The Apocalypse Watch (74 page)

“Moderation and variety are the answer, my darling.”

“I don’t like fish. Beth could never cook fish right. It always smelled like fish.”

“Harry liked fish. He told me your mother broiled it beautifully, with sprinkles of dill.”

“Harry and Mom were in a conspiracy against Dad and me. He and I would go out and get a hamburger.”

“Drew,” began Karin, letting the moment pass, “have you reached your parents to tell them the truth about you and Harry?”

“Not yet, it’s not the time.”

“That’s terribly cruel. You’re their surviving child and you were with him when he was killed. You can’t overlook them; they must be heartbroken.”

“Beth I could trust, not my father. Let’s say he’s pretty outspoken and not too fond of the authorities. He’s spent his life fighting campus politics and various countries’ restrictions on archeological explorations. It’s not unlike him to demand an accountability, and I can’t give him any.”

“He sounds not unlike his two sons, I’d suggest.”

“Maybe. That’s why the time isn’t right.” The doorbell of the ambassador’s living quarters rang. Instantly, a steward came out of the upstairs kitchen. “We’re expecting Colonel Witkowski,” said Latham. “Let him in, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Twelve seconds later the embassy’s head of security walked into the dining room, his eyes disapproving as he glanced around the table. “What the hell
is
this?” he asked curtly. “You guys suddenly part of the diplomatic crowd?”

“I, personally, am representing the nation of Oz,” replied Drew, grinning. “If the candlelight is too bright, we’ll have the Munchkin slaves extinguish a few.”

“Pay no attention to him, Stanley,” said Karin, “he’s had three glasses of wine. If you’d like something, I’m sure we can get it for you.”

“No, thanks.” Witkowski sat down. “I had a damn good steak sent up to my office while waiting for Moreau to come through.”

“Too much cholesterol,” said Latham. “Haven’t you heard about that?”

“Not recently, but I’ve heard from Moreau.”

“What’s he got?” asked Drew, abruptly serious.

“This Vaultherin is relatively clean on the surface, but there are questions. He’s made a fortune out of the new construction around Paris, making a lot of his investors very rich too.”

“So? Others have done the same.”

“But none with the same background. He’s a young, arrogant buccaneer in financial circles.”

“Again, what’s new?”

“His grandfather was a member of the Milice—”

“The what …?”

“The French pro-Nazi police during the war,” answered Karin, “formed under the Germans as a counterpart to the Résistance. They were middle-level henchmen without whom the Nazis couldn’t control the occupied country. They were filth.”

“What’s the bottom line, Stanley?”

“Vaultherin’s major investors come from Germany. They’re buying up everything they can purchase.”

“What about the Loire Valley?”

“They damn near own it, at least large chunks along the river.”

“Have you got a breakdown of the properties?”

“Yes, I have,” said the colonel, removing a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and handing it to Drew. “I’m not sure what they can tell us, most are owned by families that go back for generations. Those that aren’t are either government appropriated because nobody paid the taxes, and therefore they’ve become landmarks, or they were recently bought by movie stars and other celebrities
until their accountants told them what they were costing. Most of those are up for sale.”

“Are there any generals on the list?”

“As you can see, fifteen or twenty by name, but that’s only because they purchased their plots of five or six acres and pay taxes on them. There are at least a dozen others, generals and admirals, who’ve been awarded ‘domiciles for life’ due to their military contributions to the Republic of France.”

“That’s wild.”

“We do the same,
chłopak
. We’ve got a few thousand top brass living in fancy houses within the perimeters of military bases after their retirements. It’s not unusual, or even unfair if you think about it. They spend their lives making a fraction of what they could in the private sector, and if they aren’t headline makers sought by various boards of directors, they couldn’t afford to live in Scarsdale, New York.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Try, Officer Latham. I’ll complete my thirty-five years eighteen months from now, and while I can give my children and grandchildren a hell of a time in Paris, if you think one of my kids could come to me and borrow fifty thousand bucks for an operation, forget it. Sure, I’d do it, but I’d be wiped out.”

“Okay, Stanley, I see where you’re coming from,” said Latham, studying the list. “Tell me, Stosh, these landmark acquisitions, why aren’t the inhabitants named?”

