The Apocalypse Watch

by Robert Ludlum

  “What are we going to do if Courtland’s wife stays inside?” asked Latham.

  “I’m not sure,” replied Moreau. “On the one hand, we know she’s come here, which validates your assumption that this is a Brüderschaft contact, yet on the other, do we want whoever they are to know that we know it? Is it better to be patient and keep this place, this poor excuse for an office, under constant surveillance and learn who goes where, or do we force the issue by assaulting it?”

  “I go for the second,” answered Latham. “We’re wasting time if we don’t. Pull the bitch out and take her contacts.”

  “A tempting shortcut, Drew, but a dangerous one, and conceivably counterproductive. If, as we both now believe, this crude shambles of an amusement park is a vital link to the Brotherhood, do we take it out, leaving a shocking void, or do we let it stand and learn more?”

  “I say we take it out.”

  “Sending alarms to the neo-Nazis throughout Europe? There are other ways, my friend. We can tap into their phones, their fax machines, their ultrahigh-frequency radio transmissions, if they exist. We could be giving up a golden prize for a stuffed donkey. Courtland’s wife can be watched, this park kept under surveillance twenty-four hours a day. We must think about our actions very carefully.”

  “You’re so goddamned French!… You talk too much.”

  “Fortunately or unfortunately, it is my heritage, our Gallic skepticism.”

  “And you’re probably right. I just wish you weren’t. I’m impatient.”

  “You had a brother most brutally murdered, Drew. I did not. Were I in your place, I’d feel the same way.”

  “I wonder if Harry would.”

  “That’s an odd thing to say.” Moreau studied Latham’s face, noting the distant, briefly unfocused look in the American’s eyes.

  “De sang-froid,” said Drew softly.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Nothing, nothing at all.” Latham blinked several times, the reality of the moment returned. “What do you think Jacques will find?”

  “The ambassador’s wife, if he can,” replied François, the wild driver. “I hope he does, for the sooner I get home, the better. My daughters were crying their eyes out when they left with Yvonne.… Sorry, Monsieur Director, I don’t mean to allow personal matters to interfere—which, of course, they will not. In truth, they are inconsequential.”

  “No need to apologize, François. A man who has no life outside the Deuxième is a man lacking in perspective, in itself a dangerous condition.”

  “Alors!” said the driver, looking up the dirt thorough-fare.

  “What is it?” asked Moreau.

  “That fellow in the funny costume, the orange stockings and the blue shirt!”

  “What about him?” said Drew.

  “He’s looking for someone. He keeps running back and forth—he’s coming this way, past the entrance.”

  “Separate!” ordered the chief of the Deuxième.

  The three men peeled off in different directions as the young, bearded man in the orange tights raced by, intermittently stopping and glancing around. François walked between two of the employees’ tents, his back to the path. A minute later a pounding orange blur ran feverishly, returning to the ramshackle office labeled Management. Moreau and Latham joined François by the narrow space between the tents. “He sure was looking for someone,” said Drew. “Was it you?”

  “I see no reason why,” answered the driver, frowning, “but I seem to remember a speck, a splash of orange, when I turned away from my wife and children and called all of you.”

  “Your radio, perhaps,” said Moreau. “But, as you say, there was no reason for you to be singled out.… I believe there’s a rather common explanation. Such places as these small amusement parks are havens for eluding taxes. Everything is cash money, and they print the tickets themselves. Someone probably assumed you were from the Department of Taxation, clocking the sales. Not at all unusual; those investigators are subject to bribery.”

  “Mes amis!” Jacques, minus his inebriated mode, rushed up to them, taking his jacket and tie from François. “If Madame Courtland went into the manager’s office, she is still inside. There’s no other exit.”

  “We’ll wait,” said Moreau. “Again, we’ll separate but stay in the area, one of us at all times watching the door. We’ll rotate, twenty minutes a turn. I’ll be first, and remember, keep your radios where you can hear the signal.”

  “I’ll take over from you,” said Drew, looking at his watch.

  “And I from you, monsieur,” added Jacques.

  “I’ll follow him,” completed François.

  Two hours passed, each man having spent double duty at his post, when the chief of the Deuxième ordered them to meet at the tents west of the south entrance. “Jacques,” said Moreau, “are you certain there was no door on either side or at the rear of the building?”

  “Not even a window, Claude. Except for those in front, there’s not a single window.”

  “It’s beginning to get dark,” offered François. “Perhaps she’s waiting for it to become darker still, then she’ll leave when the late-afternoon crowds head home.”

  “A possibility, but again, why?”

  “She got away from your unit on the Champs-Élysées,” said Latham, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

  “There was no way she could have known she was under surveillance, monsieur,” objected Jacques.

  “Maybe somebody told her.”

  “That adds an entirely different dimension, Drew. One we have no evidence of.”

  “I’m searching, that’s all. It’s possible she’s just paranoid—possible, hell, such a person would have to be.… Let me ask all of you. Who did you see going out of that door? I saw the weirdo in the orange tights; he met with someone in a clown costume, who was waiting for him.”

  “I saw two hideously made-up women who looked like they came from an impoverished sheikh’s harem,” said Jacques.

