The Apocalypse Watch (29 page)

“Please don’t mention ducks, my dear.”

“Wot?”

“It’s what I presumably had for dinner.”

“Sorry.… Here, let me massage your neck, that always relaxes you.” The girl walked behind the chair and leaned over her employer, her generous breasts, made obvious by her décolletage, touching the back of his head, while her hands moved about his neck and shoulders.

“
Marvelous
,” moaned the foreign service officer, drawing out the word as he reached for his brandy, taking sips between draws on his pipe. “You do that so well, but then, you do everything well, don’t you?”

“I try, Ollie darling. As I may have mentioned, I was brought up to respect men of quality, to do their bidding out of admiration. I’m not one of those scruffs who shout all the time about privileged classes, I’m not. My mum always said, ‘If the good Lord wanted you to live in a castle, you’d have been born in one.’ And my mum’s a wise old bird, she is. She also says that we should take Christian pride in serving our betters, ‘cause somewhere in the Bible it says it’s better to give than to get, or sompin’ like that. ’Course my pa works on the docks and doesn’t have mum’s refinements—”

“It really isn’t necessary that you talk, dear child,” Mosedale interrupted, his brows arched in controlled frustration. “As a matter of fact, it’s time for the BBC news, isn’t it?” He glanced at his watch. “Indeed, it is! I think that’s enough of a massage, my sweet. Why not turn on the telly, then go up and bathe. I’ll join you in a while, so wait for me, my angel.”

“Sure, Ollie. And I’ll wear that nightie you like so
much. God knows it’s easy to put on, what there is of it.” The housekeeper-cum-concubine went to the television set, snapped it on, and waited for the proper channel to be in focus. She blew Mosedale a kiss and walked provocatively through the arch to the staircase.

The BBC newsreader, his voice and expression neutral, began with the recent events in the Balkans, shifted to the news out of South Africa, briefly touched on the accomplishments of the Royal Academy of Science, then paused and continued with words that caused Oliver Mosedale to sit up and stare at the figure on the screen.

“
Reports out of Whitehall have a number of members of Parliament and other government officials in high dudgeon due to what appear to be ongoing inquiries by British intelligence into their private lives. Jeffrey Billows, MP from Manchester, rose on the floor to denounce what he called ‘police state’ tactics, claiming that his neighbors had been questioned about him, including his vicar. Another MP, Angus Ferguson, shouted that not only had his neighbors been interrogated, but that his garbage had been rummaged, and the bookstore he frequents asked what books he purchases. Apparently, even the Foreign Office is not immune, as several high officials have declared they will resign before being subjected to such ‘utter nonsense,’ as one put it. Their names are being withheld at the request of the Foreign Secretary
.

These events would seem to mirror the news from the United States, where prominent figures in and out of government are experiencing similar invasions of privacy. A story in the Chicago Tribune headlined the question, “Is the Hunt for Unreconstructed Communists or for Reconstructed Fascists?” We here at BBC will keep you informed as the story develops
.

Now to the painful, all-too-familiar antics of the Royal family.…
”

Mosedale shot out of his chair, turned off the television, and lurched for the telephone on a Queen Anne table against the wall. Frantically, he dialed. “What the hell is going
on
?” screamed the adviser to the Foreign Secretary.

“You have time, Rute,” said the female voice on the
line. “We were going to call you early in the morning, suggesting you not go to Whitehall. They haven’t reached your section yet, but they’re close. You have a reservation on British Air for Munich tomorrow at noon, the ticket’s in your name. Everything’s been cleared.”

“That’s not good enough. I want out tonight!”

“Please hold, I’ll check the computers.” The interim silence was torture for Mosedale. Finally the voice came back. “There’s a Lufthansa flight to Berlin at eleven-twenty. Can you make it?”

“You’re damned right I can.” Oliver Mosedale hung up the phone, walked into the foyer, and shouted at the base of the staircase. “
Angel
, start packing a bag for me! Just a simple change of clothes like you’ve done before. Quickly!”

A naked “Angel” appeared at the railing above. “Where are you going, luv? I’m about to put on the nightie you like to take off. And then it’s heaven, isn’t it, Ollie?”

