The Apocalypse Watch (60 page)

“Did we learn anything?” asked Latham.

“Listen for yourselves,” replied Moreau, walking to a console on the left wall. “This tape is from the ambassador’s constantly swept telephone in his private office within the upstairs quarters. We’ve edited it so only the pertinent information is heard. Who cares to listen to innocuous courtesies?”

“Are you sure they’re innocuous?”

“My dear Drew, you may listen to the master tape anytime you care to; it’s digitally marked.”

“Sorry, go ahead.”

“Madame Courtland has just reached the Saddle and Bootery on the Champs-Élysées.” The tape began.

“This next tape is between the store manager and André at Le Parc de Joie,” said Moreau. “In fact, he
is
the Count of Strasbourg.”

“A real count?” asked Latham.

“Since there are so many, let’s say he’s more real than most. It’s a rather ingenious cover and quite authentic. He’s the surviving male of an old distinguished family in Alsace-Lorraine who came upon hard times after the war; the family broke apart, you see.”

“From a count to a carnival owner?” continued Drew. “That’s some drop. What broke up the family?”

“In German the Alsace region is known as Elsass-Lothringen. One side fought for Germany, the other for France.”

“So this Louis, the Count of Strasbourg’s half, went with the Nazis,” said Latham, nodding his head.

“No, not at all,” disagreed Moreau, his eyes alive with surprise. “That’s what makes his cover ingenious. He was only a child, but his ‘half,’ as you put it, fought valiantly for France. Unfortunately, the German contingent squirreled the fortune away into Swiss and North African banks, and left the nobler part nearly penniless.”

“Yet he works for the neos?” interrupted Karin. “He
is
a Nazi.”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t get it,” said Drew. “Why would he do it?”

“He was reached,” answered De Vries, looking at Moreau. “He was corrupted by the side of the family that had the money.”

“To run a fifth-rate and pretty damned
filthy
amusement park?”

“With promises of a great deal more,” added the Deuxième’s chief. “He is one man at Le Parc de Joie, very much another in the salons of Paris.”

“I’d think he’d be laughed at,” said Latham, “not allowed anywhere near those salons.”

“Because he runs a ‘carnival’?”

“Well, yes.”

“Quite wrong,
mon ami
. We French admire practicality, especially the humbling practicality of the dethroned rich, who find ways of rebuilding their resources. You do the same in America, and you’re even more blatant about it. A multimillionaire entrepreneur loses his companies, or his hotels, or his various enterprises, loses everything. Then he regains his fortunes, and you make him a hero. We’re not so different, Drew. The overlord becomes the vilified underdog, then with a burst of energy reclaims his throne. We applaud him, regardless of the moralities involved. As to what the count hopes to gain from the Nazis, who really knows?”

“Let’s hear the tape.”

“You may, of course, but it merely confirms Strasbourg’s orders to have Madame Courtland at the Louvre at one o’clock this afternoon.”

*   *   *

Washington, D.C. It was shortly past five o’clock in the morning, but Wesley Sorenson could not sleep. Slowly, quietly, he got out of the twin bed next to his wife’s, and walked softly across the master bedroom toward his dressing room.

“What are you doing, Wes?” said his wife sleepily. “You went to the bathroom barely a half hour ago.”

“You heard me?”

“Only most of the night. What is it? Have you got a medical problem you haven’t told me about?”

“It’s not medical.”

“Then I mustn’t ask, must I?”

“Something’s wrong, Kate, something I’m not seeing.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Why? It’s the story of my life, looking for the missing pieces.”

“Are you going to look for them in the dark, my dear?”

“It’s late morning in Paris, not dark at all. Go back to sleep.”

“I shall. It’ll be quieter.”

