The Apocalypse Watch

by Robert Ludlum

  On the other side of the wall, Latham gestured for the American commando and his French backup to head for the farthest open cabana as he and his agent raced into the first. The cabanas were simple wood-framed structures, tentlike, and covered with brightly colored striped canvas, the entrances no more than weighted flaps that could be pushed back and remain open for ventilation. The pool itself was dark, the sound of the filtering machinery barely a hum in the distance. Inside the first cabana, Drew turned to Etranger One. “You know what comes next, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Oui, monsieur, I do,” said the Frenchman, unsheathing his long-bladed knife from its scabbard as Latham did the same. “S’il vous plaît, non,” added the agent, holding Drew’s wrist. “Vous ětes courageux, but my colleague and I are more experienced in these matters, monsieur. Le capitaine and we discussed this. You are too valuable to take the risk.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything I wouldn’t do!”

  “You’ve displayed that, but you know what to look for, we do not.”

  “You discussed this …?”

  “Shhh!” whispered the agent. “Here they come.”

  The following minutes were like a marionette show performed at three speeds: slow motion, stop, and fast forward. The two Etranger agents crawled slowly out of their respective cabanas, moving around them, and staying close to the ground until each was behind his target, like two stalking animals. Suddenly the north guard spotted the south side agent du combat and made a mistake. He squinted to make sure his startled, unsuspecting eyes were not playing tricks on him. He swung the semiautomatic off his shoulder and was about to shout, when Number Two was on him, his clawlike left hand around the patrol’s throat, the knife surgically penetrating his back. The astonished south guard spun around as Number One raced forward, his knife held head high, cutting off all sound as the blade slashed through the Nazi’s throat.

  All movement stopped, those seconds so necessary to assess the moment. Silence. Results positive. The Frenchmen then began to drag the dead guards to the edge of the wall nearest each, prepared to shove the bodies over it, when Latham ran out of the first cabana. “No!” he whispered so loudly it could have been a roar. “Bring them both back here!”

  Inside, the three men stood around Drew, bewildered and not a little angry. “What the hell are you doing, Cons-Op?” said the American commando Dietz. “We don’t want anybody to find these jokers, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I think you missed something, Captain. Their sizes.”

  “One’s pretty big, the other isn’t. So?”

  “You and me, Captain. They won’t be perfect fits, but I’ll bet we could squeeze into those idiot uniforms—over our fatigues. Even the shirts—it’s dark out there.”

  “I’ll be goddamned,” said Dietz slowly. “You may have a point. In this light they’d be better camouflage than what we’re wearing.”

  “Dépêche-toi—hurry!” said Etranger Number One as he and his colleague knelt down and began stripping the bloodstained Nazi uniforms off the corpses.

  “There’s a problem,” interrupted the captain, all eyes riveted upon him. “I speak German, they speak German, but you don’t, Cons-Op.”

  “I don’t intend to play bridge or have a drink with anybody.”

  “But say we’re stopped, these aren’t the only clowns on guard here, take my word for it, dark or not.”

  “A moment, please,” said Number Two. “Monsieur Lat’am, can you say the word ‘Halsweh’?”

  “Sure, halls-fay.”

  “Try again, Cons-Op,” said Dietz, nodding approvingly at the Frenchmen. “That’s terrific, guys.… Halsweh, go on.”

  “Halls-vay,” mumbled Latham.

  “Good enough,” said the commando. “If anyone stops us, I’ll talk. If they specifically address you, you cough, strain your voice, hold your throat, and scratch out the word ‘Halsweh,’ got it?”

  “What the hell have I got?”

  “It is German for sore throat, monsieur. The pollen season, you know. Many people come down with sore throats and wet eyes.”

  “Thanks, Two, if I need a doctor, I’ll call you.”

  “Enough. Put on the clothes.”

  Four minutes later, Latham and Dietz were reasonable facsimiles of the neo-Nazi patrols, bulges, bloodstains, and all. Neither would fool anyone in a harsh glare of light, but in shadows and quasi-darkness both could get away with the ruse. Discarding the German semiautomatic weapons, they replaced them with their own silenced equipment, switching to single-shot action in case a situation called for a lone kill, not rapid fire.

