The Apocalypse Watch (20 page)

“All of which makes Villier as big a target as I am, a fact I made clear to our employee, Mrs. de Vries.”

“It’s crazy, Villier should have been controlled, stopped.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, Stanley. I called Villier a jackass, and to do what he did, he was, but he’s not a blind jackass. I have no doubt he’d risk his own life, confident of his actor’s disguises and techniques. However, I don’t believe for a minute he’d risk the lives of his wife or parents by making himself so public a mark for the neos—to repeat, a target.”

“Are you saying he was programmed?”

“I don’t want to even think it because the Deuxième’s Moreau was the last knowledgeable official to confront Villier before it was announced that the play was closing.”

“I don’t understand,” said Witkowski hesitantly. “Claude Moreau’s the best there is. I really don’t follow you, Drew.”

“Fasten your seat belt, Colonel. Harry brought out a list of names.” Latham proceeded to describe the profoundly disturbing information his brother had learned while being held captive by the regenerated Nazis. How alarming and bewildering were the identities of so many powerful people, who were apparently not only sympathetic to the aims of the neo master race, but who were actively working for them.

“It wouldn’t be the first time since the pharaohs’ legions that nations have been infested by lice in the upper ranks,” Witkowski broke in. “If Harry Latham brought it out, you can take it to the bank. He’s on that rare plateau
with Claude Moreau: brains, instinct, talent, and tenacity all coming together. There’s nobody in this business better than those two.”

“Moreau’s on Harry’s list, Stanley,” said Drew quietly. The silence from the swept embassy phone was as electric as it had been with Sorenson when Latham delivered the same information. “I trust you’re still there, Colonel.”

“I wish I weren’t,” mumbled Witkowski. “I can’t think of anything to say.”

“How about
bullshit
?”

“That’s my first reaction, but there’s a secondary one and it’s just as strong. His name is Harry Latham.”

“I know that—for all the reasons you mentioned and several dozen you didn’t. But even my brother can make a mistake, or accept disinformation until he analyzes it. That’s why I have to talk to him.”

“Mrs. de Vries explained that he’s due here in Paris within a day or two, that you left word for him to keep calling you, which now he obviously won’t be able to do.”

“I can’t even give him a number, it’s not on the phone here. But you have it.”

“That number is buried in the underground telephone lines, at least the address is, and it’s undoubtedly a false one.”

“So what do we do?”

“It’s a leap of faith neither Sorenson nor I would normally approve of, but tell Mrs. de Vries where Harry is in London. We’ll take it from there and arrange your getting together. Here she is.”

“Drew?” said Karin, now on the phone. “Is everything at the Maison Rouge all right?”

“Only outstanding, lady—excuse me, how about ‘my benevolent female friend’?”

“Stop trying to be clever, it doesn’t help. The Antinayous can be quite hostile, even with their proven allies.”

“Oh, they’re fine, except that everything they say seems to end with an exclamation mark.”

“It’s the language, dismiss it. You heard the colonel, how can I reach Harry?”

“He’s at the Gloucester, under the name of Wendell Moss.”

“I’ll make the arrangements. Stay where you are and try to remain calm.”

“That’s not terribly easy. I’m
in
this mess but I’m also outside of it. I can’t call the shots, and that bothers me.”

“You’re not in a position to ‘call any shots,’ my dear. The colonel and I are, and we will act in your best interests, in all our best interests, believe me.”

“Again, I have to, and thanks for the ‘my dear.’ A touch of warmth is appreciated right now. It’s cold out here.”

“I give it freely. As you do with the word
lady
that you applied to your mother, who is prettier and less cotter-whatever than I am. We are now
en famille
, for few families could be closer than we are, whether we like it or not.”

“You know, I kind of wish you were here.”

“You shouldn’t. I’d be a dreadful disappointment, Officer Latham.”

