The Apocalypse Watch

by Robert Ludlum

“Any other ‘possibilities’?”

  “You’re asking if they were captured, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’d know it if they were. Our informers in the embassy would have picked it up, and the manhunt has been established beyond question. The French government has over a hundred personnel looking for our unit. We’ve watched them, heard them.”

  “You’re persuasive. So what else? Where are you? Harry Latham must be found!”

  “We believe we’re closing in, sir. Latham is under the protection of the Antinayous—”

  “We know that!” Kroeger broke in angrily. “But knowing it means nothing if you don’t know where they are or where they’ve hidden him.”

  “We may learn the whereabouts of their central headquarters within two hours, mein Herr.”

  “What? … Why didn’t you say that before?”

  “Because I’d prefer to present you with an accomplished fact rather than speculation. I said ‘we may learn,’ we haven’t yet.”

  “How?”

  “Telephone contact with the Antinayous was made by the embassy’s security chief, whose phone, like the ambassador’s, is swept for intercepts. However, there’s a sealed log of the calls he’s made; our man thinks he can get a look at it and run a handheld photocopier down the list. Once we have the numbers, we can easily bribe someone in the telephone company to unearth the locations. From that point it is a process of elimination.”

  “It sounds too simple. It’s my understanding that unpublished numbers are well guarded, God knows ours are. I doubt you can walk into the office of a telephone official and put money on his desk.”

  “We won’t walk into any office. I used the word unearth and that’s exactly what I mean. We find a worker in the underground trunk lines, for that’s where the true locations are in the computers. They have to be, for installations and repairs.”

  “You seem to know your business, Herr—what is your name?”

  “I have no name, none of us does. I am Number Zero One, Paris. Come, I’ve arranged transportation for you and we’ll stay in constant touch, perhaps within minutes after you reach your hotel.”

  Sitting at the desk in his rooms at the Antinayous’ Maison Rouge, Drew picked up the telephone and dialed the embassy, asking the switchboard to connect him with Mrs. de Vries in Documents and Research.

  “This is Harry Latham,” said Drew in response to Karin’s greeting. “Can you talk?”

  “Yes, monsieur, there is no one here, but first I have instructions for you. The ambassador summoned me and asked me to deliver them to you when you next called.”

  “Go on,” said Latham, now his dead brother Harry, squinting, and listening carefully. Karin was about to send him a message. He picked up a pencil as she spoke.

  “You are to make contact with our courier number sixteen at the top of the funicular in Sacré-Coeur at nine-thirty this evening. He has communiqués from Washington for you.… You understand, non?”

  “I understand, yes,” replied Drew, knowing that the French non, rather than the usual n’est-ce pas, meant he was to disregard the information. Witkowski was setting another trap, based on the knowledge that Karin’s phone was tapped. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. You were scheduled to meet your brother Drew’s friend from London’s Cons-Op office at the fountains in the Bois de Boulogne at eight forty-five, correct?”

  “Yes, it was cleared.”

  “It’s canceled, monsieur. It interferes with the Sacré-Coeur contact.”

  “Can you reach him and call it off?”

  “We have, oui—yes. We’ll arrange another meeting.”

  “Please do. He can tell me things I want to know about Drew’s last weeks, especially the details of the Jodelle business.… Is that all?”

  “For now, yes. Did you have something?”

  “Yes. When can I come back to the embassy?”

  “We’ll let you know. We’re convinced it’s being watched around the clock.”

  “I don’t like this hiding out. It’s damned inconvenient.”

  “You can always return to Washington, you know that.”

  “No! This is where Drew was killed, this is where his killers are. I’m staying here until we find them.”

  “Very well. You’ll call tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I want more papers from my brother’s files. Everything he’s got on that actor.”

  “Au revoir, monsieur.”

