. Capitulate. Give in to his first round of demands.”

  “Are you scheduled to make an appearance at the U.N.?”

  “We’d left it unclear. The secretary of state will be there, along with the U.N. ambassador, the permanent representative, the trade negotiator, and the rest of the tin soldiers we always send. But if we’re making this … barter, it’ll have to come from me. I’m the only one with the clearance and authorization to do this.”

  “You’d be putting yourself in harm’s way.”

  “Paul, I’m already in harm’s way. And so are you.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The New York Times

  U.N. GENERAL ASSEMBLY TO MEET

  FROM AROUND THE WORLD, HUNDREDS

  OF NATIONAL LEADERS TO ASSEMBLE

  IN “DIALOGUE OF CIVILIZATIONS”

  By Barbara Corlett

  NEW YORK—For most native New Yorkers, the convergence here of hundreds of foreign heads of state and high-ranking ministers prompts one big worry: will the motorcades make the problem of traffic gridlock worse? In the U.S. Department of State and in diplomatic circles elsewhere, however, loftier concerns are the order of the day. There are hopes that the 58th General Assembly meeting will lead to substantial reforms and a heightened level of international cooperation. U.N. Secretary General Mathieu Zinsou has predicted that it would be a “watershed moment” in the history of the troubled organization.

  Anticipation has been bolstered by rumors of a possible appearance before the General Assembly by the revered philanthropist and humanitarian Peter Novak, whose Liberty Foundation has been compared to the United Nations in its global reach and even its diplomatic achievements. The U.N. is owed billions of dollars from member nations, including the United States, and the Secretary General makes no secret of the fact that the consequent salary freezes and cutbacks have made it difficult to recruit and retain high-caliber employees. Mr. Novak, whose munificence has been the stuff of legend, may have concrete proposals for easing the U.N.’s financial crisis. Topranking U.N. officials suggest that the Liberty Foundation’s director may also propose a joining of forces with the U.N. to coordinate assistance to those regions most afflicted by poverty and conflict. The reclusive Mr. Novak could not be reached for comment.