The Apocalypse Watch by Robert Ludlum
“He’d better, it’s on the mark.”
“He’s working on it, I convinced him,” said Sorenson. “But your flying solo won’t wash, young man. You do that, you become a rogue-agent no one will trust.”
“My flying solo is restricted because I have a conduit to Langley.”
“Not me. I won’t compromise Consular Operations by going around the Agency. There’s enough turf-sniping in this town as it is, and I admire Knox Talbot, I respect him. I will not be a party to it.”
“I knew you wouldn’t, so I found someone else. Remember Witkowski, Colonel Stanley Witkowski?”
“Certainly. G-Two Berlin. Met him a number of times, a bright man—that’s right, he’s posted at the embassy now.”
“Chief of Security. He’s got all the credentials he needs to satisfy the DCI. Harry worked with Witkowski in Berlin, and he’s the natural conduit because my brother trusted him—hell, he had to, the colonel fed him enough G-Two input to prolong his station and probably his life. Stanley will figure out a way to reach Talbot on a sub-rosa channel and ask him to run an in-depth trace on this Kroeger.”
“It makes sense, Witkowski makes sense. What do you want me to do?”
“Absolutely nothing; we can’t risk any cross-checks that might be picked up by neo moles. However, I’d appreciate your standing by when and if I think I’m in over my head and could use some advice.”
“I’m not sure I’m capable of that. It’s been a long time.”
“I’ll take what you even vaguely remember as gospel, Mr. Director.… Here we go. Harry Latham’s alive and well and going out in search of a doctor—saint or sinner or both. Be in touch.”
The line went dead and Wesley. Sorenson held the phone in his hand, as if in a daze. The younger Latham’s actions were dangerously unorthodox and should be aborted, the Cons-Op director knew that, knew that he should call Knox Talbot and come clean, saying whatever he could say to explain and protect his man, but it wasn’t in him to do it. Drew had been right; how often had Case Officer Sorenson worked outside of sanction because he understood that his decisions would be struck down, yet knew that his course of action was the only one to take. Not only knew it, but passionately believed it. He heard his younger self talking as he listened to Drew Latham’s words. Slowly, he replaced the phone, the chant of a prayer forming silently on his lips.
Jean-Pierre and Giselle Villier stepped out of the limousine at the hotel L’Hermitage in Monte Carlo; they had flown there from Paris by private jet. The reason for the trip, as described by the press, was to give the celebrated actor some rest after six arduous months performing in Coriolanus, culminating in the emotionally draining event that caused him to close the play. This information, however, was all that the media was given, all it would be given, as there would be no further statements and certainly no interviews. And after a few days of pleasant distraction at the Casino de Paris, it was understood that the couple would fly to an undisclosed island in the Mediterranean, perhaps to join his parents.
What the press did not know was that two military Mirage jets flew above and below the private plane from Paris, escorting it to its destination. Further, one of the two uniformed doormen, the assistant manager at the front desk, and assorted minor hotel functionaries were all Deuxième personnel, each cleared by the Bain de Mer, the select organization that ran the affairs of Monte Carlo and was the diplomatic liaison to the royal family of Monaco. In addition, whenever Monsieur and Madame Villier left the hotel for the slow three-block ride to the casino, the bulletproof limousine was flanked by armed men in expensive, well-tailored suits until the luxurious vehicle arrived at the steps of the majestic gambling establishment, where their counterparts took over.
Upon their arrival, the couple was joined in their suite by the chief of the Deuxième Bureau, Claude Moreau.
“As you can see, my friends, everything is covered, including the rooftops, where we have expert marksmen; and below in cars, all windows are constantly under roving telescopes. You have nothing to fear.”
“We are not your ‘friends,’ monsieur,” said Giselle Villier coolly. “And as to these precautions, a single gunshot destroys the facade.”
“Only if a gunshot is permitted, madame, and none will be.”
“What about the casino itself, how can you possibly control the crowds who may recognize me?” asked the actor.
“Actually, they’re part of the protection, but only a peripheral part. We know the games you enjoy, and at each such table we will have men and women who follow you, surround you, and block your bodies with theirs. No assassin, and certainly no Blitzkrieger, will attempt to fire unless his shot is clean. Such killers can’t afford to.”
“Suppose your assassin is someone at a table?” Giselle interrupted. “How can you protect my husband?”
“Another astute question, which I fully expect from you, madame,” replied Moreau, “and I trust my answer will satisfy you. At each table you will observe a man and a woman going around, pausing at each player—curious bystanders trying to decide whether or not to enter the gambling fray. Actually, they will carry in their palms metallic scanners which will pick up the solid steel of even the smallest-caliber weapon.”
“You are thorough,” conceded Giselle.
“We are, I promised you that,” agreed Moreau. “Please remember, I’ll settle for just one Blitzkrieger who tries to assault you. My goal is to take him alive. If it does not happen here, with all the publicity we’ve issued, you’re free to fly out and join your husband’s parents.”
“On that mythical island?”
“No, monsieur, it’s quite real. They’re enjoying a lovely vacation on an estate in Corsica.”
