The Apocalypse Watch

by Robert Ludlum

  At the moment, however, such considerations were far distant concerns as he sat behind his large, cluttered desk and gazed at Consular Operations’ Wesley Sorenson. “I’ve heard of gorillashit before, but this makes King Kong look like an organ grinder’s pet,” he said calmly.

  “I realize that, Mr. Vice President—”

  “Cut the crap, Wes, we go back too long for that,” Keller interrupted. “I’m the one who tried to promote your name for the DCI spot, remember? The only person who shot me down was you; the whole damn Senate would have been behind me.”

  “I never wanted the job, Howard.”

  “So you took on a tougher one. A small bastard operation that’s supposed to coordinate between State, the CIA, and the administration, say nothing of the gung-ho uniforms at the Pentagon. You’re a lunatic, Wes. You of all people know that’s an impossible job.”

  “Granted, I thought it would be more in the area of advise and consent—no, don’t say it, that’s the Congress’s job.”

  “Thank you for saving my breath.… Now, to add to the antics of the asylum you’re in, two Nazis tell you I’m with them, part of their new Fascist uprising. It’d be hysterically funny except for the quicksand. It was Hitler who said if you told a large enough lie long enough, it would be believed.… This is large enough, outrageous enough, Wes.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Howard, I’d never let it circulate!”

  “Maybe you won’t be able to stop it. Sooner or later your two skinheads will have to be interrogated by others, among them administration haters who’ll grab a brass ring even if it’s lead.”

  “I won’t let it go that far. I’ll shoot the bastards first.”

  “That’s not the American way, is it?” asked Keller, chuckling.

  “If it isn’t, I’m pretty un-American. I’ve done it before.”

  “That was in the field, and you were much younger.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, they also implicated the Speaker of the House, and he’s in the other party.”

  “My God, how convenient. A direct line of succession to the presidency. The man himself, then the VP, followed by the Speaker. Your Nazis know our Constitution.”

  “One of them is pretty well educated, I’ll say that.”

  “The Speaker …? That sweet, kindly old Baptist whose only real sin is praying while he makes deals he doesn’t like because it’s the only way to get legislation through? How the hell did they arrive at him?”

  “They said he was of German ancestry and claimed conscientious objector status during World War Two.”

  “He also volunteered as a noncombatant medic and was severely wounded while saving soldiers’ lives. Now your Nazis aren’t too bright. If they did their research properly, they’d have learned he’s been wearing a brace for his back ever since they brought him out of Omaha Beach, praying for kids he left behind while damn near dying himself. It’s part of his Silver Star citation. Some Hitler goon!”

  “Listen to me, Howard,” said Sorenson, leaning forward in his chair. “I came to you because I thought you should know, not because I thought there was an iota of credence to the accusation. Surely, you realize that.”

  “I would hope so, and considering what’s happening all over this country, ‘forewarned is forearmed’ takes on new significance.”

  “Not just here. In London and Paris they’re crawling through cellars and peeking under beds, looking for Nazis.”

  “Unfortunately they’ve found a few—unfortunate in the sense that even a very few inflame the nostrils of the hunters.” Keller reached for a newspaper on his desk; it was folded so a front-page article on the lower right could be read. “Look at this,” the Vice President added. “It’s today’s Houston paper.”

  “Goddammit!” muttered Sorenson, taking the newspaper and reading, the short headline striking him instantly.

  Nazis on Hospital Staff?

  Patients’ Complaints Cite Abusive Language

  HOUSTON, July 14 - Based on statements, written and oral, the specific names withheld by the Board of Trustees, the Meridian Hospital has begun an investigation of its staff. The complaints center around numerous remarks by doctors and nurses which were reported to be blatantly anti-Semitic, as well as insulting to African Americans and Catholics. Meridian is a nonsectarian institution, but it is common knowledge that its clientele are predominately Protestant, a large percentage Episcopalian. It is also no secret that among the wealthier country clubs the hospital is referred to as the “WASP watering hole,” a play on words, as the Meridian has an active and highly confidential alcoholic rehabilitation annex located twenty miles south of the city.

