“Maybe I’ll try it someday.” My mind was racing. Of all the people I didn’t want to run into right now, Werner Lantos topped the list. But here he was, and here I was, and there was nothing that could be done about it—except to exploit the situation to my advantage.
You see, one of the lessons I learned at the gnarled, webbed feet of my SEAL godfather, Roy Boehm, is that adversity is an unacceptable condition to a SpecWarrior. “When they try to wear you down by throwing half a dozen targets at you simultaneously,” Roy used to growl at me, “the only question you should have is, ’Which one do I shoot down first?’”
Lantos strode up to me and pumped my hand up and down. His grip was firm. But his hand was soft—almost oily, as if he’d just rubbed moisturizer into it. He was as tall as I, and you could see from the way he fit into his European-style suit that he kept himself in good physical shape. He was probably one of those guys who played a lot of tennis or squash every day. His crimped white hair was slicked down along the sides of his head. His white eyebrows stood out against the deep tan skin of his high, creased forehead. He looked at me with a pseudoskeptical flicker of his cruel, gray eyes. “So, it is the food that brings you to Paris these days,” he stated rhetorically.
He was playing with me. Or at least he was trying to.
But this wasn’t the kind of game I care to play. So I didn’t. “Actually, I’m here for the hunting,” I said.
Werner Lantos stood facing me, his quartet of bodyguards spread out, enclosing the two of us within their defensive perimeter. “The hunting? The hunting?” he repeated to himself quizzically, stroking his chin with the antenna of the cell phone. “Isn’t the season closed?”
“Not for the game I’m after.”
He got the point. “Oh—the hunting,” he said, finally. His expression remained unfazed. “Well, I hope you have an easier time of it here than you did in Moscow. You left under something of a cloud, I was told.” He paused, as if expecting me to react.
When I didn’t, he continued. “You know, I wish you’d come to me, first—”
Now that was interesting. “To you?”
“I could have smoothed the way for you. Getting results in Moscow isn’t hard—if you know how to conduct business.”
“We’re talking about working a mafia murder investigation, Monsieur Lantos, not buying a truckload of matryoshka dolls.”
He slipped his arm inside mine in the way that old-fashioned European gentlemen of a certain age like to do, grasped me by the elbow, and endeavored to walk me up the street. “Captain,” he said, calling me by my first name, “in Moscow, there isn’t always a lot of difference between the two.”
There is nothing like being obvious when you have nothing to lose. So, I stopped in my tracks, turned, and pointed toward the wooden double doors of the building that housed Lantos & Cie. “Why don’t we go up to your office and discuss the similarities?”
He stopped long enough to give me a truly frightening look. “Oh, I believe not.” Then he tightened his grip on my elbow and started to walk again, trying to move me up the street. I allowed him to proceed, at which Lantos’s mouth turned up into a reptilian smile that displayed his perfectly white probably capped teeth. “You see, Captain. I prefer to discuss business out in the open. There’s much less of a chance that one gets … overheard.”
Bien sûr—Right. And much less of a chance that this hairy SEAL would get a peek at his office’s security arrangements and other vital factoids.
We discussed no business at all in the first two blocks. We actually spoke very little. He made small talk about the neighborhood, carried on about the quality of the Beaujolais at the wine bar, and—I’m serious here—he actually tried to frisk me. Well, it wasn’t much of a frisk—more of a slap and pat. He ushered me between a pair of parked cars toward a crosswalk, and as he did so, he put his hand just above the small of my back, as if he was trying to keep me from tripping, and then twitched it up-down, side-side, as if to check whether I was wearing a pistol—or perhaps carrying a wire. I twisted out of his grip, elbowed his hand away, and gave him a look that warned him against trying that again.
We crossed a pair of wide streets, then turned up the Rue Bassano, all the while loosely encircled by Lantos’s quartet of security men and trailed by the gleaming Citroën station wagon, which, incidentally, bristled with more antennas than the CIA director’s car has.