“In a way, then,” said Jean-Pierre, “I hope the hell it does happen here. I never appreciated how lovely it was to be free.”
It did happen, but not in any way Claude Moreau had anticipated.
11
The music from the salon floated in diminishing strains the farther one walked from the marble entrance of the Casino de Paris into the interior of the majestic gaming establishment. It was so easy to imagine the glorious early decades of the century, when magnificently adorned horse-drawn carriages, and then enormous motorcars, drew up to the glistening steps and disgorged royalty and the wealthy of Europe in all their finery. The times had changed, the clientele hardly as rarefied now, but the core of opulence remained, defined by the restored elegance of bygone eras.
Jean-Pierre and Giselle walked between the myriad tables toward the exclusive Baccarat Room, the entrance to which required an initial deposit of fifty thousand francs, said fee instantly waived for the celebrated actor and his wife. As they made their way, heads turned, audible gasps were heard, and not a few cries of “C’est lui!” overrode the general hum as various guests recognized Villier. The actor smiled and continuously nodded his head in appreciation, but with a distant modesty that conveyed a desire for privacy. While he did so, his entourage of finely dressed couples flanked Jean-Pierre and his wife, permitting only glimpses of the couple. Moreau’s theory that no assassin would dare fire a weapon at such an elusive target was being borne out.
Once in the large, restricted room replete with silver stanchions connected by thick red velvet cords around the tables, champagne was ordered. The entourage was filled with ebullient laughter as Jean-Pierre and Giselle sat down, two large stacks of expensive chips placed in front of each, a contrôle unobtrusively slipping a receipt for the actor to sign. The game proceeded, far better for Giselle than for Jean-Pierre, who mocked tragedy with every turn of the boot. Their accompanying “friends” subtly, slowly, silently moved around the table, each with one hand out of sight, in shadow. Moreau again; palm-held metal scanners were at work detecting weapons. Obviously, there were none and the game continued until the actor cried in great good humor. “C’est finis pour moil Un autre table, s’il vous plaît!”
They moved to another table, champagne glasses refilled for everyon
Suddenly, at the table they had left, there was a prolonged scream, a hysterical cry of pain. All heads turned; the room erupted with consternation as the men at Jean-Pierre’s table rose as one, their attention on the man who was collapsing off his chair, breaking down the velvet cord as he plunged to the floor.
Then there came another sound, more than a scream, far louder than a cry. It was the roar of alarm, shouted by a female voice, as a fashionably dressed woman lunged across the table at another woman sitting beside the actor, a killer with an ice pick she was about to plunge into the dark side of Jean-Pierre’s left ribcage, only inches away. The tip drew blood, a complete thrust would have penetrated Villier’s heart, but Moreau’s agent gripped the assassin’s wrist, twisting it counterclockwise. Paralyzing her at the throat, she slammed the would-be killer to the floor.
“Are you all right, monsieur?” yelled the Deuxième agent, looking up at the actor as she lay across the immobile assailant.
“A small puncture, mademoiselle—how can I thank you?”
“Jean-Pierre—”
“Easy, my dearest, I’m all right,” replied the actor, holding his left side and sitting down, “but we owe this courageous woman so much. She saved my life!”
“Are you hurt, young lady?” shouted Giselle, leaning over her husband’s legs and grabbing Moreau’s agent’s arm.
“I’m fine, Madame Villier. Quite a bit better when you call me a young lady. I’m well beyond that.” Breathlessly, she smiled.
“Aren’t we all, my dear.… I must get my husband to a doctor.”
“My associates are taking care of that, madame, believe me.”
Claude Moreau, appearing as if from nowhere, walked into the Baccarat Room, his expression one of both concern and muted exhilaration. “We have done it, monsieur and madame—you have done it! We have our Blitzkrieger.”
“My husband has been wounded, you idiot!” shouted Giselle Villier.
“For which I apologize, madame, but it is not serious, and his contribution has been enormous.”
“You promised he’d be safe!”
“In my business, guarantees are not always absolute. However, if I may say it, he has greatly enhanced the quest of his natural father and performed an act for which the Republic of France is eternally grateful.”
“That’s gratuitous nonsense!”
“No, it isn’t, madame. Whether you accept it or not, the unholy Nazis are coming out of the mud, out of the filth of their own creation. Each rock we can turn over brings us all closer to stamping out the snakes underneath. But your part in this is over. Enjoy your vacation on Corsica. After you see a doctor, our plane is waiting for you in Nice, everything paid for by the Quai d’Orsay.”
“I can do without your money, monsieur,” said Jean-Pierre. “But I should like to reopen Coriolanus.”
“Good heavens, why? You’ve proved your triumph. You certainly do not need the employment, so why go back to such a grueling schedule?”
“Because like you, Moreau, I’m pretty good at what I do.”
“We shall discuss it, monsieur. One night’s success does not mean the battle is over.”
