The Apocalypse Watch (13 page)

“That’s good enough for me, Mrs. de Vries. Welcome to our side.”

“Then I shall join you in a drink, monsieur. There is a ‘later’ after all.”

The American F-16 jet landed at the airport in Althein. The pilot, an air force colonel cleared by the CIA, requested immediate departure once his “package” was on board. Harry Latham was driven across the field, assisted into the second cockpit; the canopy was closed, and within minutes the plane was airborne back to England. Three hours after his arrival in the U.K., the exhausted deep-cover agent was driven under guard to the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square, his reception committee consisting of three high-ranking members of the Central Intelligence Agency, British MI-6, and France’s equivalent, the French Service d’Etranger.

“
Hey
, it’s great to have you back, Harry!” said the American.

“Damn fine show,” said the Englishman.

“
Magnifique!
” added the Frenchman.

“Thank you, gentlemen, but can’t we postpone the debriefing until I get some sleep?”

“The
valley
,” said the American, “where the hell is it? That can’t wait, Harry.”

“The valley doesn’t matter anymore. It’s gone, the fires were started two days ago. Everything’s destroyed, and everyone’s out of there.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” persisted the man from Central Intelligence. “It’s our
key
.”

“My American colleague’s quite right, old chap,” pressed the MI-Sixer.

“
Absolument
,” said the man from the Deuxième. “We must destroy it!”

“Hold on, just
hold on
!” countered Harry, looking wearily at the intelligence tribunal. “It may be the key, but the lock isn’t there anymore. However, it doesn’t matter.” To the astonishment of the others around the table, Latham began ripping apart the lining of his jacket, then proceeded to get up and remove his trousers, turning them inside out, and doing the same with the interior linings of his pockets. Standing in his jacket and shorts, he slowly, carefully, removed dozens of handwritten scraps of paper and piled them across the conference table. “I brought out everything we need. Names, positions, agencies, and departments, the whole ball of wax, as my brother would phrase it. Incidentally, I’d appreciate—”

“It’s been done,” interrupted the CIA station chief, anticipating the request. “Sorenson at Cons-Op told him you came out. He’s in Paris.”

“Thank you.… If you have a totally secure secretarial pool among you, get all of these typed up using relays—no one person should be aware of what the others are doing. Regarding the coded pieces, I’ll put them together later.”

“What
are
they?” asked the Englishman, staring at the scattered pieces of paper, many torn.

“An influential army behind the Brüderschaft, powerful men and women in each of our countries who either for greed or warped beliefs support the neos. I warn you, there are a number of surprises, both in our governments and the private sectors.… Now, if someone will find
me a decent hotel and buy me some clothes, I’d like to sleep for a day or two.”

“Harry,” said the man from Central Intelligence, “put on your trousers before you walk out of here.”

“Good point, Jack. You always were observant.”

Harry Latham lay in bed, the quasi-insulting and therefore caring telephone call from his brother, Drew, over with. They would meet in Paris by the end of the week, or as soon as Harry completed his debriefing, including the deciphering of the information he brought out of Germany. The older brother did not describe his immediate agenda, nor did he have to, the younger sibling understood the unspoken. The only pieces of information the latter offered were the following.

“With you back as a whole person, we can really move into high gear. We’ve got the ident of a car driven by a couple of scumbuckets.… Incidentally, reach me at my office or the Meurice hotel on the rue de Rivoli.”

“What happened to your flat? The management throw you out for indecent behavior?”

“No, but someone else’s indecent behavior makes it currently unlivable.”

“Really? The Meurice is pretty high living, little brother.”

“Bonn’s paying for it.”

“My goodness, I can’t wait to hear. I’ll call you when I’m flying over. By the way, I’m at the Gloucester under the name of Moss, Wendell Moss.”

“Very classy.… Glad you’re back, bro.”

“So am I, bro.” Harry had closed his eyes, sleep rapidly enveloping him when there was a soft, steady knocking on his hotel door. Shaking his head in irritation, he flipped off the covers, unsteadily climbed out of the bed, and reached for the hotel-provided bathrobe draped over a chair. He walked, half lurching, to the door. “Who is it?” he called out.