At the Champs-Élysées we turned right and crossed the street, stopping in front of the broad, red and gold awning of Fouquet’s. “Here,” Lantos said, pointing toward the front door with his phone, as if it was a wand.
I should have known. Fouquet’s is one of the most famous—and most expensive—cafés in France.
He cut past a barrier of white flowerpots, and slipped through the clumps of customers sitting in ranks of fragile-looking wicker chairs sipping their café crèmes and eating brioches or petits-pains topped with butter and jam, as they people-watched the shoppers and tourists who thronged the wide sidewalk, as well as the eight lanes of gridlocked midmorning traffic on the Champs. Fouquet’s small round tables were all marble topped; the linens were starched and pressed.
From inside the doorway, the tuxedoed maìtre d’ and white-coated headwaiter saw him approach and hustled toward us, bowing and scraping as if they were coming upon the sacred carcass of the goddamn pharaoh of Egypt. After a suitable period of ass kissing, Lantos allowed himself to be led toward a knot of five unoccupied tables that enjoyed an unobstructed view of the Champs all the way to the Arc de Triomphe. Three sat adjacent to the café’s tinted plate glass windows. The other two were positioned one row closer to the sidewalk. Lantos dropped behind the center rear table, his back against the glass, the phone at his side. “This will do." he said, watching as his security detail split up and occupied one seat each at the other four.
“I will have my usual,” Lantos told the headwaiter. He looked at me inquisitively. “Captain?”
I really didn’t care what the hell I was served. “The same.”
The headwaiter bowed once more and disappeared, backing away from the table like a goddamn geisha. Lantos’s manicured fingernails played a series of mute chords on the cool marble tabletop.
It was time to get down to the business at hand. “You said there were similarities between investigating a murder and buying a truckload of souvenirs,” I said. “I’d like to know what they are.”
“You misinterpret what I said.” Lantos said. “What I told you is that, in Moscow, the manner in which you do business is often just as important as the business itself.”
He paused as two cups of coffee, two spoons, two napkins, and a bowl of paper-wrapped sugar cubes were placed in front of us. Immediately, the security man to our right picked up the bowl of sugar cubes and removed it from the table. “A competitor once paid a huge bribe to have a specially designed sugar cube placed in the bowl.” Lantos explained. “The cube contained a microphone. I lost a very lucrative contract. Since then”—he extended his hand and the security man dropped two cubes onto the soft palm—“I have changed restaurants, and stopped allowing sugar bowls on the table. One should learn from one’s mistakes, don’t you think. Captain?”
He paused to allow me time to answer. When I didn’t, he continued. “Now, back to your situation in Moscow—if, as I’ve said, you had come to me first, we might have been able to solve your problem without making as many waves as your visit produced.”
“Solve my problem?”
“Close the books on the death of Rear Admiral Mahon.”
“That, Monsieur Lantos, is for me to do. Not you, or anyone else.”
“I think not,” he said. “You see, I have a theory—and it is only a theory, Captain, not fact—that Admiral Mahon’s death was not as simple as the Moscow police made it out to be.”
“Perhaps you could explain your thinking to me,” I said.
His gray eyes clouded over for an instant. “My theory,” he said, “is that things
are not always what they seem to be.”
That, friends, is what G. Gordon Liddy likes to call Bravo Sierra, and we more plainspoken SEALs refer to it as bullshit. Things are usually exactly what they seem to be. Black is black. White is white. Two and two is four. And murder is murder—which is exactly what I said to Monsieur Werner Lantos.
“Either you are a naif, Captain, or you are playing the part of one.”
I wasn’t about to help this asshole one iota. “Think whatever you want to.”
He inclined his head toward mine and spoke quietly. “Must I spell things out for you, Captain? All right, I will. There are forces at play here much larger and more consequential than the murder of an American naval flag officer—or, for that matter, the death of one, two—even ten Moscow gangsters. I am talking about the long-term strategic relationship between superpower nations. I am talking about the global balance of power.”
