“How does he know that?”
“They’re in their sixties now, but each was an early student of his when he first taught in grammar school, each he protected from the Ministry of Aryan Investigation at the risk of his own life.”
“It’s possible he was conned. From the two meetings we’ve had, he strikes me as being very connable.”
“That’s the academic in him. As with so many, he’s both hesitant and loquacious, but neither weakness contradicts his brilliance. He’s a perceptive man of enormous experience.”
“The last part could also describe Harry. There’s no way he’d bring out false information.”
“I’m told there are some extraordinary names on the Washington list. Unbelievable was the word Sorenson used.”
“So was Lindbergh; the Spirit of St. Louis was on Goering’s side until young Charlie figured out that they were the evil people and then fought like hell for us.”
“I don’t think that kind of comparison is even called for.”
“Probably not. I’m only trying to illustrate a point.”
“Suppose your brother’s right? Even half right, or a quarter right, or even half of that—or even far less than that?”
“He brought out the names, Mr. Ambassador. No one else did or could, so I suggest you proceed as if they were bona fides until proven otherwise.”
“What you’re saying, if I read you, is that they’re all guilty until proven innocent.”
“We’re not talking law, sir, we’re talking about the reemergence of the worst goddamned plague this world has ever seen, including the bubonic! There’s no time for legal claptrap. We have to stop them now.”
“We once said that about the Communists, and the reputed Communists, and the vast majority in our own country proved to be nothing of the sort.”
“This is different! These neos aren’t boring within like the Nazis did in the thirties; they’ve had the power; they remember how they got it. Fear. Armed gangs roaming through the streets in blue jeans, streaked faces, and chopped hair; then come the uniforms—even the shovels and the boots of the Schultsefein, the first of Hitler’s thugs—and everything goes berserk! We have to stop them!”
“With only the names we have?” asked Courtland softly. “Men and women of such high regard that no one would ever suspect them of being remotely part of this insanity. How do we proceed? How do any of us proceed?”
“With people like me, Mr. Ambassador. Men and women trained to break through the shells and get to the truth.”
“That has a distinctly unattractive ring to it, Latham. Whose truth?”
“The truth, Courtland!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Forgive me—Mr. Courtland, or Mr. Ambassador. The time for diplomatic—even ethical—niceties are over! I could have been a riddled corpse in my bed at the Meurice. These bastards play hardball, and the balls are made of concrete exploded from weapons.”
“I think I understand where you’re coming from—”
“Try living it, sir. Try picturing your ambassadorial bed blown apart while you’re crouched against the wall, wondering if one of those bursts will find your face or your throat or your chest. This is war—undercover war, I grant you, but war nevertheless.”
“Where would you begin?”
“I’ve got a place to start, but I want Harry’s list of names here in France while Moreau and I go after the one we have.”
“The Deuxième’s not yet cleared for any conceivable French collaborators.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Again, where would you start?”
“With the name of the man who rented the car that our famous, if crazy out-of-his-head, actor identified north of the Pont Neuf.”
“Moreau gave it to you?”
“Of course he did. The car on the Montaigne that Bressard smashed into was a bust. It was from Marseilles, but the rental is so convoluted, it would take weeks to process. This man we’ve got; he goes on at his desk at four o’clock this afternoon. We’ll break him if we have to put his testicles in a vise.”
“You can’t work with Moreau.”
“What are you talking about? Why not?”
“He’s on Harry’s list.”
7
Stunned, Drew walked out of his office, down the circular staircase to the embassy’s lobby, and out the bronze entrance onto the avenue Gabriel. He turned right and headed for the brasserie where he and Karin de Vries had agreed to have lunch. He was not only stunned, he was furious! Courtland had refused even to discuss the astonishing revelation that Claude Moreau, head of the Deuxième Bureau, was on “Harry’s list.” He just left the extraordinary statement hanging in mid-breath, overriding Latham’s protestations with the words “There’s nothing more to say. Play along with Moreau but don’t give him a damn thing. Call me tomorrow and tell me what happened.” With those precise instructions, the ambassador had hung up the phone.
Moreau a neo? It was about as credible as saying De Gaulle had been a German sympathizer in World War II! Drew was not a fool; he fully understood and accepted the reality of moles and double agents, but to consign a man with Moreau’s record to either category without examination was sheer sophistry. For a field officer to rise in the ranks through years of clandestine operations to head up a branch so specialized as the Deuxième, he would have to pass under the scrutiny of a thousand pairs of eyes, both admiring and envious, the latter determined to derail him with all the damaging input at their command. Yet Moreau had survived that gauntlet, not only survived it but emerged with the epithet of “world class,” a phrase Latham doubted another world-class practitioner, one Wesley Sorenson, would use casually.
“Monsieur!” shouted the voice from a car in the street; the Deuxième vehicle was obviously keeping pace with him. “Entrez-vous, s’il vous plaît!”
“I’m only walking a couple of blocks,” shouted Drew, dodging the pedestrians as he made his way to the curb. “Like yesterday, remember?” he added in his simplified French.
