“Merde! You are crazy!”
“The hell I am. I got her covered body inside and downstairs before anybody could tell the bitch was dead.”
“But will it work, Stanley?”
“It has so far.… Look, Claude, I’m only trying to produce confusion. The Latham the neos are after is the one they killed, but they don’t know that. So they’re coming after the other, and we’re waiting for them. The ambassador’s bitch is no less important to them, maybe even more important because they figured out we know who and what she is. After all, the Count of Strasbourg wasn’t about to give her a tetanus shot. With luck, along with your minor fibs, our little charade outside will pay off—”
“Minor fibs?” choked Moreau, interrupting. “Have you any idea what I’ve done? I lied to the President of France! I’ll never be trusted again!”
“Hell, extend your rationale a touch. You did it for his own good. You had reason to believe his office was bugged.”
“Preposterous. It’s the Deuxième’s responsibility to see that it’s not!”
“Guess you can’t use that one,” allowed Witkowski. “How about your running clearance checks on his top aides?”
“We did that most thoroughly months ago. However, your equivocation about extending my rationale may have merit.”
“For your President’s own good,” the colonel broke in, drawing heavily and happily on his cigar.
“Yes, exactly. What he doesn’t know he can’t be held responsible for, and we are dealing with psychopaths, with fanatical assassins.”
“I don’t get the connection, Claude, but it’s a start. Incidentally, thanks for the additional personnel at the hospital. Except for two sergeants and a captain, my marines aren’t exactly fluent in French.”
“Your captain was an exchange student, and one of the sergeants has French parents; he knew our language before English. Your other sergeant’s use of French mainly consists of obscenities and how to procure specific services.”
“Good! The neos are obscene, so he’s perfect.”
“How is our stenographer, the reincarnated Madame Courtland, holding up?”
“She’s a loaded gun,” said the colonel.
“I hope not.”
“What I mean is she’s a Jewish lady from New York and hates the Nazis. Her grandparents were gassed at Bergen-Belsen.”
“Strange, isn’t it? Drew Latham used the phrase ‘What goes around, comes around.’ Apparently it’s quite true in human terms.”
“What’s really true is that when some neo son of a bitch comes after the new Mrs. Courtland, and one of them will, we’ll nail him and break him!”
“I told you before, Stanley, I have my doubts that anyone will come. The neos are not fools. They’ll sense a trap.”
“I’ve considered that, but my money’s on human nature. When the stakes get this high—and a live Sonnenkind puts ’em up there—all bets are covered. The bastards can’t afford not to.”
“I hope you’re right, Stanley.… How is our argumentative colleague, Drew Latham, accepting the scenario?”
“Pretty well. We’ve selectively leaked his cover as Colonel Webster around the embassy, even to the Antinayous, who apparently knew it anyway. Now you do the same. Also, we’re moving the De Vries woman here to the embassy with complete marine security at her quarters.”
“I’m surprised she agreed so readily,” said Moreau. “She’s capable of many artifices, but I truly believe she cares for the man, and given her background would not voluntarily leave him under the circumstances.”
“She doesn’t know about it yet,” said Witkowski. “We’re moving her tonight.”
It was early evening, the Parisian days growing shorter, and Karin de Vries sat in an armchair by the window, the dull, soft light of a floor lamp careening off her long dark hair, creating soft shadows across her attractive face. “Have you any idea what you’re doing?” she asked, glaring at Latham, who once again was half dressed in the army uniform, the tunic draped over the desk chair.
“Sure,” he replied. “I’m bait.”
“You’re dead, for God’s sake!”
“The hell I am. At least the odds are on my side. I wouldn’t take them otherwise.”
“Why? Because the colonel said so?… Don’t you understand, Drew, that when it comes down to ‘mission completed,’ you are merely factor X or Y, expendable for the competition? Witkowski may be your friend, but don’t fool yourself, he’s a professional. The operation comes first! Why do you think he insists that you wear that damned uniform?”
“Hey, I know that, or at least I figured it was part of the equation. But they’re sending over a chest protector and a larger jacket, or whatever you call it; it’s not like I’m being sent out naked. Also, don’t tell Stanley how often I don’t wear his lousy outfit, he’ll sulk.… I wonder what kind of chest protector he’ll send?”
“Assassins don’t aim for the body, my dear, they aim for the head with telescopic sights.”
“I keep forgetting, you know all about that stuff.”
“Fortunately, I do, which is why I want you to tell our mutual friend, Stanley, to go to the devil!”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? He can send out a decoy on the streets. It would be so simple! But not you.”
“Somebody else? Maybe somebody who’s got a brother who’s a farmer in Idaho, or an automobile mechanic in Jersey City?… I couldn’t live with that.”
“And I can’t live without you!” shouted Karin, lunging out of the chair and into his arms. “I never, never thought I’d ever say that to anyone else in the world, but I mean it with all my heart, Drew Latham. Only God knows why, but it’s as if you’re the extension of the young man I married years ago, without the ugliness, without the hatred. Don’t despise me for saying this, my darling, I simply have to.”
