The Apocalypse Watch

by Robert Ludlum

  “Good Christ, is this a confessional?”

  “Not at all. I simply want to know you better. That’s no crime.”

  “Okay. I worshiped the guy. He was so smart, so kind to me, running me through exam questions and helping me with my term papers, then in college, even selecting my courses, always telling me I was better than I thought I was, if I would only concentrate. Our dad was always away on one of his digs, so who came up to see me at college, who yelled loudest at the hockey games—Harry, that’s who.”

  “You love him, don’t you?”

  “I’d be nothing without him. That’s why I damn near threatened him with a hammerlock if he didn’t get me into this business. He didn’t like it, but there was a bastard organization called Consular Operations being formed that apparently wanted jocks who could think. I fit the description and made it.”

  “The colonel said you were a terrific hockey player in Canada. He said you should have gone to New York.”

  “It was an interlude, a farm team, and I was pretty well paid, but Harry flew to Manitoba and said I had to grow up. So I did; the rest is what I am. The questions over with?”

  “Why are you so hostile?”

  “I’m not really. I’m good at what I do, lady, but as you’ve pointed out ad nauseam, I’m not Harry.”

  “You have your own attributes.”

  “Oh, hell, yes. Basic martial arts, but no expert, believe me. All those courses in enemy interrogation and manipulation, psychological and chemical; survival techniques and how to determine which flora and fauna are edible—all that’s ingrained.”

  “Then what bothers you so?”

  “I wish I could tell you, but I don’t even know myself. I think it’s the absence of authority. There’s a rigid chain of command and I can’t go around it—not even sure I want to. It’s what I said before, the ‘quiet ones’ know more than I do … and now I can’t trust them.”

  “Give me your phone, please.”

  “It’s set for long distance.”

  “By pressing F zero one eight you can revert it to Paris and its environs.” De Vries touched the numbers she knew by rote, waited several moments, and spoke. “I’m arrondissement six, please run a check.” She covered the mouthpiece and looked at Drew. “A simple intercept run, nothing out of the ordinary.” Suddenly Karin’s gaze shot downward to the floor, her face frozen, her chin jammed into her throat. She stood up and screamed. “Get out! Everyone get out of here!” She grabbed Latham’s arm, yanking him out of the booth, and kept yelling. “Everyone!” she roared in French. “Leave your tables and go outside! Les terroristes!” The mass exodus was chaotic; several windows were smashed as diners fled, clashing with waiters and busboys, racing to find whatever egresses they could as bewildered, furious management personnel tried to stem the stampede, then reluctantly followed. Out on the avenue Gabriel all watched in horror as the rear section of the brasserie was blown apart, the impact of the explosion shattering what was left of the windows, sending fragments of glass flying into the street, imbedding themselves into the flesh of faces and through the fabric of clothing into arms, chests, and legs. Pandemonium filled the street as Latham fell over the body of Karin de Vries.

  “What did you learn?” shouted Drew, shoving the gun into his belt. “How did you know?”

  “There’s no time! Get up. Follow me!”

  8

  They raced down the Gabriel until they reached a deep, shadowed storefront, a joaillier whose expensive gems shone more brightly in the relative darkness. Karin yanked him into it; breathless, they both gulped in air before Latham spoke.

  “Goddammit, lady, what happened? You said that whoever you called was running an intercept check, then you started yelling and all hell broke loose! I want an answer.”

  “The check was never made,” replied De Vries, still gasping for breath. “Instead, someone else came on the phone and yelled, ‘Three men in dark clothes, they’re running up and down the street from place to place. They want your friend out!’ Before I could ask any questions, I saw two baguettes rolling on the floor toward our booth.”

  “Baguettes? Loaves of bread?”

  “Shiny small loaves, Drew. Artificial bread. Plastic explosives ten times more powerful than grenades.”

