The Apocalypse Watch (75 page)

“Hi, Mr. W,” the man had said. “You want a cabin?”

“Not today, Hank, I’m meeting someone. I don’t see him—”

“Nobody’s asked for you. Maybe he’s late.”

“No, he’s here; his car’s outside.”

“He’s probably in the can. Take a booth, and when he comes out, I’ll send him over.”

“Thanks, and make me a double of the usual. I’m celebrating.”

“Coming right up.”

Withers sat in the high-backed booth at the rear of the bar. His outsize martini arrived and he sipped it, tempted to go to the front window and look again at the Aston-Martin automobile. It was the real thing! He couldn’t wait to tool around the roads in it, couldn’t wait to show it off to Anita Griswald—especially couldn’t wait for his daughter Kimberly to see it! It was a hell of a lot more exciting than anything his former snotty in-laws or his bitch ex-wife
could chauffeur her around in! His enjoyable reverie was cut short by a heavyset man in a checkered shirt who suddenly appeared and slid into the booth opposite him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Withers. I’m sure you saw the DB-Four. Nice set of wheels, aren’t they?”

“Who the hell are you? You’re not Sidney, you’re twice his size.”

“Sidney was unavailable, so I’m taking his place.”

“We’ve never met. How did you know it was me?”

“A photograph.”

“A
what
?”

“It’s trivial.”

“I’ve been here at least five minutes. Why did you wait?”

“Just checking,” said the intruder, continually glancing at the front door.

“Checking what?”

“It’s nothing really. To be honest with you, I’m a bearer of great news and considerable riches.”

“Oh?”

“In my pocket are four untraceable bearer bonds, each in the amount of fifty thousand dollars, for a total of two hundred thousand. Along with these is an invitation to visit Germany, all expenses paid, of course. We understand that you haven’t taken your summer holiday; perhaps now you can schedule it.”

“My God, I’m
speechless
! This is
great
. Then my contribution
was
appreciated, I knew it would be! I took a hell of a risk, you all know that, don’t you?”

“The proof is in the fact that I’m here, isn’t it?”

“I can’t wait to get to Berlin, because you’re right,
we’re
right! This country’s going to hell in a handbasket. Talk about ethnic cleansing, we’ll need fifty
years
of it—”

“Hold it!” whispered the stranger harshly, his eyes again on the door. “The fellow who came in after you, the one in the white shirt.”

“I didn’t notice. What about him?”

“He had a couple of swallows of beer, paid with a deuce, and just left.”

“So?”

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” The man slid out of the booth, walked rapidly around the bar to the far end of the filthy front window, and peered outside. Instantly, he moved away from the glass and returned to the booth, his expression grim, his eyes narrowed. “You stupid fool, you were followed!” he said, sitting down.

“What are you
talking
about?”

“You heard me, you idiot! There are three men out there talking to the white shirt, and believe me, they’re not patrons of this dump. They’ve got federal government written all over their faces.”

“
Jesus!
A deputy director named Kearns called me last night asking dumb questions, but I set him straight.”

“Kearns of the CIA?”

“That’s where I work, remember?”

“All too well.” The stranger leaned forward over the table, his left hand on it, his right underneath. “You’re a liability to those who expect me to do my job, Mr. Withers.”

“Just give me the money and I’ll get out of here through the back door, where they make deliveries.”

“What will you do then?”

“Wait in an empty cabin until they leave, bribe one of the hookers to swear she was with me if it’s necessary, and head home. It’s clean, I’ve done it before. Call me later about the Aston-Martin. Come
on
!”

“I don’t think so.” There was a burst of raucous laughter from the bar, accompanied by four muted spits under the table. Bruce Withers lurched back in the seat, his upper body pinned to the banquette, his eyes wide as blood trickled down the corner of his mouth. The stranger in the checkered shirt sidled out of the booth and walked calmly toward the rear delivery entrance while slipping the silenced pistol under his belt. He opened the door and Mario Marchetti’s henchman disappeared. The Don of Pontchartrain was living up to his concordat.

Nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds passed until the shouts, joined by female screams, erupted from inside the motel bar. An overly made-up woman raced out the door
screeching. “For Christ’s sake, somebody call the
police
! A guy was shot to death in there!”

The agents of the CIA, accompanied by their director and Wesley Sorenson, ran inside. Everyone in the bar was ordered to remain where they were and not try to make any phone calls. A frustrated, dejected Knox Talbot, Sorenson at his side, came out into the diminishing sunlight. The Aston-Martin, DB-Four, was gone.

Drew Latham, laughing quietly at the last paragraph, put Moreau’s report down on the antique table-desk and looked over at Witkowski and Karin, who were sitting on the couch. “Is there any contingency that son of a bitch hasn’t thought of?” he asked.

“It’s pretty complete,” replied the colonel.

“I wouldn’t know,” said De Vries. “I haven’t read it.”

“Read it now and weep.” Drew got up and brought the report to Karin, then sat in one of the brocaded armchairs across from both of them. De Vries began reading as Latham continued. “I’ll be damned if I know where to begin,” he said. “That bastard’s really covered, right down to the men’s room.”

“It looks rough on paper, but up close we might spot gaps.”

“We damn well better. According to this, it’d be a lot easier to take him out than to take him.”

“It always is.”

“Diversion,” said De Vries, looking up from Moreau’s report. “It’s the only thing I can think of. Divert the attention of the guards somehow.”