  “Could either of them have been Courtland’s wife?” asked Moreau quickly.

  “Negative. The same thought struck me, so I reverted to the drunken exercise and literally bumped into both. They were washed-out hags, one had terrible breath.”

  “You see how accomplished he is,” said the Deuxième chief to Latham. “And you, François?”

  “There was only a tall man, in large dark glasses, about our American’s size, dressed in casual but expensive clothing. I suspect he was the owner, as he checked the door to see if it was locked.”

  “Then, if Madame Courtland has not emerged, and the office is locked up for the night, we’re all saying she’s still in there, not so?”

  “Definitely,” replied Drew. “She could be in there for any number of reasons, including a pristine phone call while the ambassador’s in Washington.… Which of you is the best second-story man?”

  “Second story?” asked François.

  “He means opening locked doors and illegally entering places,” clarified Moreau.

  “What has that to do with two stories?” asked the perplexed driver.

  “Never mind, the answer is Jacques.”

  “You’re really talented,” said Latham.

  “If François was a getaway driver, I suspect my friend Jacques was probably a jewel thief before seeing the light and joining our organization,” Moreau said.

  “That also is merde, monsieur,” said Jacques, grinning. “Monsieur le Directeur has strange ways of complimenting us. However, the Bureau sent me to a locksmith’s training school for a month. With the proper tools, all locks are vulnerable, for the principles are the same, with the exception of the most recently developed computerized ones.”

  “That dilapidated hovel looks as computerized as an outdoor toilet. Go to work, Jacques, we’ll be across from you on the other side.” The locksmith-trained Deuxième agent walked rapidly back to the crude building as the others followed, staying in the growing shadows on the left of the dirt thorou
ghfare. Within moments Claude Moreau’s judgment was proven grossly wrong; a clamor of bells and sirens suddenly erupted, echoing throughout the park. Guards in various dress, some uniformed, others in outrageous apparel—clowns, half-naked sword swallowers, dwarfs, and tiger-skinned Africans—converged on the violated structure with the aggressiveness of a Mongol assault. Jacques fled the scene, gesturing to his companions to evacuate! They did so, running as fast as they could.

  “What happened?” shouted Latham once they were in the Deuxième vehicle and speeding away.

  “Beyond the tumblers, which were easy to penetrate,” answered the breathless Jacques, “there had to be an electronic scanner that determined the weight and the density of the instrument that caused the tumblers to fall into place.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You find it every day with the newest automobiles, monsieur. The small black chip in the ignition key; without it you cannot start the motor. In the most expensive cars, if you try, sirens will go off.”

  “So much for your outhouse, Claude.”

  “What can I say? I was wrong, but it told us something, did it not? Le Pare de Joie is every bit the vital Brüderschaft drop we believed it was.”

  “But now they know it’s been penetrated.”

  “Not so, Drew. We have backups for such emergencies, in cooperation with the police and the Sûreté.”

  “What?”

  “There are scores of felons every week, many first-time offenders whose distressed circumstances called for their actions but who are basically decent human beings. Jean Valjean in Les Misérables is the perfect example.”

  “Christ, you talk too much. What are you trying to say?”

  “We have lists of such would-be criminals serving mandatory sentences of, say, six months to a year. In exchange for taking the blame for one more felony—such as attempting to rob an amusement park—their sentences are reduced and in some cases their records expunged.”

  “Shall I get to work on it?” asked Jacques from the front seat, reaching for the car phone.

  “Please do.” As his subordinate officer dialed and began speaking, Moreau explained. “Within fifteen or twenty minutes the police will call the park’s security, stating that they caught a car racing away and the two men inside were known burglars. Is the scenario clear?”

  “I think so. Naturally, they’ll ask if there was a robbery and, if so, what was stolen, and is there anyone who might identify the perpetrators?”

  “Precisely. Adding, of course, that the police, in their gratitude for any witnesses, would be happy to drive them to and from the station where the prisoners are being held.”

  “Said invitation rapidly declined,” added Latham, nodding his head in the rushing, darkening shadows of the backseat.

  “Not always, mon ami,” contradicted Moreau. “Which is why we must have our false culprits. Every now and then the objects of our disaffections are too curious, too nervous about their own situations, and accept the invitation. However, they invariably have the same request—demand, actually.”

  “Let me guess,” said Drew. “They’ll go to the lineup on the condition that they can see the suspects but the suspects can’t see them.”

  “As I’ve mentioned, you’re very astute.”

  “If I couldn’t figure that one out, I should have retired the day I finished training. But the concept of—what did you call them?—‘false culprits’ is a beaut. For God’s sake, don’t leak the idea to Washington, the ‘Gates’ will multiply. Watergate and Iran-gate will be Puppy Chow compared to CIA-gate and State-gate. The real heavies will figure out they can put in doubles for themselves, including the President himself.”

  “Frankly, we over here could not understand why they didn’t.”

  “Keep that speculation to yourselves, we’ve got enough troubles.”