“I did not like yesterday and I do not like today. Please come inside!” The Deuxième car stopped as Latham reluctantly opened the door and lurched into the front seat.
“You’re overreacting, René—or are you Marc? I get confused.”
“I am François, monsieur, and I don’t care for confusion. I have my job.”
Suddenly, with ear-shattering explosions, bullets pelted the thick outer safety glass of the side windows and then the windshield as a black sedan raced ahead, weaving through the traffic. “Christ!” roared Drew, hugging the front seat, his head below the dashboard. “You saw that coming, didn’t you?”
“Only the possibility, monsieur,” replied the driver, breathing heavily, his body arched back in the seat. He had stopped the car, the windshield so pockmarked that vision was nil. “An automobile drove away from the curb when you emerged from the embassy. One doesn’t give up a parking space on the Gabriel without a good reason, and the men in that car were very angry when I cut them off and yelled for you.”
“I owe you, François,” said Latham rapidly, awkwardly rising, turning, and planting his feet on the floor as people in the street cautiously approached the Deuxième vehicle. “What now?”
“The police will come any moment, someone will call them—”
“I can’t talk to the police.”
“I understand. Where were you going?”
“To a brasserie in the next block, on the other side of the street.”
“I know it. Go there now. Walk with the crowds and be one of them. Look very excited, as everyone else does, when you get outside, then make your way to the brasserie as inconspicuously as you can. Stay there until we come for you or reach you on the phone.”
“What name?”
“You’re American—Jones will do. Tell the maître d’ that you expect a call. Do you have a weapon?”
“Of course.”
“Be careful. It’s unlikely, but be prepared
for the unlikely.”
“You don’t have to spell it out. What about you?”
“We know what to do. Hurry!”
Drew opened the door, closing it quickly and instantly lowering his body, then rising, feigning the panic of those surrounding him. In moments he was indeed one with the crowd. Altering his height frequently, he scurried to the other side of the avenue Gabriel and while glancing around, his eyes darting in every direction, he once again headed for the brasserie and Karin de Vries.
He was far too early. He realized that when he saw the half-empty restaurant, but he had to stay away from his office, away from the embassy. Suddenly both took on images he did not care to think about, not after what had happened less than four hundred feet up the street. Still he had to think about them, think hard and deep. “Reservation in the name of De Vries,” he said in English to the tuxedoed man at the lectern.
“Yes, of course, sir.… You’re a bit early, monsieur.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. Come, I’ll take you to your table. The madame prefers the rear section.”
“My name’s Jones. I may be getting a telephone call.”
“I’ll bring it to the table—”
“To the table?”
“These days everyone has a telephone, no? How people can drive and walk across the streets in traffic while on the phone amazes me. Mon Dieu, no wonder our accident rate is so high!”
“Tell me,” said Latham, thinking quickly as he sat down. “Could you bring me a telephone now?”
“Certainement. Local or long distance, monsieur?”
“Long distance,” replied Drew, frowning in thought.
“The telephone is numbered, and the charges will be listed on your bill.”
“It must be a pain in the neck for you,” said Latham.
“It could be, but we don’t tell everyone or advertise the convenience. So many carry around their own phones—”
“You told me,” Drew interrupted, looking at the man.
“Well, of course. You are with the ambassade américaine, n’est-ce pas? You’ve come in here a number of times, Mr. Jones.”
“I guess I have,” agreed Latham, handing the maître d’ his telephone credit card. “I just never made a reservation.”
“Merci. May I order you a drink or a bottle of wine?”
“Whisky. Scotch, if you please.” The manager left, the whisky arrived, and Drew settled back in the booth, a tremble developing in his hands, his face flushed.
My God, but for an experienced, observant driver he would have been killed on the Gabriel! Three attempts on his life had been made within a day and a half, the first the night before last, the second that morning at dawn, and now only minutes earlier! He was marked, and the posthumous honor of having died in the line of duty held no appeal for him whatsoever. There was no question that the Nazi cancer was spreading throughout Germany and beyond. Where else, who knew? How effective, who could estimate? Harry’s list would seem to portend the worst scenario for the NATO countries, and Karin de Vries’s disclosure that the Brotherhood had invaded the Agency’s top-secret computers for information about Operation Sting certainly supported the Washington penetration. Christ, he had told Villier that the regenerated Nazis were expanding everywhere, but it was hyperbole, a hook to enlist the actor’s interest because he suspected Villier’s background, the Jodelle connection and all it represented, not the least of which were the missing interrogation files. When Villier confirmed his suspicions, he was both elated and horrified, elated that he had zeroed in on a truth, frightened because it was the truth.
And now he was a maximum target because he had found the truth. In line with his theory that dead intelligence officers served no useful purpose, he would rescind his previous instructions and seek whatever further protection the Deuxième could offer.
The Deuxième—Moreau? Was it possible? By asking Moreau for additional personal security, was he signing his own death warrant? Despite all his instincts, and regardless of his convictions about the man, was Harry’s list that accurate? He could not believe it—it was crazy! Or was it?
The maître d’ returned to the table carrying the portable phone. It was barely seven A.M. in Washington, and before the director of Consular Operations began his morning, one Drew Latham needed guidance.
