The Apocalypse Watch (6 page)

“Use the red telephone in the cage.” Durbane turned and gestured toward a built-in glass cubicle fronting the fourth wall, the glass rising to the ceiling. The “cage,” as it was called, was a soundproof, secure area where confidential conversations could be held without being overheard. The embassy personnel were grateful for it; what they did not hear could not be extracted from them. “You’ll know when you’re on scrambler,” added the specialist.

“I would hope so,” said Drew, referring to the discordant beeps that preceded a harsh hum over the line, the signal that the scrambler was in operation. He rose from the chair, walked to the thick glass door of the cage, and let himself in. There was a large Formica table in the center
with the red telephone, pads, pencils, and an ashtray on top. In the corner of this unique enclosure was a paper shredder whose contents were burned every eight hours, more often if necessary. Latham sat down in the desk chair, positioned so his back was to the personnel operating the consoles; maximum security included the fear of lip-reading, which was laughed at until a Soviet mole was discovered in the embassy’s communications during the height of the Cold War. Drew picked up the phone and waited; eighty-two seconds later the beep-and-hum litany was played, then came the voice of Wesley T. Sorenson, director of Consular Operations.

“Where the devil have you been?” asked Sorenson.

“After you cleared my contacting Henri Bressard with our promise of disclosure, I went to the theater, then called Bressard. He took me to the Villier house on Parc Monceau. I just got here.”

“Then your projections were
right
?”

“As right as simple arithmetic.”

“Good Lord …! The old man really was Villier’s father?”

“Confirmed by Villier himself, who learned it from—as he put it—the only parents he’d ever known.”

“Considering the circumstances, what a hell of a shock!”

“That’s what we have to talk about, Wes. The shock produced a mountain of guilt in our famous actor. He’s determined to use his skills and go underground to see if he can make contact with Jodelle’s friends, try to learn if the old man told anyone where he was going during the past few days, who it was he wanted to find, and what he intended to do.”

“
Your
scenario,” interrupted Sorenson. “Your scenario, if your projections proved accurate.”

“It had to be—if I was right. But that scenario called for using our own assets, not Villier himself.”

“And you were right. Congratulations.”

“I had help, Wes, namely the former ambassador’s wife.”

“But you found her, no one else did.”

“I don’t think anyone else has a brother in a tight, no-answer situation.”

“I understand. So what’s your problem?”

“Villier’s determination. I tried to talk him out of it, but I couldn’t, I can’t, and I don’t think anyone can.”

“Why should you? Perhaps he can learn something. Why interfere?”

“Because whoever triggered Jodelle’s suicide must have faced him down. Somehow they convinced him that he’d lost the whole ball of wax, he was finished. There was nothing left for the old man.”

“Psychologically that makes sense. His obsession had nowhere to go but to destroy him. So?”

“Whoever they are will certainly follow up on his suicide. As I told Bressard, they can’t afford not to. If someone, no matter who it is, shows up asking questions about Jodelle—well, if his enemies are who I think they are, that someone hasn’t got much of a future.”

“Did you tell this to Villier?”

“Not in so many words, but I made it clear that what he wanted to do was extremely dangerous. In essence, he told me to go to hell. He said he owed Jodelle every bit as much, if not more, than I owe Harry. I’m supposed to go to his place tomorrow at noon. He says he’ll be ready.”

“Spell it out for him then,” ordered Sorenson. “If he still insists, let him go.”

“Do we want his potentially shortened future on our slate?”

“Tough decisions are called tough because they’re not easy. You want to find Harry, and I want to find a rotten cancer that’s growing in Germany.”

“I’d like to find both,” said Latham.

“Of course. I would too. So if your actor wants to perform, don’t stop him.”

“I want him covered.”

“You should, a dead actor can’t tell us what he’s learned. Work it out with the Deuxième, they’re very good at that sort of thing. In an hour or so I’ll call Claude Moreau. He’s head of the Bureau and will be in his office by then. We worked together in Istanbul; he was the best
field agent French intelligence ever had, world class, to be exact. He’ll give you what you need.”

“Should I tell Villier?”