“
Shut
up and do as you’re told! I’ve one more call to make, and when I’m finished I expect my suitcase to be down here!” Mosedale ran back to the Queen Anne table, picked up the phone, and again dialed furiously. “I’m leaving,” he said to the voice which had only grunted.

“My phone indicator tells me that this is
Rute’s
number. Is that you, code Switch?”

“You know goddamned well it is. Take care of my affairs here in London.”

“I’ve already done so, Switch. The house is on the market, the proceeds to be wired to Bern, when and if there’s a sale”

“You’ll probably take half—”

“At least, Herr Rute,” the voice on the line interrupted. “I think it’s quite fair. How many thousands have I transferred to Zurich at my own peril?”

“But you’re one of us!”

“No, no, you’re mistaken. I’m merely a solicitor who accommodates nefarious men who may or may not be traitors to the Crown. How am I to know?”

“You’re nothing but a rotten money changer!”

“Again, you’re wrong, Switch. I’m an expediter, no matter how it frequently pains me. And to tell you the truth, you’ll be lucky to receive ten pounds for your house. You see, I really don’t like you.”

“You’ve worked for me—for us—for years! How can you
say
that?”

“So easily, I can’t tell you. Farewell, code Switch, and for your edification, the one thing that remains constant between us is the confidentiality between client and solicitor. You see, it’s my strength.” The English attorney hung up, and Mosedale looked around the huge sitting room, panicked by the thought that he would never see so many mementos of his life again. Then he stood up straight, his posture rigid, and recalled the words his father had shouted from the upper staircase when war was declared. “We’ll fight for England, but we’ll
spare
Herr Hitler! He is far more right than wrong! The inferior races are corrupting our nations. We will win the temporary conflict, establish a unified Europe, and make him the de facto chancellor of the Continent!”

The young woman called Angel slid a suitcase down the staircase, properly—or improperly, as one would have it—clad in her brief nightgown. “C’mon, luv, what’s goin’ on here?”

“I may be able to send for you later, but right now I have to leave.”

“Later? What’re you talkin’ about, Ollie?”

“There’s no time for explanations. I must catch a plane.”

“Wot about me? When are you comin’ back?”

“Not for a while.”

“Well, isn’t that nice and clear! Wot am I supposed to do?”

“Stay here until someone throws you out.”

“Throws me
out
?”

“You heard me.” Mosedale grabbed the suitcase, rushed to the front door, and opened it, stunned by what he saw. The London fog had turned into a downpour, and two men in raincoats stood on the brick steps to his house.
Beyond them, in the street, was a black van with a lateral antenna on the roof.

“Under proper authority, your telephone has been monitored, sir,” said the first man. “I think it’s best you come with us.”

“
Ollie
,” cried the scantily clad maid in the foyer. “Ain’t you gonna introduce me to your friends?”

The shouts of children marshalled in groups by parents and camp counselors mingled with the shrieks of myriad birds behind the wired screens of the huge aviary in the Rock Creek Park Zoo. The summer crowds were boisterous, the exceptions being Washingtonians who had come to the park for peaceful strolls, away from the hectic pace of the nation’s capital. When faced with the hordes of tourists, these natives usually cut their interludes short, preferring the quiet of silent monuments. A particularly nasty condor, its wingspread at least eight feet, suddenly swooped down from a high perch, screeching as its claws gripped the wires of the enormous cage. Children and adults alike backed away instantly; the glaring eyes of the giant bird conveyed hostile satisfaction.

“That’s one mother of a predator, isn’t it?” said Knox Talbot, standing behind Wesley Sorenson.

“I’ve never understood the use of the word
mother
to describe enormity,” replied the director of Consular Operations, looking straight ahead.

“Try tenacity. It was the female’s unrelenting aggressiveness in protecting her young that got us through the Ice Age.”

“What were we men doing?”

“Pretty much the same as we’re doing now. Out hunting while the women protected the caves from far more dangerous beasts than our quarry.”

“You’re particularly biased.”

“I’m particularly married, and that conclusion was drawn by my wife. Since we’ve only been together thirty-six years, why rock the boat at this early stage?”

“Let’s get a hot dog. The stand’s about fifty yards to
the left and we can sit down on a bench. It’s usually crowded, so I doubt anyone will notice us.”

“Chili gives me gas.”

“Try sauerkraut.”

“Worse.”

“Then just mustard.”

“Ever see how hot dogs are made, Wes?”