“That’s axiomatic,” said Witkowski. “Going further, immobilize a couple and run an assault. The question is how, and how disciplined are his gunslingers.”

“As you say, Stosh, we won’t know until we get there.”

“Speaking of which, the two men from NATO are downstairs in my office. They arrived on the three o’clock flight from Brussels, with new passports and papers that say they’re salesmen for an aircraft company.”

“Good cover,” said Latham. “Those salesmen are all over Europe.”

“We had to go around some dicey corners to clear everything. It took all morning and part of the afternoon to complete their ‘authenticity.’ They’re actually on the company’s payroll.”

“Was all that necessary?” asked Karin.

“Indeed it was, young lady. Any references to their real names would reveal the service records of two Special Forces commandos who operated behind the lines in Desert Storm. Each is as handy with a knife as he is with his hands, say nothing of garrotes and marksmanship.”

“You’re saying they’re killers.”

“Only when necessary, Karin. Frankly, they’re two nice kids, kind of shy actually, who’ve been trained to react properly in given situations.”

“That’s a euphemism for they’ll beat your head against a rock if you’re a bad guy,” explained Latham. “You’re satisfied with them, Stosh?”

“Very definitely.”

“And they both speak fluent French and German?” added De Vries.

“Absolutely. The first is a Captain Christian Dietz, thirty-two, graduate of Denison University, and a career army officer. Parents and grandparents were German, the latter part of the German underground during the Third Reich. His father and mother were sent to the U.S. as children.”

“The other?” said Drew.

“A lieutenant named Anthony, Gerald Anthony. He’s a little more interesting,” said the colonel. “He has dual master’s degrees in French and German literature, was going for his Ph.D. while teaching at a small college in Pennsylvania, when he decided, in his own words, that he couldn’t take campus politics. I thought I’d ask them up here,” continued Witkowski. “We’d sort of get to know each other quietly, informally.”

“That’s a good idea, Stanley,” said Karin. “I’ll have the kitchen prepare some hors d’oeuvres and coffee, perhaps drinks.”

“No,” countered Drew. “No hors d’oeuvres, no coffee, and definitely no drinks. This is a cold paramilitary operation, let’s keep it that way.”

“Isn’t that a bit
too
cold?”

“He’s right, young lady, although I never thought I’d hear him say it. I was wrong, the time for that kind of informality comes later. After you see the slack, or lack of it, in their ropes.”

De Vries looked at him questioningly.

“They’re still being evaluated,” explained Latham. “Interviewed for the job—how do they behave, what have they got to offer? Two Special Forces officers who’ve operated behind enemy lines in any war should have input.”

“I wasn’t aware that we had such a pool of candidates.”

“We don’t, but they don’t know that. Call for them to come up, Stanley.”

Captain Christian Dietz, except for his relatively short stature, could have walked out of a poster for the Hitler Youth. Blond, blue-eyed, and with a body to be envied by an Olympic champion, he carried himself like the experienced commando he was. Lieutenant Gerald Anthony, on the other hand, was equally muscular but much taller and dark-haired, a reed-thin man who evoked the image of an upright bullwhip, ready to coil and lash out lethally at any given instant. Contradictorily, both their faces were utterly devoid of malice, their eyes without a trace of hostility.
And to complete the incongruity, they were, as Witkowski had mentioned, basically shy men, hesitant to expound on their past activities or their citations.

“We were at the right place at the right time,” said Dietz without comment.

“Our intelligence was excellent,” added Anthony. “Without it, we’d have been roasted over an Iraqi fire, that is, if they’d ever learned how to make one in the sand.”

“You worked together, then?” asked Drew.

“Our radio code was Alpha-Delta.”

“Delta-Alpha,” Dietz corrected Gerald Anthony.

“Both were used,” said Anthony, grinning at his friend.

“Okay,” agreed the captain, smiling modestly.

“You’ve read the Traupman report,” Latham went on. “Any suggestions?”

“A restaurant,” said Lieutenant Anthony.

“The river,” said Captain Dietz simultaneously. “I say we wait in Nuremberg and follow him to Bonn, using the river.”

“Why a restaurant?” asked Karin, addressing Anthony.

“It’s easy to create a diversion—”

“I said that,” interrupted De Vries.

“… by starting a fire,” continued the lieutenant, “or by spotting the bodyguards and immobilizing them by force or with instant sedatives in their water or food. Frankly, I think a fire is more effective. All those flambé dishes; it’s so simple to switch sauces and the whole place is filled with flames that are short-lived but distract everyone while we take the subject.”

“And the river?” interjected Witkowski.

“You can cork the gas jets on the gunwales—we’ve done it before. Saddam Hussein’s patrols all had them. Then you blow out the cameras with high-powered pellets, as if the electrical systems had malfunctioned. The key is doing it by scuba, out of camera range, and before the boat gets near shore. You climb on board and get out of the area.”

“Let’s go back,” said Latham. “Lieutenant, why do you
think a restaurant in Nuremberg is more efficient than the river in Bonn?”

“Saves time, to begin with, and there’s too much room for error on the water, sir. Visibility is poor, gas jets could be missed, as well as the transmitting cameras—even one. The emergency helicopter has powerful searchlights and the motorboat is easily identifiable. As I understand it, the enemy would prefer that the subject be killed by strafing or bombing than be taken alive.”