The Apocalypse Watch

by Robert Ludlum

  Latham released the man from the wall and gestured for him to sit down. “Okay, Wheelman, you and I are going to make a deal or we’re not. Unless I’m really wrong, and I don’t think I am, you and Jacques are the only neos here, and you are a reluctant one. Any more would be too dangerous. One master, one slave, a perfect combination. You can prove your reluctance by doing what I say; if you don’t, you’re dead meat and I’ll blow you away myself. Got it?”

  “What is it you want me to do? And should I accept, what guarantee do I have that those photographs will not send me to prison?”

  “None actually, but the odds are on your side. I have an idea that Bergeron will be far more interested in saving his ass from a firing squad than in condemning you to one.”

  “We have no such executions here in France, monsieur.”

  “You’re really an innocent, aren’t you? These things aren’t formal, François, they just happen.”

  “What is it, then?” asked the driver, swallowing.

  “Jacques is in another wing on this floor, if I remember correctly.”

  “You do. This section is for subordinate personnel.”

  “But you have access, don’t you? I mean, you have the run of the place, am I right?”

  “If you mean can I take you to his office, yes, I can.”

  “Without announcing either of us?”

  “Of course, I am permanently assigned to him. There is a rear hallway in this section that is entered by a pass code; it leads to the high executive offices. I have it, naturally.”

  “Naturally. Let’s go.”

  “What am I to do, then?”

  “Come back here, stay here, and hope for the best.”

  “And you, Monsieur Lat’am?”

  “I’m going to hope for the best too.”

  Captain Christian Dietz put the handheld radio out of sight on a bookshelf and positioned himself at the left side of the hotel suite’s central door. His acute hearing picked up the sound of muffled footsteps outside in the corridor, followed by silence. His weapon at the ready, he wondered if the would-be intruders had procured a master key somewhere, or whether they would chance an assault on the door.

  The latter, apparently. The silence was shattered by a thunderous crash as the door was broken off its latch and smashed back into the commando. The two men rushed into the room, guns in their hands, their heads turning right and left, left and right, unsure of what to do next. Dietz solved their dilemma by shouting, “Drop your weapons or you’re dead!”

  The first man turned violently and a silenced spit exploded from the barrel of his gun. The commando lurched forward on the floor and shot back, hitting the intruder in the stomach, causing him to double over and collapse. The second would-be killer, stunned, lowered his gun as three marines burst through the open door.

  Suddenly Karin de Vries ran out of the bedroom in her nightgown.

  “Get back there!” roared Dietz.

  As Karin lunged toward the bedroom door, the second intruder raised his weapon and fired. Blood spurted out from the edge of her left shoulder as the marines leveled their weapons.

  “Hold it!” roared Dietz. “He’s no good to us dead!”

  “Neither are we, buddy!” cried a marine sergeant, his Colt .45 aimed at the neo’s head. “Drop it, you worm, or it’s all over!”

  The neo let the gun fall to the floor as Dietz got to his feet and raced across the room to the prone, bleeding Karin de Vries, kicking the Nazi’s weapon away as he passed over it. “Don’t move,” he ordered, tearing the nightgown strap off the shoulder and cradling Karin. “It’s not bad,” he concluded, studying the wound. “The bullet creased the flesh, but that’s all. Stay put and I’ll get some towels.”

  “I’ll find them,” said the nearest marine. “Where?”

  “Through that door to the bathroom. Pick up three clean small ones and tie them together.”

  “A tourniquet?”

  “Not exactly, but close. We want to keep the skin flat. Then get some ice from the bar.”

  “On my way.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a doctor too,” said Karin, holding up the corner of her nightgown and smiling weakly.

  “This isn’t brain surgery, Mrs. de Vries, just a flesh wound. You were lucky; a second or two sooner and you’d have had a problem. Does it hurt?”

  “More numb than painful, Captain.”

  “We’ll get you to the embassy doctor.”

  “Where is Drew? That comes first. And Gerry, where is he?”