  This newspaper has received copies of twelve letters sent by former patients to the hospital’s administration office, but in fairness, and until the situation is clearer, we withhold publication to protect people whose names appear.

  “At least they didn’t identify anyone,” said Sorenson, slamming the folded paper down on the desk.

  “How long do you think that’ll last? They sell papers, remember?”

  “It’s sickening.”

  “It’s spreading, Wes. In Milwaukee there was massive sabotage done to a brewery two days ago because the beer and the owner’s name were German.”

  “I read about it. I couldn’t finish my breakfast.”

  “How far did you read?”

  “About what I did just now. Why?”

  “The name was German, but the family’s Jewish.”

  “Revolting.”

  “And in San Francisco a city councilman named Schwinn resigned because of threats to his family. Reason: He said in a speech that he had no objection to gays, many were his friends, but he felt they were having an impact on the public funding of the arts far beyond their representative numbers. His logic may be questionable—without gays the arts would be considerably diminished—but he had a political point and he was entitled to it.… He was called a Nazi and his kids were harassed going to school.”

  “Sweet Jesus, it’s happening all over again, isn’t it, Howard? Just switch labels and the snarling dogs are barking at heels, any heels.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Keller. “I’ve got a lot of enemies in this town, and they’re not all in the opposing party. Say our two neos are subpoenaed by the Senate and state with Germanic authority that, of course, I’m one of them, the Speaker of the House also. Do you think either of us will survive?”

  “They’re outrageous liars. Certainly you will.”

  “Ah, but the seeds are planted, Wes. Our records will be scrutinized by hostile zealots, extracting out of context hundreds of remarks we’ve made that, put together, support the outrage.… You just mentioned the name Jesus. Did you know that the old KGB built an entire dossier on Christ, basing its conclusions solely on the New Testament, and concluding that he was the consummate Marxist, a true Communist?”

  “I not only know it, I read it,” replied the director of Cons-Op, smiling. “It was damned convincing, except I’d say it showed him to be more of a Socialist-reformer, hardly a Communist. There was never any reference to his advocating a single political authority.”

  “ ‘Render unto Caesar,’ Wes?”

  “It’s a gray area, I’d have to go back and reread.” Both men laughed softly; Sorenson went on. “But I see what you mean. Like statistics, anything can mean anything when it’s selectively extracted from a body of work.”

  “So what do we do?” asked the Vice President.

  “I shoot the sons of bitches, what else?”

  “No, others will simply take their place. No, you make assholes out of them. You demand a Senate hearing, a full-fledged circus, and make them laughingstocks.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Not at all. It could be the remedy for the madness that’s infected this country, the U.K., and France—and God knows where else.”

  “Howard, that’s crazy! Their appearance on television alone would fuel the fires o
f vigilantism!”

  “Not if it’s done correctly. As they have an agenda, so must we.”

  “What sort of an agenda? You’re beyond me.”

  “You bring in the clowns,” said Keller.

  “The clowns? What clowns?”

  “It’ll take a little digging, but you bring in both the pro and the con—witnesses who support the allegations and those who vehemently oppose them. The latter will be easy to find; the Speaker and I have basically honorable records and we’ll have reasonable men and women to speak for us from the White House on down. But the ‘pros,’ our clowns, that’ll be a bit more difficult, but they’re the key.”

  “Key to what?”

  “To the door behind which lunacy thrives unfettered. You’ve got to find a fair number of crazies who at first appear perfectly sane and even courteous but underneath are fanatics. They should be unwavering zealots, devoted to their cause, but who, when stripped under cross-examination, break and reveal themselves.”

  “That seems awfully dangerous,” said the director of Cons-Op, frowning. “Suppose they don’t break?”

