The ends of Jessica Kincaid’s mouth turned down. “That’s why they chose me, you know. I mean, for the hit.”
“Because you were a veritable Paul Janson scholar. Someone who’d know my moves better than anybody. Yes, I can see that logic. I can see an operations director thinking he was pretty clever to come up with it.”
“For sure. The idea of staking out Grigori Berman’s place—that was mine. I was sure we’d catch up with you in Amsterdam, too. Lot of people were guessing you’d be lighting out for the U.S. of A. Not me.”
“No, not you, with your graduate-equivalency degree in Janson Studies.”
She fell silent, staring into the lees of her mug. “There’s one question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Have at it.”
“Just something I’ve always wondered about. In 1990, you had a drop on Jamal Nadu, big-deal terrorist mastermind. Reliable intelligence accounts, from sources you cultivated, identified an urban safe house he was using in Amman, and the car he was going to be transported in. A raggedy, funky ol’ beggar approaches the car, gets shooed away, falls to his knees in apology, moves on. Only, the beggar is none other than Paul Janson, our own Dr. J, and while he was kowtowing, he rigged an explosive device under the vehicle.”
Janson stared at her blankly.
“An hour later, Jamal Nadu does pile into the car. But so do four high-priced ladies—Jordanian hookers he’d hired. You notify control of the changed circumstances, and the orders are to proceed anyway. In your report, you say that you subsequently attempted to blow up the car but that the detonator failed. Operation foiled by mechanical screwup.”
“These things happen.”
“Not to you,” she said. “See, that’s why I never believed the official account. You were always a goddamn perfectionist. You made that detonator yourself. Now, two days later Jamal Nadu is on his way back from a meeting with a group of Libyans when suddenly his brains start to leak down his collar, because somebody, with a single well-aimed shot, had blown off the back of his head. You file a report suggesting that a rival from Hamas did him in.”
“Your point?”
“You might have thought what really went down was pretty obvious. Four women in the car—the operative didn’t have the stomach to kill ’em. Maybe didn’t see why it was necessary. Maybe figured once he had a drop on the sumbitch, he could find another way to do it without a lot of collateral killing. And maybe the Department of Planning didn’t see it that way. Maybe they wanted a flashy, fiery end and didn’t give a shit about the whores. So you made things happen the way you thought they should happen.”
“You did have a point, didn’t you?”
“The really interesting question, way I see it, is this. In the world of covert ops, taking out a superbaddy like Nadu would make a lot of people’s careers. What kind of man does it, and then doesn’t take credit for it?”
“You tell me.”
“Maybe somebody who doesn’t want the controlling officer to be able to claim a big win.”
“Tell me something else, if you know so much. Who was controlling the operation?”
“Our director, Derek Collins,” she said. “At the time, he headed up the Middle East sector.”
“Then if you have any questions about procedures, I suggest you take it up with him.”
She formed a W with her thumbs and forefingers. “Whatever,” she said, half sulkily. “Truth is, I had a hard time getting a fix on you.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s one of the reasons the Jamal Nadu thing was a puzzle. Hard to say what makes you tick. Hard to square what I seen with what I heard. For damn sure, you ain’t no choirboy. And there are some pretty brutal stories about the stuff you got up to in Vietnam—”
“There’s a lot of bullshit out there,” he said, cutting her off. He was surprised at the anger that flared in his voice.
“Well, the rumors are pretty heavy, is all I’m saying. They make it sound like you had a hand in some real sick shit that went down there.”
“People make things up.” Janson was trying to sound calm, and was failing. He did not quite understand why.
She looked at him oddly. “OK, man. I believe you. I mean, you’re the only person who would know for sure, right?”
Janson stabbed at the fire with a poker, and the pine logs crackled and hissed fragrantly. The sun had begun to sink over the far mountain peak. “I hope you won’t take offense if I ask you to remind me how old you are, Miss Kincaid,” he asked, watching her hard face soften in the glow of the hearth.
