“Half a century ago,” the man at the podium was saying, “the very ground under our feet, the land of the entire United Nations complex, was donated to the U.N. by the Rockefellers. The history of private assistance for this most public of missions goes to the origins of the institution. If I can, in my own small way, provide such assistance, I would be profoundly gratified. People talk about ‘giving back to the community’: my own community has always been the community of nations. Help me to help you. Show me how I can be of greatest assistance. To do so would be my pleasure, my honor—indeed, nothing less than my duty. The world has been very good to me. My only hope is that I can return the favor.”
The words were vintage Novak, by turns charming and hard-edged, humble and arrogant, and, in the end, nothing short of winning. Yet the delivery was atypically hesitant and tentative.
And only Janson knew why.
The master of escape had escaped again. How could he ever have imagined that he might trump his great mentor? Your arms are too short to box with God, Demarest had once told him, half joking. Still, there was an uncomfortable truth there. The protégé was pitting himself against his mentor; the student was testing his wits against his teacher. Only vanity had prevented him from seeing that failure was foreordained.
As the man at the podium finished his remarks, the audience rose in a standing ovation. What his address lacked in style of delivery, it made up for in rhetorical appeal. Besides, on such an occasion, who could begrudge the great man his proper due? Janson, stonefaced, walked out of the hall, and the noise of the resounding applause quieted only when the door closed behind him.
If Demarest wasn’t at the United Nations, where was he?
The secretary-general had walked off the dais together with the clamorously applauded speaker, and now, as a twenty-minute recess began, both would repair to the carpeted chamber behind the hall.
Janson realized that his earpiece had been dislodged by his recent struggle; he repositioned it and, crackling, heard snippets of dialogue. He remembered the hidden microphone on Mathieu Zinsou’s collar bar; it was transmitting.
“No, I thank you. But I would like to have that tête-à-tête you mentioned after all.” The voice was fuzzy but audible.
“Certainly,” Zinsou answered. His voice was nearer to the microphone and clearer.
“Why don’t we go to your office, in the Secretariat ?”
“You mean now?”
“I’m rather pressed for time, I’m afraid. It’ll have to be now.”
Zinsou paused. “Then follow me. The thirty-eighth floor.” Janson wondered if the secretary-general had added the specification for his sake.
Something was up. But what?
Janson made a dash for the eastern ramp of the General Assembly Building, and then lumbered toward the looming Secretariat Building. His right knee twinged with every step he took, and the bruises on his body were starting to swell and smart—the Anuran’s blows had been not only forceful but well aimed. Yet he had to put all of it out of his mind.
Inside the Secretariat lobby, he flashed the ID card that had been prepared for him, and a guard waved him through. He pressed the button for the thirty-eighth floor, and rode up. Mathieu Zinsou and Alan Demarest’s agent, whoever he was, would be following him within minutes.
As he rode up to the top of the skyscraper, the transmission to his earpiece fuzzed out. The metal of the elevator shaft was blocking off the signal.
A minute later, the elevator stopped at the thirty-eighth floor. Janson remembered the floor plan: The elevator banks were in the midpoint of the long, rectangular floor. The offices of the undersecretaries and special deputies were lined against the west-facing wall; to the north were two large, windowless conference rooms; to the south, a narrow, windowless library. The secretary-general’s teak-lined office was along the east wall. Because of the special meeting, the floor was almost entirely vacant; every staff member was doing duty attending to the visiting delegations.
Now Janson removed his headdress and his beard and waited around the corner from where the elevator banks opened. Sheltered by the recessed doorway leading to the library, he would be able to monitor both the hallway to the secretary-general’s office and the elevator banks.
He knew he would not be waiting long.
The elevator chimed.
“And this will be our floor,” said Mathieu Zinsou as the elevator doors opened. He made an after-you-my-dear-Alphonse gesture to the man who looked, for all the world, like Peter Novak.
Could Janson have been correct? Zinsou wondered. Or was the strain finally getting to the American operative, a man whom circumstances had given responsibilities far greater than any man should have to shoulder?
“You have to forgive us—almost everybody who normally staffs my office here is in the General Assembly Building. Or somewhere else altogether. The annual meeting of the General Assembly is like a bank holiday for some U.N. employees.”
“Yes, I’m aware of this,” his companion said tonelessly.
As Zinsou opened the door to his office, he startled as he saw the figure of a man seated behind his own desk, silhouetted by the ebbing light.
What the hell was happening?
He turned to his companion: “I don’t know what to say. It seems we have an unexpected visitor.”
The man at Zinsou’s desk rose and stepped toward him, and Zinsou gaped in astonishment.
The helmet of thick black hair, only lightly flecked with gray, the high, almost Asiatic cheekbones. A face the world knew as Peter Novak’s.
Zinsou turned to the man at his side.
The same face. Essentially indistinguishable.
Yet there were differences, Zinsou reflected, just not physical ones. Rather, they were differences of affect and mien. There was something hesitant and cautious about the man by his side: something implacable and imperious about the man before him. The marionette and the marionette master. Zinsou’s whirling sense of vertigo was lessened only by the recognition that Paul Janson had guessed right.