  “You’re not a lawyer, Wes, I am, and I assure you it’s the oldest trick in trial law—in the hands of the right attorney. Good Lord, even plays and films have caught on to it because it’s damn good melodrama.”

  “I’m beginning to see. The Caine Mutiny and Captain Queeg—”

  “And just about every Perry Mason show that was ever written,” completed Keller.

  “But those were fictions, Howard. Entertainments. We’re talking about reality, and the neos exist!”

  “So did the ‘Commies’ and the ‘Pinkos’ and the ‘fellow travelers,’ and we damn near lost sight of the quiet professional Soviet spies because we were chasing illuminated ducks in a hundred galleries while Moscow laughed at us.”

  “I’d have to agree with you there, but I’m not sure the analogy fits. The Cold War was real, I’m a product of it. How can lawyers deny what’s happening now? Not the false ducks in a gallery, like you and the Speaker, but the real vultures like that scientist Metz, or the British assistant to the foreign secretary, Mosedale.… And there’s another, but it’s too soon to go into it.”

  “I’m not suggesting for a minute that the hunt for the real vultures slow down. I’d just like to puncture the ballooning mania where everybody’s a potential Nazi and nobody’s a false duck. Furthermore, I believe you agree with me.”

  “I do. I just don’t know how a Senate hearing can do it. I see only a force-eighteen storm over the waters.”

  “Let me explain from recent events, first stating that I served in the military. If the attorney, that fellow Sullivan, who advised Oliver North, had, instead, been a lawyer for the Senate committee, Mr. North would still be sitting in a stockade rather than be contemplating his next run for public office. Pure and simple, he was a liar who broke his oath as a soldier, a disgrace to his uniform and his country who coated his illegalities in self-serving, sanctimonious bromides that shifted his guilt to some higher power—read that as God—who had nothing to do with what he did.”

  “You’re saying a lawyer could have short-circuited him?”

  “I just suggested one, and I can think of at least a dozen others. During those days my colleagues and I would sit in one of our offices, enjoying a few drinks while watching the hearings on television. The running joke was which of our legal brethren could bring the lying bastard to his knees—crying, of course—and we were a mix of both parties. We came up with a fiery senator from the Midwest, a former prosecutor who annoyed the hell out of us but who was a thundering advocate.”

  “You think he could have done it?”

  “Without question. You see, he was also a marine and he’d won the Congressional Medal of Honor. We figured we’d have him in his dress blues with the purple ribbon and the gold medal around his neck and let him loose.”

  “Would he have done it?”

  “I remember his words. ‘The little whiner isn’t worth it. I’m working like hell to get industry into my state.’ But yes, I think he would have liked to.”

  “I’ll do some quiet checking around in the files,” said Sorenson, standing up. “I still have grave doubts, however. Pandora’s boxes aren’t attractive to me, it’s a legacy from my years in the field. Come to think of it, I’m about to open one in less than an hour.”

  “Care to tell me about it?”

  “Not now, Howard, but maybe later. It’s possible I’ll need your intercession with the President, if only to keep our Secretary of State in line.”

  “The trouble’s in the diplomatic area, then?”

  “To the top of an embassy.”

  “Bollinger’s a pain in the ass, but they like him in Europe. They think he’s an intellectual. They don’t realize that his thoughtful pauses are filled more with how-can-we-spin-this-to-our-advantage than with real solutions.”

  “I’d have to say I agree. I’ve always found him to be lacking in deep commitments.”

  “You’re wrong, Wes. He’s got one really deep commitment: himself. And fortunately for us, another to the President, which naturally reverberates back to himself.”

  “Does the President know this?”

  “Of course he does, he’s a very bright man, even brilliant. It’s a quid pro quo. I think it’s fair to say that our man in the Oval Office has needed a master spin doctor every now and then.”

  “No question about it, but as you say, he’s bright, he’s learning.”