“You can call me Jessie,” she said. “And I’m twenty-nine.”
“You could be my daughter.”
“Hey, you’re as young as you feel.”
“That would make me Methuselah.”
“Age is just a number.”
“In your case, but not mine, a prime number.” He stirred red smoking embers with the poker, watched them burst into yellow flames. His mind drifted back to Amsterdam. “Here’s a question for you. You ever hear of a company called Unitech Ltd.?”
“Well, sure. It’s one of ours. Supposed to be an independent corporate entity.”
“But used as a front by Consular Operations.”
“It’s about as independent as a dog’s leg,” she said, running a hand through her short, spiky hair.
“Or a cat’s paw,” Janson said. The dim memories were surfacing: Unitech had played a minor role over the years in a number of endeavors; sometimes it helped anchor part of an undercover agent’s legend, providing an ersatz employment record. Sometimes it transferred funds to parties that were being recruited to play a small role in a larger operation. “Somebody from Unitech is corresponding with the executive director of the Liberty Foundation, offering to provide logistical support for its education programs in Eastern Europe. Why?”
“You got me.”
“Let’s imagine that somebody, some group, wanted the opportunity to get close to Peter Novak. To learn about his whereabouts.”
“Somebody? You’re saying Consular Operations took him down? My employers?”
“Arranged for it to happen, more precisely. Orchestrated the circumstances at a remove.”
“But why?” she asked. “Why? Don’t make a lick of sense.”
Few things did. Had Consular Operations really arranged Novak’s death? And why hadn’t his passing been reported anywhere? It was growing stranger by the day: people who should have been his close associates seemed completely oblivious of the cataclysmic event.
“What you been reading all this time?” Jessie said presently, gesturing toward the various stacks of printouts.
Janson explained.
“You really think there could be something valuable buried in the public record?” she asked.
“Don’t be fooled by the mystique of ‘intelligence gathering’—half of the stuff you find in foreign-situation reports filed by agents-in-place, they get from reading the local papers.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “But you only got two eyes—”
“So says the woman who tried to drill me a third.”
She ignored the barb. “You can’t read that whole stack at once. Give me some. I’ll go through it. Another set of eyes, right? Can’t hurt.”
They read together until he felt the weight of exhaustion start to press down upon him: he needed sleep, could hardly focus his eyes on the densely printed pages. He stood up and stretched. “I’m going to hit the sack,” he said.
“Gets chilly at night—sure you don’t need a hotwater bottle?” she asked. She held out her hands. Her tone suggested she was joking; her eyes indicated she might not be.
He raised an eyebrow. “Take more than a hot water bottle to warm these bones,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Think I’d better pass.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I guess you’d better.” There was something like disappointment in her voice. “Actually, I think I’ll just stay up a little while lon
ger, keep slogging away.”
“Good girl,” he said, winking, and dragged himself up. He was tired, so tired. He would go to sleep easily, but he would not sleep well.
In the jungle was a base. In the base was an office. In the office was a desk. At the desk was a man.
His commanding officer. The man who had taught him nearly everything he knew.
The man he was facing down.
Twelfth-century plainsong came through the small speakers of the lieutenant commander’s eight-track tape system. Saint Hildegard.
“What did you want to see me about, son?” Demarest’s fleshy features were settled into bland composure. He looked as if he genuinely had no idea why Janson was there.
“I’m going to file a report,” Janson said. “Sir.”
“Of course. SOP following an operation.”
“No, sir. A report about you. Detailing misconduct, in re Article Fifty-three, relating to the treatment of prisoners of war.”
“Oh. That.” Demarest was silent for a moment. “You think I was a little rough on Victor Charlie?”
“Sir?” Janson’s voice rose with incredulity.
“And you can’t think why, can you? Well, go ahead. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. You see, while you’re filling out your forms, I’ve got to figure out how to save the lives of six men who have been captured. Six men you know very well, because they’re under your command—or were.”