“Quai d’Orsay regulations. Same as in our country. There are crazies out there who hold grudges against commanders. Remember the Vietnam vet who tried to kill Westmoreland by firing through a window?”

“Can we get those names?”

“Moreau probably can.”

“Have him do that.”

“I’ll call him in the morning.… Now, can we talk about the operation we’ve been given, namely the heisting of Dr. Hans Traupman in Nuremberg?”

“Five men, no more,” said Drew, putting down Witkowski’s list on the dining room table. “Each fluent in
German and each with Ranger training, none of them married or with children.”

“I anticipated you. I dug up two from NATO, with you and me that makes four, and there’s a candidate from Marseilles who may qualify.”

“
Stop
it!” cried Karin. “
I
am the fifth man—far better, for I’m a woman.”

“In your dreams, lady. It’s a good bet that Traupman is as heavily guarded as if he wore the Hope diamond around his neck like a
mezuzah
.”

“Moreau’s looking into that,” said the colonel. “Frankly, he’d like to take over the operation himself, but the Quai d’Orsay, as well as French foreign intelligence, would blow him away if he tried. But there’s nothing on the books that says he can’t give us assistance. Within twenty-four hours he expects a report on Traupman’s daily routine and security.”

“I’m going with you, Drew,” said De Vries calmly. “There’s no way you can stop me, so don’t try.”

“For Christ’s sake,
why
?”

“For all the reasons you know very well, and one you do not.”

“What …?”

“As you said about Harry and your parents, I’ll tell you when the time is right.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“For the moment, the only one you’ll get.”

“You think I’ll settle for that?”

“You have to, it’s a gift from you to me. If you refuse, and as much as it pains me, I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again.”

“It means that much to you? This reason I don’t know about means
that
much?”

“Yes.”

“Karin, you’re driving me up the wall!”

“I don’t mean to, my darling, but some things we must all simply accept. This you must.”

“I should have the words to tell you I don’t buy this crap!” said Latham, swallowing, as he stared at her. “I just don’t have them.”

“Listen to me,
chłopak
,” Witkowski interrupted, studying them both. “I’m not crazy about the idea, but there’s a positive side. A woman sometimes makes quiet inroads where men can’t.”

“What the hell are you
proposing
?”

“Obviously not what you think. But as long as she’s made up her mind, she could be useful.”

“That’s the coldest, most insensitive thing I’ve ever heard you say,
Colonel
! The assignment is everything, the individual
nothing
?”

“There’s a middle ground where both are vital.”

“She could be
killed
!”

“So could we all. I think she has as much right to that option as you do. You lost a brother, she lost a husband. Who are you to play Solomon?”

It was twenty minutes to five in Washington, those hectic minutes before the rush-hour traffic fill the streets, when secretaries, clerks, and typists mildly harass their bosses into giving their final instructions for the day so that personnel can get to garages, parking lots, and bus stops before the crowds. Wesley Sorenson had left the office, already in his limousine but not on his way home; his wife knew how to handle emergencies, filtering the false ones and reaching him in the car for those she considered genuine. After nearly forty-five years she had developed instincts as perceptive as his, and he was grateful for that.

Instead of home, the director of Consular Operations was on his way to a rendezvous with Knox Talbot in Langley, Virginia. The head of the CIA had alerted him an hour earlier; the snare for Bruce Withers, high-tech purchasing agent, bigot, and prime suspect in the safe-house killings, might have been sprung. Talbot had ordered an in-house tap on Withers’s phone, and at 2:13 in the afternoon a call had come to him from a woman who identified herself only as Suzy. Knox had played the recording for Wesley over their secure telephones.

“Hi, hon, it’s Suzy. Sorry to bother you at work, sweetie, but I ran into Sidney, who says he’s got that old set of wheels for you.”

“The silver Aston-Martin, DB-Three?”

“If that’s the one you want, he tracked it down.”

“Hey, I can smell it! That’s the ‘Goldfinger’ car.”

“He doesn’t want to bring it into the lot, so you’re to meet him at your watering hole in Woodbridge around five-thirty.”

“You and I and a few younger strong-arms will follow him, Wes,” Talbot had said.