  “If I could only get him to kick more ass around this town, he’d learn faster. It’s much easier that way.”

  “Thanks for your time, Howard—Mr. Vice President, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Don’t be a stranger, Mr. Director. We dinosaurs have to guide the young two-legged creatures stumbling out of the water.”

  “I wonder if we’re capable.”

  “If not us, who, then? The Adam Bollingers of this world? The witch hunters?”

  “Talk to you soon, Howard.”

  Three thousand miles away in Paris it was midafternoon, the sun warm and bright, the sky clear, a perfect day for strolling along the boulevards, or walking through the Tuileries Gardens, or catching the breezes from the Seine, watching the boats glide over the water and under the myriad bridges. Paris in summer was an unmatched blessing.

  For Janine Clunes Courtland the day itself was not only a blessing, but a symbol of triumph. She was free for a day or two, free from the middle-class morality of a boring husband who still mooned over another wife, repeating her name frequently in his sleep. For a moment or two she considered how lovely, how fulfilling it would be to have an assignation with someone, a lover who could satisfy her as had the many virile young students in Chicago, carefully selected, and the reason she lived an hour away from the university. There was an attaché at the German Embassy, an attractive man in his early thirties who had flirted with her somewhat obviously; she could phone him and he would come running to wherever she suggested, she knew that. But it could not be, as delightful and as tempting the thought was; her free time had to be put to more immediate, less selfish, interests. She had excused herself from D and R for the length of time her husband, the ambassador, would be away, for there were domestic chores far more easily accomplished in his absence. No one argued, naturally, and, naturally, she let Daniel’s chief aide know she was scouting the shops for various new fabrics for their quarters.… No, she could not accept an embassy limousine; it was an exercise in personal taste and should not be charged to the State Department.

  How easily the words came. Then, why shouldn’t they? She had been trained since she was nine years old for her life’s work. She did, however, permit the aide to call her a taxi.

  Janine had been given the address and the contact code for a member of the Brotherhood before she left Washington. It was a bootmaker’s shop in the Champs-Élysées, the name “André” to be used twice in a brief conversation, such as “André says you’re the best bo
otmaker in Paris, and André is almost never wrong.” She gave the taxi driver the address and sat back, contemplating what information she would send to Germany.… The truth, of course, but phrased in such a way that the leadership would not only admire her extraordinary accomplishments but see the wisdom of bringing her to Bonn. After all, the ambassadorship to France was one of the most important diplomatic posts in Europe, at the moment so sensitive that the State Department had reached into its corps of experienced professionals rather than accept a raw political appointee. And she was that professional’s wife. She had been told that the recently divorced foreign service officer was soon to emerge as a star of the department. The rest was easy; Daniel Courtland was lonely and depressed, in search of the comfort she provided.

  The taxi arrived at the bootmaker’s shop, yet it was more than a shop, rather, a small leather emporium. Glistening boots, saddles, and various riding accoutrements filled the tasteful front windows. Janine Clunitz got out and dismissed the taxi.

  Thirty yards behind the departing cab, the Deuxième vehicle pulled into a no-parking space. The driver picked up the ultrahigh-frequency phone and was immediately connected to Moreau’s office. “Yes,” said Moreau himself, as no secretary had been chosen to replace the murdered Monique d’Agoste, whose death was kept secret under the pretext of illness.

  “Madame Courtland just entered the Saddle and Bootery in the Champs-Élysées.”

  “Purveyor to wealthy equestrians,” said the Deuxième chief. “Strange, there was nothing in the ambassador’s dossier that mentioned a fondness for horses.”

  “The store is also famous for their boots, sir. Very durable and quite comfortable, I’m told.”

  “Courtland in boots, durable or not?”

  “Perhaps the madame.”

  “If she’s partial to such footwear, I suspect she’d march right in to Charles Jourdan or the Ferragamo shop in Saint-Honoré.”