The Ares Decision

by Robert Ludlum

  “So we’re on our own,” Farrokh said.

  “You never miss an opportunity to tell me that you want the West to stay out of your business. Well, we have a saying in America: Be careful what you wish for.”

  “And the parasite?”

  “Not my sphere of influence anymore,” Smith said. “President Castilla’s put a certain South African you know in charge of that part of the operation.”

  Farrokh twisted around and looked up at Sarie. “Is this true?”

  “One hundred percent,” she said, jabbing Smith in the shoulder. “From now on, the colonel here will be calling me ma’am.”

  Smith grinned and considered a salute, but he wasn’t sure he could lift his arm that far.

  “Have you been able to cure the people who have contracted it?” Farrokh asked.

  She shook her head sadly. “Most of the victims we’ve tried to treat were already fully symptomatic. At that point, the brain damage is irreversible and there isn’t really anything we can do for them. I think that if we can catch the infection within an hour or so of transmission, a cocktail of existing antiparasitics might work. But so far we haven’t been able to find the right combination.”

  “It’s still spreading, then?”

  “I’m cautiously optimistic that it’s not,” Sarie said. “We don’t understand exactly how the parasite affects different animals, though, so we’re still running tests. The good news is that it’s too arid out here to have much wildlife, and the livestock is fairly easy to keep track of. I think we’re going to be okay.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  She put a hand on the Iranian’s shoulder. “Maybe you should try focusing on the bright side for a change. At least you’re not an ashy outline on some wall.”

  Author’s Note

  It all started for me when I was one year old.

  My father came in and announced that he’d quit his job and joined the FBI—something my mother didn’t even know he was interested in. We were shipped off to her parents while he trained in Quantico and then quickly found ourselves in Salt Lake City, one of our many homes over the years.

  As it turns out, this wasn’t as impulsive as it first seemed. My father grew up in a small cotton-farming town in southeast Missouri, and on a visit to his family when I was a teenager, my grandmother told me the story of his first encounter with the Bureau. It was 1953 and there had been a bank robbery in the area, prompting an FBI agent to interview the owner of the local general store. My father, then twelve years old, wandered in for supplies and hid behind a shelf to listen. When he got home, he told his mother about the experience—that the man had been “dressed real fine and talked real good.” And that one day he, too, would be a G-man. She just smiled.

  Growing up in a Bureau family is about as interesting as it gets, but also a bit challenging. Of course, there are the constant moves that can be tough on a kid trying to fit in. Even stranger, though, is the sense of secrecy. It may be that my early training as a novelist came from filling in imaginary details to circumspect conversations I overheard. The need-to-know attitude is oddly pervasive, as anyone who has watched my father and me move a ladder will attest. It’s always teetering upright with him yelling “Left! Right! Not that far right, for Christ’s sake!” Now that he’s retired, I aspire to get him to just tell me the ladder’s final destination before we pick it up. I’m not hopeful, though.

  Whatever the negatives, it was all worth it. How many kids get to have dinner with a man who, by law, cannot be photographed? Or drink a beer with the SAS? Or discuss Northern Ireland with the head of the Royal Ulster Constabulary? And then there was the time I came home from my summer job and was told that we were having dinner with an insurance salesman who needed help with the FBI-related sections of his third novel. He was nice enough to bring us a copy of his first effort. It had been published by the Naval Institute Press under the title The Hunt for Red October.

  And how many people get to read about their college graduation dinner in history books? It was 1988 and my family was at a restaurant in London where my father was the legal attaché. About halfway through the hors d’oeuvres, someone from the embassy came in and told us that a Pan Am flight had gone down in a little town called Lockerbie. That was the last I saw of my father for months.

  With all this cloak and dagger, it was hard not to be a huge fan of thriller novels. The first I can remember reading was Shogun, still vivid in my mind because I was supposed to do my seventh-grade book report on it and was a little shocked to find out there was a second volume. I wasn’t only a fan, though, I was also a critic. Authors who made factual errors or failed to faithfully capture the operatives they wrote about drove me crazy. And that led me to focus on the masters of the genre—people like Jack Higgins, John le Carré, and Robert Ludlum.

  So it’s a great honor for my eleventh novel to be part of the Covert-One series. Hopefully, you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Kyle Mills

  May 12, 2011

  About the Authors

  ROBERT LUDLUM was the author of twenty-six international best-selling novels, published in thirty-two languages and forty countries. He is perhaps best known as the creator and author of three novels featuring Jason Bourne: The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, and The Bourne Ultimatum. Ludlum passed away in March 2001.

  KYLE MILLS is a New York Times best-selling author of more than ten novels, including Rising Phoenix and Lords of Corruption. He lives with his wife in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where they spend their off-hours skiing, rock climbing, and mountain biking.

  SNEAK PREVIEW!

  Originally introduced in Robert Ludlum’s smash hit The Janson Directive, Paul Janson is a former operative from the U.S. agency Consular Operations whose devastating last mission was a heroic rescue gone terribly awry.

  Now he is back in the launch of a new international thriller series.