“I’m one of the old boys, Latham, maybe that’s good and maybe that’s bad, but I believe that if you’re going to mount an operation, you go the whole nine yards. Villier should also be wired; it’s an added risk, of course, and you should spell out everything to him. Let him make a clean decision.”

“I’m glad we’re in sync. Thank you for that.”

“I came in from the cold, Drew, but I was once where you are now. It’s a lousy chess game, specifically when the pawns can get killed. Their blips never leave you, take my word for it. They’re fodder for nightmares.”

“Everything everybody says about you is true, isn’t it? Including your predilection for having us in the field call you by your first name.”

“Most of what they say I did is totally exaggerated,” said the director of Consular Operations, “but when I was out there, if I could have called my boss Bill or George or Stanford or just plain Casey, I think I might have been a hell of a lot more candid. That’s what I want from you people. ‘Mr. Director’ is an impediment.”

“You’re so right.”

“I know. So do what you have to do.”

Latham walked out of the embassy on avenue Gabriel to the waiting armor-plated diplomatic car that would take him to his flat on the rue du Bac. It was a Citroën sedan, the rear seats far too shallow, so he chose to sit in the front next to the marine driver. “You know the address?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. Surely I do, certainly.”

An exhausted Drew looked briefly at the man; the accent was unmistakably American, but the juxtaposition of words was odd. Or was it simply that he was so tired that his hearing was playing tricks on him. He closed his eyes, for how long he did not know, grateful for the nothingness, the blank void that filled his inner screen. For at least several minutes his anxiety was put on hold. He needed
the respite, he welcomed it. Then suddenly he was aware of motion, the jostling of his body in the seat. He opened his eyes; the driver was speeding across a bridge as though he were in a Le Mans race. Latham spoke. “Hey, guy, I’m not rushing to a late date. Cool it on the accelerator, pal.”

“
Tut mir
—sorry, sir.”

“
What?
” They sped off the bridge and the marine swung the car into a dark, unfamiliar street. Then it was clear; they were nowhere near the rue du Bac. Drew shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

“It is a shortened cut, sir.”

“Bullshit! Stop this fucking car!”

“
Nein!
” yelled the man in the marine uniform. “You go where I take you, buddy!” The driver yanked an automatic from his tunic and pointed it at Latham’s chest. “You give me no orders, I give
you
orders!”

“Christ, you’re one of them. You son of a bitch, you’re
one
of them!”

“You will meet others, and then you will be gone!”

“It’s all true, isn’t it? You’re all over Paris—”

“
Und England, und die Vereinigten Staaten, und Europa!… Sieg Heil!”

“Sieg up your ass,” said Drew quietly, leveling his left hand in the rushing shadows beneath the weapon, his left foot inching across the Citroën’s floorboard. “How about a big surprise, blitzkrieg style?” With those words Latham jammed his left foot against the brake pedal while simultaneously smashing his left hand up into the elbow of his would-be captor’s right arm. The gun spun in the neo-Nazi’s hand; Drew grabbed it and fired into the driver’s right kneecap as they crashed into the corner of a building.

“You
lose
!” said Latham breathlessly, opening the door and grabbing the man by his tunic. Stepping outside, he yanked him across the seat, throwing him to the pavement. They were in one of the industrial sections of Paris, two- and three-story factories, deserted for the night. Beyond the dim street lamps, the only brightness came from the damaged Citroën’s headlights. It was enough.

“You’re going to talk to me,
buddy
,” he said to the
false marine curled up on the sidewalk, moaning and clutching his wounded leg, “or the next bullet goes right through those two hands around your knee. Shattered hands never fully recover. It’s a hell of a way to live.”

“
Nein! Nein!
Do not shoot!”

“Why not? You were going to kill me, you told me so. I’d ‘be gone,’ I distinctly remember. I’m much kinder. I won’t kill you, I’ll just make your staying alive a mess. After your hands, your feet will be next.… Who
are
you and how did you get that uniform, that car? Tell me!”

“We have uniforms … 
amerikanische, französische, englische
.”

“The car, the embassy car. Where’s the man whose place you took?”

“He was told not to come—”

“By whom?”

“I do not know! The car was brought to the front. The
Schlüssel
—the key, I mean—was in it. I was ordered to drive you.”

“Who ordered you?”

