The Apocalypse Watch (50 page)

“The accepted twelve minutes will be insufficient, Herr Richter,” interrupted the new
Führer
. “Replace that number with thirty-seven, then tell me how many can or will comply. Granted, the bottom rungs of the social ladder will be affected most severely, then again, that is not antithetical to our cleansing purposes, is it? Whole ghettos will be wiped out, saving us time later.”

“I see an even greater advantage,” said Von Löwenstein, son of a Reich’s courtesan. “Depending on the success of Water Lightning, those same compounds could be dropped into selected reservoirs throughout Europe, the Mediterranean, and Africa.”

“Israel first!” shouted the senile Monsignor Paltz. “The Jews killed our Christ!” A number of the congregation looked at one another, then up at Günter Jäger.

“Surely, my brother priest,” said the Brotherhood’s Zeus, “but we must never raise our voices about such solutions, no matter how justified our anger, must we?”

“I simply wanted the logic of my demand made clear.”

“It is, Father, it is.”

On this same evening, at a long-forgotten airstrip ten miles west of the legendary Lakenheath in England, a small group of men and women studied blueprints and a map under the glare of a single floodlight. Behind them, in the distance, was a partially camouflaged vintage 727 jet, circa the middle 1970s. It stood by the bordering woods, its cloth covering pulled up to permit entry into the forward cabin. The language the group spoke was English, several with British accents, the rest with German.

“I tell you it’s impossible,” said a German male. “The payload capacity is more than adequate, but the altitude is unacceptable. We’d shatter windows for kilometers from the target and be caught on radar the moment we ascended. It’s a harebrained scheme, any other pilot would have told you that. Insanity coupled with suicide.”

“In theory it could work,” observed an Englishwoman, “a single low pass as in a final landing approach, then rapid acceleration in the sweep away, staying below three hundred meters, thus avoiding the grids until over the Channel. But I see your point. The risk is enormous, and the slightest malfunction definitely suicidal.”

“And the reservoirs here are relatively isolated,” added another German. “But Paris is treacherous.”

“Are we back to land vehicles, then?” asked an elderly Briton.

“Ruled out,” answered the pilot. “It would take too many large ones to be feasible, and it eliminates the spreading effect, requiring weeks for the poisons to enter the major sluice flows.”

“Then where are we?”

“I believe it’s obvious,” said a young neo-Nazi who had been at the rear of the group; he now walked forward, arrogantly brushing aside the aircraft blueprints. “At least to anyone who kept his eyes open during our training in the Hausruck.”

“That’s a gratuitously harsh remark,” objected the Englishwoman. “My eyesight’s quite splendid, thank you.”

“Then what did you see, what did
all
of you see, frequently swooping and circling down from the sky?”

“The glider,” replied the second German. “A rather small glider.”

“What did you have in mind,
mein junger Mann
?” asked the pilot. “A squadron of such aircraft, say fifty or a hundred, colliding above the water reserves?”

“No,
Herr Flugzeugführer
. Replace them with aircraft that already exist! Two giant military transport gliders, each capable of carrying twice or three times the tonnage of that excessively heavy relic across the field.”

“What are you talking about? Where are such aircraft?”

“At the aerodrome in Konstanz, under heavy coverings, there are some twenty such machines. They have been there since the war.”

“Since the
war
?” cried the stunned German pilot. “I really don’t understand you,
junger Mann
!”

“Then your studies of the Third Reich’s collapse fail you, sir. During the final years of that war, we Germans—who were the experts in gliding equipment—developed the massive
Gigant
, the Messerschmitt ME 323, which evolved from the ME 321, both the largest transport gliders in the air. They were initially created to aid the supply lines to the Russian front in full expectation for use in the invasion of England, their construction of wood and cloth eluding radar.”

“They’re still
there
?” asked the elderly Briton.

“As is much of your Royal Navy and the American destroyers—‘in mothballs,’ I believe is the phrase. I’ve had airmen check them out for me. With minor modifications they can be operable.”

“How do you propose to get them airborne?” said the second German.

“Two aircraft carrier jets can easily lift them off from short fields, assisted by disposable booster rockets under their wings. The Luftwaffe proved it can be done. They did it.”