  “Bye.” Latham hung up the phone and studied the brief notes he had made, brief because he quickly understood the method of Karin’s concealed instructions. The Sacré-Coeur was out and the fountains at the Bois de Boulogne in; the French non eliminated the first, the double oui-yes confirmed the second. The rest was merely “fill” to emphasize “Harry” Latham’s insistence on remaining in Paris. Whom he was to meet at the Bois, he had no way of knowing, but he would obviously recognize whoever it was, or if he did not, someone would reach him.

  At the end of his shift, the Brotherhood’s informer in Communications at the embassy had walked out into the Gabriel, waited, then suddenly crossed the avenue, brushing up against a man on a motorcycle. He slipped the cartridge to the cyclist and the motorcycle shot away down the street, weaving between the traffic. Twenty-six minutes later, at precisely 4:37 in the afternoon, the tape was delivered to the assassins’ hidden headquarters at the Avignon Warehouses.

  Holding a 5-inch-by-6-inch photograph of Alexander Lassiter/Harry Latham, the Blitzkrieger’s Zero One, Paris, for a third time listened to the tape recording of the telephone conversation between Latham and the De Vries woman.

  “It would seem our search has ended,” said Zero One, standing above the table and reaching down to shut off the cassette player. “Who will go to the Sacré-Coeur?” he asked, addressing his colleagues around the conference table.

  As one, they all raised their hands.

  “Four of you will be sufficient, more could be obvious,” continued the leader. “Split up and carry the photograph with you, remembering that Latham will no doubt disguise his appearance.”

  “What can he do?” asked the Blitzkrieger nearest Zero One. “Put on a mustache and wear a beard? We know his height, the nature of his build, and his facial structure. Ultimately, he will reach a courier who will be waiting for him, a stationary man or woman we’ll certainly spot within the contact area.”

  “Don’t be so optimistic, Zero Six,” said the young leader. “Bear in mind that Harry Latham is an experienced deep-cover agent. As we have tricks, so does he. And for God’s sake, remember the kill must be made through the head, a coup de grâce shattering the left side of his skull. Don’t ask me why, just don’t forget it.”

  “If you have such serious doubts about us,” interjected an older Blitzkrieger at the far end of the table, his tone of voice in the zone of implied hostility, “why don’t you go yourself?”

  “Instructions from Bonn,” answered Zero One coolly. “I’m to remain here for orders that will arrive at ten o’clock. Would any of you care to take my place in the event we have not found Harry Latham and must deliver the news?”

  “Non.” “Nein.” “Of course not.” These were the responses of those around the table, some chuckling, others grim.

  “However, I will cover the Bois de Boulogne.”

  “Why?” asked Zero Seven. “It’s canceled; you heard the tape.”

  “Again, I ask you, would any of you not care to cover the Boulogne in the event that an emphatic negative was the signal for a positive, or that plans were changed again?”

  “You have a point,” said Zero Seven.

  “Probably a useless one,” conceded the youthful leader. “Nevertheless, it will take me no more than fifteen or twenty minutes, then I’ll drive back and be here by ten o’clock. If I were in Sacré-Coeur, I’d never make it on time.”

  The unit for the Sacré-Coeur selected, Zero One, Paris, returned to his office and sat down at his desk. He was a relieved man, for his
mythical instructions from Bonn had not been questioned, nor had anyone insisted that, as their superior, he should lead the assault on Harry Latham and let someone else take the call from Bonn. In truth, he wanted no part of the kill for the simple reason that it might not be successful. Any number of unforeseen contingencies could prevent it, and Zero One, Paris, could not afford another “miss” on his record, like the driver who had been no match for the late Drew Latham, or the unit sent to take out two Americans, which had missed the vital one and then disappeared, or their female comrade who had not survived Monte Carlo. Should Alexander Lassiter/Harry Latham be properly executed, shattered skull included, he could take the credit, for he had orchestrated the assault. If the trap failed, he wasn’t there; others were to be blamed.