  “Please don’t put me through this, Mrs. D.V. Mr. Latham gave us orders and he’s running the show. He and Anthony went to the Deuxième Bureau—I lost the toss with Gerry.”

  “The Deuxième? Why?”

  “Cons-Op told us he thought he’d figured out who the rat in the attic was.”

  “The rat in the attic?”

  “The Nazi mole who was wired into all of us.”

  “At the Deuxième?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “He mentioned something in Beauvais, but when I questioned him in the van, he shrugged it off, telling me it was only a guess. But you knew?”

  “I don’t think he wanted you to be involved.”

  “Here are the towels, sir!” said the marine, running from a bedroom door, then turning quickly to help his colleagues with the two neos, one dead or unconscious, the other hostile, necessitating several blows to his chest. “We’ll be in touch, Captain—you are the captain, aren’t you, sir?”

  “Rank doesn’t count for much here, Corporal. See you later.”

  “We’ve got to get the hell out of here, you understand that. Sorry about the ice—”

  “Then get out!” ordered Dietz as the marine unit fled down the hall to the fire stairs with the two prisoners. The telephone rang. “I’m lowering you to the floor,” said the commando as he secured towels around her shoulder and gently placed her on the carpet. “I’ve got to answer the phone.”

  “If it’s Drew, tell him I’m furious!”

  It was not Latham; it was the hotel’s front desk. “You must leave!” shouted the concierge in French. “We will cooperate with the Deuxième only so far! The switchboard is crowded with calls about loud crashes or gunshots!”

  “La passion du coeur!” replied Dietz firmly. “Seal off the room and we’ll cover you. Give me five minutes and call the police, but I need five minutes.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  “Come on,” said the captain, hanging up the telephone and returning to Karin. “I’ll carry you out of here—”

  “I can walk, actually,” interrupted De Vries.

  “Glad to hear it. We’ll go down the stairs, it’s only one flight.”

  “What about our clothes, our luggage? Surely you don’t want them here for the police to find.”

  “Shit!… Excuse me, ma’am, but you’ve got a hell of a point.” The captain raced back to the phone, immediately dialing the concierge. “If you want us out of here, send the quickest bellman up to pack the suitcases and bring them to the departure area. Also, tell him if he doesn’t steal too much, he’s got five hundred francs!”

  “Naturellement.”

  “D’accord.”

  “Let’s go!” said the commando, slamming down the phone and running back to Karin, suddenly stopping and grabbing a man’s raincoat off a chair. “Here, put this on, I’ll help you. Get up slowly, your arm around my shoulder.… That’s good, can you walk?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s just the arm that hurts.”

  “It will until we get you to the doctor. He’ll take care of that. Steady, now.”

  “But what about Drew and Gerry? What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. D.V., but I’ll tell you this much. That Cons-Op friend of yours, who I didn’t think too much of, frankly, is first rate. He looks beyond the fogs, you know what I mean?”

  “Not really, Captain,” said Karin, being held by the commando as they walked do
wn the hallway toward the stairs. “What are the fogs?”

  “The smoke that covers the truth. He shoots through it because he has that gut instinct that tells him it’s there.”

  “He’s very thorough, isn’t he?”

  “It’s more than thorough, Mrs. D.V., it’s a talent. I’d go undercover for him anytime. He’s my kind of control.”

  “Mine too, Captain, although I’d prefer another title.”

  * * *

  Drew approached the unmarked door of the Deuxième Bureau’s newly appointed director. Without knocking he opened it swiftly, stepped inside, and closed it firmly. Jacques Bergeron was standing by a window, looking outside; he spun around, astonished at the sight of Latham.

  “Drew!” he cried in a stunned voice. “No one told me you were here!”

  “I didn’t want you to know.”

  “But why?”

  “Because you might have found some reason not to see me, like when I called you a couple of hours ago to tell you where we were. I was put through to François.”

  “For God’s sake, man, I’ve got a thousand problems to attend to! Also, I’ve made François my temporary chief aide; he’ll be moving into the executive offices tomorrow.”