Sorenson plunged his face into a sink of cold water—practices of the field returning—put on his bathrobe, and walked downstairs to the kitchen. He pressed the button on the automatic coffeemaker, programmed by their housekeeper after the previous night’s dinner, waited until nearly a cup was filled, poured it, and trudged into his study beyond the living room. He sat down at his eight-foot-long desk, sipped coffee, and opened a lower drawer for a pack of his “absolutely forbidden” cigarettes—practices of the field returning. Gratefully inhaling the pacifying smoke, he picked up the phone on his elaborate console, checked for intercepts, and dialed Moreau’s private line in Paris.

“It’s Wes, Claude,” said Sorenson after hearing the brief, curt “
Oui?
” over the phone.

“It’s my morning for Americans, Wesley. Your cantankerous Drew Latham just left with the lovely, if enigmatic, Karin de Vries.”

“Where’s the enigma?”

“I’m not sure yet, but when I learn, so will you. However, we’re making progress. Your incredible discovery, Janine Clunitz, is leading us right along. Our Sonnenkind is behaving predictably within her sphere of unpredictability.” Moreau described the events of the morning in Paris as they pertained to the ambassador’s wife. “She’s to meet with Strasbourg at the Louvre early this afternoon. We’ll have them covered, naturally.”

“The Alsace Strasbourgs are a hell of a story, if I remember correctly.”

“You do, and the count takes it several steps further.”

“Elsass-Lothringen?” asked the director of Cons-Op.

“No, those are the additional steps, but we’ll climb them later, my friend. The ambassador, his schedule remains, no?”

“His schedule remains, yes, and we’re lucky if he doesn’t fall apart and strangle the bitch.”

“We’re prepared for him here, I assure you.… Now, what about you,
mon ami
? What is happening on your side of the Pond?”

“Only the most unholy mess you can imagine. You know those two Nazi killers—what are they called?”

“I presume you’re talking about the two Witkowski sent to Andrews Air Force Base.”

“They’re the ones. They spewed out garbage that could bring down the administration if it was released publicly.”

“What are you
saying
?”

“
They
say they have direct and specific evidence linking the Vice President and the Speaker of the House to the neo-Nazi movement in Germany.”

“That’s utterly preposterous! Where is this so-called evidence?”

“The inference was that they could pick up a phone, call Berlin, and the documentation would be forwarded immediately, presumably by fax.”

“It’s a bluff, Wesley, surely you know that.”

“Certainly, but a bluff that could include false documents. The Vice President is furious. He wants a full Senate hearing and has gone so far as to line up a slew of
enraged senators and congressmen of both parties to refute the allegations.”

“That might be an imprudent course of action,” said Moreau, “considering the climate over there, the witch-hunts.”

“That’s what I have to make clear to him. All I can think of is what impact even the phoniest of ‘official evidence’ would have on our frenzy-feeding media. Government letterheads, especially intelligence letterheads, and most especially
German
intelligence letterheads, can be copied in seconds. Good God, can you imagine, they’d be flashed across television screens all over the country?”

“The accused are condemned before they’ve been heard,” agreed the chief of the Deuxième Bureau. “Wait a minute, Wesley—” Moreau interrupted himself. “For such events to take place, the two assassins would need the cooperation of the neo-Nazi hierarchy, not so?”

“Yes. So?”

“
Impossible!
The Paris unit of the Blitzkrieger is in disgrace! They’re considered traitors and would receive no assistance from the hierarchy whatsoever because they’re too dangerous to the Nazi movement. They’re cut off, abandoned.… Who else over there knows about your two prisoners?”

“Well, we’re damned shorthanded here, so I used the marines and a couple of Knox Talbot’s men to pick them up at Andrews. Also a CIA safe house in Virginia to keep them underwraps.”

“A CIA safe house? The
penetrated
CIA?”

“I didn’t have much choice, Claude. We don’t own any.”

“I understand that. Still, those two men are major liabilities for the neos.”

“So you’ve said.
And?
”

“Check on those prisoners, Wesley, but give no advance notice that you’re doing so.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. Call it the instincts we both developed in Istanbul.”

“On my way,” said Sorenson, disconnecting the line to
Paris and touching the speed-dial numbers for Cons-Op transportation. “I need a car at my residence in half an hour.”