  “Oh, my God …”

  “There’s a taxi stand at the next corner. Quickly!” Still breathless, they settled into the backseat of a cab as Karin gave the driver an address in the Marais district. “In an hour I’ll return to the embassy—”

  “Are you crazy?” Latham broke in, snapping his head toward her. “You’ve been seen with me, you said so yourself. They’ll kill you!”

  “Not if I return within a reasonable amount of time—and behave as if I’ve had a terrible shock—reasonably hysterical, although not out of control.”

  “Words,” said Drew sharply, disparagingly.

  “No, basic common sense in a tenuous situation that demands my getting back to my normal routine as soon as I can.”

  “I repeat, you’re a lunatic. Not only were you with me, you were the one who shouted the warning! You started the stampede.”

  “So would anyone else who’d come in off the Gabriel, seeing all those policemen and the patrol cars, and hearing how terrorists had shot up an automobile. Good Lord, Drew, two loaves of bread—even if they were real—rolling into a booth as a man in a dark sweater and a black visored cap raced out, colliding with a waiter, really!”

  “You didn’t tell me about any man racing outside—”

  “In a heavy sweater on a warm spring day, his face hidden and nearly upsetting a waiter carrying a tray!”

  “Or about any waiter.”

  “Incidentally, no waiter in a Paris brasserie would treat loaves of bread as if they were bocci balls.”

  “Okay, okay, you can explain away that part, but not the fact that you were with me.”

  “I’ll take care of it in a way any Frenchman, terrorist or not, will understand. I’ll make several phone calls establishing the fact.”

  “What phone calls? About what and to whom?”

  “To people at the embassy, D and R first, of course, then the entry desk, and a few others who are known gossips, including Courtland’s chief aide and the first attaché’s secretary. I’ll tell them I was with you at the restaurant that was bombed, that we got out, you disappeared, and I’m frantic.”

  “You’re simply pointing up the fact that we were together!”

  “For quite a different reason that has nothing to do with your work, which I know nothing about because I haven’t known you that long.”

  “What reason?”

  “We met the other day, were attracted to each other, and obviously are heading toward an affair.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said.”

  “Don’t take it literally, Monsieur Latham, it’s emphatically a cover. The point is that since we can assume the embassy’s been penetrated, the word will circulate rapidly.”

  “Do you think Paris’s branch of the neos will buy it?”

  “They have no choice on two levels. If it’s a lie, they’ll watch me, assuming you’ll reach me and they can track you down; if it’s the truth, well, I’m really not worth their time. In either case, I’m in a position to help you where I am.”

  “For Freddie’s sake, I understand,” said Drew, smiling gently as the driver entered the Marais, “but I still think you’re taking a hell of a risk, lady.”

  “May I say something about your language, please?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Your erratic but inveterate use of the word lady has a distinctly condescending connotation.”

  “It’s not meant that way.”

  “Probably not. Even so, it’s an unconscious cultural contradiction.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “By employing the word lady, you’re actually using it in the pejorative sense, as in girl, or, worse, broad.”

  “I apologize.�
� Latham smiled, again gently. “I’ve used that term more times than I can remember with my mother, and I assure you it was never—what did you call it?—pejorative.”

  “A mother can accept it as an en famille endearment. I’m not your mother.”

  “Hell, no. She’s a lot prettier and doesn’t caterwaul so much.”

  “Caterwaul …?” De Vries studied the American’s face, seeing the humor in his eyes. She laughed and touched his arm. “You have the point you conceded to me at the table back in the brasserie. Sometimes I take things too seriously.”

  “No sweat. I can see why you and Harry got along. You analyze, then reevaluate, then analyze again. It all gets to be a bunch of circles, doesn’t it?”

  “No, it doesn’t, because somewhere among those circles there’s a tangent that breaks off and leads to something else. Invariably the truth.”

  “Would you believe I understand that?”

  “Of course you do. Your brother was right years ago, you’re much better than you think you are.… But then, you don’t need me to say these things.”

