The Apocalypse Watch (27 page)

Two men emerged from a black sedan parked in the long, curbed entrance to the great facade of monuments. They wore dark business suits and walked toward the rendezvous, each carrying a briefcase ostensibly holding the papers he had “urgently requested” from his “brother’s” desk. They were neos, for that last request, as coded, had not been transmitted by Karin de Vries. It was proof that her telephone was tapped within the embassy.

Drew ambled into the scattered groups of strollers, many Parisians, the majority foreign tourists holding cameras. Erratic flashes popped everywhere. The lapels of Drew’s jacket were turned up, and a black visored cap partially covered his face as he made his way through the crowds, constantly remaining in the company of one group after another until he was within fifty feet of the rendezvous. He studied the two men between the two imposing statues; they were calm, as immobile as the monuments, the immobility only slightly marred by their slowly
turning heads. Latham moved with his current group of tourists, instantly, alarmingly, noting that they were Asian and uniformly much shorter than he. Another small crowd of Westerners was coming from the opposite direction; he joined it, ironically realizing by the language that these sightseers were German. Perhaps it was a favorable omen; then it became practically optimistic. As one, the group closed in on the monument to Napoleon, conqueror of conquerors, and by the stridency of the comments there was a certain unmistakable association.
Sieg Nappy!
thought Drew as he kept his eyes on the two false couriers, now less than ten feet away. It was the moment to do something, but Latham was not sure what it was. Then it came to him.
Les rues de Montparnasse
. Pickpockets! The scourge of the seventh arrondissement.

He chose the thinnest, least imposing woman nearest him and suddenly grabbed her shoulder bag. She screamed, “
Ein Dieb!
” In the semidarkness, Drew threw the purse to an unsuspecting man closest to the first false messenger from the embassy, and pummeled a couple into him, then another man and then another, while shouting unintelligible words in ersatz German. In seconds, a minor riot was taking place in front of Napoleon’s statue, the screams reaching a rapid crescendo as everyone in the crowd tried to locate the thief and his stolen property in the shadows. The first illegitimate courier was caught up in the melee; he awkwardly struggled against the encompassing crowd, when suddenly Latham stood in front of him.

“
Heil Hitler
,” said Drew quietly in counterpoint to the surrounding hysterical voices as he punched the man in the throat with all his strength. As the neo collapsed, Latham dragged him away, pulling him into the darkness behind the row of statues that overlooked the Eiffel Tower, its majestic spires bathed in floodlights.

He had to get the man out of the Trocadéro! Get him out but avoid the second courier and whatever backups there were in the black sedan. He had come prepared to this rendezvous as he had to the others, with equipment willingly provided by the Antinayous. A medical spray of
Arcane that would numb the vocal chords, a wire garrote that served to immobilize wrists, and a cellular phone with an untraceable number. He exercised the first two, taking a moment off to render his awakening captive back into unconsciousness, then pulled out the phone from his inside pocket. He dialed the colonel’s unlisted home number.

“Yes?” came the soft voice over the line.

“Witkowski, it’s me. I’ve got one.”

“Where are you?”

“The Trocadéro, north side, last statue.”

“The situation?”

“I’m not sure. There’s another man, and a car, a black four-door parked above. Who’s in it, I don’t know.”

“Is the place crowded?”

“Half and half.”

“How did you grab your target?”

“Have we got
time
for this?”

“If I’m to operate effectively, we make time. How?”

“A crowd of tourists near the marks. I stole a purse and started a riot.”

“That’s good. We’ll escalate. I’ll call the police and say we believe an American may have been murdered for his money.”

“They were German.”

“That’s hardly relevant. The sirens will be there in a few minutes. Get to the south side and work your way to the street. I’ll be there soon.”

“
Jesus
, Stanley, the guy’s dead weight!”

“You out of shape?”

“Hell, no, but what do I say if I’m stopped?”

“He’s a drunken American. Everyone in Paris loves to hear that. Should I repeat it in French—actually it doesn’t matter, you’ll do better your way—more believable. Get going!”

True to the colonel’s words, ninety seconds later the clamorous
hee-haws
of the Paris police filled the vast complex of the Trocadéro as five patrol cars converged on the entrance. The crowds raced toward the street and the excitement as Latham, his arms supporting a dragging figure,
hurried across the concrete to the south side. Once behind the statuary, he lifted the neo over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and raced up the darkness to the street. The Nazi’s body slumped beside him, Drew knelt waiting for Witkowski’s signal. It came when an embassy car swerved into the curb, its lights flashing on and off twice, the basic signal to evacuate.

Latham and Stanley Witkowski drove the unconscious body of the false courier directly to the colonel’s apartment on the rue Diane. Using the delivery entrance, they took the neo up the freight elevator to Witkowski’s floor and dragged him into the colonel’s suite of rooms.

“This way we’re not official, and that’s
bardzo dobrze
,” said Witkowski as they splayed the figure of the would-be killer on the couch.

“What?”

“It means that’s ‘good.’ Harry would have understood; he spoke Polish.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. You did all right tonight.… Now, we just have to get this cat awake and scare the shit out of him until he talks.”

“How do we do that?”

“Do you smoke?”

“Actually, I’m trying to cut down.”

“I’m not your conscience or someone from your support group. Have you got a
butt
?”

“Well, I carry a few—emergencies, you know.”