Thirty-six minutes later, shaven and dressed, the director of Consular Operations instructed his driver to take him to the safe house in Virginia. Immediately upon receiving the order, the driver picked up the interceptor-proof UHF radio phone to give the destination to the CIA dispatcher.

“Don’t bother with that,” said Sorenson from the backseat. “It’s too early for a reception committee.”

“But it’s standard procedure, sir.”

“Have a heart, young fella, the sun’s barely up.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver replaced the radio phone in its cradle, his expression conveying his judgment that the old man was a pretty nice guy for a bigshot. A half hour later they reached the winding country road cut out of the woods that led to the concrete gatehouse flanked by an electrified hurricane fence. The gate remained closed as a voice came from a speaker built into the concrete below a thick, tinted bulletproof window outside the limousine’s left rear door.

“Please identify yourself and state your business.”

“Wesley Sorenson, director of Consular Operations,” answered the head of Cons-Op, lowering the car’s window, “and my business is max-classified.”

“I recognize you, sir,” said the blurred figure beyond the dark glass, “but you’re not on the morning’s roster.”

“If you’ll check the Permanent Entries log, you’ll find my name.”

“One moment, sir.… Driver, release the vehicle’s trunk.” There was an internal snap, followed by the glare of a roving searchlight at the rear of the limousine. “Sorry, Mr. Director,” continued the disembodied voice, “I should have checked, but the Permanents usually come later in the day.”

“No need to apologize,” said Sorenson. “I probably should have called the DCI, but it’s a little early for him too.”

“Yes, sir.… Driver, you may leave the vehicle and
close the trunk now.” The driver did so, returned to his seat behind the wheel, and the heavy steel gate opened. A quarter of a mile beyond, they entered the circular drive that fronted the marble steps of the former Argentinean ambassador’s estate. The limousine came to a stop as the large entrance door swung back and a heavyset, middle-aged army major emerged in the early morning light, the shoulder patch on his beribboned uniform proclaiming a Ranger battalion. He walked rapidly down the steps and opened the door for Sorenson.

“Major James Duncan, Officer of the Watch, Mr. Director,” he announced pleasantly. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Major,” said the chief of Cons-Op, climbing out of the backseat. “Sorry I didn’t make it a point to call and tell you I’d be arriving so early.”

“We’re used to it, Mr. Sorenson.”

“The front gate wasn’t.”

“I don’t know why not. They had a bigger surprise at three o’clock this morning.”

“Oh?” The veteran intelligence officer’s antenna picked up a negative signal. “An unannounced visitor?” he asked as they walked up the steps to the open door.

“No, not really. His name was added to the Perm-Ent log around midnight. That list is pretty long and he didn’t like the delay; the deep-c Agency types can be touchy. Hell, I suppose I would be, too, if I worked all day and was called out here during a night’s sleep. I mean, this isn’t exactly ’Nam with an impending firefight.”

“No, but there are always emergencies, aren’t there?” observed Sorenson, knowing better than to probe further.

“Not many at that hour, sir,” said Major Duncan, leading the Cons-Op director to the security counter, behind which sat a tired-looking female officer. “How may we assist you, sir? If you’ll give the information to Lieutenant Russell, she’ll call for an escort.”

“I wish to see the two prisoners housed in E Section, Isolated.” The lieutenant and the major looked at each other, as if startled. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, Director Sorenson,” replied Lieutenant Russell,
her dark-circled eyes roaming over the keys of a computer as she typed. “Merely coincidence, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s who Deputy Director Connally had to meet with at three o’clock this morning,” answered Major James Duncan.

“Did he say why?”

“Pretty much the same words you used at the gate, sir. The conference was so maximum-classified that our own guard had to remain outside Section E after opening the cell.”

The signal was complete. “Major, take me there at once.
No
one had clearance to interrogate those men but me!”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted the lieutenant. “Deputy Director Connally had full clearance. It was spelled out in an inter-Agency order signed by Director Talbot.”