  “No, I don’t. Right now I want to know where we’re going, where I’m going.”

  “To what you Americans call a sterile house, an intermediate place where your credentials are confirmed before you’re sent on to sanctuary.”

  “The people you were calling at the restaurant, the brasserie?”

  “Yes, but in your case you’ll be sent immediately. I’ll be your confirmation.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “It’s enough to say that they’re on our side, yours and mine.”

  “It’s not enough for me, lady—sorry, Mrs. de Vries.”

  “Then you can stop the taxi, get out, be on your own, and be hunted like an animal until they have you in their gun sights.”

  “Not necessarily. I may not be Harry, but I’ve got certain skills that have served me through a scrape or two. Shall I tell the driver to pull over, or will you tell me exactly where we’re going and who we’re going to see?”

  “You need protection right now and you admit you don’t know whom you can trust—”

  “And you’re saying I should trust people I don’t know?” interrupted Latham. “You’re certifiable.” He leaned forward, speaking to the driver. “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît, arrětez le taxi—”

  “Non!” Karin intruded firmly. “It’s not necessary,” she continued in French to the driver, who shrugged and took his foot off the brake. “All right,” she went on, looking at Drew, “what do you want to do, where do you want to go? Or would you rather I get out so I have no idea? You can always reach me at the embassy—I’d suggest a pay phone, but I don’t have to tell you that. You can’t have much money on you, and you shouldn’t go to your bank any more than to the office, your flat, or the Meurice, they’ll all be covered. I’ll give you what I have and we can make further arrangements later.… For God’s sake, decide. I have to start my own strategy soon—in minutes for it to be credible!”

  “You mean it, don’t you? You’d give me money, get out, and let me fade, not knowing where I am.”

  “Naturally I mean it. It’s not preferable, and I think you’re a damn fool, but you’re stubborn and there’s nothing I can do about that. It’s far more important that you stay alive, see Harry, and get on with the business at hand. Every day the new Nazi leadership survives, the deeper they entrench themselves.”

  “Then you don’t insist on taking me to your old friends from Amsterdam.” Latham did not ask a question.

  “How can I? You won’t listen to me, so of course not.”

  “Then take me to them. You’re right, I really don’t know who to trust.”

  “You’re impossible, you realize that, I presume!”

  “No, I’m not, I’m just very cautious. Did I mention that I’ve been shot at three times in less than thirty-six hours, and ten minutes ago someone tried to bomb me to the moon? Oh, yes, lady, I’m very cautious.”

  “You’ve made the right decision, believe me.”

  “I have to. Now, who are these people?”

  “Germans, mostly. Men and women who loathe the neos more than any of us do—they see their country being soiled by the so-called inheritors of the Third Reich.”

  “They’re here in Paris …?”

  “And in the U.K., the Netherlands, Scandinavia, the Balkans—wherever they believe the Brüderschaft is operating. Each cell is small in number, fifteen to twenty people, but they operate with renowned German efficiency, secretly funded by a group of German industrial leaders and financiers who not only despise the neos but fear what they could do to the nation’s image and thus its economy.”

  “They sound like the flip side of the Brotherhood.”

  “What do you think is tearing the country apart? That’s exactly what they are, it has to be. Bonn is political; business is practical. The government must appeal for votes from a diverse electorate; the financial establishment must, above all, guard against isolation from world markets because of the specter of a Nazi revival.”

  “These people, your friends—these ‘cells’—do they have a name, a symbol, something like that?”

  “Yes. They call themselves the Antinayous.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “I really don’t know, but your brother laughed when Freddie told him. He said it had something to do with ancient Rome and a historian called Dio Cassius, I believe. Harry said it fit the circumstances.”

  “Harry’s a piece of work,” mumbled Drew. “Remind me to replace my encyclopedia.… Okay, let’s meet your friends.”

  “They’re only two streets away.”