Far below in the embassy’s pristine white cellars, a white-coated member of Team C, the afternoon shift, snapped off the override switch that taped everything spoken over every telephone in the embassy; the scramblers did not affect the in-house calls, a fact even the ambassador was not aware of—orders from Washington. The interceptor looked at the clock on the wall; it was seven minutes to four o’clock, seven minutes to the end of his shift, seven minutes to retrieve the tape and surreptitiously replace it with a blank. He could do it. He had to do it.
Sieg Heil!

Dr. Gerhardt Kroeger studied the computer screen in his new offices on the outskirts of Mettmach. A complete clinic was being built deep in the forests of Vaclabruck; until it was finished he could continue his research but, unfortunately, without human experimentation. Still, there was enough to do in terms of unexplored microsurgery enhanced by the newest laser techniques to occupy him, but currently the progress of Patient No. 28, one Harry Latham, was as vital as anything else. The initial report from London was exhilarating. The subject had responded to interrogation under computerized electronic impulses. Excellent!

Harry Latham replaced the phone in his room at London’s Gloucester hotel. A rush of warmth spread over him, sweet memories of things past, hours of comfort and delight in a world that had gone mad. He was a confirmed bachelor, realizing that it was too late to share or impose his likes and dislikes with, or on, another person. But if ever there was a woman who could negate this conclusion,
it was Frederik de Vries’s wife, Karin. Freddie de V had been the finest runner under his control in the Cold War years, but Harry had spotted his flaw, the flaw that made him extraordinary. Simply put, it was hatred—unmitigated, passionate hatred. Latham had tried constantly to impose a cold neutrality on De Vries’s emotions, warning over and over again that his inner self would explode one day and betray him. It was a useless plea, for Freddie was a demonic romantic, riding the blinding white crest of the wave, not understanding the power beneath, preferring the shining armor of a surfing Siegfried to the force of an unseen Neptune below.

His wife, Karin, understood. How often would she and Harry talk in Amsterdam, alone, while Freddie went out playing the outrageous role of a diamond merchant, gulling players of the darkest arts of espionage until they opened up to him … temporarily. That very image ultimately destroyed him, for his hatred led him to one more kill he shouldn’t have made.

It was the end of the minor legend that was Freddie de V. Harry had tried to comfort Karin, but she was beyond consolation. She knew too well what had led to his death, and she swore she would operate differently.

“
Forget
it!” Harry had yelled. “You’re not going to make any difference, can’t you understand that?”

“No, I can’t,” she had replied. “To do nothing is to admit that Freddie meant nothing. Can’t
you
understand that, my dear Harry?”

He had no answer then. His only impulse was to take this woman, this intellectual companion he felt so deeply for, into his arms and love her. But it was not the time, nor, perhaps, would it ever be. She had lived with her dead Freddie, loved her dead Freddie. Harry Latham had been that man’s superior, but he was not his equal.

And now, nearly five years later, she had come back into his life from Paris. Even more remarkably, as the guardian of his brother, Drew, who was marked for execution! Jesus
Christ
 … no, he had to impose his legendary control on himself. Maybe it was the ache in his head that seemed to grow stronger, that allowed his frustration
to surface when normally it wouldn’t. Regardless, he would fly to Paris in the morning on a diplomatic jet to a private field at De Gaulle Airport, and be met by Karin de Vries in an unmarked embassy vehicle.

He wondered what he would say to her. Would he be foolish enough, when he saw her, to say things he shouldn’t say? It didn’t much matter.… The ache in his head was pulsating. He walked into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and took two more aspirin. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he abruptly looked a second time. A pale rash was developing above his left temple, partially obscured by his hairline. His nervous system was making its mark literally. It would go away with a mild antibiotic or a few days of diminished tension; perhaps the sight of Karin de Vries would hasten its disappearance.

