The Apocalypse Watch (35 page)

“It is second to my own, and few understand my native Walloon.” Karin circled, approaching the table.

“Where is he, Mrs. de Vries?” asked the second man by the bed menacingly. “You won’t get out of here, you know. Our comrades will block you; they’re on their way up now. They just needed our signal and the window was it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Since you know who I am, does it shock you that I’m having an affair with the owner of this flat?”

“It’s an empty bed, not even slept in—”

“We had a lovers’ quarrel. He drank too much and we fought.” Karin was within arm’s reach of her weapon, and neither of the Nazis had bothered to unholster his. “You’ve never had such fights with your women? If not, you’re children!” She lunged for the gun, grabbed it, and fired into the first neo as the stunned second unstrapped his holster. “
Stop
or you’re
dead
!” said De Vries.

As she spoke, the steel-plated bedroom door swung open, crashing into the wall. “Oh, my God!” roared Witkowski, snapping on the light. “She’s got a live one.”

“I thought it took a truck or a battering ram to get in here,” said Karin, visibly shaken.

“Not if you’ve got grandchildren who visit you in Paris; they can get real playful. There’s a concealed button in the frame.” It was as far as the colonel got. An ear-shattering
siren erupted, so loud that within seconds lights were turned on in the nearby buildings.

“They’re coming to stop you from leaving!” cried De Vries.

“Let’s welcome them, youngster,” said Witkowski. He and Latham ran through the living room to the front door. The colonel opened it, he and Drew standing concealed behind the door itself. Two men rushed in, their automatic weapons on rapid fire, blowing up whatever was in their paths. The colonel and Drew took aim, and shooting three rounds apiece, shattered the arms and hands of the killers. They collapsed, writhing and moaning. “Cover them!” shouted Witkowski, racing into the kitchen. Seconds later the siren stopped and the hallway lights were out. The colonel returned, giving his orders rapidly as clamoring footsteps, growing fainter, could be heard running down the hallway steps. “Tie these sons of bitches up and throw them into the guest bathroom along with the live one in my bedroom. We’ll give the
gendarmes
the bastard Karin sent to Valhalla.”

“The police will want to know what happened, Stan.”

“Until tomorrow—this morning—that’s their problem. I just want to pull some diplomatic strings and get these scum on one of our supersonics to Washington. With no announcement except to Sorenson.”

Suddenly a scream came from the bedroom; it was Karin. Drew raced through the door and saw her, weapon hanging at her side, staring at the still, wide-eyed figure across the bed. “What
happened
?”

“I’m not sure. He reached for his collar and bit into it. Seconds later he collapsed.”

“Cyanide.” Latham felt the young neo’s throat for a pulse. “
Deutschland über Alles
,” he said softly. “I wonder if this kid’s mother and father will be proud. Christ, I hope not.”

T
heir hands and forearms bandaged, their shirt collars ripped off, Zero Five, Paris, sat with Paris Two in the cramped quarters of the jet flying across the Atlantic to Washington. It was unlikely they would be executed, thought Five; the Americans were weak in that area, especially if a prisoner appeared irrational and repentant. He nudged the scholarly Zero Two, who was dozing. “Wake up,” he said in German.

“
Was ist?
”

“What should we do when we get there? Have you any ideas?”

“A couple,” replied Two, yawning.

“Let’s hear them.”

“The Americans are, by nature, given to violence, although their leaders pontificate otherwise. Equally ingrained is a proclivity for seeking out conspiracies, no matter how remote they may be. Our leaders have their mistresses, who cares? Their leaders enjoy a whore, and suddenly they’re tied to the overlords of crime. Do such men really need criminals to provide such women for them? It’s ludicrous, but the Americans accept it; their hypocritical puritanism rejects natural law. A life of monogamy is simply not the nature of the male animal.”

“What the hell are you saying? You’re not answering me.

“Certainly I am. When we get there we feed both their hypocrisy and their need for conspiracy.”

“How?”

“They believe, or surely must believe by now, that we’re an elite branch of the Brüderschaft, and in a way we are, although not in the way they think. What we must do
is to pretend we really
are
important. That we have ties to the zealots in Bonn who see us as the true storm troopers, who confide in us because they need us.”

