The Apocalypse Watch (63 page)

“If we were on the ice, you would have been dog meat,” said Drew, breathless, falling into the couch beside his victim.

“Ice …?”

“It’s difficult to translate,” explained Karin quickly by the dry bar. “What he means is, do you care for ice in your whisky?”

“
Oui, merci
. But more whisky than the ice,
s’il vous plaît
.”

“
Naturellement
.”

Ambassador Daniel Courtland, as ordered by the government of France, was escorted off the Concorde from a ramp in the forward section before the aircraft reached its gate. The idling jet engines were deafening as Courtland, flanked by a marine guard detail, was taken to the waiting American Embassy limousine on the tarmac. He steeled himself for the ensuing minutes, understanding that they would be the most difficult of his life. To be embraced by
the consummate enemy, an enemy trained since childhood to deceive someone like himself, was almost worse than losing the woman he loved.

The limousine door was opened for him and he fell into the arms of his adoring, consummate enemy. “It was only three days, but I
missed
you so!” cried Janine Clunitz Courtland.

“And I you, dear. I’ll make it up to you, to both of us.”

“You must, you
must
! The fact that you were thousands of miles away from me made me ill, positively ill!”

“It’s over with, Janine, but you must get used to Washington’s demands. I have to go where I am needed.” They kissed violently, viciously, and Courtland could taste the poison in her mouth.

“Then you must take me
with
you—I
love
you so!”

“We’ll work it out.… Now, please, my dear, we can’t embarrass the two marines in front, can we?”

“I can. I could rip your trousers off and do wonderful things for you.”

“Later, dear, later. Remember, I
am
the ambassador to France.”

“And I’m one of the leading authorities in computer science, and I say the hell with them both!” Dr. Janine Courtland grabbed her husband’s unaroused crotch.

The limousine raced down the avenue Gabriel to the embassy’s front entrance; it was the quickest route to the elevators that would take them up to their living quarters. The huge vehicle came to a stop as two additional marine guards came out to assist the ambassador and his wife.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, three nondescript cars without license plates roared to the curb, surrounding the limousine as Courtland and his wife walked out onto the pavement. Doors opened and figures in black stocking masks leapt out, their automatic weapons on rapid fire, spraying deadly bullets everywhere. Almost simultaneously, additional gunfire erupted from two automobiles that had obviously been following the embassy car. The crowds in the Gabriel raced for cover. Four masked terrorists fell; one marine collapsed, grabbing his stomach; Ambassador Courtland plunged across the pavement, one
hand reaching for his right leg, the other for his shoulder. And Janine Clunitz, Sonnenkind, was dead, her skull shattered, her chest spewing blood. A number of the masked killers—who knew how many?—raced away, soon to discard their head coverings and join the evening strollers of Paris.

“
Merde, merde, merde!
” roared Claude Moreau, emerging from around one of the Deuxième vehicles that had been protecting the Americans. “We did everything and we did
nothing
!… Take all the bodies inside and say nothing to
anyone
. I am disgraced and I should be!… See to the ambassador, he’s alive.
Quickly!
”

Among the Americans rushing out of the embassy to lend assistance was Stanley Witkowski. He ran up to Moreau, grabbed him by the shoulders as the police sirens grew louder, and shouted, “Listen to me, Frenchie! You’re going to do and say exactly what I tell you, or I’m declaring war on you and the CIA! Is that
clear
?”

“Stanley,” said the Deuxième chief, no spirit in him, “I have failed miserably. Do what you will.”

“No, you haven’t failed, you fucking idiot, because you couldn’t have controlled this! These goddamned killers were willing to die tonight, and four did!
Nobody
can control fanatics like them. You can’t,
we
can’t, no one can because they don’t give a shit about their lives. We can’t obliterate their fanatical commitments, but we can
out-think
them, and you above all people know that!”

“What are you saying, Colonel?”

“Come inside with me, and I’ll ream your tight ass with a blowtorch if you refuse to do what I want you to.”

“May I ask in what sphere?”

“Sure you can. You’re going to lie through your teeth to your government, to the press, to any son of a bitch who wants to listen to you.”

“So my grave is dug deeper?”