  For Paris’s Zero One understood what the others did not; as their leader he was to carry out the orders. If a Blitzkrieger failed once, he was severely reprimanded; if he failed twice, he was shot, another in training given his or her place. If Sacré-Coeur failed, he knew who would be eliminated—the thirty-year-old Zero Five, for a start; his resentment of his younger superior was surfacing too frequently … and he had strenuously objected to the selection of the unit that had disappeared. “One’s a baby who simply likes to kill, and the other’s a bull head; he takes too many risks! Let me handle it!” Those had been Zero Five’s words, spoken in front of Zero Six. Both were heading out to Sacré-Coeur; both would be executed if the kill failed. Zero One, Paris, could not allow another blemish on his record. He had to be brought into the inner circle of the Brotherhood; he had to gain the respect of the true leaders of the movement, of the new Führer himself, and pay his obeisance with all his heart and soul. For he believed, he truly believed.

  He would take his camera out to the Bois de Boulogne, snapping enough night photographs to prove he was there, the proof in the camera itself as it imprinted the date and the time of each picture. It was merely a cover, if he ever needed one, which he doubted.

  The telephone rang, startling the young superior Blitzkrieger. He picked it up.

  “The code’s right,” said the female operator, “it’s Malasol caviar on the line.”

  “Herr Doktor—”

  “You haven’t called!” cried Gerhardt Kroeger. “I’ve been here over three hours and you haven’t called me.”

  “Only because we are refining the strategy. If my subordinates do not miscalculate, we may achieve the objective, mein Herr. I have orchestrated it down to the last detail.”

  “Your subordinates? Why not you?”

  “A contradictory piece of information was received, sir, one that may be far more dangerous and possibly equally productive. I have decided to take the risk myself.”

  “You’re not making sense!”

  “Nor can I over the telephone.”

  “Why not? The enemy hasn’t the slightest idea who I am, or that I’m even here, so the hotel’s switchboard could hardly be compromised. I demand to know what’s happening!”

  “There are two situations converging within the hour. Tell Bonn that Zero One, Paris, has used all of his talents to control both, but he cannot be in two places at once. Since he cannot, he’s chosen to take the highest risk. That’s all I can tell you, mein Herr. If I do not survive, think well of me. I must go.”

  “Yes … yes, of course.”

  The young neo-revolutionary slammed down the phone. No matter what happened, he was covered. He would have a long, leisurely dinner at the Au Coin de la Famille, then stroll to the main fountain in the Bois de Boulogne, take useless photographs, and return to the Avignon Warehouses, accepting whatever took place. Either the credit for the kill, or the death of two Blitzkrieger executed for incompetence.

  He truly believed.

  Drew moved about the Bois de Boulogne’s glistening fountain, bathed in floodlights from the waters below, and meandered through the evening strollers, looking for a face he knew. He had arrived at the rendezvous shortly before eight-thirty; it was now nearly nine o’clock, and he had seen no one he recognized, nor had anyone approached him. Had he misread Karin’s instructions? Had the reversed words presumed an acknowledged reversal on the part of those tapping her phone, and thus were they to be taken literally? No, that made no sense. Karin’s Amsterdam years notwithstanding, they did not know each other well enough to play cover-recover games; they had no history of intuitive communication under stress. Latham looked at his watch; it was 9:03. He would circle the area once more, then return to the Maison Rouge.

  “Américain!” He spun around at the sound. It was Karin, her face crowned by a blond wig, her right hand bandaged. “Walk to your left, quickly, as if I’d bumped into you. There’s a man taking photographs on the right. Meet me on the north path.”

  Latham did as he was told, relieved by knowing she was there but concerned by her words. He circled his way in the lackadaisical rhythm of the fountain crowds until he reached the flagstone path to his extreme right. He entered it, walked up the tree-lined tunnel thirty or forty feet, and waited. Two minutes later Karin arrived.… As if by an accident neither anticipated, they fell into each other’s arms, holding one another, not long, but long enough.

  “I’m sorry,” said De Vries, pushing herself gently away and uselessly brushing her blond wig with her bandaged right hand.

  “I’m not,” Drew interrupted, smiling. “I think I’ve wanted to do that for a couple of days now.”

  “Do what?”

  “Hold you.”

