The Apocalypse Watch

by Robert Ludlum

“Not after what had been done to them, certainly.”

  “Maybe not, but a lot of those clowns are in the private sector now, making twenty times what I make due to the mystique of their past employment. Several of the lesser ones, who couldn’t decipher a cereal box code, are heading up the security of big corporations.”

  “That sounds ‘nuts,’ an American expression, I believe.”

  “Of course it is. We’re all nuts. It’s not what we do, it’s what we did—on paper, that is, no matter how ridiculous. Blackmail is the order of the day, from top to bottom, my dear.”

  “Why haven’t you resigned yourself, Colonel?”

  “Why?” Witkowski sat in the nearest chair, his eyes on the bedroom door. “Let me put it this way, as archaic as it may sound. Because I’m very good at what I do, which doesn’t say much for my character—being serpentine and suspicious are not exactly admirable traits—but if they’re refined and applied to the work I do, they can be assets. The American entertainer Will Rogers once said, ‘I never met a man I didn’t like.’ I say, I never met a man in my business I didn’t suspect. Perhaps it’s the European in me, my heritage. I’m Polish by descent; actually it was my first language.”

  “And Poland, which has given more to the arts and sciences than most other countries, has been betrayed more than most countries,” said De Vries, nodding.

  “I suppose that’s part of it. I guess you could say it’s ingrained.”

  “Freddie trusted you.”

  “I wish I could return the compliment. I never trusted your husband. He was a burning fuse I couldn’t control, couldn’t stamp out. His death at the hands of the Stasi was inevitable.”

  “He was right,” said Karin, her voice rising. “The Stasi and their ilk are now the core of the Nazis.”

  “His methods were wrong, his rage misplaced. Both betrayed his cover and he was killed for it. He wouldn’t listen to us, to me.”

  “I know, I know. He wouldn’t listen to me either.… By then, however, it didn’t really matter.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Freddie became violent, not only to me but to anyone who disagreed with him. He was enormously strong—trained by your commando troops in Belgium—and came to think he was invincible. At the end he was as fanatic as his enemies.”

  “Then you understand where I come from when I say I never trusted your husband.”

  “Naturally. Our last months in Amsterdam were not days I care to relive.”

  Suddenly the door to Witkowski’s bedroom flung open, Latham in its frame. “Bingo!” he shouted. “You were right, Stanley. That bastard down there in the street is Reynolds, Alan Reynolds in Communications!”

  “Who?”

  “How many times have you gone down to Communications, Stosh?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe three or four times in the last year.”

  “He’s the mole. I saw his face.”

  “Then something’s about to happen, and I suggest we take countermeasures.”

  “What do we do and where do we start?”

  “Mrs. de Vries—Karin—would you please go to my bedroom window and let us know what develops?”

  “On my way,” said Karin, rising from the couch and running into the colonel’s room.

  “Now what?” asked Drew.

  “The obvious,” answered Witkowski. “Weapons first.”

  “I have an automatic with a full clip.” Latham pulled the gun from his belt.

  “I’ll give you another one with an extra clip.”

  “You’re expecting the worst, then?”

  “I’ve been expecting it for nearly five years now, and if you haven’t, it’s no wonder your flat was blown apart.”

  “Well, I have this instrument that stops anyone from opening the door.”

  “No comment. But if the bastards send two or three after you, Lord love a duck, I’d surely like to ship a couple back to Washington. It’d make up for the one we lost there.” The colonel walked to an imposing Mondrian print on the wall and swiveled it back, revealing a safe. He spun the dial back and forth, opened the large vault, and withdrew two sidearms and an Uzi, which he clipped to his belt. He threw an automatic to Drew, who caught it, followed by a clip of ammunition which Latham missed; it fell to the floor.

  “Why didn’t you throw them both at once?” said an irritated Drew, bending down to retrieve the clip.

  “I wanted to watch your reactions. Not bad. Not good, but not bad.”

  “Did you also mark the bottle?”