“Press the button marked Parlez and dial, monsieur,” said the maître d’. “Should you require additional calls, touch Finis, then again press Parlez and dial.” He handed Drew the phone and walked away. Latham touched the button marked Parlez, dialed, and within moments an alert voice answered.
“Yes?”
“Paris calling—”
“I thought you might,” Sorenson broke in. “Has Harry arrived? You can talk, we’re on scrambler.”
“He’s not due until tomorrow at the earliest.”
“Dammit!”
“Then you know? About the information he brought out, I mean.”
“I do, but I’m surprised you do. Brother or no, Harry’s not the type who’s free with classified data, and I do mean classified to the maximum.”
“Harry didn’t tell me anything. It was Courtland.”
“The ambassador? I find that incredible. He’s a good man, but he’s not in this loop.”
“He had to be included. Bonn’s ambassador broke the seals, pretty angrily as I understand it, over four possibles in his own government.”
“What the hell is going on?” shouted Sorenson. “This is all supposed to be kept in a deep tank until decisions are made!”
“Somebody jumped the gun,” said Drew. “The sprinters began running before the starter’s pistol was fired.”
“Have you any idea what you’re saying?”
“Oh, yes, I certainly do.”
“Then, goddammit, tell me! I have a meeting at ten o’clock with the Secretary of State and the DCI—”
“Be careful what you say,” interrupted Latham rapidly.
“What in God’s name does that mean?”
“The Agency’s AA-Zero computers were compromised. The Brüderschaft—that’s the name the neos call themselves—knew all about Harry’s operation. Code Sting, objectives, even the projected time of his mission—two years plus. It was all picked up from Langley.”
“This is shit-kicking nuts!” roared the director of Cons-Op. “How did you find out?”
“From a woman named De Vries, whose husband was Harry’s runner in the old East Berlin. He was killed by the Stasi, and she’s on our side. She works at the embassy now, and says she has a few scores to terminate. I believe her.”
“Can you be certain?”
“Nothing’s in cement, but I think so.”
“What does Moreau think?”
“Moreau?”
“Yes, of course. Claude Moreau, the Deuxième.”
“I thought you had Harry’s list.”
“So?”
“He’s on it. I was ordered not to tell him anything.”
Following a short gasp, the silence from Washington was electrifying. Finally, Sorenson spoke quietly, ominously. “Who gave you that order? Courtland?”
“Presumably relayed from on high.… Wait a minute. You have Harry’s list—”
“I have a list that was sent to me.”
“Then you’ve got Moreau’s name. Did you miss it?”
“No, because it’s not there.”
“What …?”
“It was understood that for maximum security, certain names were ‘selectively withheld.’ ”
“From you?”
“Those were the words.”
“They’re bullshit!”
“Yes, I know.”
“Can you think of a reason—any reason?”
“I’m trying to, believe me.… Among the upper echelons it’s common knowledge that Moreau and I worked closely together—”
“Yes, you mentioned Istanbul—”
“That was our last posting; there were othe
rs. We were a good team and whenever it was feasible, the analysts in Washington and Paris paired us.”
“Would that be reason enough to exclude him from your list?”
“Possibly,” replied the director of Cons-Op, now barely audible. “The argument could be made, but not convincingly. You see, he saved my life in Istanbul.”
“We all try to do that kind of thing if we’re in a position to, usually on the assumption that the favor might be returned someday.”
“That’s why it’s not a convincing argument. Still, a bond is indelibly formed, isn’t it?”
“Within limits and depending on the circumstances.”
“Well said.”
“It’s axiomatic.… I’m to reach Moreau this afternoon. There’s a lead on a rental car our actor picked up playing secret agent. What should I do?”
“Normally,” began Sorenson, “even abnormally, I’d consider Claude’s name on that list to be ludicrous.”
“Agreed,” interrupted Latham.
“Yet Harry brought it out. The fact that he’s your brother notwithstanding—”
“Again axiomatic,” Drew broke in curtly.
“I find it extremely difficult to believe Harry could be fooled, and turned is out of the question.”
“Again—agreed,” mumbled Latham.
“So where are we? If your woman friend is genuine, the Agency’s been penetrated, and there’s obviously someone in either French intelligence or our own who spotted Moreau’s name and by extension doesn’t trust me.”
“That’s ludicrous!” said Drew, raising his voice and instantly lowering it as heads turned at several tables in front of his booth.
“It’s a hell of a shock, I’ll say that much.”
“I’m going to call Harry in London. Tell him our thoughts.”
“He’s sequestered.”
“Not to me. When he was fourteen and I was eight, to get away from me and read one of his goddamned books, he climbed a tree and got stuck. I said I’d rescue him if he promised never to avoid me again—he was kind of a wimp about climbing down, you know what I mean?”
“On such oaths are the secrets of the world nullified. If you reach him, for God’s sake, call me back. If you can’t—and it sticks in my craw to say it—follow the ambassador’s order. Cooperate with Claude, but keep silent.”
The Apocalypse Watch Page 12