  “I was simply pleased to see that you were all right.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “That’s very nice.”

  “It was also nice to hold you.” Latham laughed softly. “Look, lady, you put the idea in my head. You were the one who said your excuse at the embassy was that you found me attractive, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “It was not a self-fulfilling wish, Drew. It was an excuse, strategically employed.”

  “Come on, I’m not Quasimodo, am I?”

  “No, you’re a rather large, not ungainly fellow who, I’m sure, many women find quite attractive.”

  “But not you.”

  “My concerns lie elsewhere.”

  “You mean I’m not Freddie—‘Freddie de V,’ the incomparable.”

  “No one could be Freddie, the good or the ugly.”

  “Does that mean I’m still in the race?”

  “What race?”

  “For your affections, maybe, as temporary and as little as they may be.”

  “Are you talking about sleeping with me?”

  “Hell, that’s down the road. Remember, I’m an American from New England. Way down the road, lady.”

  “You’re also a prevaricator.”

  “A what?”

  “I won’t say a liar, that’s too harsh.”

  “What?”

  “You’re also a brutal man who smashes other men into whatever it’s called in hockey matches. Oh, yes, I’ve heard. Harry told me.”

  “Only when they got in my way. Never gratuitously.”

  “Who made those decisions?”

  “I did, I guess.”

  “My point is made. You’re a belligerent individual.”

  “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

  “Only, at the moment, I’m grateful that you are.”

  “What?”

  “The man with the camera, at the other side of this fountain.”

  “What about him? People take pictures of Paris at night. Toulouse-Lautrec painted them, today they take photos.”

  “No, he’s a neo, I feel it, I know it.”

  “How?”

  “The way he stands, the way he’s so … so aggressive.”

  “That’s not a lot to go on.”

  “Then why is he here? How many people really take pictures at night in the Bois de Boulogne?”

  “You’ve got a point. Where is he?”

  “Directly across from us—or he was. On the south path.”

/>   “Stay here.”

  “No. I’ll go with you.”

  “Goddammit, do as I say.”

  “You cannot order me!”

  “You don’t have a gun, and even if you did, you couldn’t fire it. Your hand’s all wrapped up.”

  “I do have a weapon, and if you were more alert, you’d know I’m left-handed.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Together they raced through the trees until they reached the south path that led to the illuminated fountain. The man taking photographs was still there, ramrod-straight and snapping what seemed to be random shots of the strollers circling the fountain. Silently, Latham approached, his hand gripping the automatic in his belt. “You get your kicks taking pictures of people who don’t know they’re being photographed,” said Drew, tapping the man on the shoulder.

  The Blitzkrieger whipped around at his touch, staring at Drew in the dim light, his eyes bulging. “You!” he cried gutturally. “But no, not the same! Who are you?”

  “I’ve got one for you.” Latham grabbed the man by the throat, hurling him into the trunk of a tree. “Kroeger!” he shouted. “Who’s Gerhardt Kroeger?”

  The neo recovered quickly, instantly kicking his boot up into Drew’s groin; Latham leapt backward, avoiding the blow, and smashed the barrel of his automatic into the Nazi’s face. “You son of a bitch, you were looking for me, weren’t you?”

  “Nein!” screamed the neo, blood spreading across his face, partially blinding him. “You are not the man in the photograph!”

  “But someone like me, right? Same kind of face, sort of, right?”

  “You are crazy!” shrieked the Nazi, leveling a lethal chop to Drew’s neck; Latham gripped the wrist and twisted it violently counterclockwise. “I was only taking photographs!” The man fell into the bushes.

  “Now that we’ve established that,” said Drew breathlessly, straddling the neo, then suddenly crashing his knee into the man’s ribcage, “let’s talk about Kroeger!” Latham pressed the barrel of the automatic into the flesh between the Nazi’s eyes. “You tell me or you’ve got a tunnel in your head!”

  “I am prepared to die!”

  “That’s nice, because you’re about to. You’ve got five seconds, Adolf.… One, two, three … four—”