“Have
you
?

“I think I own a company that makes ’em.”

Seven minutes later Sorenson and Talbot sat next to each other, not unlike two grandfathers taking a much-needed respite from their rambunctious grandchildren. “There’s something I can’t tell you, Knox,” began the Cons-Op director, “and you’re going to be mad as hell later when you find out.”

“Like our removing Moreau’s name from Harry Latham’s list, the one we sent to you?”

“There’s a distinct similarity.”

“Then we’re even. What
can
you tell me?”

“First, I can openly tell you that the request comes from a former G-Two specialist who operated in the Berlin sectors during the bad times. His name is Witkowski, Colonel Stanley Witkowski—”

“Currently chief of security, Paris embassy,” Talbot interrupted.

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation. He’s a man so bright that he could have been right behind you for my job if he’d gotten the recognition he deserved. But he couldn’t; he worked in the silent zone.”

“Right now he’s apparently working as a conduit for Harry Latham, who won’t risk reaching Langley himself.”

“The AA-Zero computers?”

“Apparently.… Latham wanted a sub-rosa route to you but he doesn’t know you. Remember, you became the DCI with the new administration, almost two years after Harry went deep. So knowing Witkowski from the old days, he used him; and since I’ve known the colonel from those same days,
he
decided to use me as the sub rosa.”

“Logical,” said Talbot, nodding his head.

“Maybe logical, Knox, but later, when I can come clean, you’ll see it’s so ironic, you may even forgive me.”

“What’s the sub rosa?”

“There’s a man, a German doctor, who may have enormous influence in the Nazi movement, or, conversely, may be a man with a conscience who’s turned against them. We have to learn everything we can about him, and you people are the kings of the hill in that department.”

“So I’m told,” agreed the DCI. “What’s his name?”

“Kroeger, Gerhardt Kroeger. But there’s a catch and it’s a big one.”

“Do tell.”

“You’ve got to go underground with this, and I mean deep. His name can’t be circulated within the Agency.”

“The AA-Zero computers again?”

“The straight answer to that is yes, but there could also be others beyond the computers. Can you do it?”

“I think so. When I took this job, the job you should have taken, I insisted on bringing along my secretary of twenty years. She’s quick and bright to the point that I don’t have to finish sentences. She’s also British; that apparently gives her a certain authority over us colonials.… Kroeger, Gerhardt, medicine man, the works. She’ll go down to the vaults herself and bring up everything there is.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll call you when I’ve got the papers. We’ll have a few drinks at my place.”

“Fine, I appreciate it.”

“There’s something else neither of us has said, isn’t there, Wesley?”

“The witch-hunts, naturally. Harry’s list is getting out of control.”

“I said the very same thing to myself only moments before your call. Have you heard the latest from the U.K.?”

“The outcry in Parliament, yes. Even the insidious comparisons to what’s happening here. I suppose it couldn’t be avoided.
Sua culpa
, Secretary Bollinger, and I hope he knows it.”

“Then you haven’t heard. We get this stuff before you, I suppose.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A man named Mosedale, very high up in the Foreign Office.”

“What about him?”

“Faced with various alternatives, he confessed. He’s been working for the Brotherhood for the past five years. He was on Harry’s list, and he claims there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, like him everywhere.”

“Oh, my
God
. Gasoline tanks on the fires. Everywhere.”

G
erhardt Kroeger walked out to the transportation platform at Orly Airport carrying two pieces of luggage, a medical bag, and a medium-size nylon suitcase, both carry-ons. He veered to the left and proceeded down the long concrete walkway until he saw the area designated as
PETITE CARGAISON
, small cargo. He scanned the constantly moving traffic, then centered in on the few vehicles parked at the curb in front of the huge sliding metal doors through which precleared cases and cartons of merchandise were wheeled on dollies to those waiting for them. He saw what he hoped to see, a gray van with white lettering on the side,
ENTREPÔTS AVIGNON
, the Avignon Warehouses, a massive market depot where over a hundred distributors kept their consumer goods prior to delivering them to retail stores throughout Paris. And somewhere within that mazelike complex were the quarters of the Blitzkrieger, the elite assassins of the Brotherhood. The doctor approached a man in a red and white rugby shirt leaning against the side of the vehicle. As he had been ordered to do.