“My superiors.”

“The people you were taking me to?”

“
Ja
.”

“Who are they? Give me some names. Now.”

“I do not know any names! We are reached by codes, by numbers and letters.”

“What’s your name?” Drew crouched by the impostor, the barrel of the gun jammed against the nearest hand around the bleeding kneecap.

“Erich Hauer, I swear it!”

“Your code name, Erich. Or forget about your hands and feet.”

“C-
Zwölf
—twelve.”

“You speak much better English when you’re not scared shitless, Erich-buddy.… Where were you taking me?”

“Five, six avenues from here. I would know by the
Scheinwerfer
—”

“The what?”

“Headlights. From a narrow street on the left.”

“Stay right where you are, Little Adolf,” said Latham, rising and sidestepping to the car door, his weapon on the German. Awkwardly, he backed down into the front seat, his left hand thrusting below the dashboard until he found the car phone with a direct line to the embassy. As the transmitting mechanism was in the trunk, the odds were favorable that it would be operational. It was. Glancing quickly, Drew pressed the zero button four times in rapid succession. The signal for emergency.

“American Embassy,” came Durbane’s voice over the speaker. “Your status is Zero Four. On tape, go ahead!”

“Bobby, it’s Latham—”

“I know that, I’ve got you on the grids. Why the big Four 0?”

“We were sandbagged. I was on my way to a fast execution, courtesy of our Nazi nightmare. The marine driver was a phony; somebody in the transport pool set me up. Check that whole unit out!”

“
Christ
, are you all right?”

“Just a tad shaken; we had an accident and the skinhead didn’t fare too well.”

“Well, I’ve got you on the grids. I’ll send a patrol out—”

“You know exactly where we are?”

“Of course.”

“Send two patrols, Bobby, one armed for assault.”

“Are you crazy? This is Paris; it’s French!”

“I’ll cover us. This is an order from Cons-Op.… Five or six blocks south, on the left, there’s a car parked on a side street, its headlights on. We’ve got to take that car, take the people in it!”

“Who are they?”

“Among other things, my executioners.… There’s no time, Bobby. Do it!” Latham slammed the telephone back into its receptacle and lurched out of the car to Erich Hauer, who could lead them to a hundred others in Paris and beyond, whether he knew it or not. The chemicals would open the doors of his mind; it was vital. Drew grabbed his legs as the man screamed in pain.

“
Please
 …!”

“Shut up, pighead. You’re mine, you got that? Start talking, it’ll be easier on you later.”

“I do not know anything. I am only C-Zwölf, what more can I say?”

“That’s not good enough! I have a brother who went after you bastards; it was the last leg of a rotten trip. So you’re going to give me more, a lot more, before I’m finished with you. Take my word for it, Erich-buddy, you really don’t want to deal with me.”

Suddenly, out of the deserted dark street, a black sedan came screeching around the corner. It slowed down rapidly, briefly, as the gunfire erupted, a deadly fusillade, slaughter for everything in its path. Latham tried to pull the Nazi behind the shell of the armor-plated diplomatic car; he could not do it and save himself. As the sedan raced away, he looked over at his prisoner. Erich Hauer, his body riddled, blood covering his face, was dead. The one man who could supply at least a few answers was gone. Where was somebody else, and how long would it take to find him?

T
he night was over, the early light creasing the eastern sky as an exhausted Latham took the small brass elevator to his flat on the fifth floor in the rue du Bac. Normally he would have used the stairs, figuring it was physically good for something or other, but not now; he could barely keep his eyes open. The hours between shortly past two and five-thirty had been filled with diplomatic necessities as well as providing Drew with the opportunity of meeting the head of the powerful and secretive Deuxième Bureau, one Claude Moreau. He had called back Sorenson in Washington, asking
him
to reach the French intelligence officer at that hour and persuade him to go immediately to the American Embassy. Moreau was a middle-aged, medium-size balding man who filled out his suit as though he lifted weights for a good part of every day. He had an insouciant Gallic humor that somehow kept things in perspective when they were in danger of getting out of control. The potential loss of control first came about with the unexpected appearance of a furious and frightened Henri Bressard, First Secretary of Foreign Affairs for the Republic of France.