FDR knew that Corky was the best—and most important, FDR knew he could trust him.
With funding buried in the White House budget, and the full backing of the President, Corky set up his shop, deliberately outside of the gossipy corridors of Washington. His top-secret private intelligence ring, which reported directly to the White House, was headquartered in the Flatiron Building in New York, disguised as an international trading firm.
Corcoran had a free hand to hire the best and the brightest, and he drew heavily from the young graduates of the Ivy League colleges, well-bred young men who would be comfortable in the rarefied social circles of Europe. So many of his recruits came from the Social Register, in fact, that wags began to call Corcoran’s network the Register, and the nickname stuck. One of his earliest hires was a young Yale graduate named Stephen Metcalfe.
The son of a millionaire industrialist and his Russian wife—Stephen’s mother had come from a noble family that had left the country before the Revolution—Stephen had traveled widely with his family and had been schooled in Switzerland. He spoke German, Russian, French, and Spanish fluently, virtually without accent: the Metcalfes had extensive holdings in Argentina and spent part of winter there for years. Too, the Metcalfes did a steady trade with the Russian government.
Stephen’s brother, Howard—the reliable one—now ran the family’s business empire, since the death of their father four years ago. Stephen would occasionally join Howard, travel with him, assist in whatever ways he could, but he refused to be tied down by the responsibility of running a major business.
He was also fearless, rebellious, and fun-loving to excess—qualities that Corcoran insisted would be useful in his new cover, as an Argentine playboy in Paris.
Derek Compton-Jones cleared his throat nervously. “No need to dispatch a courier, actually,” he said.
Langhorne looked up, then quickly looked back at his console.
“Oh really? You have a faster way to get it to Manhattan?” said Metcalfe.
Just then the door at the far end of the room opened.
It was a face he did not expect to see: the grave, drawn face of Alfred Corcoran.
The old man was dressed fastidiously, as always. His tie was tied in an elegant four-in-hand. His charcoal-gray suit emphasized his rail-thin frame. He smelled of peppermint, as he usually did—he was addicted to Pep-O-Mint Life Savers—and he was smoking a cigarette. He gave a hacking cough.
Compton-Jones immediately returned to his station, and the room fell silent. The high spirits had evaporated at once.
“Christ on a raft, these damned French smokes are god-awful! I ran out of Chesterfields on the airboat over here, somewhere over Newfoundland. Stephen, why don’t you ingratiate yourself with your boss and get me some American tobacco? Aren’t you supposed to be a damned black marketeer?”
Metcalfe stammered a bit as he came forward and shook Corky’s hand. In his left hand he clutched the stolen documents. “Of course … Corky … what are you doing—?” Corcoran was far from a desk jockey: he made frequent trips into the field. But travel into occupied Paris was difficult, complicated, and decidedly risky. He didn’t often come to Paris. There must be a good reason why he was here.
“What am I doing here?” replied Corcoran. “The real question is, what are you doing here?” He turned, headed back toward the room he’d just come from, and gestured for Metcalfe to follow.
Metcalfe closed the door behind him. Obviously the old man wanted to speak in private. There was an urgency about Corky that Metcalfe hadn’t seen before.
The adjacent room stored an array of equipment including a German-letter typewriter for issuing passes and ID cards. There was also a small printing press, used in simple documentary forgery—most of the serious work was done in New York or London—for creating French travel and work permits. One table held an assortment of rubber stamps, including a good copy of a German censor stamp. In one corner of the room, near a rack of uniforms, was an oak desk piled with papers. A green-shaded library lamp cast a circle of light.
Corcoran sat down at the desk chair and motioned for Metcalfe to sit. The only other place was an army cot against the wall. Metcalfe sat, anxious. He placed the bundle of stolen papers on the cot beside him.
For a long while Corcoran regarded him in silence. His eyes were a pale, watery gray behind his flesh-colored horn-rimmed glasses.
“I’m sorely disappointed in you, Stephen,” Corcoran said softly. “I established you here at the enormous expense of scarce resources, and what do you have to show for it?”
“Sir,” Metcalfe began.
But Corcoran was not to be deterred. “Civilization as we know it is being engulfed by Hitler’s devouring maw. The Nazis have conquered Norway, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, and now France. They forced the British to turn tail at Dunkirk. They’re bombing London to pieces. The man has the whole sandbox to himself. Good God, young man, this may be the end of the free world. And you—you’re unlacing bustiers, for God’s sake!” He pulled out a roll of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers and popped one in his mouth.
Metcalfe, meanwhile, snatched the papers from the cot, brandished them at his boss and mentor. “Sir, I’ve just laid my hands on the top-secret plans for the German strategic naval base on the Atlantic coast, at Saint-Nazaire—”
“Yes, yes,” Corcoran interrupted impatiently, crunching on a Life Saver. “The German improvements to the water locks that control entry to the submarine pens. I’ve already seen them.”
“What?”
“You’re not my only agent, young man.”
Metcalfe flushed, unable to suppress a surge of indignation. “Who got this for you? I’d like to know. If you’ve got multiple agents covering the same turf, we risk stepping all over each other and blowing the whole thing.”
