by Leon, Judith
Cardone, who couldn’t know her thoughts, smiled back in a way that said he was resolved to play his part in this charade whether he believed Price’s estimation of her or not.
Price continued his lecture to her partner. “While you may think it more natural for the journalist to hire a photographer, world-class photographers often work the other direction. That’s what we see here, Agent Cardone. Keep in mind also that you were selected in part because when you dress appropriately, you can pass as much younger than you are. We want this.
“And by the way, I’ve already had our research people check out that lead, Terratornis. It’s not a dinosaur. It’s an extinct giant vulture.”
Odd, she thought. Why in the world would a terrorist group be yelling the name of an extinct giant bird when they were blowing up the pipeline?
“Both of you will be worked hard for the next eight days to bring you on-line with Operation Jacaranda, at a place not far from here,” Price said, interrupting her thoughts. “Your contact in the field will be the chief of station in Berlin, Martin Davidson.”
Price informed them about their briefing later in the afternoon and then dismissed them.
Chapter 7
The Founder’s Compound
For over an hour The Founder’s enforcer, Franz Maurus, had studied the Earth’s Warriors recruitment reports. Since his return from Alaska he’d noticed that the number of dedications was falling dangerously behind schedule. He rubbed his dead cheek. The problem wasn’t recruitment. It was the dedication process. He rang Singh’s laboratory.
When the Indian scientist picked up, Maurus said, “I’m coming to the laboratory.”
He strode across his office and into the underground hallway that connected the office to Singh’s lab. He found Singh standing between two rows of laboratory benches, the small glass-enclosed experimental chamber behind him. Sitting in the chamber, bound to a straight-backed chair, was a young woman Maurus didn’t recognize.
Singh said, “I trust your trip was successful, Herr Maurus.”
Despite his general disgust for the forty-year-old scientist, Maurus usually experienced the thin, balding Indian’s singsong accent as soothing. Now, however, the soft words merely irritated. Again out of habit Maurus stroked his limp cheek. “I am reviewing the buildup of fighting manpower. We are behind schedule.”
“Yes. There is a problem. But it’s not serious.”
“From the moment of the first public demonstration of The Founder’s power, any delay in our plans is serious. We are being hunted now, by every powerful agency in the world. We must move swiftly. Why have dedications with the Loyalty Inducer fallen off?”
Singh inhaled a breath. His thin hands fluttered nervously at his sides. “The Loyalty Inducer is unique among our suite of drugs. You see, unlike sleep and fear and so forth, loyalty is a higher cognitive process. Our more primitive inducers, the Sleep Inducer for example, can affect any subject, but the Loyalty Inducer functions only on persons strongly sympathetic to the person on whom they will be imprinted.”
“I don’t like what I hear. Neither will The Founder. What about the Fight Inducer? The drug is critical for my commando operations. All of the damned drugs are critical to everything we do. Does this ‘small problem’ happen often?”
Singh gave him the obsequious smile that played more than a small part in fomenting Maurus’s loathing of the man. “Transition from producing small quantities of the drugs for experiments to a larger scale must inevitably entail some difficulties.”
The Indian scientist wrung his hands. The enforcer knew he superficially scared Singh, but Singh knew his value only too well. Fifteen years ago, this brilliant nonentity had developed and offered The Founder the first drug—the Sleep Inducer—and the promise of many related drugs tailored to regulate human behavior. The drugs were not only capable of bending people’s minds and wills, what made them particularly useful—and frightening—was that they had the astonishing ability to be delivered to the brain through the nasal passages. One inhalation and the subject, or victim, succumbed. In return, for fifteen years Maurus had, at The Founder’s direction, supplied Dr. Sanjiv Singh with his “recreation”—little boys.
Maurus noticed that the girl in the chamber hadn’t moved so much as an eyebrow. He nodded toward the girl. “Who the hell is she and what’s wrong with her?”
“Ah. She is Helmut’s latest girl. He finished with her and I asked if I could use her. I’ve just tested my latest drug on her. The first human test. I call it a Pacification Inducer. Seems to have worked perfectly.”
“Why doesn’t she move?”
“The drug is essentially a permanent, chemically induced lobotomy. She will live and carry out all basic functions, but she no longer has any will.”
“A damn vegetable!”
“Yes. Quite right. Quite useful as a threat or blackmail weapon, don’t you think?”
Maurus rubbed his dead cheek. “You’re a scary man, Singh.”
Chapter 8
Berlin, 3:30 p.m.
With the naval aviator dash Nova had come to expect, Cardone zipped their rental car off the Messendamm and into the parking facilities of Berlin’s International Congress Center—a white, steel-and-concrete mammoth. The beautifully cut suit he’d worn when she’d met him had been replaced by a casual look, at the moment consisting of blue sneakers, baggy brown slacks and a red, open-necked pullover from L.L. Bean. He looked remarkably young. He could pass for twenty-one or two.
At four o’clock, Jean Paul König would speak to a sold-out crowd of thousands and for the first time she’d see her mark in person. Yesterday, within an hour of their arrival in Germany, they had met at a safe house with Martin Davidson—code name Cupid—to review strategy.