“What are you talking about, sir?”
“I’m talking about the fact that members of your team have been captured in the vicinity of Lon Duc Than. They were on special assignment, a joint reconnaissance with the Marine Special Forces. Part of a pattern, you see. This place is a goddamn sieve.”
“Why wasn’t I notified about the operation, sir?”
“Nobody could find you all afternoon—an Article Fifteen offense right there. Time and tide wait for no man. Still, you’re here now, and all you can think to do is find the nearest pencil sharpener.”
“Permission to speak freely, sir.”
“Permission denied,” Demarest snapped. “You do what the hell you want. But your team has been captured here, men who placed their lives in your hands, and you’re the person best positioned to lead a force to get them free. Or you would be if you gave a damn about them. Oh, you think I was unfeeling, inhumane toward those Victor Charlies in the boonies. But I did what I did for a reason, dammit! I’ve lost too many men already to leaks between ARVN reps and their VC cousins. What happened to you in Noc Lo? An ambush, you called it. A setup. Goddamn right it was. The operation was vetted by MACV, standard procedure, and somewhere along the lines, Marvin tells Charlie. It happens again and again, and every time it does, somebody dies. You saw Hardaway die, didn’t you? You cradled him in your arms while his guts were spilling onto the jungle. Hardaway was shot, just a few days before his tour was over, and they ripped him open, and you were there. Now tell me how that makes you feel, soldier? Dewy and cuddly and sensitive? Or does it piss you off? You got a pair of balls on you, or did you lose ’em playing football for Michigan? Maybe it’s slipped your mind, but we’re in counterintelligence, Janson, and I am not going to let my men be horsefucked by the VC couriers who have turned MACV into a goddamn Hanoi wire service!” Demarest never raised his voice as he spoke, and yet the effect was only to reinforce the gravity of his words. “An officer’s first imperative is the welfare of the men under his command. And when the lives of my men are at stake, I will do anything—anything consistent with our mission—to protect them. I couldn’t give a good goddamn what forms you end up filing. But if you’re a soldier, if you’re a man, you’ll rescue your men first: it’s your duty. Then pursue whatever disciplinary proceedings your little bureaucratic heart desires.” He folded his arms. “Well?”
“Awaiting grid coordinates, sir.”
Demarest nodded soberly and handed Janson a sheet of blue paper dense with neatly typed operation specifications. “We’ve got a Huey gassed and gussied.” He glanced at the large round clock mounted on the wall opposite. “The crew’s ready to go in fifteen. I hope to hell you are.”
Voices.
No, a voice.
A quiet voice. A voice that did not wish to be overheard. Yet the sibilants carried.
Janson opened his eyes, the darkness of the bedroom softened by the glow of the Lombard moon. An unease grew within him.
A visitor? There was an active Consular Operations branch based at the U.S. Consulate General in Milan, on Via Principe Amedeo—just a fifty-minute drive away. Had Jessie somehow made contact with them? He got up and found his jacket, felt the pockets for his cellular phone. It was missing.
Had she taken it while he slept? Had he simply left it downstairs? Now he put on a bathrobe, took the pistol from under his pillow, and crept toward the voice.
Jessie’s voice. Downstairs.
He stepped halfway down the stone staircase, looked around. The lights were on in the study, and the asymmetry of illumination would provide him with the cover he needed—the bright lights inside, the shadowy darkness outside. A few steps farther. Jessie, he could now see, was standing in the study, facing a wall, with his cell phone pressed to her ear. Talking quietly.
He felt a wrenching feeling in his gut: it was as he had feared.
From the snippets of conversation he made out through the open door, it was apparent that she was speaking to a colleague from Consular Operations in Washington. He edged nearer the room, and her voice grew more distinct.
“So the status is still ‘beyond salvage,’” she repeated. “Sanction on sighting.”