  “Claude,” interrupted Jacques, turning around in the seat. “You’ll like this. Our perpetrators are a couple of underpaid bookkeepers who tried to rob a butcher chain that was selling poor meat at premium prices.”

  “Their premise was correct: Steal from thieves.”

  “Unfortunately, the thieves altered their supplies overnight and our bookkeepers were caught on videotape opening a safe.”

  “They were hardly suited to their new endeavors.”

  “The gendarmes were happy to oblige. The chief of detectives has been buying meat from the chain for years.”

  “His taste buds weren’t very acute. When will they activate?”

  “As we speak.”

  “Bien. Drop off Monsieur Latham at the Normandie and me at the office. Then, for God’s sake, have François go home.”

  “It is no problem for me to stay with you, Monsieur Director,” said the driver. “In case there is an emergency.”

  “No, François, you will not avoid your domestic responsibilities. Your lovely wife would never forgive you.”

  “It’s not her forgiveness that concerns me, sir. Children are far more brutal.”

  “I lived through it and so can you. It builds character.”

  “You’re all heart,” said Drew quietly into Moreau’s ear. “What are you going to do at the office?”

  “Follow up on this afternoon, tonight. I’ll keep you informed. Also, mon ami, you have a relatively domestic concern of your own. The enchanting Karin has been to the doctor. Her wound, remember?”

  “Jesus, I forgot!”

  “I would advise not telling her that.”

  “You’re wrong, Moreau. She’d understand.”

  Karin, in a hotel bathrobe, was pacing back and forth in front of the large casement window when Latham opened the door. “My God, you’ve been gone a long time!” she cried, running to him, both embracing. “Are you all right?”

  “Hey, lady, it was an amusement park, not the battle of Bastogne. Of course I’m all right; we never even thought to look at our weapons.”

  “That took nearly four hours? What happened?”

  He told her, then asked. “How about you? What did the doctor say?”

  “I’m sorry, darling, it’s why I never should have gotten involved with you. I thought such feelings were gone, but they’re obviously not. When I care about someone, I care very deeply.”

  “That’s terrific, but you haven’t answered my question.”

  “Look!” De Vries proudly held up her right hand, the bandage less than half its previous size, not much more than a small nozzle. “He fitted me for a prosthesis about two centimeters long—less than an inch. It will slip over my finger, with a nail attached, and be practically unnoticeable.”

  “That’s great, but how does it feel? You were bleeding last night.”

  “The doctor said I must have been quite excited, and clutched something. Do you have any welts on your back, my darling?”

  “Another piece of work.” Drew again pulled her into his arms. Their lips met, the kiss slowly broken off by Karin.

  “I want to talk,” she said.

  “About what? I told you what happened.”

  “About your safety. The Maison Rouge called—”

  “They knew where to find you? Here at the Normandie?”

  “They frequently know things before many of us learn about them ourselves.”

  “Then they’re being fed information they goddamned well shouldn’t have!”

  “I believe you’re right, but then, we know which side the Antinayous are on.”

  “Not necessarily. Sorenson cut them off.”

  “He was the most feared deep-cover intelligence officer during the Cold War. He suspects everybody.”

  “How do you know that? The deep-cover bit?”

  “Partially from you, but mainly from Freddie.”

  “Freddie …?”

  “Of course. The sub-networks protect themselves, Drew. Information circulates. Whom can you count on, whom can you trust? Survival’s the ultimate answer, isn’t it?”

  “What did the Maison Rouge
call about?”

  “Their informers in Bonn and Berlin say that two teams of trained Blitzkrieger are being sent to Paris to find and kill the Latham brother who survived the assault at the inn in Villejuif. The man they believe to be Harry Latham.”

  “That’s nothing new, for God’s sake.”

  “They say that the number of assassins is between eight and twelve. Not one or two or even three, but a small army is coming after you.”

  Silence, and then Latham spoke. “I guess that’s really impressive, isn’t it? I mean, I’m popular beyond my wildest dreams, and I’m not even the guy they want.”

  “I’d have to agree with you.”

  “But why? That’s the question, isn’t it? Why do they want Harry so badly? His list is out and with the confusion and dissension it’s causing, they’ve got to know it’s to their benefit, so why?”

  “Would it have something to do with Dr. Kroeger?”

  “That cat’s in space without an oxygen helmet. He tells one lie after another, forgetting the lies he told before.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that. In what sense?”

  “He told Moreau, who he believes is one of them, that he had to find Harry in order to learn the identity of the female traitor in the Brüderschaft valley—”

  “What traitor?” De Vries interrupted.

  “We don’t know and neither did Harry. When he was in London and we talked on the phone, he mentioned something about a nurse who had alerted the Antinayous that he was coming out, but the man who drove the truck that picked him up didn’t elaborate.”

  “If that was Kroeger’s lie, it may not have been a lie.”

  “Except that he told Witkowski something entirely different. He insisted he had to find Harry before the medication he was on wore off and Harry died. Stanley didn’t believe him for a moment and that’s why he wanted to shoot him to the moon with chemicals—to see if he could learn the truth.”

  “Which the embassy doctor wouldn’t permit,” said Karin softly. “Now I understand why Witkowski was so upset with him.”