There was a brief silence, broken by the older Briton. “The young man’s idea has merit,” he said. “During the invasion of Normandy, scores of such gliders, many carrying jeeps, small tanks, and personnel, were released behind your lines and wreaked havoc. Good show, chap, really
very
good.”

“I agree,” said the German pilot pensively, his eyes squinting. “I take back my sarcasm, young fellow.”

“Further, if I may, sir,” continued the delighted younger neo, “the carrier jets could drop off both gliders from an altitude of, say, three thousand meters above the reservoirs, then rapidly ascend to forty thousand, sweeping
across the Channel before the radar operators could piece anything together.”

“What about the gliders themselves?” asked a skeptical British neo. “Unless the mission is specifically one of no return, they have to land somewhere—or crash somewhere.”

“I’ll answer that,” replied the pilot. “Open fields or pastures close by the water reserves should be the designated landing sites, and once on the ground, the gliders will be blown up while our flyers race away in pre-positioned vehicles.”

“
Jawohl
.” The second German held up his hand in the spill of the floodlight. “This strategy could well change many things,” he said with quiet authority. “We’ll confer with our aircraft engineers as to the modifications of these gliders. I must return to London and call Bonn. What is your name, young man?”

“Von Löwenstein, sir. Maximilian von Löwenstein the Third.”

“You, your father, and your grandmother have erased the treachery on your family’s escutcheon caused by your grandfather. Walk with pride, my boy.”

“I’ve prepared myself for these moments all my life, sir.”

“So be it. You’ve prepared yourself brilliantly.”

“
Mon Dieu!
” exclaimed Claude Moreau as he embraced Latham. They stood by a stone wall overlooking the Seine, a blond-wigged Karin de Vries several feet to their left. “You are
alive
and that is the most important thing, but what has that madman Witkowski
done
to you?”

“Actually, I’m afraid it was my idea, monsieur,” said Karin, approaching both men.

“You are the De Vries woman, madame?” asked Moreau, removing a visored walking cap.

“I am, sir.”

“The photographs I’ve seen say you are not. But then, if this yellow-haired gargoyle is Drew Latham, I suppose anything is possible.”

“The hair is not my own, it’s a wig, Monsieur Moreau.”

“
Certainement
. However, madame, I must admit it is not in concert with such a lovely face. It is, how can I say it, somewhat more blatant?”

“Now I understand why it’s reported that the head of the Deuxième is one of the most charming men in Paris.”

“A lovely sentiment, but please don’t tell my wife.”

“Would anybody mind,” interrupted Drew. “
I’m
the one he’s happy to see.”

“You are, indeed, my friend, but I mourn the loss of your brother.”

“I do too, so let’s get on with the reason we’re here. I want the sons of bitches who killed him … among other things.”

“We all do, among other things. There’s an outdoor café up the street; it’s usually crowded and no one will notice us. I know the owner. Why don’t we stroll up there and get a table far from the entrance? Actually, I’ve arranged it.”

“An excellent idea, Monsieur Moreau,” said Karin, taking Latham’s arm.

“Please, madame,” continued the chief of the Deuxième Bureau, putting on his cap as they started walking. “My name is Claude, and I suspect we’ll be together until the finish, if there is one. Therefore, the ‘monsieur’ is hardly necessary, but you don’t have to tell my adorable wife.”

“I’d love to meet her.”

“Not in that blond wig, my dear.”

The owner of the sidewalk café greeted Moreau quietly behind a row of flower boxes and escorted the three of them to the farthest table from the latticed entrance. It abutted the bordering shoulder-high row of flowers, more in shadows than in light, a single flickering candle in the center of the checkered tablecloth.

“I thought Colonel Witkowski might be with us,” said De Vries.

“So did I,” agreed Latham. “How come he isn’t? Sorenson made it clear that we needed his expertise.”

“It was his decision,” explained Moreau. “He is a large, imposing man known by sight to many in Paris.”

“Then why didn’t we meet somewhere else?” asked Drew. “Say a hotel room?”

“Again, the colonel. You see, by extension his presence
is
here. Parked at the curb in front is an unmarked American embassy car. The driver will remain behind the wheel, and his two marine companions in civilian clothes are roaming among the strollers beyond our garden wall.”