“It’s Catbird from Langley,” came the quiet reply. “I have to talk to you, Sting.”

“
Oh?
” Bewildered, but knowing the maximum secrecy
attached to his field code, Harry opened the door. In the corridor stood a relatively short man with a pleasant, rather pale, forgettable face, dressed in a dark business suit and wearing steel-rimmed glasses. “What’s a catbird?” asked Latham, gesturing for the emissary from Central Intelligence to come inside.

“Our codes changed, yours never did,” replied the stranger, entering the room and offering his hand. Harry took it, still confused. “I can’t tell you how pleased we are that you made it back from a very cold region.”

“What is this, a replay from John le Carré? If it is, he did it better. Sting I can understand, but Catbird’s a trifle banal, don’t you think? And why weren’t you at the embassy? I’m one exhausted deep c, Mr. Catbird. I really need my sleep.”

“Yes, I know, and I sincerely apologize. However, there’s a level above the embassy, I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

“Sure. There’s the DCI, the Secretary of State, and the President. So, to repeat, what’s a catbird?”

“I’ll take up but a few minutes of your time,” said the pleasant-faced man, dismissing Harry’s question and removing a pocket watch from his vest. “This is a family heirloom, and with fading eyes, I find it easier to read. Two minutes, Mr. Latham, and I’ll be gone.”

“And before you go any further, you’d better show me some very damned authentic identification.”

“Naturally.” The intruder held up the pocket watch in front of Harry’s face and spoke clearly, precisely, while pressing the crown. “Hello, Alexander
Lassiter
. It’s your friend, Dr. Gerhardt
Kroeger
, and we must talk.”

Harry’s eyes suddenly became unfocused, the pupils dilated; briefly, he was staring at nothing. “Hi, Gerhardt,” he said, “how’s my favorite sawbones?”

“Fine, Alex. How are you, and have you taken your stroll today through our meadows?”

“Hey, come on, Doc, it’s night. You want me to walk into a pack of Dobermans? Where’s your head?”

“Sorry, Alexander, I’ve been operating most of the day, and you’re quite right, I’m as tired as you.… But tell
me, Alex, when in your
thoughts
you met with those people at the American Embassy, what happened?”

“Nothing really. I gave them everything I brought out and for the next few days we’ll go over it all.”

“That’s good. Anything
else
?”

“My brother called from Paris. They’re tracing a car under suspicion. My kid brother’s a nice fellow, you’d like him, Gerhardt.”

“I’m sure I would. He’s the one who works for Consular Operations, isn’t he?”

“That’s right.… Why are you asking me these questions?”

Instantly, the pale-faced stranger in the hotel room again held up the pocket watch, pressing the crown twice as Harry Latham’s eyes became clear, his focus direct. “You really do need sleep, Harry,” said the man who called himself Catbird. “I’m just not getting through to you. Tell you what, I’ll try you tomorrow, okay?”

“What …?”

“I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you remember? Good Lord, you
are
exhausted. The DCI, the Secretary of State … the
President
, Harry. That’s who I’ve been cleared by, that’s what you wanted,
right
?”

“Sure … okay. That’s what I wanted.”

“Get some sleep, Sting. You deserve it.” Catbird left hurriedly, closing the door behind him as Harry Latham robotically walked back to the bed and fell into it.

“Who’s Catbird?” asked Harry. It was morning and the three intelligence officers were seated around the conference table, as they had been the previous day.

“I got your call two hours ago,” said the American station chief. “I woke up the DCI himself and he never heard of a Catbird. He also thought it was a pretty stupid name—just like you did, Latham.”

“But he was
there
! I saw him, spoke with him. He
was
there!”

“What did you talk about, monsieur?” asked the man from French intelligence.

“I’m not sure—I don’t really know, actually. He seemed perfectly normal, asked me a few innocuous questions, and then … I just don’t remember.”

“May I suggest, Field Officer Latham,” the brigadier from Britain’s MI-6 broke in, “that you have undergone a most stressful—oh, the devil take it—an
unendurable
three years. Isn’t it possible, and I say this with respect for your outstanding intellect, that you could be subject to illusionary moments? My
God
, man, I’ve had operatives working dual personas fantasize and break, having gone through only
half
your stress.”