  “That’ll be cozy.”

  “I beg your pardon.… Écoutez, I apologize if I offended you, but I really think you should try to understand. I’ve been forced to put my calls on hold, except for the President and a few members of the Chamber, for I simply cannot respond to everyone. There are so many questions I cannot answer until I put our investigative teams to work. I must have time to think!”

  “That’s very good, Jacques, but I have an idea you’ve been thinking a lot, for a long, long time. For years, in fact. Incidentally, François confirmed it for me. You probably set up that hairdresser-Romeo with his wife—just one more expendable human being.”

  The soft, vulnerable face of the Deuxième chief suddenly became mottled granite, the pleasant eyes two glass orbs of loathing. “What have you done?” he asked quietly, so quietly he could barely be heard.

  “I won’t bore you with the circuitous routes that led me to you, other than to say it was kind of brilliant. The Sancho Panza to Moreau’s Don Quixote, the adoring lackey who worshiped his master, who wormed his way into his master’s trust and affection, helping him with his daily schedule—every day and every evening. No one but you could have known where I was at given times, where my brother was, where Karin and Moreau’s poor secretary were, and you rolled fifty-fifty with the dice. You killed Harry and Moreau’s secretary, but you blew it with Karin and me.”

  “You’re a dead man, Drew,” said the director of the Deuxième almost pleasantly. “You’re in my territory and you’re dead.”

  “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions if I were you. Lieutenant Anthony—you know the lieutenant—is outside with your receptionist. By now I’m sure he’s used her telephone to reach Ambassador Courtland, who has requested an emergency conference with the President of France and his Cabinet. Sort of a power breakfast, I imagine you’d call it.”

  “On what basis?”

  “Because after I saw François, I didn’t come out and tell Anthony not to. We agreed on eight minutes; it was a safe number. You know, you really blew it when you sent those goons to the hotel, ‘gumballs,’ the marine unit called them. No one else in Paris knew where we were except you, and, by extension, François.”

  “A marine unit …?”

  “I don’t believe in a hero’s death, Jacques. When you think about it, it’s stupid if you don’t have to go through with it.”

  “You have only your word, and against mine it is nothing! The President himself appointed me!”

  “You’re a Sonnenkind, you bastard.”

  “Outrageous! What evidence could you possibly have for such a preposterous lie?”

  “It’s circumstantial, granted, but put together with other things, it’s pretty convincing. You see, when I began to zero in on you, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Last night, in that military van from Beauvais, I got in touch with a whiz kid named Joel in our supercomputer complex and asked him to run an eye-dent on you. Fifty-one years ago you were legally adopted by a childless couple, a Monsieur and Madame Bergeron in Lauterbourg, near the German border. You were a terrific student, scholarships yours for the asking, right through the University of Paris and its graduate school. You could have gone into a dozen professions that would have made you a very rich man, but you didn’t. You chose civil service, the intelligence branch. Not exactly a winner in the financial sweepstakes.”

  “It was my interest, my profound interest!”

  “You bet it was. With time and the years you were in the right place at the right time. You couldn’t do anything about it because you’d left before we figured out the gliders, but how did you take it when Water Lightning fizzled? Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein pissant.”

  “You are insane! Everything you say is a lie!”

  “No, it isn’t. It was in your own words, your humble confessional in Beauvais. One way or another you knew you had to get out; sooner or later the rope would be circling around your neck. You really didn’t expect to be named director of the Deuxième; it was the only honest thing you said because you knew there were better men in other intelligence agencies. So you declared to all of us, ‘I am not a leader, I am a follower who obeys orders.’ … You were repeating, ad nauseam, the terrible words we’ve heard too often, the Nazi credo. That’s what made me pull in our supercomputer expert, just on a chance.”

  “I repeat,” said Jacques Bergeron icily, “I was a war orphan, my parents were French, killed in a bombing raid, and my academic records are there for all to see. You are nothing more than a paranoid American troublemaker, and I’ll see you expelled from France.”