  Please turn the page for an early look at

  THE

  JANSON

  COMMAND

  A new novel written by Paul Garrison

  Available winter 2012 wherever books are sold.

  Prologue

  The Rescue

  Three Years Ago

  41°13´ N, 111°57´ W

  Ogden, Utah

  Ogden’s a great town if you like hiking and mountain biking and skiing.” Doug Case gripped the broken armrests of his secondhand wheelchair and pretended they were ski poles. “That’s what I’m doing here, since you ask. How’d you happen to track me down? I wiped my names from the VA computers.”

  Paul Janson said, “When it all goes to hell, people go home.”

  “The place where they have to take you in? Not me. I’m not asking any favors.”

  “I don’t see you getting any either.”

  Case’s home was the mouth of an abandoned railroad tunnel with a view of a garbage-littered empty lot, a burned-out Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the snowy Wasatch Mountains. He hunched in his chair with a frayed backpack on his lap, stringy hair down to his shoulders, and a week of beard on his face. His dull gaze flickered occasionally toward four muscular teenage gangbangers who were eyeing them from a Honda parked beside the KFC.

  Paul Janson sat on an upended grocery cart. He wore lightweight assault boots and wool trousers, a sweater, and a loose black ski shell.

  “Kill me and get it over with,” Case told him. “I don’t feel like playing games.”

  “I’m not here to kill you.”

  “Just do it! Don’t worry, I won’t defend myself.” He shifted the pack on his lap.

  Janson said, “You are assuming that I still work for Consular Operations.”

  “Nobody quits Cons Ops.”

  “We have an arrangement. I went private. Corporate security consulting. Cons Ops calls me now and then. Now and then I call back.”

  “You never were one to burn bridges,” Case conceded. “You work alone?”

  “I have someone to
bring along if I need a sniper.”

  “Good?”

  “As good as I’ve ever seen.”

  “Where from?” Case asked, wondering who of that caliber Janson had recruited.

  “Top of the talent pool,” was all Janson would reveal.

  “Why’d you quit Cons Ops?”

  “I woke up one morning remembering all the people I killed for the wrong reasons.”

  Case laughed. “For Christ’s sake, Paul! The State Department can’t have covert operators deciding who to kill. When you have to kill somebody to do the job, you kill him. That’s why they’re called sanctioned in-field killings.”

  “Sanctioned serial killings was more like the truth. I lay in bed counting them up. Those I should have. Those I shouldn’t have.”

  “How many in total? Shoulds and shouldn’ts.”

  “Forty-six.”

  “I’ll be damned. I edged you out.”

  “Forty-six confirmed,” Janson shot back.

  Case smiled. “I see your testosterone hasn’t passed its sell-by date.”

  He looked Janson up and down. The son of a bitch hadn’t aged. Paul Janson still looked thirty-something, forty-something, fifty. Who knew with his close-cropped hair a neutral iron-gray color? And he still looked like somebody you wouldn’t look at twice. Unless you were another professional and then if you were really, really good, you’d look twice and see the shoulders under the jacket and the watchful eyes and by then it might be too late.

  Janson said, “We have company.”

  The gangbangers were strutting toward them.

  “I’ve got ’em,” said Case. “You got lunch.” The empty Sonic burger bags were neatly folded under one of his wheels. Doug Case let them get within ten meters before he said, “Gentlemen, I’m offering one free lesson in survival. A survivor never gets in the wrong fight. Turn around and go away.”

  Three of them puffed up. But their leader, the smallest, shot an appraising glance at Case and another at Janson, and said, “We’re outta here.”

  “The guy’s in a fuckin’ wheelchair.”

  The leader punched the dissenter hard in the ear and herded them away. “Hey, kid!” Case shouted after him. “You got what it takes. Join the army. They’ll teach you what to do with it.” He grinned at Janson. “Don’t you love raw talent?”

  “I do,” said Janson and called in a voice accustomed to obedience, “Come here!” The kid came, light on his feet, wary as a stray. Janson gave him a business card. “Join the army. Call me when you make buck sergeant.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A rung up the ladder that says you’re going places.”

  Janson waited until the Honda squealed away on smoking tires. “I remembered something else. I remembered every idea I used to believe that I turned my back on.”

  “You could use a dose of amnesia.”

  “There’s none available.”

  Case laughed again. “Remember when that happened to an operator? Forgot everything. Woke up beating the crap out of people. Couldn’t remember how he learned close combat. What the hell was his name?…I can’t remember. Neither could he. Unlike you; you remember everything. Okay Paul, if you’re not here to kill me, what are you doing in fucking Ogden?”

  “Telling the truth about what I did is pointless if I don’t atone.”

  “Atone? What? Like an AA drunk apologizing to people he was mean to?”

  “I can’t change what I did, but I can pay back the next guy.”

  “Why not just buy a pardon from the pope?”

  The sarcasm button didn’t work. Janson was deaf to it. He said, “You take the skills of observation we learned and turn them into yourself, it’s not a pretty sight.”

  “Saul on the road to Damascus discovers his moral compass and changes his name to Paul? But you already are Paul. What are you going to change? The world?”