“Just like chumming for fish,” their chief of station had said. Davidson was as round all over as his code name suggested, but he would never put one in mind of a sweet cherub; more like a Swiss banker: conservatively subdued, with gold-rimmed glasses and eyes that conveyed no emotion. “We scatter tempting stuff in front of König to get his attention, first Nova and then the idea of a photo piece on his pet project.”
Cardone knew exactly where to go, having spent part of yesterday scouting the congress center’s halls and conference chambers.
They stepped inside to find the massive space already three-quarters full. A young woman with a doll’s rosy cheeks and Delft-blue eyes stuck a brochure in Nova’s hand. The girl said to Joe, “Your tickets?” She was giving him that same sparkly look Nova had seen over and over from women in the handsome Texan’s presence.
“Just follow me,” the girl said as she led them to their row. She reluctantly left only after a parting smile to Cardone.
Nova could not stop a grin. “Do you always have that effect on women?”
He shrugged and grinned back. “Not always. I haven’t had that effect on you.”
They took their seats and she noted with approval that he began what appeared to be a professional scrutiny of the crowd: he’d be looking for anything unusual, any familiar faces, especially, known terrorists or sympathizers.
Electricity rippled through the room. This was an audience holding its collective breath, waiting for the magician to make the beheaded beauty reappear.
She skimmed the flashy brochure. In the past ten days she’d studied many similar materials from the König camp. Her appraisal was that his ideas sounded too idealistic. According to the Company’s analysts, what made König controversial—and exciting—weren’t his views per se, but the radical rate at which he proposed to make changes.
Cardone asked in a half whisper, “Feel the excitement?”
“Absolutely. These folks are dying to pounce on something.”
Four men and a woman sat on the stage. None was König. A slender, slightly stooped man—Detlev Kleitman—rose and proceeded to the lectern. Kleitman, as head of König’s German Homeland Party, was also strongly suspect. Other teams were doubtless pursuing Kleitman
in whatever way Company strategists felt most likely to succeed.
Kleitman waited with palms down on the lectern till the hum of conversation subsided. After introducing the program and the VIPs, he took a deep breath and, with a dramatic pause, introduced the main attraction. “I present with great pleasure the rising star of the German Homeland Party, the next Governor of Bavaria, Jean Paul König.” The audience burst into applause and from stage right König strode to the podium. He shook hands with Kleitman, then eased into his presentation.
Nova raised opera glasses and studied the face of the man she’d been sent to dissect. She possessed every shred of information the Company had on his life. She’d memorized his psychological profile. But success would only be hers when, beyond these facts, she learned the hidden desires that were the essence of the man, and found a way she could fulfill some of those desires for him.
König had short blond hair, light eyebrows, and deeply set eyes. “Glacial blue” according to his file. His nose was straight and sharp, his jawline square and strong. The Company’s psychological profilers had described Jean Paul König as a man with the message of a saint, the speaking skills of a demagogue and the looks of a movie superstar.
Nova was already becoming comfortable with German again, and König made listening pure pleasure. He spoke in flawless High German, the words rolling out of his mouth and into and around the room. Cardone, she noted, watched the crowd, not König. Logical, since Cardone didn’t understand much more of German than danke schön and gesundheit. But very soon, even Cardone’s eyes fixed on the tall presence in the center of the stage. The rhythm of König’s speech, the lithe way he moved, the occasional turning of his side to the audience, the grace of his hand as he lifted it to accent a point, all compelled attention. She couldn’t pull her gaze away.
Nova raised the opera glasses to view his face again and a light shiver slipped down her sides.
When he finished, five thousand charmed souls burst into applause. Several dozen people near the front stood. An irregular wave rippled through the auditorium as others rose to their feet, straining to see and clapping as a waving König finally left the stage.
“Can you feel that?” she said to Cardone.
“How could anyone miss it? The place is electrified.”
“I can see why the Company figures he’s guaranteed to win in Bavaria.”
Cardone gave her a grim smile. “I can see why they say he could eventually be chancellor. I can see why they say he’s one of the most popular figures in the European Community. I can see how if this guy is who we think he is, we better stop him.”
“Now,” Nova agreed.
At seven in the evening Nova heard the expected knock on her door. They would soon attempt their first meeting with König. She slipped on her high heels, crossed the wooden floor to the door and opened it.
Cardone looked stunned, then dramatically grabbed his chest over his heart. “My God, Blair! You look—well.”
She had wondered what his response would be when he saw her all dressed up. In front of him, wearing regal crimson trimmed with black, stood a woman of utmost sophistication. At least, that was the intended effect. With the help of an agent who specialized in disguises, Nova had brought clothes, makeup and jewelry—including the beautiful swarovski crystal chandelier earrings she had on—to create an image few men would be able to resist.
“I heard all those tales in Virginia about a woman who could become any man’s most addictive fantasy.”
She grinned. “Ready for battle.”
He bowed. “I pity the enemy.”
At five after eight, she walked beside Cardone into the Hotel Intercontinental Palace. The two of them were now, as planned, only slightly late. With her hand resting lightly on his arm, they strolled through the lobby and down a brilliantly lit, golden-carpeted corridor. Every eye turned in their direction.