“I don’t break, General. I don’t break and I don’t fantasize.”

“Let’s go back, Monsieur Latham,” said the Frenchman. “When you first arrived at the Brüderschaft valley, what happened?”

“Oh.” Harry’s eyes glanced downward; he felt disoriented for several moments, then everything was clear. “You mean the accident.
Christ
, it was terrible. A lot of it’s a blur, but the first thing I remember is the shouting, it was hysterical. Then I realized that I was stuck under the truck, a heavy piece of metal pressed against my head—I’ve never
felt
such pain.…” Latham played out the litany programmed by Dr. Gerhardt Kroeger, and when he was finished, he raised his head, his eyes clear. “I’ve told you the rest, gentlemen.”

The tribunal looked at one another, each shaking his head very briefly in obvious confusion. Then the American spoke.

“Look, Harry,” he said softly, “for the next few days we’ll go over everything you’ve brought us, okay? After that, you’ve earned a long period of rest,
okay
?”

“I’d like to fly to Paris and see my brother—”

“Sure, no sweat, even if he’s with Cons-Op, not my favorite branch.”

“I understand he’s pretty good at what he does.”

“Hell,” agreed the CIA station chief, “he was damn good when he played hockey for the Islanders farm team
in Manitoba. I was stationed in Canada then, and I tell you, that hulk body-checked much bigger hulks into the walls more often than anyone I ever saw. He could have made it big in New York.”

“Fortunately,” said Harry Latham, “I talked him out of such a violent profession.”

Drew Latham woke up in the overstuffed bed in his suite at the Meurice on the rue de Rivoli. Blinking his eyes, he looked at the bedside telephone and pressed the buttons for room service. As long as Germany was paying for it, he decided to have a porterhouse steak topped with two poached eggs, and porridge with heavy cream on the side; he was told his order would be delivered in thirty minutes. He stretched in the bed, his left arm annoyed by the automatic beneath the pillow, then closed his eyes for a few last minutes of rest.

A scratch, a metallic slice in the door. Not natural—not at
all
natural! Suddenly there were loud staccato bursts from a jackhammer six stories below in the street, a repair crew starting unusually early in the morning.… Unusual—
not
normal! It was barely light! Drew grabbed his weapon and slid off the left side of the bed; he rolled over and over until he was flush with the corner molding of a far wall. The door opened and an explosive fusillade of bullets ripped apart the bed, shattering the mattress and pillows alike, in concert with the deafening noise from outside the windows. Latham raised his gun and fired five successive rounds into the black-encased figure in the doorframe. The man fell forward; Drew rose as the jack-hammer stopped in the street, and he raced to his would-be killer. He was dead, but as the assassin had clutched at his upper body, he had torn down his skintight black sweater. On his chest were tattooed three small lightning bolts. Blitzkrieg. The Brüderschaft.

J
ean-Pierre Villier stoically accepted the criticism leveled at him by the Deuxième Bureau’s Claude Moreau. “It was, indeed, a brave gesture on your part, monsieur, and be assured we are tracing the automobile in question, but please understand, should any harm have come to you, all France would have revolted against us.”

“I think that’s rather overstated,” said the actor. “However, I’m glad I was able to contribute in some small way.”

“In a very considerable way, but we now understand each other, isn’t that so? There’ll be no more contributions, correct?”

“As you wish, although it was a simple role to play, and there could be further information I might unearth—”

“Jean-Pierre!” exclaimed Giselle Villier. “You will do no such thing, I won’t permit it!”

“The Deuxième Bureau will not permit it, madame,” interrupted Moreau. “You’ll no doubt learn of it later in the day, so I might as well tell you now. Three hours ago a second assassination attempt was made on the American Drew Latham.”

“My
God
 …!”

“Is he all right?” asked Villier, leaning forward.

“He’s fortunate to be alive. To say the least, he’s a very observant man and has learned a few of our less advertised rules of Paris.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Everything was timed to the extremely loud and offensive noise of a street repair crew who started working at an hour when the majority of our visitors had barely gone
to bed after experiencing the joys of our city, especially those to be found in the more expensive hotels.”