  “I am going to do my best to save every covert government operator whose life was wrecked by his covert service. Guys like you and me.”

  “Leave me out of this.”

  “Can’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re my first project.”

  “A million people hold top secret clearances. If one in a hundred work undercover that’s ten thousand covert agents you could save. Why me?”

  “Some people say you were the worst.”

  Case returned a bitter smile. “Some said I was the best.”

  “Fact is, we were the worst.”

  “I don’t need saving.”

  “You’re living outdoors. Winter is coming. You’re hooked on Percocet and the docs have cut you off. When this month’s prescription runs out you’ll be scrambling to find it on the street.”

  “Paul Janson’s famously accurate research?”

  “You’ll be dead by Valentine’s Day.”

  “Janson’s renowned discerning analytic tradecraft?”

  “You need saving.”

  “I don’t want saving. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

  “I’ve got a van with a ramp.”

  Doug Case’s pale, grizzled cheeks flamed angry red. “You got a van with a ramp? You got a van with a ramp? You got shooters in the van going to help you wrestle me up your fucking ramp?”

  An awkward smile tightened Janson’s face. For the first time since appearing at the mouth of Doug Case’s railroad tunnel, he looked unsure. The man they called “The Machine” was suddenly vulnerable, and Doug Case pressed his attack.

  “You’re falling down on the planning end, fella. No assaulters in the van. No rehearsal. No quick-reaction force backup. No contingency. You’re kind of, sort of, fumbling on impulse. Should have gone about this the way you’d plan a Cons Ops job. Tortured soul muddles toward atonement? And you’re going to get me straightened out?”

  “More than straightened out. We’re going to put you back together with a life.”

  “With a life? So first you’ll get me off the Perc? Then you’ll have shrinks fix my head? And when the docs get through you’ll find me a career that will employ my considerable talents? Go to hell.”

  “You will be made whole.”

  “Maybe even find me a girl?”

  “If you want one, you’ll be whole enough to find one on your own.”

  “Jesus, Paul, you’re as wired and freaked out as I am. Who in your mental wilderness do you imagine would pay for this fantasy?”

  Janson said, “On my last job someone deposited a ton of money in my overseas accounts to make it seem I turned traitor. That someone no longer exists. Money will not be an issue.”

  “If you ever do rope some poor fool into your pipe dream, you’ll need more than money. You’ll need help. Lots of it. You’ll need a staff. Hell, you’ll need an entire company.”

  Again Janson looked unsure. “I don’t know about that. I’ve had it with companies. I’ve had it with institutions. I’ve stopped trusting any more than two people in one room.”

  “Poor, tormented Paul. Trying to make everything right by saving the worst guy you know, singlehanded? What are you going to call this outfit? The Paul Janson Institute for Raising Fucked-up Former Field Agents Out of Deep Shit? No, keep it simple: the Phoenix Foundation.”

  Janson stood up. “Let’s go, my friend.”

  “This guy ain’t going anywhere. And I’m not your friend.”

  “Maybe not,” Janson agreed. “But we’ve worked together and I could be sitting where you are, so we are brothers.”

  “Brothers? Is your halo pinching?” Doug Case shook his head, scratched an armpit, and covered his face with his dirty hands. After a while, he lowered his left hand and spoke through the fingers of his right. “They called you ‘The Machine.’ Remember? Some operators they call an animal. Some a machine. A machine usually beats an animal. But not always.”

  In a blur of coordinated movement drilled ten thousand times, Case’s left hand flashed from his knapsack pinching the barrel of a Glock 34 9mm aut
omatic between thumb and forefinger. His right hand closed around the butt, forefinger curling into the trigger guard and his left pulled back the slide, loading a round into the chamber and cocking the pistol with the speed of liquid flame.

  Janson kicked it from his hand.

  “Fuck!”

  Doug Case rubbed his wrist where Janson’s boot had connected. Should have remembered that Cons Ops combat instructors, the best in the world, had a saying: Lightning-fast; nano-fast; Janson-fast.

  Janson scooped up the gun. He was suddenly grinning ear to ear, optimistic, full of hope, and absolutely convinced he could fix what was broken. “I see you’re not completely screwed up.”

  “What gives you that idea?”

  Janson tapped the Glock. “You replaced the crappy factory sights with ghost rings.”

  He removed the magazine and pocketed it, removed the round from the chamber, snapped the knapsack off Case’s lap, removed two spare magazines from a side pocket, pulled a third from the waistband of his sweatpants, and handed the empty gun back to Doug Case.

  “When do I get the rest of it?”

  “Graduation day.”

  Part One

  The Mother of All Reserves

  One

  Now

  1°19´ N, 7°43´ E

  Gulf of Guinea, 260 Miles South of Nigeria, 180 Miles West of Gabon

  Vegas Rules,” said Janet Hatfield, captain of the Amber Dawn. Her three-thousand-ton offshore service vessel was running up the Gulf of Guinea on a black night, pitching and rolling in following seas. Her voice rang with quiet authority in the near silence of the darkened pilothouse. “What you saw on Amber Dawn stays on Amber Dawn.”