Gray-haired, sixty-three-year-old Senator Lawrence Roote of Colorado hung up the phone in his Washington office, a disturbed man. Disturbed, bewildered, and angry. Why was he the subject of an FBI investigation he knew nothing about? What did it concern and who called for it? Again, why? His assets, admittedly considerable, were in a blind trust by his own choice so as to avoid even a scintilla of legislative compromise; his second marriage was solid, his first wife having been tragically killed in a plane crash; his two sons, one a banker, the other a university dean, were upstanding citizens of their communities, so much so that Roote thought they were at times insufferable; he had served in Korea without incident but with a silver star; and his drinking consisted of two or three martinis before dinner. What was there to investigate?
His conservative views were well known and frequently attacked by the liberal press, which consistently took his words out of context, making him appear like a rabid proselytizer of the far right, which he definitely was not. Among his colleagues on both sides of the aisle, it was common knowledge that he was fair and listened to the opposition without rancor. He simply believed firmly that when government did too much for the people, they did too little for themselves.
Further, his wealth did not come from any inheritance; his family had been dirt poor. Roote had climbed that elusive ladder to success, frequently slipping on the rungs, by holding three jobs through a small, obscure college and the Wharton School of Finance, where several members of the faculty recommended him to corporate recruiters. He chose a young, profitable firm; there was room and time to grow in the executive ranks. However, the smaller company was taken over by a larger corporation, which was in turn absorbed by a conglomerate, whose board of directors recognized Roote’s talents and audacity. By the time he was thirty-five, the sign on the door to his suite of offices read Chief Executive Officer. At forty it proclaimed President and CEO. Before fifty, his mergers, acquisitions, and stock options had made him a multimillionaire. At which point, tired of the limiting pursuit of an ever-increasing profit margin and bothered by the direction the country was taking, he turned to politics.
As he sat at his desk, ruminating over his past, he tried to coldly objectify, searching areas where his actions might call into question his ethics or morality. In the early days, overworked and vulnerable, he had had several affairs, but they were discreet and only with women who were his peers, as eager as he was to maintain the discretion. He was a tough negotiator in business, always using the tools of advantage by researching, even creating what his adversaries wanted, but his integrity had never been doubted.… What in hell was the Bureau doing?
It had begun only minutes ago when his secretary buzzed him. “Yes?”
“A Mr. Roger Brooks from Telluride, Colorado, on the line, sir,” said his secretary.
“Who?”
“A Mr. Brooks. He said he went to high school with you in Cedaredge.”
“My God, Brooksie! I haven’t thought of him in years. I heard he owns a ski resort somewhere.”
“They ski in Telluride, Senator.”
“That was it. Thank you, all-knowing one.”
“Shall I put him through?”
“Sure.… Hello, Roger, how are you?”
“Fine, Larry, it’s been a long time.”
“At least thirty years—”
“Well, not quite,” Brooks contradicted gently. “I headed up your campaign here eight years ago. The last election you didn’t really need one.”
“Christ, I’m sorry! Of course, I remember now. Forgive me.”
“No forgiveness required, Larry, you’re a busy guy.”
“How about you?”
“Built four additional runs since then, so you could say I’m surviving pretty well. And the summer backpackers are growing faster than we can cut new trails. ’Course the ones from the East want to know why we don’t have room service in the woods.”
“That’s good, Rog! I’ll use it the next time I’m debating one of my distinguished colleagues from New York. They want room service for everyone on welfare.”
“Larry,” said Roger Brooks, his tone of voice altered, serious. “The reason I’m calling is probably because we went to school together and I ran that campaign down here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either, but I knew I had to call you in spite of the fact that I swore I wouldn’t. Frankly, I didn’t like the
“Who?”
“Some guy from the FBI. I made him show me his ID and it was for real. I came damn near throwing him the hell out of here, then I figured I’d better learn what his grief was, if only to let you know.”
“What was it, Roger?”
“Nuts, that’s what it was. You know how some of the press paint you, like they did old Barry G. in Arizona? The nuclear freak who’d blow us to hell, the downtrodder of the downtrodden, all that crazy stuff?”
“Yes, I do. He survived it with honor and so will I. What did the Bureau man want?”
“He wanted to know if I’d ever heard you express sympathy for—get this—‘Fascist causes.’ If maybe at one time or another you might have indicated that you thought Nazi Germany had certain justifications for what they did that led to the war.… I tell you, Larry, by then my blood was boiling hot, but I kept cool and just told him that he was way off base. I brought up the fact that you were decorated in Korea, and you know what the bastard said?”
“No, I don’t, Roger. What did he say?”
“He said, and he said it with kind of a smirk: ‘But that was against the Communists, wasn’t it?’ Shit, Larry, he was trying to build a case without a case!”
“The Communists being an anathema to Nazi Germany, is that what you gathered?”
“Hell, yes. And that kid wasn’t old enough to know where Korea is, but he was smooth—Jesus, was he wrapped tight, and spoke like a benevolent angel. All innocence and sweet talk.”
“They’re using their best men,” said Roote softly, staring down at his desk. “How did the conversation end?”
“Oh, upbeat, let me tell you. He made it clear that his confidential information was obviously wrong, very wrong, and the investigation would stop then and there.”
“Which means it’s just begun.” Lawrence Roote picked up a pencil and cracked it with his left hand. “Thanks, Brooksie, thank you more than I can say.”