“But they don’t. We have no names, only codes that change twice weekly. The Americans will put us under drugs and learn this.”

“These days the truth serums are no more reliable than hypnosis in sophisticated circles; one can usually be programmed to resist them. U.S. intelligence knows that.”

“We haven’t been programmed.”

“Why should we be? As you say, we have no names, only codes authorizing us to proceed with our orders. If we’re subjected to chemicals and we reveal those useless codes, they can be only more impressed.”

“You’re still not answering me. I liked you better when you didn’t talk so much and were less erudite. How do we deal with the Americans?”

“First, we acknowledge our importance, our close ties with the leadership both in Europe and in America. Then, with reluctance, we also admit that there’s a fair degree of hypocrisy in our actions. Our lifestyles are extravagant—concealed, expensive residences, unlimited funds, the most voluptuous women whenever we want them. The fantasies of every young man are our reality, and the cause that makes this possible is the cause we work for, not necessarily a cause we would die for.”

“Very good, Two, very convincing.”

“It’s the foundation. From there we appeal to their appetite for conspiracy. We reemphasize our importance, our influence, the fact that we’re constantly consulted and must be in contact with our counterparts all over the world in these days of supersonic travel.”

“Especially the United States, of course,” said Zero Five, Paris.

“Of course. And the information we have—specific names, and in the absence of names, positions in both government and civilian industry—is truly shocking. Men and women they could not imagine are sympathetic to the Brotherhood of the Watch.”

“That’s being done now.”

“We’ll escalate the process to new heights. After all, no one’s heard it from ‘the horse’s mouth,’ as the Americans say. If our computers are right, and I expect they are, we’re the first of the new Nazi elite to be taken alive. Actually, we’re trophies, prisoners of war of the highest order. We might very well be given special privileges if we appear to waver. I’m rather looking forward to the next few days.”

Zeros Four and Seven, near-hysterical escapees from the rue Diane, burst into the Blitzkrieger headquarters at the Avignon warehouse complex, trying to impose some control over their emotions—none too successfully. Their two remaining comrades were in the conference room—one at the table, the other pouring coffee.

“We’re
finished
!” cried the impulsive Paris Zero Four, breathlessly throwing himself into a chair. “All hell broke loose!”

“What
happened
?” The Blitzkrieger pouring coffee dropped the cup.

“It wasn’t our fault.” Paris Seven, standing, held his place, and spoke in a loud, defensive voice. “It was a trap, and Five and Two panicked. They ran inside the flat on rapid fire—”

“Then there were different shots and we heard them fall,” Zero Four broke in, his eyes unfocused. “They’re probably dead.”

“What about the
others
, the two who scaled down the building to the window?”

“We don’t know; there was no way we
could
know!”

“What do we do now?” asked Seven. “Any word from Zero One?”

“Nothing.”

“One of us must assume his position and reach Bonn,” said the elite killer by the coffee.

To a man, the other three shook their heads emphatically. “We’ll be executed,” said Four quietly, matter-of-factly. “The leaders will demand it, and speaking personally, I will not die for others’ mistakes, others’
panic. Were I responsible, I would gladly take the cyanide, but I am not,
we
are not!”

“But what can we
do
?” repeated Seven.

The erect Four walked pensively around the table, pausing in front of the Blitzkrieger by the coffee machine. “You handle our accounts, not so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How much money do we have?”

“Several million francs.”

“Can you get more quickly?”

“Our requests for funds are not questioned. We place a phone call and they are wired. We justify them later, naturally understanding the consequences if they are for false pretenses.”

“The same consequences we face now, am I right?”

“Essentially, yes. Death.”

“Make your call and ask for the maximum you can get. You might drop a hint that we may have the President of France or the head of the Chamber of Deputies in our pockets.”

“That would call for the maximum. The transfer will be immediate, but the funds would not be available to us until the Algerian bank opens.… It’s past four now; the bank opens at nine o’clock.”

“Less than five hours,” said Zero Seven, staring at Four. “What are you thinking of?”