“No, it’s your only way out of it.”

D
r. Hans Traupman maneuvered his short speedboat into the modest dock of the small cottage on the riverfront. No lights were necessary, as the summer moon was bright, glistening off the waters. And there were no dockhands to assist Traupman in securing his craft; they would be an added expense the defrocked Lutheran minister could ill afford. Günter Jäger, as his few friends in the Bundestag knew, watched his deutsche marks; it was rumored that his rent was minimal for the converted boathouse, now a cottage on the banks of the Rhine. The former estate beyond had been demolished in anticipation of a new mansion to be built in the near future. In truth, a new estate
would
be built, but more than a mansion, a magnificent fortress with all of the most modern technology to ensure the isolation and the safety of the new
Führer
. That day would come soon, when the Brüderschaft controlled the Bundestag. The mountains of Berchtesgaden would be replaced by the waters of the mighty Rhine, for Günter Jäger preferred the constantly moving river to the stationary snow-capped alps.

Günter
Jäger
 … Adolf
Hitler
!
Heil
Hitler … 
Heil
Jäger! Even the syllabic rhythm fitted the man. More and more, Jäger assumed the less public trappings of his predecessor: the absolute chain of command; the select few designated as his personal aides and through whom all appointments were made; his disdain for physical contact save for abrupt handshakes; his apparently genuine affection for young children, but not infants, and, finally, his asexuality. Women could be admired aesthetically, but not in a lascivious manner; even off-color remarks were unacceptable in his presence. Many ascribed this puritanical
streak to his previous ecclesiastical duties, but Traupman, a physician to the brain, did not. Instead, he suspected a far darker explanation. Observing Jäger in the presence of women, he thought he discerned brief flashes of hatred in the new
Führer
’s eyes when a woman was provocatively dressed or used her physical charms to flatter men. No, Günter Jäger was not driven by a sense of purity, he was—like his predecessor—pathologically obsessed by a
fear
of women, by how much their wiles could destroy. But the surgeon quite wisely decided to keep his speculations to himself. The new Germany was everything, and if it took a charismatic figure with a flaw or two to bring it about, so be it.

The doctor had asked for a private audience this night, for events were taking place in the field that Jäger might not be aware of. His aides were intensely loyal, but none cared to be the bearer of disturbing news. Traupman, however, knew he was on safe ground, for he had literally plucked the mesmerizing orator from his enraged church and pushed him into the front ranks of the Brotherhood. In the final analysis, if there was one man left who could push him back, it was the celebrated surgeon.

He secured his boat, and awkwardly, painfully, climbed up on the dock only to be greeted by a heavyset guard who emerged from the shadows of a riverbank tree. “Come,
Herr Doktor
,” called out the man. “The
Führer
is waiting for you.”

“In the house, of course?”

“No, sir. In the garden. Follow me, please.”

“The garden? A cabbage patch is now a garden?”

“I myself planted a great many flowers and our staff cleared the riverbank. They placed flagstones where there were only reeds and debris.”

“You’re not exaggerating,” said Traupman as they approached a small clearing on the edge of the Rhine, where two lanterns were suspended from tree branches, the wicks now being lighted by another aide. Around the short flagstone patio were several pieces of outdoor furniture, three upright lawn chairs and a white wrought-iron table. It was a pastoral enclave for private meditation or
confidential meetings. And seated in the far chair, his blond hair catching the irregular light of the lanterns, was Günter Jäger, the new
Führer
. At the sight of his old friend, he rose and held out his arms, immediately lowering his left and extending his right hand.

“How good of you to come, Hans.”

“I requested the meeting, Günter.”

“Drivel. You don’t need to request anything of me, you simply say what you want. Sit down, sit down. Can I get you something, a drink perhaps?”

“No, thank you. I want to get back to Nuremberg as soon as I can. The unintercepted messages keep my telephone ringing.”

“Unintercepted?… Oh, yes, the scramblers.”

“Exactly. You have the same.”

“Do I?”

“Different channels perhaps, but whatever I learn you should know also.”

“That said and agreed to, what is so urgent, my good doctor?”

“How much do you know of the recent events in Paris?”