  “Didn’t have to. With what’s left in your glass, you’ve had maybe a couple of ounces during the last hour. You’re a big fella, like me; you can handle it.”

  “Thank you, mother. Now what the hell do we do?”

  “Most of it’s been done. I simply have to activate the externals.” Witkowski walked to the kitchen sink, unscrewed the chromium faucet in the center, reached into the orifice, and pulled out two wires; each end was capped with a small plastic terminal. He broke the seals and pressed the wires together; five loud beeps filled the adjoining rooms. “There we are,” said the colonel, replacing the faucet and returning to the living room area.

  “Where are we, O Wizard?”

  “Let’s start with the fire escapes; in these old buildings there are two—one in my bedroom, the other over there in the alcove, in what I foolishly call my library. We’re on the third floor, the building has seven. By activating the external security devices, the fire escapes between the top of the second floor and the bottom of the fourth are electrified, the voltage sufficient to cause unconsciousness but not death.”

  “Suppose whoever the evil people are simply walk up the stairs or take the elevator?”

  “Naturally, one has to respect the privacy and civil rights of one’s neighbors. There are three other flats on this floor. My apartment is on the left front quadrant, the door twenty feet from the nearest resident on my right. You probably didn’t notice, but there is a thick, rather attractive Oriental runner leading to my door.”

  “And once you turn on your externals,” interrupted Latham, “something happens when the bad guys step on the rug, is that it?”

  “You’re exactly right. Four-hundred-watt floodlights go on, accompanied by a siren that can be heard in the place de la Concorde.”

  “You won’t catch anybody that way. They’ll run like hell.”

  “Not on the fire escape; and if they use the stairs, they’ll come right into our welcoming arms.”

  “What? How?”

  “On the floor below is a miscreant, a Hungarian who deals in, shall we say, misappropriated jewels. He’s barely above small-time and does no great harm, and I’ve befriended him. A phone call or a tap on his door and we wait inside his apartment. Whoever comes racing down these stairs will have bullets in their legs—I trust you’re a decent shot, I wouldn’t want anyone killed.”

  “Colonel!” Karin de Vries’s voice from the bedroom was emphatic. “A van just pulled in front of the car; men are climbing out.… Four, five, six—six men in dark clothing.”

  “They really must want you, youngster,” said Witkowski as he and Drew ran into the bedroom, joining Karin at the window.

  “A couple of them are carrying knapsacks,” said Latham.

  “One of them is talking to the driver of the car,” added De Vries. “He’s obviously telling him to leave. He’s backing away.”

  “The others are spreading out, examining the building,” completed the colonel, touching Karin’s arm, forcing her to turn to him. “The young fellow and I are going to leave.” The woman’s eyes flashed in alarm. “Not to worry, we’ll be right below. Close the bedroom door and bolt it; it’s steel-plate and no one could break it open without a truck or a ten-man battering ram.”

  “For Christ’s sake, call the police or at least embassy security!” Drew was cool but firm.

  “Unless I’m grossly mistaken, my friendly neighbors will reach the police, but not before you an
d I have a chance to grab one or two of the bastards for ourselves.”

  “And you’d lose them if our security was involved,” Karin broke in. “They’d be forced to cooperate with the police, who’d take everyone into custody.”

  “You’re very quick,” Witkowski agreed, nodding at her in the dim light from the street. “You’ll hear a loud siren from the hallway, and most likely a great deal of electric static from the fire escape—”

  “It’s wired. You activated the current.”

  “You knew about that?” asked Latham, astonished.

  “In Amsterdam, Freddie did the same with ours.”

  “I taught him,” said the colonel without emphasis. “Come on, chłopak, there’s no time to waste.”

  Eighty-five seconds later, the irritated Hungarian had been persuaded to accept the price offered by an influential American who had interceded for him in the past and might be helpful in the future. Witkowski and Drew stood by the downstairs neighbor’s door, which was open less than an inch. The waiting was interminable, the time elapsed nearly eight minutes. “Something’s wrong,” whispered the colonel. “It’s not reasonable.”