There was a knock on the suite’s door, probably a maid or a steward looking after his needs; it was early evening, and such were the courtesies of the better London hotels. Early evening, he mused, walking out into the sitting room. Where had the day gone? Gone?
Wasted
was the better word, for he had spent ten hours being interrogated by his tribunal. Ad nauseum, they had questioned him about the information he had brought out of the Brüderschaft valley rather than accepting it and setting the machinery in motion. To make matters even more aggravating, the three-man panel was augmented by several senior intelligence officers from the U.K., the U.S., and France, all querulous, argumentative, and arrogant. Wasn’t it conceivable that he had been fed disinformation, erroneous data that could easily be denied on the outside possibility that Alexander Lassiter was a double agent? Of
course
it was conceivable! he had said. Disinformation, misinformation, human or computer error, wishful thinking, fantasizing—
anything
was possible! It was
their
job to confirm or deny, not his. His work was finished; he had delivered the material, it was their function to evaluate it.

Harry reached the door and spoke. “Who is it?”

“A new old friend, Sting,” came the reply from the corridor.

Catbird!
thought Latham, instantly freezing his reaction.
The Catbird no one at the Agency had ever heard of. Harry welcomed this strange intruder; he had been too worn out, too wasted to think clearly last night when the CIA impostor had paid him a visit. “Just a moment,” he said in a louder voice. “I’m dripping wet from a shower, I’ll go put on a robe.” Latham ran first to the bathroom, threw handfuls of water over his hair and face, then dashed into the bedroom, removing his trousers, shoes, socks, and shirt, and grabbed the hotel bathrobe from the closet. He stopped briefly, looking down at the bedside table; he opened the top drawer and pulled out the small automatic supplied by the embassy and shoved it into the terry-cloth pocket. He returned to the door and opened it. “Catbird, if I remember correctly,” he said, admitting the pale, gray-faced man wearing steel-rimmed glasses.

“Oh, that,” remarked the visitor, smiling pleasantly. “It was a harmless ruse.”

“A trick? What do you mean? What for?”

“Washington told me you were probably exhausted, more out of the picture than in it, so I decided to cover myself in case you were hyper and felt the need to make phone calls. D.C. doesn’t want my participation known at this point. Later, of course, but not now.”

“So you’re not Catbird—”

“I knew that if I used the code name Sting, you’d let me in,” the man interrupted. “May I sit down? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Certainly,” replied a bewildered Harry, gesturing aimlessly toward the couch and several chairs. The visitor chose the center of the couch as Latham sat in an armchair directly across, a coffee table between them. “Why doesn’t Washington want your presence—your participation—known?”

“You’re certainly much more alert than you were last evening,” said the stranger, again pleasantly. “Heaven knows you weren’t traumatic, but you definitely weren’t yourself.”

“I was pretty tired—”

“
Tired?
” The visitor raised both his voice and his eyebrows. “My dear fellow, you practically passed out as we
talked. At one point I had to grab your arm to keep you from falling. Don’t you remember, I said I’d come back when you were rested?”

“Yes, I vaguely remember, but please answer my question, and while you’re at it, show me some identification. Why does Washington want you to be a ghost? I’d think the opposite would be the case.”

“Quite simply, because we don’t know who’s really secure and who isn’t.” The man removed first his pocket watch, placing it on the table, and then a black plastic ID case; he kept it closed and handed it across the coffee table to Latham. “I’m timing myself so not to wear you out. Orders again.”

Fingering the small case, Harry had difficulty opening it. “Where’s the clasp?” he asked as his visitor held up the pocket watch and pressed the crown. “I can’t find the—” Latham stopped. His eyes grew unfocused, the pupils dilated; he blinked briefly but repeatedly, then his face sagged, the tense muscles turning flaccid.

“Hello,
Alex
,” said the visitor sharply. “It’s your old sawbones,
Gerhardt
. How are you, my friend?”

“Fine, Dr. Straightface, it’s good to hear from you.”

“Our telephone connection’s better this evening, isn’t it?”

“Telephone? I guess so.”

“Did everything go well today at the embassy?”

“Hell,
no
! Those idiots kept asking questions
they
should find the answers for, not me.”

“Yes, I understand. Men in that other business of yours—the one we never mention—protect themselves at all costs, don’t they?”

“It’s in every question they ask, every word they say. Frankly, it’s deplorable.”

“I’m sure it is. So what are your plans, what have the idiots allowed you to do?”