  Wesley Sorenson had made up his mind. He had not spent an adult lifetime in the service of his country to be frozen out of essential information by an intelligence bureaucrat who drew an erroneous, insulting conclusion. In short, Wes Sorenson was an angry man and he saw no reason to conceal that anger. He had not sought the directorship of Consular Operations, he had been summoned by a thinking President who saw the need to coordinate the intelligence services so that one branch or another did not frustrate post-Cold War State Department objectives. He had answered the call out of a pleasant retirement, in which, thanks to an affluent family, there was no need of a pension. Still, he had earned it many times over, as, indeed, he had earned the respect and trust of the entire intelligence community. He would make his feelings known at the conference he was about to attend.

  He was ushered into the enormous office, where Secretary of State Adam Bollinger sat behind his desk. In front of the Secretary, in one of two captain’s chairs, his body turned in greeting, was a large, heavyset black man in his early sixties. His name was Knox Talbot, the director of Central Intelligence, a former ranking intelligence officer in the Vietnam action, and a giant intellect who had made several fortunes in the back-stabbing worlds of commodities and arbitrage. Sorenson liked Talbot, and was constantly bemused by the way he masked his brilliance with self-deprecating humor and a show of wide-eyed innocence. Secretary Bollinger, on the other hand, was a problem for the Cons-Op director. Sorenson acknowledged the Secretary of State’s political acumen, even his international stature, but there was a hollowness in the man that disturbed him. It was as if everything he said and did was calculated, contrived, devoid of passionate commitment—a cold man with a bright smile that held surface charm but little warmth.

  “Good morning, Wes,” said Bollinger, his smile perfunctory, for this was a meeting of dire consequence, no time for amenities, and he wanted his subordinates to know it.

  “Hello there, ye spook of spooks,” added Knox Talbot, smiling. “It seems we neophytes need a touch of input here.”

  “Nothing on our agenda is remotely amusing, Knox,” noted the Secretary, his neutral eyes glancing up from the papers on his desk, directed at Talbot.

  “Neither will it help to be uptight, Adam,” rejoined the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. “Our problems may be imme
nse, but a number might be dismissed with a chuckle.”

  “I find that statement close to irresponsible.”

  “Find it however you like, but I submit that a lot of what we have from Operation Sting is, to be blunt, really irresponsible.”

  “Join us, Wesley,” said Bollinger as Sorenson crossed to the chair on Talbot’s right and sat down. “I’ll not deny,” continued the Secretary of State, “that Field Officer Latham’s list is appalling, but we must consider the source. I ask you, Knox, is there a more experienced undercover agent in the CIA than Harry Latham?”

  “To my knowledge, there isn’t,” replied the DCI, “but that doesn’t preclude his being fed disinformation.”

  “That assumes his cover was blown to the neos’ leadership.”

  “I have no knowledge of that,” said Talbot.

  “It was,” said Sorenson flatly.

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “I spoke with Harry’s brother,” said Sorenson. “He’s one of my men, and he learned it through a woman in Paris, the widow of Latham’s runner in East Berlin. The neos knew all about Sting. Name, objective, even the presumed length of his mission.”

  “That’s impossible!” cried Knox Talbot, his sizable frame lurching forward in the chair, his large head turned toward Sorenson, his black eyes glaring. “That information is so deep, it couldn’t be unearthed.”

  “Try your AA-Zero computers.”

  “Inviolate!”

  “Not so, Knox. You’ve got somebody in the secret chicken coop who’s actually a fox.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I just gave you chapter and verse, what more do you need?”

  “Who the hell could it be?”

  “How many people operate the AA-Zeros?”

  “Five, with three alternates, each one researched to the day he or she was born. Each cleared total white, which, despite my obvious objection to the phrase, I completely accept. For Christ’s sake, they’re all among our top brass in high technology!”

  “One of them is tarnished, Knox. One of them slipped through your impenetrable nets.”

  “I’ll put them all under total surveillance.”