The Tristan Betrayal

by Robert Ludlum

  THE JANSON DIRECTIVE

  “Ludlum’s best since his masterpiece The Bourne Identity.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “One heck of a thriller…loaded with all the intrigue, paranoia, and real-life parallels that made Ludlum famous.”

  —People

  “Finely crafted…the plot packs more twists than a Rold Gold factory.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Vintage Ludlum—big, brawny and loaded with surprises. Extremely engaging and agonizingly suspenseful, Ludlum’s plot bolts from scene to scene and locale to locale, never settling for one bombshell when it can drop four or five.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE SIGMA PROTOCOL

  “Finely crafted…the novel’s action scenes are as thrillingly staged on the page as they’ll inevitably be on the big screen.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Perfectly executed…packed with all the classic Ludlum elements…thunders forward at breakneck pace.”

  —People

  “[A] triumph…Harkens back to the roller-coaster ride/thrill-a-minute Bourne Identity.”

  —The Midwest Book Review

  “Ludlum at his best.”

  —Sullivan County Democrat

  “Vintage Ludlum.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “Dazzling…a clean launch of the ’80s spy novel into a thrilling action/adventure web of intrigue meant for the 21st century.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An accomplished novel…classic Ludlum…moves at breakneck speed…with well-developed players and a fascinating stage, Ludlum has risen to some of his finest work in this clever and enjoyable novel.”

  —Chattanooga Times Free Press

  “Better than anything [Ludlum’s] done in nearly 20 years…here is vintage Ludlum…the plot is rich with new insight.”

  —Gannett Newspaper

  “Ludlum keeps things moving with plenty of gunplay and running about…quite good.”

  —Booklist

  CRITICAL PRAISE FOR ROBERT LUDLUM

  “Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined.”

  —The New York Times

  “Reading a Ludlum novel is like watching a James Bond film…slickly paced…all-consuming.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Ludlum is light-years beyond his literary competition in piling plot twist upon plot twist, until the mesmerized reader is held captive…he dominates the field in strong, tightly plotted, action-drenched thrillers…[he] pulls out all the stops, and dazzles his readers.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Don’t ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  Also by Robert Ludlum™

  The Janson Directive

  The Sigma Protocol

  The Prometheus Deception

  The Matarese Countdown

  The Apocalypse Watch

  The Road to Omaha

  The Scorpio Illusion

  The Bourne Ultimatum

  The Icarus Agenda

  The Bourne Supremacy

  The Aquitaine Progression

  The Parsifal Mosaic

  The Bourne Identity

  The Matarese Circle

  The Gemini Contenders

  The Holcroft Covenant

  The Chancellor Manuscript

  The Road to Gandolfo

  The Rhinemann Exchange

  The Cry of the Halidon

  Trevayne

  The Matlock Paper

  The Osterman Weekend

  The Scarlatti Inheritance

  The Tristan

  Betrayal

  Robert Ludlum™

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Since his death, the Estate of Robert Ludlum has worked with a carefully selected author and editor to prepare and edit this work for publication.

  THE TRISTAN BETRAYAL

  Copyright © 2003 by Myn Pyn LLC.

  Excerpt from The Bourne Legacy copyright © 2004 by the estate of Robert

  Ludlum.

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2003058184

  ISBN: 978-0-312-37220-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / October 2003

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 2004

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Moscow, August 1991

  The sleek black limousine, with its polycarbonatelaminate bullet-resistant windows and its run-flat tires, its high-tech ceramic armor and dual-hardness carbon-steel armor plate, was jarringly out of place as it pulled into the Bittsevsky forest in the southwest area of the city. This was ancient terrain, forest primeval, densely overgrown with birch and aspen groves interspersed with pine trees, elms, and maples; it spoke of nomadic Stone Age tribes that roamed the glacier-scarred terrain, hunting mammoths with hand-carved javelins, amid nature red in tooth and claw. Whereas the armored Lincoln Continental spoke of another kind of civilization entirely with another sort of violence, an era of snipers and terrorists wielding submachine guns and fragmentation grenades.

  Moscow was a city under siege. It was the capital of a superpower on the brink of collapse. A cabal of Communist hard-liners was preparing to take back Russia from the forces of reform. Tens of thousands of troops filled the city, ready to fire at its citizens. Columns of tanks and armored personnel carriers rumbled down Kutuzovsky Prospekt and the Minskoye Chausse. Tanks surrounded Moscow City Hall, TV broadcasting facilities, newspaper offices, the parliament building. The radio was broadcasting nothing but the decrees of the cabal, which called itself the State Committee for the State of Emergency. After years of progress toward democracy, the Soviet Union was on the verge of being returned to the dark forces of totalitarianism.

