The Apocalypse Watch (11 page)

“Come in,” said the voice inside. Latham opened the door, greeted by the startled face of Karin de Vries; she was seated at her desk on the left wall. “Monsieur, I hardly expected you,” she said, in her voice the sound of fear. “I apologize for my rudeness. I should not have left the way I did.”

“You’ve got it wrong, lady. I’m the one who should apologize. I spoke to Witkowski—”

“Oh, yes, the colonel—”

“That’s what we have to talk about.”

“I should have known,” interrupted the researcher.
“Yes, we’ll talk, Monsieur Latham, but not here. Elsewhere.”

“Why? I went through everything you gave me, and it wasn’t just good, it was outstanding. I barely know a debit from an asset, but you made so much so clear.”

“Thank you. But you’re here for another reason, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“There is a café off the Gabriel, six blocks east of here, Le Sabre d’Orléans. It is small and not popular. Be there in forty-five minutes. I’ll be in a booth at the rear.”

“I don’t understand—”

“You will.”

Precisely forty-seven minutes later Drew walked into the small, rundown café off the avenue Gabriel, blinking at the lack of light, somewhat surprised at the shabby environs in one of the more expensive real estate sections of the city. He found Karin de Vries, as she had said, in the farthest booth of the establishment. “This is some joint,” he whispered, sitting down opposite her.

“
L’obstination du Français
,” De Vries explained, “and there’s no need to speak so quietly. No one of substance will hear us.”

“Who’s stubborn?”

“The owner. He’s been offered a great deal of money for this property, but he refuses to sell. He’s rich and it’s been in his family for years—long before he was rich. He keeps it to employ relatives—here comes one now; don’t be shocked.”

An obviously drunken elderly waiter approached the table, his walk unsteady. “Do you care to order, we have no food?” he asked in one breath.

“Scotch whisky, please,” replied Latham in French.

“No Scotch today,” said the waiter, belching. “We have a fine selection of wines, and some Japanese junk they call whisky.”

“White wine, then. Chablis, if you have it.”

“It’ll be white.”

“I’ll have the same,” said Karin de Vries. The waiter
trudged away and she continued. “Now you can see why it’s not popular.”

“It shouldn’t exist.… Let’s talk. Your husband worked with my brother in East Berlin.”

“Yes.”

“That’s all you can say? Just ‘yes’?”

“The colonel told you. I didn’t know he was here in Paris when I requested the transfer. When I found out, I was astonished, and knew this moment between us was inevitable.”

“You wanted the transfer because of
me
?”

“Because you are the brother of Harry Latham, a man both Frederik and I considered a dear, dear friend.”

“You know Harry that well?”

“Freddie worked for him, although the arrangement was off the books.”

“There
are
no books in those areas.”

“What I mean is that not even Harry’s people, much less Colonel Witkowski and his army G-Two, knew that Harry was my husband’s control. There could be no hint of their association in that ‘area,’ as you call it, not a scintilla.”

“But Witkowski
told
me they worked together.”

“On the same side, yes, but not as control and runner. I don’t think anyone ever suspected that.”

“It was so vital to keep it a secret, even among our own top people?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because of the kind of work Frederik did for Harry—willingly, enthusiastically. If certain events were traced back to the Americans, there could have been terrible consequences.”

“Neither side was particularly clean, and at times both were pretty damned gruesome. It was a negative quid pro quo, so what?”

“I think it was the killing, that’s what I was led to believe.”

“We both killed—”

“Perhaps it was the prominence of many who were assassinated,”
Karin de Vries broke in, her eyes wide, almost pleading. “As I understand, a number were in high positions, Germans favored by Moscow, leaders who reported directly to the Kremlin. A parallel might be found if mayors of your large cities or the governors of New York State or California were killed by Soviet agents, do you see what I mean?”

“It couldn’t have happened at all, it’s counterproductive. Moscow would never have allowed it.”

“It happened here and Moscow covered it up. Wisely, I might add.”