“Sure, Knox, but why? The man’s a Fascist, a thief, and a late-blooming yuppie, but what’s his buying a fancy English car got to do with anything?”

“I remembered I own a custom-made auto parts company in Idaho—or is it Ohio?—so I made a call to the fellow who runs it for me. He said that anybody who’s an automobile freak knows damn well that the ‘Goldfinger’ car is the Aston-Martin DB-
Four
, not a Three. He even went so far as to say that he could understand if someone said DB-Five, because there wasn’t that much difference in the design, but never a DB-Three.”

“I can’t tell a Chevrolet from a Pontiac, if they make them any longer, that is.”

“A car freak can, especially if he’s going to pay over a hundred thousand for it. Meet me in the south parking lot. That’s where Withers’s Jaguar is.”

The limousine entered the huge Langley complex, the driver wending his way to the south lot. They were stopped by a man in a dark suit, holding up a badge. Sorenson lowered his window. “Yes, what is it?”

“I recognized the car, sir. If you’ll get out and follow me, I’ll bring you to the DCI. There’s a change of vehicles, somewhat less obvious than a limo.”

“That makes sense.”

The change of vehicles meant riding in a nondescript sedan of dubious ownership. Wesley climbed into the backseat alongside Knox Talbot. “Don’t let appearances fool you,” said the DCI. “This iron mother has an engine that could probably win the Indy 500.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but then, what choice do I have?”

“None. Besides, in addition to the two gentlemen in
front, there’s a second car behind us with four other gentlemen armed to their bicuspids.”

“Are you expecting the invasion of Normandy?”

“I got mine in Korea, so I don’t know that much about ancient history. I only know we should expect anything from these bastards.”

“I’m on your side—”

“There he
is
,” the driver broke in. “He’s heading straight for the Jag.”

“Go slow, man,” said Talbot. “Go with the flow, just don’t lose him.”

“No way, Mr. Director. I’d love to nail that son of a bitch.”

“Why is that, young man?”

“He hit on my girl, my fiancée. She’s in the steno pool. He got her in a corner and tried to feel her up.”

“I understand,” said Talbot, leaning into Sorenson’s shoulder and whispering. “I
love
it when there’s true motivation, don’t you? It’s what I try to instill in my companies.”

After nearly an hour’s drive, the Jaguar pulled into a shabby motel on the outskirts of Woodbridge. On the far left of a row of cabins was a miniature barnlike structure with a red neon sign proclaiming
COCKTAILS, TV, ROOMS AVAILABLE
. “The Waldorf of the quickie afternoon trade, no doubt,” observed Wesley as Bruce Withers got out of his car and went into the bar. “I’d suggest you swing around and park way to the right of the door,” he continued, speaking to the driver, “next to that low-slung silver bug.”

“That’s the Aston, DB-Four,” said Talbot, “the ‘Goldfinger’ car.”

“Yes, I remember seeing it now—a good film. But why would anyone pay a hundred thousand dollars for it? The damn thing can’t be very comfortable.”

“According to my manager, it’s a classic, and it’s well over a hundred thousand by now. Probably nearer two.”

“Then where would a Bruce Withers get anywhere near that kind of money?”

“How much is it worth to the neo movement to get rid of two captured Nazis whose tongues could be loosened?”

“I see what you mean.” Sorenson again addressed the front seat as the driver pulled alongside the British sports car. “How about one of you fellows going inside and taking a look around?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the agent passenger, “as soon as our backup parks.… There, he’s in place.”

“May I suggest that you loosen or remove your tie. I don’t think this place sees too many men in business suits—going into the cabins, perhaps, but not in there.”

The man next to the driver turned around. His tie was gone and his shirt collar unbuttoned. “Also my coat, sir,” he said, taking off his jacket. “It’s a hot day.” The agent got out of the car, his erect posture suddenly turning to a slouch as he walked to the door under the neon sign.

Inside the dimly lit bar, the clientele was a Saroyanesque mixture: several truck drivers, men from a construction crew, two or three collegiate types, a white-haired man whose wrinkled, blotched face was once aristocratic and whose threadbare clothes still showed their original quality, and a quartet of aging local hookers. Bruce Withers had been greeted by the burly bartender.