  Inside the limousine sat an elderly man, silver-haired, with handsome, aristocratic features. He was Ambassador Stephen Metcalfe, an icon of the American Establishment, an adviser to five Presidents since Franklin D. Roosevelt, an extremely wealthy man who had devoted his life to serving his government. Ambassador Metcalfe, though now retired, the title purely honorific, had been urgently summoned to Moscow by an old friend who was highly placed in the inner circles of Soviet power. He and his old friend had not met face-to-face for decades: their relationship was a deeply buried secret, known to no one in Moscow or Washington. That his Russian friend—code-named “Kurwenal”—insisted on a rendezvous in this deserted location was worrying, but these were worrying times.

  Lost in thought, visibly nervous, the old man got out of his limousine only once he glimpsed the figure of his friend, the three-star general, limping heavily on a prosthetic leg. The American’s seasoned eyes scanned the forest as he began to walk, and then his blood ran cold.

  He detected a watcher in the trees. A second, a third! Surveillance. He and the Russian code-named Kurwenal had just been spotted!

  This would be a disaster for them both!

  Metcalfe wanted to call out to his old f
riend, to warn him, but then he noticed the glint of a scoped rifle in the late-afternoon sun. It was an ambush!

  Terrified, the elderly ambassador spun around and loped as quickly as his arthritic limbs would take him back toward his armored limousine. He had no bodyguard; he never traveled with one. He had only his driver, an unarmed American marine supplied by the embassy.

  Suddenly men were running toward him from all around. Black-uniformed men in black paramilitary berets, bearing machine guns. They surrounded him and he began to struggle, but he was no longer a young man, as he had to keep reminding himself. Was this a kidnapping? Was he being taken hostage? He shouted hoarsely to his driver.

  The black-clad men escorted Metcalfe to another armored limousine, a Russian ZIL. Frightened, he climbed into the passenger compartment. There, already seated, was the three-star general.

  “What the hell is this?” Metcalfe croaked, his panic subsiding.

  “My deepest apologies,” replied the Russian. “These are hazardous, unstable times, and I could not take the chance of anything happening to you, even here in the woods. These are my men, under my command, and they’re trained in counterterrorist measures. You are far too important an individual to expose to any dangers.”

  Metcalfe shook the Russian’s hand. The general was eighty years old, his hair white, though his profile remained hawklike. He nodded at the driver, and the car began to move.

  “I thank you for coming to Moscow—I realize my urgent summons must have struck you as cryptic.”

  “I knew it had to be about the coup,” Metcalfe said.

  “Matters are developing more rapidly than anticipated,” the Russian said in a low voice. “They have secured the blessing of the man known as the Dirizhor —the Conductor. It may already be too late to stop the seizure of power.”

  “My friends in the White House are watching with great concern. But they feel paralyzed—the consensus in the National Security Council seems to be that to intervene might be to risk nuclear war.”

  “An apt fear. These men are desperate to overthrow the Gorbachev regime. They will resort to anything. You’ve seen the tanks on the streets of Moscow—now all that remains is for the conspirators to order their forces to strike. To attack civilians. It will be a bloodbath. Thousands will be killed! But the orders to strike will not be issued unless the Dirizhor gives his approval. Everything hangs on him—he is the linchpin.”

  “But he’s not one of the plotters?”

  “No. As you know, he’s the ultimate insider, a man who controls the levers of power in absolute secrecy. He will never appear at a news conference; he acts in stealth. But he is in sympathy with the coup plotters. Without his support, the coup must fail. With his support, the coup will surely succeed. And Russia will once again become a Stalinist dictatorship—and the world will be at the brink of nuclear war.”

  “Why did you call me here?” asked Metcalfe. “Why me?”

  The general turned to face Metcalfe, and in his eyes Metcalfe could see fear. “Because you’re the only one I trust. And you’re the only one who has a chance of reaching him. The Dirizhor.”

  “And why will the Dirizhor listen to me?”

  “I think you know,” said the Russian quietly. “You can change history, my friend. After all, we both know you did it before.”

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Paris, November 1940

  The City of Light had gone dark.

  Ever since the Nazis had invaded, then seized control of France six months earlier, the world’s greatest city had become forlorn and desolate. The quais along the Seine were deserted. The Arc de Triomphe, the place de l’Etoile—those magnificent gleaming landmarks that once lit up the night sky—were now gloomy, abandoned. Above the Eiffel Tower, where once the French tricolor rippled, a Nazi swastika flag waved.

  Paris was quiet. There were hardly any cars on the street anymore, or taxis. Most of the grand hotels had been taken over by the Nazis. Gone was the revelry, the laughter of evening strollers, carousers. Gone, too, were the birds, victims of the smoke from the burning gasoline during the first days of the German incursion.

  Most people stayed in at night, intimidated by their occupiers, the curfews, the new laws that had been imposed on them, the green-uniformed Wehrmacht soldiers who patrolled the streets with their swinging bayonets, their revolvers. A once-proud city had sunk into despair, famine, fear.

  Even the aristocratic avenue Foch, the widest, grandest thoroughfare in Paris, lined with handsome white stone facades, seemed windswept and bleak.

  With a single exception.