“The obvious. We stay here, we all face execution.… What I’m about to say to you may turn your stomachs, but I submit that we can better serve our cause alive than dead. Especially when our deaths are the result of others’ incompetence; we still have much to offer.… I have an elderly uncle outside of Buenos Aires, seventy miles south of the Rio de la Plata. He was one of many who fled the Third Reich when it was being destroyed, but the family still holds that Deutschland to be holy. We have passports; we can fly there and the family will give us sanctuary.”

“It’s better than execution,” said Seven.

“Unwarranted execution,” added the Blitzkrieger at the table solemnly.

“But can we be unreachable for five hours?” asked the killer/accounts manager.

“We can if we tear out the phones and leave,” replied Four. “We’ll pack whatever we need, burn what has to be destroyed, and get out of here. A long day and night lie before us. Hurry! Crumple the files and any other papers there are, stuff them into the metal wastebaskets and light them.”

“I’m rather looking forward to it,” said a relieved Zero Seven.

The ultimate believers had found a convenient crack in their sacred covenant, and as the first wastebasket was set on fire, the bookkeeper opened a window to let out the smoke.

Knox Talbot, director of the CIA, opened the front door for Wesley Sorenson. It was early evening, the Virginia sun descending over the fields of Talbot’s property. “Welcome to these humble lodgings, Wes.”

“Humble, like hell,” said the head of Consular Operations, walking inside. “Do you own half of the state?”

“Only an itty-bitty part. The rest I leave for the white folk.”

“Really, it’s very beautiful, Knox.”

“I won’t argue,” agreed Talbot, leading them through an extravagantly appointed living room to a huge glass-enclosed sun porch. “If you like, and if you have time, I’ll show you the barn and the stables. I have three daughters who fell in love with horses until they discovered boys.”

“I’ll be damned,” exclaimed Sorenson, sitting down. “I have two daughters who did the same.”

“Did they leave you when they found husbands?”

“Well, they come back now and then.”

“But they left you with the horses.”

“Yea so, my friend. Fortunately, my wife adores them.”

“Mine doesn’t. As she frequently points out, growing up on 145th Street in Harlem didn’t exactly prepare her for an estate with stables. She allows me to keep them ’cause they draw the kids back, sometimes too often.… Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks. My cardiologist allows me three ounces a day, and I’ve already had four. Then I’ll get home, and it’ll be a total of six with my wife.”

“Then to business.” Talbot reached down to a wicker magazine rack and pulled up a black-bordered file folder. “First, the AA computers,” he said. “There was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could go on. I’m not questioning Harry Latham and his source, but if they’re right, it’s so buried, it would take an archeologist to pull him or her out.”

“They’re right, Knox.”

“I don’t doubt it, so while I continue to dig, I’ve replaced the whole unit as a matter of a new rotation policy. Expanding the venues of upper-level personnel is the way I explained it.”

“How did that go down?”

“Not well, but with no discernible objections, which, of course, I was looking for. Naturally, the former team is under a microscope.”

“Naturally,” said Sorenson. “What about this Kroeger, Gerhardt Kroeger?”

“Far more interesting.” Talbot flipped several pages in the file folder. “To begin with, he was apparently some kind of genius in the brain surgery field, not only in removing delicate tumors, but in eliminating ‘subcutaneous pressures’ that made mentally sick people well again.”

“
Was?
” asked Wesley Sorenson. “What do you mean, was?”

“He disappeared. He resigned his post as associate chief of cranial surgery at the Hospital of Nuremberg at the age of forty-three, claiming he was burnt out, psychologically unfit to continue operating. He married a prominent surgical nurse named Greta Frisch, and the last anyone heard—the last trace, in fact—was that they immigrated to Sweden.”

“What do the Swedish authorities say?”

“That’s what’s interesting. They have him entering Sweden, at Göteborg, four years ago, ostensibly on a pleasure trip. The hotel records show that he and his wife spent two days and departed. The trail ends there.”

“He’s back,” said the director of Consular Operations. “In reality, I suppose, he never went away. He found another cause beyond making sick people well.”