“Nations? There’s only one superpower left, Monsieur—and that’s the United States. Which is exactly as it should be.”
“There are, perhaps, too many people who think that way,” Lantos said. “It shows a certain lack of sophistication. But there are those—and there are more of them than you might imagine—who believe that having just one superpower leaves the world unbalanced, and in great peril.”
Peril? This guy was twisted. “They’re wrong.”
“That,” he said, “may be your point of view. But you are not necessarily correct. There are others, both in your government, in Moscow, and elsewhere, who are convinced that the only way to achieve true long-term global harmony is to create—or re-create—another nation equal in power to the United States.”
“In our government?” That was a surprise. I always thought the folks in our government had worked their butts raw for half a century to eradicate fascism, overturn communism, and promote democracy all over the globe. That’s why I joined the Navy. That’s why I serve my country—to promote those values.
“I don’t mean to suggest anyone advocates a return to the old Cold War,” Lantos said, his eyes narrowing. “That would be a disaster—for everyone. But many, and this includes high officials within your White House, your State Department, and your intelligence apparatus, realize that without another superpower on which to focus their attentions, American policy has become ambiguous, vague, and garbled.”
Well, friends, as much as I hate to admit it, old Werner has a point. Our foreign policy has become ambiguous, vague, and garbled. But the reason wasn’t the one he argued—i.e., because we lacked another superpower to offset us. The reason is that the current administration lacks focus in foreign affairs. We do not lead these days—we merely coast from crisis to crisis. And that vacuum of leadership is dangerous.
Lantos paused as the headwaiter slipped up to the table and deposited two plates of fried eggs, crisp bacon, sliced ficelle, and a jar of raspberry preserves in front of us. He arranged the plate in front of Werner Lantos carefully, placing it so that the eggs sat precisely at 0900 and the bacon at 1500, with the ficelle centered at the top of the plate, and a sprig of parsley garnish right in the center.
The vein on the right side of Lantos’s neck started to throb—just the way I’d seen it pulsate in Moscow. He twisted his neck with the same sort of wild-eyed, jerky motion birds have when they turn their heads, and caught the headwaiter’s eye with his own. Lantos’s expression brought a look of abject terror onto the man’s face. He snatched the plates up, begged Monsieur Lantos’s forgiveness, and withdrew.
“I do not eat green,” he said by way of explanation. “Nor will I tolerate green on my plate.”
The throbbing vein in Werner Lantos’s neck subsided. He took a sip of the strong, sweet coffee. “Look at how America struggles—everywhere from Europe, to the Adriatic, to the Middle East, to Asia and the Pacific rim, there is unease and unrest. America’s old NATO allies are skeptical, anxious, even apprehensive about the way the United States will deal with them. During the height of the Cold War, no such doubts existed. Every nation knew where it fit in the strategic scheme of things.”
“So, what are you advocating?”
Lantos shook his head. “I am not ’advocating’ anything,” he said. “It is not my position to advocate. I am a businessman who has been privileged to be able to help in some small way those who want a world that incorporates a symbiosis, a symmetry, a harmony, an equilibrium, between East and West. And I am proud to say that I am not alone.” He paused. Then: “You, too, Captain, could aid that effort.”
The sonofabitch was trying to recruit me. “You mean from my position in the Navy?”
“That might be feasible—if you decided that the larger objectives I have described to you are worth fighting for.”
I played along with him. “That could be dangerous—working from within has its risks.”
“Indeed it does. There are those who would call you a renegade—or worse.” He showed me his teeth. “But then, Captain, you’ve already been called much worse by some of those with whom you work.”
He was on the money there. I said nothing.
“Still,” he continued, “you would be well compensated, if you chose that path. Very well compensated indeed. Not, of course, during your time of government service.” He showed me his teeth and said, “That would be illegal.” He waited for my reaction, then continued when there was none. “But afterward, you would find living very comfortable—there would be a large settlement after your retirement, when you would not have to enter the amount on your annual financial disclosure forms.”