  One hôtel particulier, a private mansion, glittered with light. Faint music could be heard from within: a swing orchestra. The tinkle of china and crystal, excited voices, carefree laughter. This was an island of glittering privilege, all the more radiant for its gloomy background.

  The Hôtel de Châtelet was the magnificent residence of the Comte Maurice Léon Philippe du Châtelet and his wife, the legendary and gracious hostess Marie-Hélène. The Comte du Châtelet was an industrialist of enormous wealth as well as a minister in the collaborationist Vichy government. Most of all, though, he was known for his parties, which helped sustain tout Paris through the dark days of the occupation.

  An invitation to a party at the Hôtel de Châtelet was an object of social envy—sought after, anticipated for weeks. Especially these days, with all the rationing and food shortages, when it was just about impossible to get real coffee or butter or cheese, when only the very well connected could get meat or fresh vegetables. An invitation to cocktails at the du Châtelets’ meant an opportunity to eat one’s fill. Here, inside this gracious home, there was not a hint that one lived in a city of brutal deprivation.

  The party was already in full swing by the time one of the guests, a very late arrival, was admitted by a manservant.

  The guest was a remarkably handsome young man, in his late twenties, with a full head of black hair, large brown eyes that seemed to twinkle with mischief, an aquiline nose. He was tall and broad, with a trim athletic build. As he handed his topcoat to the maître d’hôtel, the butler, he nodded, smiled, and said, “Bonsoir, merci beaucoup.”

  He was called Daniel Eigen. He had been living in Paris off and on for the last year or so, and he was a regular on the party circuit, where everyone knew him as a wealthy Argentine and an extremely eligible bachelor.

  “Ah, Daniel, my love,” crooned Marie-Hélène du Châtelet, the hostess, as Eigen entered the crowded ballroom. The orchestra was playing a new song, which he recognized as “How High the Moon.” Madame du Châtelet had spotted him from halfway across the room and had made her way over to him with the sort of exuberance she normally reserved for the very rich or the very powerful—the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, say, or the German Military Governor of Paris. The hostess, a handsome woman in her early fifties, wearing a black Balenciaga gown that revealed the cleft of her ample bosom, was clearly besotted with her young guest.

  Daniel Eigen kissed both her cheeks, and she drew him near for a moment, speaking in French in a low, confiding voice. “I’m so glad you could make it, my dear. I was afraid you might not show up.”

  “And miss a party at Hôtel de Châtelet?” Eigen said. “Do you think I’ve taken leave of my senses?” From behind his back he produced a small box, wrapped in gilt paper. “For you, Madame. The last ounce in all of France.”

  The hostess beamed as she took the box, greedily tore off the paper, and pulled out the square crystal flask of Guerlain perfume. She gasped. “But . . . but Vol de Nuit can’t be bought anywhere!”

  “You’re quite right,” Eigen said with a smile. “It can’t be bought.”

  “Daniel! You’re too sweet, too thoughtful. How did you know it’s my favorite?”

  He shrugged modestly. “I have my own intelligence network.”

  Madame du Châtelet frowned, wagged a reproving finger. “And after all you did to procure the Dom Pérignon for us
. Really, you’re too generous. Anyway, I’m delighted you’re here—handsome young men like you are as rare as hens’ teeth these days, my love. You’ll have to pardon some of my female guests if they swoon. Those you haven’t already conquered, that is.” She lowered her voice again. “Yvonne Printemps is here with Pierre Fresnay, but she seems to be on the prowl again, so watch out.” She was referring to the famous musical-comedy star. “And Coco Chanel is with her new lover, that German fellow she lives with at the Ritz. She’s on a tirade against the Jews again—really, it’s getting tedious.”

  Eigen accepted a flute of champagne from the silver tray borne by a servant. He glanced around the immense ballroom, with its floor of ancient parquet from a grand château, the walls of white-and-gold paneling covered at regular intervals with Gobelin tapestries, the dramatic ceiling that had been painted by the same artist who later undertook the ceilings at Versailles.

  But it was not the decor he was interested in so much as the guests. As he scanned the crowd he recognized quite a few people. There were the usual celebrities: the singer Edith Piaf, who made twenty thousand francs for each evening’s performance; Maurice Chevalier; and all sorts of famous cinema stars who were now working for the German-owned film company Continental, run by Goebbels, making movies the Nazis approved of. The usual assortment of writers, painters, and musicians, who never missed one of these rare opportunities to eat and drink their fill. And the usual French and German bankers, and industrialists who did business with the Nazis and their puppet Vichy regime.

  Finally, there were the Nazi officers, so prominent on the social circuit these days. All were in their dress uniforms; many affected monocles and had little mustaches like the Führer himself. The German Military Governor, General Otto von Stülpnagel. The German ambassador to France, Otto Abetz, and the young Frenchwoman he’d married. The Kommandant von Gross-Paris, the elderly General Ernst von Schaumburg, who, with his close-cropped hair and Prussian manner, was known as the Bronze Rock.