  “Can’t happen, Jacques. You killed my brother, or, should I say, you had him killed. I won’t let you go. I’m going to jam your severed head on the highest pike of the Pont Neuf, just the way the fans of the guillotine liked it. For all your scholastic achievements, you overlooked something. Lauterbourg was never bombed, either by the Allies or the Germans. You were smuggled across the Rhine to start a new life—as a Sonnenkind.”

  Bergeron stood immobile, studying Latham, a thin, cold smile creasing his soft face. “You’re really quite talented, Drew,” he said quietly. “But, of course, you will not get out of here alive, so your talent has been wasted, n’est-ce pas? A paranoid American, a man with a record of violence, comes in to assassinate the director of the Deuxième—who is the Sonnenkind? After all, my predecessor, Moreau, never trusted you. He told me you lied to him consistently; it’s in his notes which I alone dutifully transcribed into his computer.”

  “You transcribed?”

  “They’re there, that’s all that matters. I am the only one who has the access key to his classified material. Whatever is there is his alone.”

  “Why did you kill him? Why did you have Claude killed?”

  “Because, like you, he had begun to peel away the layers and was centering in on the truth. It started with the killing of Monique, his secretary, and that ludicrous night at the café when a zealous idiot shot the driver of the American vehicle. It was a gargantuan error, unforgivable, for Moreau came to realize that I was the only other one who knew where you were.… Monique could have—and would have—given false information.”

  “Funny,” said Latham, “that’s when it began for me too. That and the fact that when my brother flew in from London, he was supposedly under the Deuxième’s surveillance.”

  “Easily rearranged, as it was,” said Bergeron, his pencil-thin smile broader.

  “Question,” interrupted Drew angrily. “When Moreau—and you—learned that I was impersonating Harry, why didn’t you alert Berlin or Bonn?”

  “Now you’re foolish,” replied Bergeron. “The circle was extraordinarily tight, especially here at the Deuxième. Only Claude and I knew, and there was no way to tell how restricted it wa
s elsewhere. A leak traced to the Deuxième would compromise me.”

  “That’s pretty weak, Jacques,” said Drew, staring at the Sonnenkind.

  “Again your talent shines through, monsieur. Better that others make mistakes, and one crashes through the mists of errors with the reality, proclaiming himself the true Valkyrie.… Quite simply, I was waiting for the proper time. Your American politicians know all about that.”

  “Very good, Jacky-baby. And suppose I told you that everything said in here has been recorded, the frequency tuned to Lieutenant Anthony’s machine in the lobby. High tech is wonderful, isn’t it?”

  42

  Jacques Bergeron, Sonnenkind, screamed hysterically while lurching to his desk and picking up a heavy paperweight; he threw it into his window, shattering the glass. Then, with strength that belied his medium-size compact physique, he raised his chair and hurled it at Latham, who pulled François’s gun out of his belt.

  “Don’t do it!” shouted Drew. “I don’t want to kill you! We need your records! For Christ’s sake, listen to me!”

  It was too late. Jacques Bergeron whipped out a small weapon from his chest holster and fired indiscriminately, everywhere, anywhere. Latham dove to the floor as Bergeron ran to the door, yanked it open, and raced outside.

  “Stop him!” roared Drew, lunging toward the hallway. “No, wait! Don’t stop him! He’s got a gun! Get out of his way!”

  The corridor was in chaos. Two more gunshots exploded as the crowds streamed out of cubicles. A man and a woman fell wounded or killed. Latham got to his feet and ran after the Nazi, crisscrossing the intersecting hallways, shouting, “Gerry, he’ll have to get out through there! Shoot him in the legs, keep him alive!”

  That order was also too late. Bergeron crashed through the reception room’s door as an ear-shattering bell echoed off the walls and Lieutenant Anthony emerged from the second elevator. The Nazi fired; it was the last shell in his magazine as the following clicks announced, but the bullet pierced the commando’s right arm. Anthony grabbed his elbow, released it, and awkwardly, in pain, fumbled for his weapon while the woman behind the desk hysterically dropped to the floor.