  “No one’s come up the stairs and there’s no static from either fire escape,” said Latham. “Maybe they’re still casing the building.”

  “That doesn’t make sense either. These old structures are open books, and like books on a shelf, close together.… Jesus, ‘close together …’ The knapsacks!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m a damn fool, that’s what. They’ve got grappling hooks and ropes! They’re crossing from one building to another and scaling down the stone. Out! Upstairs as fast as we can. And for God’s sake, don’t step on the rug!”

  Karin sat in the shadows across from the window, her weapon in her hand, listening for the sounds of high-voltage electricity from outside. None came, and it was now nearly ten minutes since the colonel and Latham had left. She began to wonder. Witkowski, by his own admission, was suspicious of everyone and everything to the point of paranoia, and Drew was exhausted. Was it possible all of them were wrong? Had the colonel mistaken a jealous lover or a frightened husband for something sinister? And had the tired Latham seen a face that reminded him of Alan Reynolds in Communications but was someone else’s entirely? Were the men in the van, men who moved so quickly they had to be young, merely a group of university students returning from a camping trip or a late night in Paris? She put the gun down on a small table beside the chair, and stretched, her head arched back and yawning. Good heavens, she needed sleep.

  And then, like an enormous combination of thunder and lightning, a figure crashed through the window, shattering glass and wood, landing on its feet and releasing a rope. Karin sprang out of the chair, instinctively rushing backward, her bandaged right hand groping for anything and everything. And then came another silhouetted, dare-devil intruder, sliding on his rope until he landed by the bed.

  “Who are you?” screamed De Vries in German, collecting what thoughts she could, realizing that her gun was on the small table. “What do you want here?”

  “You speak German,” said the first invader, “so you know what we want! Why else would you speak our language?”

  “It is second to my own, and few understand my native Walloon.” Karin circled, approaching the table.

  “Where is he, Mrs. de Vries?” asked the second man by the bed menacingly. “You won’t get out of here, you know. Our comrades will block you; they’re on their way up now. They just needed our signal and the window was it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Since you know who I am, does it shock you that I’m having an affair with the owner of this flat?”

  “It’s an empty bed, not even slept in—”

  “We had a lovers’ quarrel. He drank too much and we fought.” Karin was within arm’s reach of her weapon, and neither of the Nazis had bothered to unholster his. “You’ve never had such fights with your women? If not, you’re children!” She lunged for the gun, grabbed it, and fired into the first neo as the stunned second unstrapped his holster. “Stop or you’re dead!” said De Vries.

  As she spoke, the steel-plated bedroom door swung open, crashing into the wall. “Oh, my God!” roared Witkowski, snapping on the light. “She’s got a live one.”

  “I thought it took a truck or a battering ram to get in here,” said Karin, visibly shaken.

  “Not if you’ve got grandchildren who visit you in Paris; they can get real playful. There’s a concealed button in the frame.” It was as far as the colonel got. An ear-shattering siren erupted, so loud that within seconds lights were turned on in the nearby buildings.

  “They’re coming to stop you from leaving!” cried De Vries.

  “Let’s welcome them, youngster,” said Witkowski. He and Latham ran through the living room to the front door. The colonel opened it, he and Drew standing concealed behind the door itself. Two men rushed in, their automatic weapons on rapid fire, blowing up whatever was in their paths. The colonel and Drew took aim, and shooting three rounds apiece, shattered the arms and hands of the killers. They collapsed, writhing and moaning. “Cover them!” shouted Witkowski, racing into the kitchen. Seconds later the siren stopped and the hallway lights were out. The colonel returned, giving his orders rapidly as clamoring footsteps, growing fainter, could be heard running down the hallway steps. “Tie these sons of bitches up and throw them into the guest bathroom along with the live one in my bedroom. We’ll give the gendarmes the bastard Karin sent to Valhalla.”