“Are you saying my
brother
, your husband’s control, ordered him to assassinate such men? That’s preposterous! It would make the U-2 fiasco pale by comparison. I don’t believe you, lady. Harry’s too smart, too knowledgeable to do anything like that; there could have been mass reprisals in the States, everyone one step closer to nuclear war, and nobody wanted that.”

“I did not say your brother ordered my husband to commit such acts.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“They were committed and Harry was Frederik’s control.”

“You mean your
husband
—”

“Yes,” interrupted Karin de Vries softly. “Freddie served your brother well, boring into the Stasi to the point where they threw him parties as a diamond merchant from Amsterdam who was making the apparatchiks rich. Then a pattern developed; times and locations coincided where powerful East Germans beholden to the Kremlin were assassinated. Separately and together, both Harry and I confronted Frederik. He denied everything, of course, and his innocent charm and his quick tongue—the same qualities that made him an extraordinary deep-cover operative—persuaded us both that it was coincidence.”

“There’s no such thing as coincidence in this business.”

“We found that out when Frederik was captured a week before the Berlin Wall came down. Under torture, compounded by the injected serums, my husband admitted to the assassinations. Harry was among the first specialists
to reach and tear apart the Stasi headquarters, and in his anger over Freddie’s death he knew exactly what to look for and when it happened. He found a copy of the transcript and kept it on his person, bringing it to me later.”

“Then your husband was a loose cannon, and neither you nor my brother saw through him?”

“You would have to have known Freddie. There was a reason behind his intemperance. He had a hatred toward the militant Germans, a deep loathing that did not extend to the tolerant, even penitent citizens of West Germany. You see, his grandparents were executed in the town square by a Waffen SS firing squad in front of the entire village. Their crime: bringing food to the starving Jews held behind an open barbed-wire enclosure in a field by the railroad yard. However—and this is most painful—along with his grandfather and grandmother, seven innocent males, all fathers, were shot as examples for a disobedient citizenry. In the hypocrisy of panic, the De Vries family was stigmatized for a generation. Frederik was brought up by relatives in Brussels, permitted only on rare occasions to see his parents, who eventually committed suicide together. I’m convinced the terrible memory of those years stayed with Freddie until the moment he died.”

Silence. And then the bewildered waiter returned with their glasses of wine, spilling part of one on Drew’s trousers. He left, and Latham said, “Let’s get out of here. There’s a decent restaurant, a brasserie, around the corner.”

“I know it too, but I would prefer to finish our conversation here.”

“Why? This place is awful.”

“I don’t think it’s right that we be noticed together.”

“For God’s sake, we work in the same place. Incidentally, why haven’t I ever seen you at our embassy get-togethers? I’m sure I’d have remembered.”

“Such parties are not a priority with me, Monsieur Latham. I live a very solitary and quite happy life.”

“By yourself?”

“That is my choice.”

Drew shrugged. “Okay, then. You saw my name on our roster sent to The Hague, and on the basis of my being Harry’s brother, you asked for your transfer.
Why?
”

“I told you, I was cleared by NATO for maximum-classified materials. Six months ago I took a secure-channel memorandum from radio traffic to the supreme commander, and being curious—as I was today—I looked at it. It said that one Drew Latham was being transferred to Paris with full Quai d’Orsay credentials, to explore the ‘German problem.’ It took no imagination to know what that was, monsieur. It was the ‘German problem’ that killed my husband, and I remembered all too clearly your brother talking about you most affectionately. How he wished you had never tried to follow in his footsteps, for you were too quick-tempered and had no facility with languages.”

“Harry’s jealous because Mother always liked me better.”

“You’re joking.”

“I certainly am. Actually, I have an idea she thought—still thinks—we’re both a little strange.”

“Because of your professions?”

“Hell no, she doesn’t know what they are, and Dad’s smart enough not to tell her. She’s convinced we’re somewhere in the ranks of the State Department, traveling all over the world for months at a time, and why aren’t we both married so she can spoil her grandchildren.”

“A natural concern, I’d say.”

“Not for two sons in an unnatural profession.”