Now the man at Zinsou’s side handed an envelope to the man who could have been his mirror image.
A subtle nod: “Thank you, Laszlo,” said the man who had been waiting for them. “You may go now.”
The impostor by Zinsou’s side turned and left without so much as a word.
“Mon cher Mathieu,” said the man who stayed behind. He held out a hand. “Mon très cher frère.”
Chapter Forty-two
Janson heard Zinsou’s voice distinctly in his earpiece: “My God.” At the same time, he saw the Peter Novak who was not Peter Novak press the DOWN elevator button.
He was leaving.
In Janson’s earpiece, another man’s voice: “I must apologize for the confusion.”
Janson raced to the elevator and stepped in. The man who was not Peter Novak wore an expression that was startled—but devoid of recognition.
“Who are you really?” Janson demanded.
The suited man’s response was glacial and dignified : “Have we met?”
“I simply don’t understand,” said the secretary-general.
The other man was magnetic, utterly confident, utterly relaxed. “You’ll have to forgive me for taking very special precautions. That was my double, as you’ve no doubt figured out by now.”
“You sent a double in your place?”
“You’re familiar with the role played by the ‘morning Stalin,’ are you not? The Soviet dictator would send a look-alike to make certain public appearances—it kept his enemies on their toes. I’m afraid that there had been rumors of an assassination attempt in the General Assembly. Credible reports from my security staff. I couldn’t risk it.”
“I see,” Zinsou said. “But you know, of course, that the Russian prime minister, the premier of China, many others, also have enemies. And they’ve addressed the General Assembly. The U.S. president himself has honored us with his presence today. This institution has an unbroken record
of security, at least on this small plot of land here on the East River.”
“I appreciate that, mon cher. But my enemies are of a different order. The heads of state you mention could, at least, assume that the secretary-general was not himself conspiring against them. It hasn’t escaped me that the first person who occupied your office and position was a man named Lie.”
Zinsou’s veins were chilled. After an excruciating moment of silence, he said simply, “I’m sorry you think that.”
Peter Novak patted Zinsou’s shoulder and smiled ingratiatingly. “You mistake my meaning. I don’t think it anymore. It’s just that I had to be sure.”
Beads of sweat had broken out on the secretary-general’s forehead. None of this was anticipated. None of this was according to plan. “Can I get us some coffee?” he said.
“No, thank you.”
“Well, I think I’ll have some,” Zinsou said, reaching over to the phone console on his desk.
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Very well.” Zinsou maintained eye contact. “Tea, perhaps? Why don’t I just call Helga and tell her to—”
“You know, I’d rather you not make any phone calls, either. No need to clear your schedule or consult with anyone. You may think me paranoid, but we don’t have much time. In just a few minutes, I shall be leaving from the rooftop helipad: all arrangements have been made.”
“I see,” said Zinsou, who didn’t.
“So let’s get our business done,” said the elegant man with the glossy black hair. “Here are instructions for getting in touch with me.” He handed the secretary-general a white card. “It’s a number you can call to get a return phone call within the hour. As our plans develop, we’ll need to be in regular touch. Your Swiss bank account has, you’ll find, already been enhanced—simply an advance on a package of benefits that we can finalize at a later point. And there will be regular monthly payments, which will continue as long as our partnership remains on a solid footing.”
Zinsou swallowed. “Very thoughtful.”
“Simply to put your mind at rest, because it will be very important that you’re able to focus on what truly matters, and not make any errors of judgment.”
“I understand.”
“It’s important that you do. In your speeches as secretary-general, you’ve often maintained that there’s a thin line between civilization and savagery. Let’s not put that proposition to the test.”
Janson kept a foot in the elevator door, triggering the electric eye and preventing the elevator from moving. “Give me the envelope,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said; his Hungarian accent did not slip. If the words were defiant, however, the tone was apprehensive.
Janson formed his right hand into a spear and delivered a crushing punch to the man’s throat. As the man fell to the floor in a fit of helpless coughing, Janson dragged him out of the elevator. The man swung at Janson, a sluggish, poorly aimed uppercut. Janson dodged the punch and struck the Ruger against his temple in a controlled blow. The Novak impostor crumpled to the floor, unconscious. A quick frisk verified that there was no envelope on his person.
Now Janson crept toward Zinsou’s office, pausing just before the doorway. The sounds came both from his earpiece and through the door.
A clear, tinny voice in his ear: “This is all a bit unexpected.” Zinsou was speaking.
Janson turned the knob, threw open the door, and rushed in, the Ruger in his right hand. Demarest’s reaction to the intrusion was immediate and deft: he repositioned himself directly behind Zinsou. There was no line of fire that would reach him and not strike the secretary-general.
All the same, Janson fired—wildly, it seemed: three shots high overhead, three slugs smashing into the window, causing the whole pane to buckle and then disintegrate into a curtain of fragments.
And there was silence.