  “The police will want to know what happened, Stan.”

  “Until tomorrow—this morning—that’s their problem. I just want to pull some diplomatic strings and get these scum on one of our supersonics to Washington. With no announcement except to Sorenson.”

  Suddenly a scream came from the bedroom; it was Karin. Drew raced through the door and saw her, weapon hanging at her side, staring at the still, wide-eyed figure across the bed. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. He reached for his collar and bit into it. Seconds later he collapsed.”

  “Cyanide.” Latham felt the young neo’s throat for a pulse. “Deutschland über Alles,” he said softly. “I wonder if this kid’s mother and father will be proud. Christ, I hope not.”

  16

  Their hands and forearms bandaged, their shirt collars ripped off, Zero Five, Paris, sat with Paris Two in the cramped quarters of the jet flying across the Atlantic to Washington. It was unlikely they would be executed, thought Five; the Americans were weak in that area, especially if a prisoner appeared irrational and repentant. He nudged the scholarly Zero Two, who was dozing. “Wake up,” he said in German.

  “Was ist?”

  “What should we do when we get there? Have you any ideas?”

  “A couple,” replied Two, yawning.

  “Let’s hear them.”

  “The Americans are, by nature, given to violence, although their leaders pontificate otherwise. Equally ingrained is a proclivity for seeking out conspiracies, no matter how remote they may be. Our leaders have their mistresses, who cares? Their leaders enjoy a whore, and suddenly they’re tied to the overlords of crime. Do such men really need criminals to provide such women for them? It’s ludicrous, but the Americans accept it; their hypocritical puritanism rejects natural law. A life of monogamy is simply not the nature of the male animal.”

  “What the hell are you saying? You’re not answering me.

  “Certainly I am. When we get there we feed both their hypocrisy and their need for conspiracy.”

  “How?”

  “They believe, or surely must believe by now, that we’re an elite branch of the Brüderschaft, and in a way we are, although not in the way they think. What we must do is to pretend we really are important. That we have ties to the zealots in Bonn who see us as the true storm troopers, who confide in us because they need us.”

  “But they don’t. We have no names, only codes
that change twice weekly. The Americans will put us under drugs and learn this.”

  “These days the truth serums are no more reliable than hypnosis in sophisticated circles; one can usually be programmed to resist them. U.S. intelligence knows that.”

  “We haven’t been programmed.”

  “Why should we be? As you say, we have no names, only codes authorizing us to proceed with our orders. If we’re subjected to chemicals and we reveal those useless codes, they can be only more impressed.”

  “You’re still not answering me. I liked you better when you didn’t talk so much and were less erudite. How do we deal with the Americans?”

  “First, we acknowledge our importance, our close ties with the leadership both in Europe and in America. Then, with reluctance, we also admit that there’s a fair degree of hypocrisy in our actions. Our lifestyles are extravagant—concealed, expensive residences, unlimited funds, the most voluptuous women whenever we want them. The fantasies of every young man are our reality, and the cause that makes this possible is the cause we work for, not necessarily a cause we would die for.”

  “Very good, Two, very convincing.”

  “It’s the foundation. From there we appeal to their appetite for conspiracy. We reemphasize our importance, our influence, the fact that we’re constantly consulted and must be in contact with our counterparts all over the world in these days of supersonic travel.”

  “Especially the United States, of course,” said Zero Five, Paris.

  “Of course. And the information we have—specific names, and in the absence of names, positions in both government and civilian industry—is truly shocking. Men and women they could not imagine are sympathetic to the Brotherhood of the Watch.”

  “That’s being done now.”

  “We’ll escalate the process to new heights. After all, no one’s heard it from ‘the horse’s mouth,’ as the Americans say. If our computers are right, and I expect they are, we’re the first of the new Nazi elite to be taken alive. Actually, we’re trophies, prisoners of war of the highest order. We might very well be given special privileges if we appear to waver. I’m rather looking forward to the next few days.”