“Everything, I trust.”

“Gerhardt Kroeger?”

“Shot to death by the Americans in that mess at the Hotel Inter-Continental. Good riddance; he never should have gone to Paris.”

“He felt he had a mission to complete.”

“What mission?”

“The death of Harry Latham, the CIA officer who penetrated the valley and was exposed by Kroeger.”

“We’ll find him, not that it matters,” said Jäger. “The valley no longer exists.”

“But you’re convinced Gerhardt Kroeger is dead.”

“It was in the report forwarded to Bonn Intelligence by our embassy. In those circles, it’s common knowledge, although they’re burying it because they don’t care to throw a spotlight on us.”

“A report, if I’m not mistaken, that originated at the American Embassy.”

“Presumably. They knew Kroeger was one of us—how could they
not
know? The stupid pig started shooting up the place believing he could kill this Latham. However, the Americans didn’t learn anything, he died on his way to their embassy.”

“I see,” said Hans Traupman, shifting his body in the chair, only sporadically glancing at Günter Jäger as if he were pained to engage his new
Führer
’s eyes. “And our Sonnenkind, Janine Clunitz, wife of the American ambassador?”

“We hardly needed our penetrators to learn what happened, Hans. It was in all the newspapers in Europe and America and everywhere else, confirmed by witnesses. She narrowly escaped an ambush by Israeli extremists out to kill Courtland over what they called an ‘Arabist’ State Department. He was wounded and, unfortunately, our Sonnenkind Clunitz survived. She’ll be dead in a day or so, I’ve been assured of that.”

“Finally, Günter—
mein Führer
—”

“I told you before, Hans, between us that’s not required.”

“I require it of myself. You are far more than the gangster from Munich ever was. You are highly educated, historically grounded, and ideologically positioned by what is happening, not only in Germany, but in all countries. The ill born, the unworthy, and the mediocre are assuming positions of power in governments everywhere, and you understand that this destructive trend must stop. You can bring this about … 
mein Führer
.”

“Thank you, Hans, but you were saying? ‘Finally’—what?”

“This man Latham, the deep-cover Central Intelligence officer who penetrated the valley and was exposed by Gerhardt Kroeger—”

“What about him?” interrupted Jäger.

“He’s still alive. He’s better than we thought.”

“He’s only a man, Hans. Flesh and blood and with a heart muscle that can be stopped, punctured with a bullet or a knife. I’ve authorized two units of Blitzkrieger to fly
to Paris and accomplish the task. They won’t fail. They dare not fail.”

“And the woman he lives with?”

“The De Vries whore?” asked the new
Führer
. “She must be killed with him—or before him, preferably. Her sudden death will unnerve him, cause him to be more vulnerable; he’ll make mistakes.… Is all this what you’ve come to tell me, Hans?”

“No, Günter,” said Traupman, getting up from the chair and pacing between the shadows and the glare of the two lanterns. “I’ve come to tell you the truth, as I’ve perceived the truth through my own sources.”

“Your
own
sources?”

“No different from yours, I assure you, but I’m an old man whose training is in the nuts and bolts of surgery, and all too frequently patients skirt around their symptoms, frightened by my diagnoses if they were totally honest. Eventually, you learn to understand a degree of self-deceiving falsity.”

“Please be clearer.”

“I shall, and I’ll support what I say by my own inquiries.… Gerhardt Kroeger did not die. I suspect he’s alive and a prisoner in the American Embassy.”

“
What?
” Jäger shot forward in his chair.

“I sent one of our people to the Inter-Continental hotel, with official French identification, of course, to interrogate the surviving clerks. They all speak English, and they said they distinctly heard two of the guards on the balcony shouting that the ‘maniac’ had been shot in the legs, but was still alive. They took him away and put him into an ambulance. I repeat, still
alive
.”

“My
God
!”

“Next, I had our people examine the so-called witnesses to the assault on the American Embassy, where the ambassador was severely wounded and his wife supposedly survived. These witnesses could not understand the subsequent reports on television and in the newspapers. They told our people that the woman’s upper chest and face were flowing with blood.… ‘How could she have lived?’ they asked.”