“Alan Demarest,” Janson said. “Love what you’ve done with your hair.”
“A poor shot, Paul. You shame your teacher.” Demarest’s voice, at once rich and astringent, resounded in the room as it had resounded in his memory for so many years.
A cool gust of wind riffled a pad of yellow paper on the secretary-general’s desk: it underscored the odd reality of being windowless on the thirty-eighth floor, with nothing but a low aluminum grille between them and the plaza far below. Sounds of traffic from the FDR Drive mingled with the cawing of gulls that wheeled and soared at eye level. There were darkening clouds overhead; soon it would rain.
Janson looked at Alan Demarest peering around Zinsou, who was obviously struggling to maintain his composure and doing far better than most would. Beneath the black pools of Demarest’s eyes, he saw the bore hole of a Smith & Wesson .45.
“Let the secretary-general go,” Janson said.
“My policy with cat’s paws has always been to amputate,” Demarest replied.
“You have a gun, I have a gun. He doesn’t need to be here.”
“You disappoint me. I thought you’d prove a more formidable antagonist.”
“Zinsou! Walk. Now. Get out of here!” Janson’s instructions were crisp. The secretary-general looked at him for a moment, then moved from between the two blood enemies. To Demarest, Janson said, “Shoot him and I shoot you. I will take the opportunity to shoot you. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, Paul, I do.” Demarest spoke simply.
Janson waited, Ruger in position, until he heard the door close.
Demarest’s eyes were hard but not devoid of mirth. “The football coach Woody Hayes was once asked why his teams so seldom threw the forward pass. He replied, ‘If you put the ball up in the air, only three things can happen, and two of them are bad.’”
Incongruously, Janson recalled Phan Nguyen’s obsession with American football. “You sent me to hell,” he said. “I think it’s time I returned the favor.”
“Why so angry, Paul? Why so much hate in your heart?”
“You know.”
“Once things were otherwise. Once there was a connection—something we shared, something deep. Deny it if you want. You know it’s true.”
“I don’t think I know what’s true, anymore. I owe you that.”
“You owe me many things. I shaped you, made you who you are. You haven’t forgotten, have you? I never held back. You were my prize protégé. You were so smart and so brave and so resourceful. You were a fast, fast learner. You were made for great things. The way you turned out …” He shook his head. “I could have made you great, if you had allowed me to. I understood you the way nobody else did. I understood what you were truly capable of. Maybe that’s what really spooked you. Maybe that’s why you rejected me. Rejecting me was a way of rejecting you, rejecting who you truly are.”
“Is that what you believe?” asked Janson, fascinated despite himself.
“We’re different from other people, both of us are. We know the truths that others can’t deal with. The Scythian called it right. Laws are like cobwebs—strong enough to catch the weak, but too weak to catch the strong.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“We’re strong. Stronger than the others. And together, we would have been so much stronger still. I need you to acknowledge the truth about who you are. That’s why I brought you in, had you come to Anura, lead that last mission for me. Look around you, Paul. Think of the world you live in. Face it, you can’t stand them any more than I can—the mediocrities, the complacent bureaucrats, the shambling paper pushers who never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity. Mediocrities whom we have permitted to run the world. Do you honestly doubt your own ability to run things better than they do, to make better decisions than they do? You love your country? So did I, Paul. You had to be made to see what I was made to see. Just think, Paul. You sacrificed most of your years on this earth to serve a government that took about five seconds to decide to have you killed. I had to show you that. I had to show you the true face of your employers, of the
government you almost gave your life for, time and again. I had to show you that they wouldn’t hesitate to have you killed. And I did. Once, you turned the American government against me. The only way you could see the truth was for me to do the same to you.”
Janson was sickened by the man’s smooth prevarications but found himself at a loss for words.
“You’re filled with hate. I understand. God forsook his own son in the Garden of Gesthemane. I failed you as well. You were calling out for help, and I failed you. So much of the time we all live out our individual existences, each of us at the center of our own stories, and when you needed me, I wasn’t there for you. You were upset. Your learning curve was so steep that I made a mistake: I tried to teach you things you weren’t ready for. And I let you go. You must have thought I deserved what I got from you.”
“And what was that?”
“Betrayal.” Demarest’s eyes narrowed. “You thought you could destroy me. But they needed me. They always need men like me. Just like they’ve always needed men like you. I did what I had to do—what had to be done. I always did what had to be done. Sometimes people like me are seen as an embarrassment, and then actions are taken. I became an embarrassment to you. I embarrassed you because you looked at me and saw yourself. So much of you was me. How could it be otherwise? I taught you everything you knew. I gave you the skills that saved your life a dozen times over. What made you think you had the right to judge me?” At last, a diamond-hard flash of anger pierced his eerie calm.
“You forfeited any rights you had by your own actions,” Janson said. “I saw what you did. I saw who you were. A monster.”
“Oh please. I showed you what you were, and you didn’t like what you saw.”
“No.”
“We were the same, you and I, and that’s what you couldn’t accept.”
“We weren’t the same.”
The Jason Directive Page 64