“He’s running a test, then,” said De Vries, making a statement, not posing a question.

“Exactly. It is why our mutual friend here is still posing as a soldier, a most contradictory role. Witkowski wants to make certain that there are no other leaks, but if there are, he intends to take a prisoner and learn the source.”

“That would be Stanley,” Latham again agreed. “The only chance he’s taking is with my life.”

“You’re perfectly safe,” said the Deuxième chief. “I have the utmost regard for your aggressive marines.… Karin,” he added, seeing her bandaged hand, “your hand … the colonel told me you’d been wounded. I’m so sorry!”

“It’s healing well, thank you, and later a small prosthesis will complete the cosmetics. I’m seeing the doctor tomorrow, after which I shall be wearing a fashionable pair of gloves, I expect.”

“A Deuxième vehicle is at your disposal, of course.”

“Stosh already made the arrangements,” said Drew. “I insisted on that because I want everything on the embassy record. I’ll be damned if she pays a
sou
for her medical bills.”

“My darling, it doesn’t matter—”

“It does to me!”

“Ah, ‘
mon chou
.’ So that’s the way it is. I’m so happy for both of you.”

“It slipped out, monsieur.
Je regrette
.”

“Do not, please. Despite my profession, I’m a
romantique au coeur
. Also, Colonel Witkowski did mention, most confidentially, a possible liaison between you. It’s far
better not to be alone in these situations, loneliness is a terrible detriment when under stress.”

“Well said, monsieur … 
mon ami
, Claude.”

“
Merci
.”

“One question,” interrupted Latham. “I can understand Stanley’s not being here, but what about you? Aren’t you pretty well known in Paris?”

“Hardly at all,” replied Moreau. “My photograph has never appeared in the newspapers or on television—that is the policy of the Deuxième Bureau. Even my office door does not have a
Le Directeur
sign on the glass. I am not saying that our enemies do not have snapshots of me, they obviously do, but my presence is not significant. I am neither a tall man nor do I dress extravagantly, I’m really quite ordinary. As you Americans say, I hardly stand out in a crowd, and I have a large collection of hats; witness the idiotic cap I’m wearing. They’re all I need.”

“Except in the case of your enemies,” said Drew.

“That is a risk we all take, is it not, my friend? And now let me bring you up to the moment. As you may or may not know, Ambassador Courtland will be on the Concorde for Washington tomorrow morning—”

“Sorenson said he was bringing him back for thirty-six hours,” Drew broke in, “the explanation being some trumped-up State Department business that State doesn’t know about.”

“Precisely. In the meantime, Mrs. Courtland is under our surveillance; believe me, it’s absolute. Every move she makes outside the embassy will be watched, and even within the embassy every telephone number she, calls will be instantly transmitted to my office, courtesy of the colonel—”

“You can’t tap her conversations?” interrupted Latham.

“The risk is too great, there isn’t time to reprogram the phones. She’s undoubtedly aware of such tactics and will run tests of her own. Should she confirm an intercept, she will know she’s under surveillance.”

“In the same way you confirmed that my own telephone was compromised, Drew.”

“The meetings at specific locations.” Latham nodded. “All right, you’ve got her under a scope. Suppose nothing happens.”

“Then nothing happens,” said Moreau. “But that would strike me as most unusual. Remember, beneath her charming exterior there is a zealot, a trained believer in a fanatical cause. Here she is, an hour from the borders of the holy Reich of her passions, and she has risen so high in her life’s work, her ego will demand a certain satisfaction. Acclamation says it better, for the Sonnenkinder must have extraordinary egos. The temptation will be equally extraordinary. In my judgment, with the ambassador away, she’ll make a move and we’ll learn something more.”

“I hope you’re right.” Latham frowned as a waiter approached the table carrying glasses and two bottles of wine on a tray.

“The owner here always brings me his newest acquisitions of wine for my approval,” interjected the chief of the Deuxième Bureau quietly as the waiter uncorked the bottles. “If you’d prefer something else, please tell me.”

“No, that’s fine.” Drew glanced at Karin, and both nodded.

“May I ask,” began De Vries after the waiter had left, “should Drew be right and nothing happen, is it possible we might force Janine to make a move?”