“I could never despise you,” said Drew quietly, holding her. “We need each other for different reasons, and we don’t have to analyze them for years.” He tilted her head back and looked into her eyes. “How about when we’re kind of old and sitting in our rocking chairs, looking out over the water?”
“Or the mountains. I love mountains.”
“We’ll discuss it.” There was a rapid knocking on the hotel door. “Oh, hell,” said Drew, releasing her, “where’s that time-code sheet?”
“I tacked it on the hallway wall. You can’t miss it.”
“I got it. What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty is good enough. The shift changes at eight.”
“Who is it?”
“Bonney rabitte,” said the voice of Frack behind the door.
“This is infantile,” said Latham, opening it.
“It is time, monsieur.”
“Yes, I know. Give me a couple of minutes, okay?”
“Certainement,” said Frack as Drew closed the door and turned to Karin.
“You’re leaving, my friend.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You’re being transferred to the embassy.”
“What?… Why?”
“You’re an employee of the American Embassy, and it has been determined that your work in classified communications is reason enough to remove you from harm as well as from possible compromise.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’ve got to go solo, Karin.”
“I won’t let you! You need me!”
“Sorry. You either go calmly or Messieurs Frick and Frack give you a needle and take you their way.”
“How can you, Drew?”
“Easy. I want you alive so we can sit in those rocking chairs in Colorado, looking up at the mountains. How about that?”
“You bastard!”
“Never said I was perfect. Just perfect for you.”
The Deuxième agents escorted Karin down the elevator, assuring her that her belongings would be removed from the hotel and delivered to the embassy within the hour. Reluctantly, she accepted h
er circumstances; the elevator door opened and they walked out into the lobby. Instantly, two other Deuxième personnel came forward; the four agents nodded at each other, and Messieurs Frick and Frack turned, walking rapidly back to the bank of elevators.
“Stay between us, please, madame,” said a stocky, bearded man who placed himself on Karin de Vries’s right. “The car is just outside to the left of the entrance beyond the lights of the canopy.”
“I trust you realize this is not of my choosing.”
“Director Moreau does not confide in us about every assignment, madame,” said the second clean-shaven Deuxième officer. “We are simply to make sure you get from here to the American Embassy.”
“I could have taken a taxi.”
“Personally,” said the bearded agent, smiling, “with no offense, I’m glad it was not permitted. My wife and I were to have dinner with her parents. Can you believe after fourteen years and three grandchildren they’re still not certain I’m the right husband for their daughter?”
“What does their daughter say?”
“Ah, she is again with child, madame.”
“I believe that says enough, monsieur.” Karin smiled weakly as the trio approached the glass doors. Outside on the pavement, they quickly swung left from under the canopy, away from the wash of the dual strands of lights beneath the deep-red canvas. In the relative darkness and through a profusion of the evening pedestrians on the rue de l’Echelle, the two Deuxième agents rushed De Vries thirty feet down the street to the armored Bureau vehicle waiting in the No Parking zone. The bearded escort opened the curbside door for Karin, smiling and gesturing for her to enter.
At that instant there was an audible spit; the agent’s left temple blew apart, blood shooting out where the bullet exited the man’s skull. Simultaneously, the second Deuxième escort arched backward, eyes wide, mouth gaping, a guttural cry emerging from his throat as a long-bladed knife was yanked out of his back. Both men slumped to the pavement; De Vries started to scream, but a strong hand was clamped over her mouth and she was shoved violently inside the automobile, her attacker following, slamming her into the backseat. Barely seconds later, the opposite door opened and a breathless second killer jumped in, gripping a blood-streaked knife in his right hand, the dripping blade as deep red as the hotel’s canopy.
“Los schnell!” he cried.
The car leapt forward into the street, in moments settling into the flow of the traffic. The first killer spoke as he removed his spiderlike hand from Karin’s face. “Screaming will do you no good,” he said, “but if you try, you’ll have scars on both cheeks.”
“Willkommen, Frau de Vries,” said the driver, partially turning his head around while shoving a curled-up corpse across the seat. “It seems you’re determined to be with your husband. It will certainly happen if you refuse to cooperate with us.”
“You killed those two men,” whispered Karin, her mouth raw, unable to find her voice.
“We are the saviors of the new Germany,” said the driver. “We do what we have to do.”
“How did you find me?”
“Quite simple. You have enemies where you think you have friends.”
“The Americans?”
“They’re there, yes. Also the British and the French.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“That depends on you. You can either join your once-celebrated husband, Frederik de Vries, or you can join us. We know you’re for sale.”
“I simply want to find my once-celebrated husband, you know that too.”
“You make no sense, Frau de Vries.”
Silence.
30
The loud radio blocking out much of the abrasive sound of the street traffic outside, Latham tried on the bulletproof jacket, pulling the enlarged army officer’s tunic over it, surprised at how relatively comfortable it was. He kept glancing at the telephone on the desk, wondering why Karin had not called him; she had said she would once she settled into her quarters at the embassy. She had left over two hours before, her luggage following shortly. Shaking his head unconsciously while chuckling, he imagined her meeting Witkowski, the colonel being soundly berated, even yelled at, over the decision to let him go solo. Poor Stosh, his tough exterior notwithstanding, he was not prepared for a righteous onslaught by the future wife of his Consular Operations officer. Drew actually felt sorry for the colonel; in a way he could not win except by official decree, which was basically unsatisfying. Karin had love on her side, an emotion both Stanley and Ambassador Courtland had experienced, and lost, courtesy of their government careers.