  “One of you get Witkowski,” ordered Drew. “Caw once like a bird and watch out or a grappling hook will crash down on your neck. He’s not a happy camper.”

  “I’ll go,” said Dietz, starting out of the cabana.

  “No, you won’t,” said Latham, stopping the commando. “He sees that uniform, he might blow your head off. You go, Number One. You and he talked a lot during our session this afternoon; he’ll know you.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  Ninety-six seconds later, the imposing figure of Colonel Stanley Witkowski entered the cabana. “I see you’ve been occupied,” he said, glancing down at the two stripped corpses. “What are those silly costumes for?”

  “We’re going hunting, Stosh, and you’re going to stay with our French buddies here. They’ll be on our rear flank, and our lives will depend on the three of you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Start looking, what else?”

  “I thought you might screw it up without specific references,” said Witkowski, yanking a large folded piece of paper out of his jacket and, rather obscenely, unfolding it and placing it over the back of one of the corpses. He switched on his blue pencil light; it was a reduced diagram of the Eagle’s Nest château. “I had our Deputy Cloche make this for me in Paris. At least, you won’t be hunting blind.”

  “You son of a bitch, Stanley!” Drew looked gratefully at Witkowski, “you had to one-up me again. All those put-together pages came down to this. How did you figure?”

  “You’re good, chłopak, but you’re behind the times. You need a little help from the old mastodons, that’s all.”

  “Thanks, Stosh. Where do we start, give me a clue?”

  “The optimum would be to take a hostage and learn whatever you can. You need more than two-year-old plans on a piece of paper.”

  Latham reached under the black Nazi shirt and pulled out his radio. “Karin?” he whispered, pressing the transmission button.

  “Where are you?” answered De Vries.

  “We’re inside.”

  “We know that,” the lieutenant broke in, “we watched that little exercise our new recruits pulled off. You still around the pool?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you need?” asked Karin.

  “We want to take a prisoner and ask some questions. Any warm bodies in sight?”

  “Not in the open,” said Anthony, “but that kitchen’s got two or three inside; they keep passing by the rear window. It looks pretty busy, kind of strange for this hour.”

  “Berchtesgaden,” said Witkowski, his voice low and hollow.

  “What?” said Dietz as he and the others looked at the colonel.

  “It’s a replication of Hitler’s Berchtesgaden, where the Oberführer studs and their multiple mistresses romped night and day, not knowing that Hitler had their rooms wired, listening for traitors.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Drew.

  “Testimony from the Nuremberg trials. That kitchen won’t close down; the party boys need a break now and then and they’re always hungry.”

  “Out,” said Latham into the radio and replacing it under his shirt. “Okay, fellas, how do we pull someone out of there?”

  “It has to be me,” replied Dietz, turning on his penlight and studying the plans of the château. “Whoever they are in there, they’re either German or French. You
don’t speak German and your French is barely understandable, and the others are dressed wrong.… There’s a door here on the side. I’ll stick my head in and ask for a cup of coffee, for someone to please bring it out to me. In German—the two patrols were German.”

  “Suppose they see you’re not the same guard?”

  “I’ll say the other guy got sick and I’m relieving him. It’s why I need the coffee, I’m still half-asleep.” Dietz hurriedly left the cabana and walked rapidly down the south area toward the kitchen door, Latham and Witkowski crouched in front of the tentlike flap, watching him. The commando abruptly stopped, froze, as two bright floodlights on the side of the château suddenly came on. Dietz was fully exposed, the black shirt and trousers revealed for the misfits they were. A couple strode into the wash of bright light from the cavernous shadows beyond, a young miniskirted woman and a tall middle-aged man. The man reacted to the sight of the captain with alarm, then fury. He reached under his jacket; the commando had no choice. He fired a single silenced round into the man’s head as he rushed to the woman whose scream was aborted by Dietz’s chop to her throat. As she collapsed, the commando raised his weapon; two more spits exploded the floodlights. He then lifted the woman, throwing her over his shoulder, and started back to the cabana.