She was verifying that the kill orders were still in effect.
A shudder ran down his spine. He had no choice but to do what he should have done much earlier. It was kill or be killed. The woman was a professional assassin: it was of no account that her profession had once been his—that her employers had as well. He had no choice but to eliminate her; sentiment and wishful thinking, and her own accomplished line of blather, had distracted him from that one essential truth.
As cicadas filled the evening breeze with their rasping—a window was open in the study—he moved the pistol to his right hand, following her pacing figure with its muzzle. The sudden certainty of what he had to do filled him with loathing, self-disgust. Yet there was no other way. Kill or be killed: it was the awful shibboleth of an existence he had hoped he’d put behind him. Nor did it mitigate the larger truth, the ultimate truth of his career: kill and be killed.
“What do the cables say?” she was saying. “The latest signals intelligence? Don’t tell me you guys are working blind.”
Janson coolly regarded the slightly built woman, the roundness of her hips and breasts offset by the tightly muscular frame; in her way, she was indeed quite beautiful. He knew what she was capable of—had seen, firsthand, her astonishing marksmanship, her extraordinary strength and agility, the swiftness and shrewdness of her mind. She had been built to kill, and nothing would deter her from doing so.
“Are the boys in position, or are they just sitting on their asses?” She kept her voice low, but her intonation was heated, almost hectoring. “Jesus! There is no excuse for this. This makes us all look bad. Shit, it’s true what they say: when you want a job done right, you gotta do it yourself. I mean, that’s how I’m feeling right now. Whatever happened to team efficiency?”
Another dumb, inanimate slug would shatter another skull, and another life would be stricken, erased, turned into the putrid animal matter from which it had been constituted. That was not progress; it was the very opposite. He cast his mind back to Theo and the others, snuffed out, and for what? Some of the rage that filled him was displaced rage at himself, yes. But what of it? The woman would die—die in a five-million-dollar mountainside estate in Alpine Lombardy, a land she had never seen before in her life. She would die at his hands, and that would be their one moment of true intimacy.
“Where is he? Where? Hell, I can tell you that.” Je
ssie Kincaid spoke again to her unseen interlocutor, after a period of silence. “You big lummox, you mean you guys really haven’t figured that out? Monaco, man. There’s no doubt in my mind. You know Novak’s got a house there.” Another pause. “Janson didn’t say it in so many words. But I heard him making a joke to his little friend there about playing baccarat—you do the math. Hey, you boys are supposed to be in intelligence, so why don’t you try acting intelligent?”
She was lying to them.
Lying for him.
Janson returned his gun to his holster, and felt flooded, almost light-headed, with relief. The intensity of the emotion surprised and puzzled him. She had been asked for his location, and she had lied to protect him. She had just chosen sides.
“No,” she was saying, “don’t tell anybody I called in. This was a private chat, all right? Just me and you, pookie. No, you can take all the credit, and that’ll be fine with me. Tell ’em, I dunno, tell ’em I’m in a coma somewhere and the Netherlands national health plan is paying for real expensive treatment, because I didn’t have any identity papers on me. Tell ’em that and I bet they won’t be in such a rush to bring me back to the States.”
A few moments later, she clicked off, turned around, and was startled to see Janson in the doorway.
“Who’s ‘pookie’?” he asked, in a bored voice.
“God damn you,” she erupted. “You been spying on me? The famous Paul Janson turns out to be some kind of goddamn Peeping Tom?”
“Came down for some milk,” he said.
“Shit,” she said in two syllables, glowering. Finally, she said, “He’s a fat-ass desk jockey at State, Bureau of Research and Intelligence. Sweet guy, though. I think he likes me, because when I’m around, his tongue comes out like Michael Jordan doing a fadeaway. Stranger things, right? But what’s really strange is what he told me about Puma.”
Robert Ludlum - [Paul Janson 01] Page 38