Something made me ask it. “Like the arrangement you have with Bart Wyeth?”
Werner Lantos said nothing. But the look on his face and the throbbing of his neck told me all I needed to know.
I continued. “And if I, ah, declined to work from within?”
“There could be a place for you at Lantos and Company should you choose early retirement, then come and work with us full-time.”
Oh, he was smooth. He didn’t quite ask me to commit treason. Oh, no—he’d leave that decision to me. The same way he’d probably left it to Bart Wyeth. And Bart, being a venal and greedy BAW, had jumped at the money. A notation went next to Bart’s name in the little black book I carry in my head. I’d deal with the sonofabitch before this thing was finished.
Meanwhile, friends, it was about time to burst Werner’s sicko bubble. First of all, I don’t need any fucking money. These books are doing extremely well, thank you very much.
Second—and this is the important part because it has to do with patriotism. Now, patriotism is something we don’t talk about much anymore. But we should talk about it, because it is a great quality. So, listen up. I took an oath when I joined the Navy. I raised my hand and swore to protect and to defend this country.
That oath is sacred to me. Sacred because it was (and is still being) written in the blood of all those who have died to protect our precious freedoms.
It is written in the blood of Roy Boehm’s shipmate, Dubiel, who was snatched from Roy’s arms by a shark, thirteen hours after their destroyer, the USS Duncan. had been sunk during the Battle of Cape Esperance, back in 1942. Even today, Roy can still hear his shipmate’s scream as the shark took him; even today he feels the pain of loss.
It is written in the blood of the more than fifty-eight thousand American military men and women (including forty-nine SEALs and UDT frogmen) who died during Vietnam.
It is written in the blood of the eight American military personnel whose charred corpses were desecrated by Iranian militants after the botched hostage rescue attempt at Desert One.
It is written in the blood of those four brave SEALs from SEAL Team Six who drowned during the invasion of Grenada.
It is written in the blood of those Americans who were killed during operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm.
It is written in the blood of the tough Delta troopers and Army Rangers who gave their lives in Somalia so that Warrant Officer Michael Dura
nt could live.
There is no fucking way I would ever betray the warriors who have given their lives to protect and defend the United States. Not by word, not by deed—not even by thought. Call it a profound sense of duty. Call it old-fashioned patriotism. Call it whatever you like—it is a motivating factor of my life.
So when I answered Werner, I was very direct. And by that, I mean very direct—even for me. “Help—how do you mean ’help,’ cockbreath, by betraying my country? By dealing in dual-use systems? By selling nuclear technology to outlaw nations?”
The vein in his neck began to tremble again. “You do see everything in black and white, don’t you?” he said. “Captain, for years, the United States and the old Soviet Union waged war on each other. They did it not by launching missiles at each other’s capitals, but through the use of surrogates. Client states, who were supported by the superpowers.”
I was getting pretty fed up with this argument. “What’s your point?”
He paused. The headwaiter approached cautiously with two new plates of food, sans green garnish. Lantos waited until they had been placed in front of us. He took up his knife and fork, pierced the yolk of an egg, cut a piece of bacon, dipped it into the liquid, and raised the fork to his lips.
“My point,” he said, after he’d chewed and swallowed, “is that the most progressive thinkers in Moscow and Washington want to re-create much of that old arrangement. You see, by reviving that balanced relationship, we will also revive the focus and direction that drove the foreign policy of both East and West for almost half a century. It will be a new world, one in which everyone will discover true purpose again—by which I mean a stable, long-term coalition from which all sides will benefit.”
He broke a piece off the crusty ficelle, dipped the fragment of bread into the egg yolk, and ate it. “The superpowers will benefit from the increased stability of their balanced relationship. The client states—those old surrogates—will benefit from the renewed influx of military and commercial aid. It is what you Americans like to call a win-win situation.”
Designation Gold Page 24