  “Get the casualty!” whispered the colonel sharply, pulling the flap back, addressing the Frenchman.

  “I’ll go,” said Drew, racing forward. He reached the shadows; the body of the dead man was vaguely outlined by the moonlight, which was in large measure blocked by the rising sides of the castle. He ran to the corpse as the door to the kitchen crashed open. Latham spun away, out of the line of sight, his weapon gripped firmly, his back against the wall. A face beneath a chef’s hat peered outside and squinted at the darkness; the head shrugged and the cook went back into the kitchen. Perspiring, Drew strapped his gun over his shoulder and ran to the fallen man; he leaned down, grabbed his feet, and started to drag the body back to the cabana.

  “Que faites-vous?” said a female voice from the darkness.

  “Halls-vay,” answered Latham haltingly, out of breath, adding hoarsely, “trop de whisky.”

  “Ah, un allemand! Votre français est médiocre.” A woman dressed in a long white diaphanous gown emerged in the dim moonlight. She laughed, staggering slightly, and continued in French. “Too much whisky, you say? Who hasn’t? I’ve a mind to throw myself into the pool.”

  “Gut,” said Drew, understanding half of what she said.

  “Shall I help you?”

  “Nein, danke.”

  “Oh, it is Heinemann you have there. He’s a bull of a German, a perfect boor.” Suddenly the woman gasped as Latham dragged the man named Heinemann into the open area, where the moonlight was brighter; she saw the blood-drenched head. Drew dropped the dead man’s feet and yanked the small Beretta out of his pocket.

  “You raise your voice, I’ll have to kill you,” he said in English. “Can you understand me?”

  “I understand perfectly,” answered the woman, her English fluent, her weaving all but absent with her terror.

  The two Etranger agents rushed up to them. Without speaking, Number Two pulled the corpse to the side of the wall, removing items from its pockets, while Number One walked behind the woman and shoved her toward the cabana, his hand gripping her neck. Latham followed, startled to realize that the bodies of the dead neo guards were no longer inside. “What happened …?”

  “Our previous visitors had urgent appointments,” replied Witkowski. “They flew away.”

  “Damn good work, Cons-Op,” said Captain Dietz, sitting next to his captive, both in striped canvas chairs, the small enclosure dimly lit by upturned blue penlights. “Real cozy in here, isn’t it?” he added as Etranger Two came back in.

  The two women stared at each other. “Adrienne?” said Latham’s prisoner.

  “Allô, Elyse,” Dietz’s prize responded despondently. “We are finis, n’est-ce pas?”

  “You’re Nazi whores!” accused Number One.

  “Don’t be foolish!” objected Elyse. “We work where the money is best, politics have nothing to do with us.”

  “Do you know who these people are?” said Number Two. “The beasts of the world! My grandfather died fighting them!”

  “History,” dismissed the cool, gowned Elyse. “Decades before either of us was born.”

  “You haven’t heard the stories?” Number One spat out. “They’re history also, and they also happen to be the truth. They’re Fascists, they slaughter whole races of people. They would kill me and my entire family if they could, simply because we are Jews!”

  “And we are merely temporary companions, here for a week or so every few months. We never discuss such issues. Besides, I frequently travel to many cities in Europe, and most of the Germans I’ve come to know are charming, courteous gentlemen.”

  “I’m sure they are,” interrupted Witkowski, “but these aren’t.… We’re wasting time. We were looking for a man who worked here and instead we ended up with two females who are visiting the place. Not very encouraging.”

  “I don’t know about that, Colonel.” Drew gripped his captive’s arm. “Elyse here said that she, and I assume her friend, visit here for a week or so every few months, isn’t that right, lady?”

  “That is the arrangement, yes, monsieur,” agreed the woman, shaking off Latham’s hand.

  “Then what?” pressed Drew.

  “After proper medical attention, we go elsewhere. I know nothing—we know nothing. Our job is to provide companionship, which, I trust, you will not be so tasteless as to inquire about.”