“However, Harry did allow that you were very strong and quite intelligent.”

“
Quite
intelligent?… Jealousy again. I got extra money on my college scholarship because of my prep school hockey—he fell on his ass on a pair of skates.”

“You’re joking again.”

“No, not that part, it’s real.”

“You had scholarships?”

“We had to. Our father was a Ph.D. in archeology, and all it brought him were digs from Arizona to the old Iraq.
The National Geographic Society and the Explorers’ Club paid for the travels but not for the wife and kids. When those movies came out, Harry and I used to laugh and say to hell with the ‘Lost Ark,’ where were the kids of Indiana Jones?”

“The frame of reference is beyond me, although I recognize the academic aspect.”

“Our father had tenure, so we weren’t broke, but we certainly weren’t rich, barely middle-class well-off. We
had
to get scholarships.… Now, you’ve heard my life story, and I’ve heard more than I care to hear about your husband … what about
you
? Where are you coming from—out of the woodwork,
Mrs
. de Vries?”

“It’s not relevant—”.

“Yes, you said that before and I don’t buy it. Before you go much further in the embassy,
especially
in D and R, you’d better make it clear.”

“You don’t believe a word I’ve told you—”

“I believe the surface, what Witkowski confirmed, but beyond that I’m not sure.”

“Then you can go to the devil, monsieur.” Karin de Vries started sliding across the booth to get up, when the inebriated waiter approached.

“Is there anyone here named Lat’am?” he asked.

“
Latham?
Yes, that’s me.”

“There is a call for you on our telephone. That will add thirty francs to your bill.” The waiter wandered away.

“Stay here,” said Drew. “I told Communications where I’d be.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I want you to, I
really
want you to.” Latham got up and walked rapidly to the antiquated telephone at the end of the distressed bar. He picked up the receiver, which was lying in a pool of stale wine, and spoke. “This is Latham.”

“Durbane here,” said the voice on the line. “I’m patching you through on scrambler to Director Sorenson in Washington. You’re clear at both ends. Go ahead.”

“
Drew?
”

“Yes, sir—”

“It happened! We just got word about
Harry
. He’s alive!”

“
Where?
”

“As near as we can determine, somewhere in the Hausruck Alps. A call came through from the anti-neos in Obernberg saying they were engineering his escape, and to keep our secure lines open from Passau to Burghausen. They refused to identify themselves, but they have to be real.”

“Thank God!” cried Latham in relief.

“Don’t be too confident. They say he’s got to get through damn near twelve miles of snow in the mountains before they can reach him.”

“You don’t know Harry. He’ll get there. I may be stronger, but he was always tougher.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. I’ll go back to the embassy and wait.” Latham replaced the phone and returned to the table.

Karin de Vries was not there.

T
he column of figures trudged through the snow as the long shadows of evening spread across the mountain range, the only illumination the headlights of the two huge vehicles and the flashlights of the guards. Harry Latham leapt off the truck, the ache in his head subsiding the nearer they came to the bridge over the gorge above the offshoot of the Salzach River. He could
make
it! Once over the narrow bridge, he would find his way; he had memorized the reverse route and the markings he had made, recalling it all a thousand times during his so-called hospitalization, otherwise known as being held hostage. But he could not remain in the alpine truck, where he had hidden himself, for the vehicles were searched, each piece of equipment matched to an invoice. Instead, he had to join the column of Sonnenkinder, blindly marching off to their uncertain futures throughout Germany and all Europe, singing their songs of blood purity, Aryan righteousness, and death to the ill born. Harry sang with the loudest of them, his fervor acknowledged by grins and bright eyes as they crossed over the bridge.
Only moments now
.

The moment came! The column marched to the right in the snow-swept night, and Harry ducked away, crouching, and scurried to his left during a particularly brief, heavy snowfall. An observant guard saw him and raised his pistol.

“
Nein!
” said the
Reichsführer
of the detail, gripping the soldier’s arm and lowering it. “
Verboten. Ist schon gut!
”