“Light one and give it to me.” The colonel began slapping the cheeks of the neo; the killer’s eyes began to blink as Witkowski took the lighted cigarette from Latham. “There’s a bottle of Evian on my bar over there. Bring it to me.”

“Here it is.”

“Hey,
Junge
!” cried Witkowski, pouring the water over the face of their captive, whose eyes sprung wide. “Keep those baby-blues open, fella, because I’m going to burn your eyeballs out, okay?” The colonel placed the burning cigarette a quarter of an inch above the neo’s left eye.

“
Ah-haa!
” screamed the Nazi. “Please,
nein
!”

“Are you telling me you’re not so tough after all? Hell, you burned people, eyes and all, bodies and all. Are you saying you can’t take one eyeball—then, of course, maybe the next?” The lighted cigarette touched the outer jell of the neo’s eye.

“
Ahhyaa-ayahh!
” The colonel slowly pulled the cigarette away. “The sight may come back in that one, but only with proper treatment. Now, if I perform the same operation with your other, it will be different. I’ll burn through the retina and, God knows, even I couldn’t stand the pain, forget about the blindness.” Witkowski moved the cigarette to the right eye, an ash falling into it. “Here we go, Wehrmacht, see how it feels.”

“
Nein—nein!
Ask me what you will, but do not
do
this!”

Moments later, the colonel continued while the neo held an ice pack over his left eye. “Now you know what I’m capable of, Herman, or whatever your name is. Just as you bastards were fifty years ago, when I lost a couple of grandparents in Auschwitz. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll put you back on those pillows and not only burn your eyes out, but cut off your balls. Then I’ll set you free and see how you handle the streets!”

“Cool it, Stosh,” said Latham, gripping Witkowski’s shoulder.

“Don’t you tell me to cool
anything
, youngster! My people hid Jews and they were gassed for it!”

“Okay, okay, but right now we need information.”

“Right … right.” The colonel breathed deeply, then spoke quietly. “I got carried away … you don’t know how I
hate
these bastards.”

“I’ve got a good idea, Stanley. They killed my brother. The interrogation, please.”

“Right. Who are you, where do you come from, and whom do you represent?”

“I am a prisoner of war and I am not required—”

Witkowski struck the neo’s mouth with the back of his free hand, the blow savage, his gold army ring drawing blood. “There’s a war, all right, you scum, but it’s not declared, and you’re not entitled to a damn thing except what I can dream up for you. And let me assure you, it won’t be pleasant.” The colonel looked up at Latham. “There’s an old carbine bayonet of mine on the desk over there, I use it to open envelopes. Be a good lad and bring it to me, will you? We’ll see how it opens throats, that’s really what it was designed for, you know.”

Drew crossed to the desk and returned with the snub-handled blade as Witkowski probed the flesh around the terrified false courier’s neck. “Here you are, Doctor.”

“Funny you should say that,” said the far older G-2 veteran. “I was thinking of my mother only last night; she always wanted me to become a doctor, a surgeon, to be exact. If she said it once, she said it a thousand times. ‘You got big strong hands, Stachu. Be a doctor who operates; they make good money.’ … Let’s see if I can get the hang of it.” The colonel jabbed his finger into the soft flesh just above the German’s breastbone. “This feels like a good place to start,” he continued, lowering the point of the blade. “It’s kind of Jell-O-like, and you know how that spreads so easily when you put the edge of a spoon into it. Hell, it ought to be a cinch with a knife, and believe me, this is a real
knife
. Okay, let’s start the first incision—how do you like that? ‘Incision.’ ”

“
Nein!
” shrieked the struggling neo as a trickle of blood rolled down across his neck. “What do you
want
from me? I know nothing, I do only as I’m ordered!”

“Who gives you the orders?”

“I don’t know! I receive a telephone call—a man, sometimes
a woman—they use my code number and I must obey.”

“That’s not good enough, scumbucket—”

“He’s telling the truth, Stosh,” Latham broke in quickly, stopping Witkowski from cutting further. “The other night, that driver told me the same thing, practically word for word.”

“What were your orders tonight?” pressed the colonel as the Nazi screamed under the increased pressure of the blade. “
Tonight!
” roared Witkowski.

“To kill him,
ja
, to kill the traitor, but to make sure we take the body far away and burn it.”

“
Burn
it?” interrupted Drew.

“
Ja
, and to cut off the head, burning it also, but in another place, far away from the body.”

“ ‘Far away’ …?” Drew stared at the trembling, horror-stricken neo.

“I swear it, that’s all I know!”

“The hell it is!” shouted the colonel, drawing more blood. “I’ve interrogated hundreds like you, slugball, and I
know
. It’s always in your eyes, something you haven’t said, haven’t told us!… A kill’s no big deal, the rest of it’s a little tougher, maybe a lot more dangerous, carrying around a dead body, cutting off a head, and burning everything. That’s even a little weird for you psychopaths. What haven’t you told us?
Talk
, or it’s the last breath of air in your throat!”

“
Nein
, please! He will die shortly, but he cannot die among the enemy! We must reach him first!”

“He’s going to
die
?”

“
Ja
, it cannot be stopped. Three days, four days, that’s all he has, all we know. We were to take him tonight, kill him before morning, far away, where he will not be found.”

Latham walked away from the couch, half in a daze, trying to understand the enigma presented by the Nazi revolutionary. Nothing made sense, except one apparently incontrovertible projection.