  “Don’t trust anything, lady. They killed my brother, so I haven’t got much trust left.” Latham again gripped the woman’s arm, now far more firmly, viselike. The plans of the château were on a hastily retrieved drinks table from the poolside area. Drew swung her toward it, grabbed a penlight, and angled it down at the diagrams. “You and your friend are going to tell us exactly who and what’s in every room, and let me explain why you’d better not lie or be evasive.… Less than a minute away, down the road, is a French intelligence assault team ready to blow up the front gates, run in here, and take into custody everyone on the premises. I’d advise you to help us, and you might live long enough to make a deal for yourself since you’ve been traveling the circuit. Entendu?”

  “Your French improves, monsieur,” said the gowned courtesan, her cold, frightened eyes locked with Latham’s. “It’s all a question of survival, isn’t it?… Come, Adrienne, study these plans with me.” The innocent-looking miniskirted girl beside Dietz got out of the chair and joined her associate. “Incidentally, monsieur,” said Elyse, “I will read these quite easily. Mes études at the Sorbonne were in architecture.”

  “Holy shit,” exclaimed Captain Dietz quietly.

  Minutes passed as the former Sorbonne student examined the diagrams. Finally, she spoke. “As you can see, the first floor is obvious—the north veranda, the large common area in the center which also serves as a dining room, and the kitchen, large enough for a popular restaurant on the Rive Droite. The second and third floors are suites for visiting dignitaries, which Adrienne and I can describe down to a mattress.”

  “Who’s in them now?” asked Witkowski.

  “Herr Heinemann was with you, Adrienne, right, mon chou?”

  “Oui,” said the girl. “Such a bad man!”

  “Two other suites on that floor are occupied by Colette and Jeanne, their companions are businessmen from Munich and Baden-Baden; and on the third floor there is myself and a terribly nervous man, so upset he drank himself into a stupor and could not perform. I was grateful, naturally, and decided to go for a walk—where I met you, monsieur. The other rooms are not occupied.”

  “The man with you, what does he look like?” asked Latham. Elyse described him, and Drew said quietly, “That’s our man. It’s Bergeron.”

  “He’s terrified of something.”

  “He should
be. He’s a liability and he knows it.… You’ve described three floors; there’s a fourth. What’s up there?”

  “It’s completely off limits to everyone but a select few who wear black suits with the red swastika armbands. They’re all tall, like you, and their bearing is quite military. The help, even the guards, are frightened to death of them.”

  “The fourth floor?”

  “It would appear to be a tomb, monsieur, the living grave of a great pharaoh, but instead of being buried in the bowels of the pyramid, it is at the highest point, nearest to the sun and the heavens.”

  “Clarification, please?”

  “I said it was off limits, verboten, but I should also add that it is sealed off. This very-much-inhabited tomb comprises the entire top floor and every door is made of steel. No one goes in there but the men in dark suits. They insert their hands into spaces in the walls and press their palms down for a particular door to open.”

  “Electronic print-scan releases,” said Witkowski. “There’s no way to bypass those photoelectric cells.”

  “If you’ve never been up there, how do you know all this?” asked Drew.

  “Because the front and back staircases to the top floor, as well as the hallways, are constantly patrolled. Even the guards need relaxation, monsieur, and some are very attractive.”

  “Ah, oui,” piped the young miniskirt brightly. “The blond Erich asks me to please see him whenever I am free, and I do.”

  “It’s an unfair world,” mumbled Dietz.

  “Who’s the pharaoh on the top floor?” pressed Latham.

  “That is no secret,” answered Elyse. “An old man, a very old man they all worship. No one is permitted to speak to him other than his dark-suited aides, but every morning he’s brought down in an elevator, his face shrouded in a heavy veil, and wheeled to what they call the ‘meditation path,’ beyond the pool. They open the gate and he dismisses everyone, orders them away. He then gets out of his chair, stands erect, denying his years, and literally marches out to a place none of us has ever seen. It is said he calls it his ‘eagle’s nest,’ where he can contemplate and make wise decisions while having his morning coffee and brandy.”