Corcoran shook his head slowly, tsk-tsked. “You know better than to ask me that, Stephen. One of my agents never knows what the other’s up to—that’s an inviolable law.”
“That’s also crazy … sir.”
“Crazy? No. It’s prudent. The almighty principle of compartmentation. Each one of you must know only what’s strictly necessary about your assignment, about your colleagues. Otherwise, all it takes is for one of you to be captured and tortured and the entire network is compromised.”
“That’s why we’re all given cyanide pills,” Metcalfe objected.
“Yes. Which works only if you have sufficient notice. But what if you’re taken suddenly? Let me tell you something: one of my agents—whom I’d managed to place in an important position in the Compagnie Française des Petroles—was picked up by the Gestapo a week ago. Haven’t heard from him since. This is a fellow who knows of the existence of this place right here.” Corky waved his hands around, indicating the Cave. “What if he talks? What if he’s turned? These are the sorts of questions that disturb my sleep.”
A moment of silence passed. “Why are you here, sir?”
Corky bit his lower lip. “Your code name, Stephen. It’s Romeo, is that right?”
Metcalfe rolled his eyes, shook his head in embarrassment.
“I often find myself despairing at your lack of restraint when it comes to the fairer sex.” Corky chuckled dryly and munched at a candy. “But once in a while your trail of broken hearts actually benefits our cause.”
“How so?”
“I’m referring to a woman with whom you had a dalliance a while ago.”
Metcalfe blinked. That could describe any number of women, and he didn’t particularly feel like guessing.
“This woman—this old flame of yours—has taken up with a very important Nazi official.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“No, there’s no reason you should. It was six years ago. In Moscow.”
“Lana!” Metcalfe whispered.
Titles by
Robert Ludlum
The Ambler Warning
The Tristan Betrayal
The Ja
nson Directive
The Sigma Protocol
The Prometheus Deception
The Matarese Countdown
The Apocalypse Watch
The Road to Omaha
The Scorpio Illusion
The Bourne Ultimatum
The Icarus Agenda
The Bourne Supremacy
The Aquitaine Progression
The Parsifal Mosaic
The Bourne Identity
The Matarese Circle
The Gemini Contenders
The Holcroft Covenant
The Chancellor Manuscript
The Road to Gandolfo
The Rhinemann Exchange
The Cry of the Halidon
Trevayne
The Matlock Paper
The Osterman Weekend
The Scarlatti Inheritance
The Bancroft Strategy
Outstanding Praise for
THE PROMETHEUS DECEPTION
“Readers will remain in the dark right up until the explosive climax.”
—the San Francisco Chronicle
“Reading a Ludlum novel is like watching a James Bond film … slickly paced … all-consuming.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Ludlum’s latest is a spy thriller that should keep even the most experienced readers guessing … The pace is fast, the action plentiful … a must-read.”
—Booklist
“Ludlum delivers again another top-notch international thriller sure to please … heart-pounding chase scenes, devastating double-crosses, gut-wrenching twists, fast-paced action, fierce confrontations, pressure that ratchets up to an explosive conclusion, and, as always, authentic international locales, high-tech gadgetry, and sophisticated spycraft.”
—Library Journal
“If true mystery—mystery in the plot and mystery as to the true nature of principal characters—is the measure of a great mystery writer, then Ludlum just proved himself one of the best.”
—Austin American-Statesman
“A dead-on picture of contemporary corporate strategy.”
—The New Yorker
“A 1984 for the new millennium … a fast-paced cloak-and-dagger tale. By the end the reader will be left with the chilling feeling that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.”
—The Commercial Appeal (TN)
“Robert Ludlum continues to jolt his readers with fresh juice … a page-turner of nonstop action that should leave his fans begging for more.”
—New York Post
Overwhelming Acclaim for the Novels of
ROBERT LUDLUM
“Ludlum is light years beyond his literary competition in piling plot twist upon plot twist, until the mesmerized reader is held captive … [He] dominates the field in strong, tightly plotted, adventure-drenched thrillers. Ludlum pulls out all the stops and dazzles his readers.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined.”
—The New York Times
“Welcome to Robert Ludlum’s world … fast pacing tight plotting, international intrigue.”
—The Plain Dealer
“Robert Ludlum is the master of gripping, fast-moving intrigue. He is unsurpassed at weaving a tapestry of stunningly diverse figures, then assembling them in a sequence so gripping that the reader’s attention never wavers.”
—The Daily Oklahoman
“Don’t ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“If a Pulitzer Prize were awarded for escapist fiction, Robert Ludlum undoubtedly would have won it. Ten times over.”
—Mobile Register
“An exciting medical-military thriller that moves at a rapid pace to its climax … an exciting new series.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A pop hit … that should bounce right up the bestseller lists.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Gripping … robust writing and a breakneck pace.”
—Boston Herald
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE PROMETHEUS DECEPTION
Copyright © 2000 by Myn Pyn LLC.
Excerpt from The Tristan Betrayal copyright © 2003 by Myn Pyn LLC.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-062585
ISBN: 0-312-94336-9
EAN: 978-0-312-94336-3
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / November 2000
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2001
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN 9781429906661
First eBook edition: October 2013
The Prometheus Deception Page 58