“Fancy place,” Cardone said. “But maybe fancy like this is old hat for you?”
She let the question pass. “It really is beautiful, isn’t it? I love crystal. I love light.”
The doors to the ballroom stood open. Their planners had assumed the banquet would not begin on schedule and, true to human nature, a number of couples and foursomes continued to filter in.
“I’ll wait,” she said. “See if König’s arrived.”
Nova detected just the slightest hesitation from her partner. Perhaps she had been too abrupt. Men could be so damned sensitive when a woman spoke firmly or ordered rather than asked. Cardone had seemed uncomfortable from the beginning with her, but she had thought they were past that now. Apparently not.
The space vibrated with the hum of over three hundred people with nothing to do but talk. Waiters were pouring water and slapping down silver trays of butter.
The long head table dominated the room’s opposite end. Joe spotted König, one seat off center, his attractive blond wife, Ilse, to his right and the slightly stooped German Homeland Party president, Detlev Kleitman, to his left.
He returned to Blair’s side. She pivoted in his direction and the scarlet gown flared around her ankles with the elegance of a matador’s cape. His heartbeat did a neat flip. Her hair was down but pulled back over one ear and long, dangling crystal earrings swayed and glittered in the artificial light. His thought, ice cascade against black silk.
He imagined himself starting to unzip her gown. They were together in a darkened room in front of a fireplace and soft music was playing. What might be this beautiful woman’s favorite music—
What the heck was he doing unzipping her dress! My god. They were partners in a dangerous game. And she had never once hinted at any sexual interest in him.
“König’s there,” he said. “He’s seated at the head table at the opposite end of the room.”
With Cardone at her side, Nova entered the ballroom. She felt a grim exhilaration. König must grant her an interview. Fleeting panic rushed through her as a tumult of thoughts bombarded her. Could she do this right, say the right thing, be the right woman for this mission? But just as quickly as the logical fears had quizzed her, they were gone. She had years of experience charming men. This was not going to be any different, even if he was a mass murderer. She would succeed again.
Her hand on her partner’s arm, she strolled to the center of the ballroom. They turned and aimed for the head table down what suddenly felt oddly like a church aisle.
Heads turned to look at them. After a promenade that seemed the length of the coast from La Jolla to Los Angeles, they reached their destination. Jean Paul König had been talking to Detlev Kleitman but he turned his piercing blue gaze toward her. She quickly looked away, but as Cardone pulled out her chair and she glided onto it, she sensed König’s appraising gaze touch her skin.
The waiters started the first course: pâté de foie gras. Introductions at their table commenced in German. She and Cardone stuck to English. Cardone did an admirable job of engaging the woman to his right—a white-haired matron having passable English—in small talk. Nova chatted with the man to her left, the editor-in-chief of Der Zeitgeist.
Eventually waiters delivered the main course. The editor’s attention shifted to his plate. Nova, who had never taken her attention completely from the head table, used the lull to scrutinize König’s wife. Ilsa König had a distant look, as though her body was present but her mind was somewhere else. Nova had read that the couple had married when quite young and had two sons. Their marriage was no longer close, if it ever had been, according to the Company profile. But König was faithful to his wife. Always skeptical of that bit of info, Nova was even more so now after seeing the living man in action. König, in her opinion, could have virtually any woman he wanted.
The Company’s psychological profilers had said the key to ensnaring him lay in deciphering the reason for his strange fidelity to his wife despite their tepid union. If Nova could, the profilers were confident König was emotionally ripe for the picking. Nova wasn’t in the business o
f breaking up marriages. Or sleeping with her marks. But Price had reminded her that this man could be a terrorist and thousands of lives were at stake. And resting on her shoulders.
Cardone leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “König’s wife looks bored out of her mind.”
Nova snapped out of her thoughts and focused on the task at hand. “From the look on her face, I suspect you’re going to be the most exciting thing in her whole evening.”
“Listen, a beautiful woman tied into that kind of marriage will be easy to please.” Cardone flashed her a grin, then added, “I don’t know if I told you. I’m a great dancer.”
So terribly confident the young agent was. “I’d love to make an independent judgment. Before we leave tonight, a long twirl around the floor is a must. Okay?”
Cardone started to answer but a waiter materialized behind König and handed the politician a note. Horrified that König might be called away, Nova stared while her heart thumped over speed bumps. König read the note, said something to Kleitman and something even briefer to his wife, then rose and left, following the waiter.
“Uh, oh,” Cardone muttered. “What the hell will we do if—”
“He’ll come back,” she said calmly. “Think positively.”
She started counting every second while stirring food around her plate. She believed absolutely in the power of positive thinking. It was what had gotten her through the darkest days and hours of her life. But, if König had been called away, that was beyond their control. Positive thinking wasn’t going to bring him back, but it would help them think of a Plan B, rather than focus on their frustration and negative energy.
Mercifully he reappeared and took his seat.
She heard Cardone exhale slowly. She felt her heart rate settle as she suffered through several brief speeches. Finally, Kleitman announced that dancing would begin. Waiters folded back a paneled partition and an orchestra began to play a waltz.