Latham crossed to the body-length mirror in the hall-way and observed his image. The underlining chest protector made him appear more imposing than he was, reminding him of his days on the ice under a green and white uniform in Canada, where body checks and slap shots were as important as life and death—how totally ridiculous in afterthought.… Long enough! he said to himself as he walked back to the desk and the telephone. He picked it up and started to dial, then there was a knocking at the door. He slammed down the phone, walked to the door, examining the code sheet, and said, “Who is it?”
“Witkowski,” answered the voice on the other side.
“What’s your code?”
“To hell with that, it’s me.”
“You’re supposed to say ‘Good King Wenceslas,’ you asshole!”
“Open the door before I blow the lock off with my forty-five.”
“That has to be you, cretin, because you probably don’t know that a brass lock can ricochet a bullet into your stomach.”
“Not if you fire around the rim, you maggot. Open!”
In contrast to the shouted insults, a sober, serious Witkowski and Claude Moreau stood in the doorframe, their expressions pained. “We must talk,” said the chief of the Deuxième Bureau as he and the colonel walked inside. “Something terrible has happened.”
“Karin!” exploded Drew. “She hasn’t called—she said she would call at least an hour ago! Where is she?”
“We’re not sure, but the facts are unsettling,” answered Moreau.
“What facts?”
“Two of Claude’s men were killed on the pavement outside,” replied Witkowski. “One with a bullet in his head, the other with a knife. The Bureau’s car is gone, the driver presumed dead also.”
“They were taking her to the embassy!” roared Latham. “She was under protection!”
“She was kidnapped,” said Moreau quietly, his eyes locked with Drew’s.
“They’ll kill her!” screamed Latham, spinning around and pounding his fist against the wall.
“I deplore the possibility,” countered the Deuxième chief, “but I mourn the death of my colleagues, for at least two are dead, most probably a third. As for Karin, we have no evidence she has been dealt the same fate, and in my judgment, she’s very much alive.”
“How can you say that?” asked Drew, snapping his head toward Moreau.
“Because she’s more valuable to them as a hostage than as a corpse. They want the man known as Harry Latham, and that’s you.”
“So?”
“They’ll use her to draw out Harry Latham, for what reason none of us know, but they want your brother and you are now he.”
“What do we do?”
“We wait, chłopak,” said Colonel Witkowski, standing erect and speaking softly. “As we both know, it’s the toughest part of our job. If they wanted to kill Karin to make another example, her body would have been left with the other two. She wasn’t. We wait.”
“All right, all right!” exclaimed Drew, lunging across the room, stopped by the desk, his hand on the edge. “But if that’s the way it’s got to be, I want the names of everyone, everyone who was told who I am and where I am. The leaks, I want to know where every leak was planted!”
“What good would it do, mon ami? Such leaks are like stones thrown into a pond; the ripples spread across the waters.”
“I
have to have them, that’s why!”
“Very well, I’ll give you the names of the people we reached, and Stanley will have to provide those at the embassy.”
“Start writing,” ordered Latham, rushing around the desk, opening the drawer, and pulling out sheets of hotel stationery. “Everything you’ve got.”
“We’ve fed them two hundred thirty-six names along with corresponding photographs,” said Knox Talbot, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, over the phone to Wesley Sorenson.
“Any responses yet?”
“Nothing concrete, but a number of possibles. We’re lucky insofar as seven personnel at the safe house actually saw ‘Deputy Director Connally,’ unlucky that only four were close enough to give descriptions in any detail.”
“What about the possibles?” asked the director of Consular Operations.
“Very inconclusive. Damned if one of the witnesses didn’t pick out your photograph among eight others.”
“If they were all around my age, that tells us something.”
“They weren’t. We made it clear that whoever the impostor was would drastically change his appearance, that his hair would most likely not be his own, his eye color possibly altered with contact lenses, all the usual devices.”
“Except one, Knox. He could look older, but not younger, not without appearing grotesque.”
“That’s the strange thing, Wes. To a man and one woman, they pretty much said the same thing. That this ‘Connally’ was so ordinary as to be almost nondescript—I’m cutting through the verbiage, of course.”
“Of course. What about his clothing?”
“Right out of the old Agency guidelines. Dark suit, white shirt, preppy striped tie, laced brown shoes. Oh, and a light raincoat, the short, hang-loose variety. The woman who was at the security counter said it was like one an officer friend of hers wore, a London Fog.”
“Face?”
“Again bland, very ordinary. No mustache, no chin beard, just pale skin and no outstanding features, but wearing fairly thick glasses, too thick, I’d say.”
“How many possibles are there?”
“Eliminating the obvious, such as yourself, twenty-four.”
The Apocalypse Watch Page 51
