The Lie (21 page)

“I’m afraid we’re going to be doing a lot more crawling than running. Thank Allah for the high grass.”

“You don’t have to worry, Abu. From the amount of
plastique
you packed into the charge, there won’t be a whole person left in that motorcade to come looking for us.”

At 8:40 they were tense and starting to sweat as the sun rose and became hotter.

“I don’t like this,” said the Palestinian.

Archer was silent.

They stared at the road in the direction of Brussels, watching for flashing lights and listening for sirens and motorcycle
engines. Without speaking, they knew each other’s thoughts.

Twenty minutes later, little doubt remained that the operation was either in serious trouble or dead.

“So?” said Mustafa.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Abu.”

“This man of yours. You’ve used him before?”

“For years. This is the first time he’s crapped out on me.”

“I don’t think it’s him. He was right on target for yesterday’s route in from the airport. I think there may have been a last-minute
change going back, and no way he could let you know.”

Archer said nothing. Somehow, he was unable to believe that.

“Is there a number where you can reach him?”

“Yeah. But it’s not secure.”

“Use my car phone and talk around it. I’ll stay here and watch the road in case there was just a delay.” Mustafa’s eyes were
two shining marbles in the sun. “If you hear a big bang, hang up.”

Dripping sweat, Daniel Archer pushed through the high grass to where the Saab stood among the trees. He called the lieutenant’s
private number at police headquarters; the phone was picked up instantly.

“Lieutenant Rougier.”

“What happened?” said Archer.

There was dead silence for a long moment, then a sigh. “I’m sorry as hell. You should have done it yesterday,” said the lieutenant,
“while I still had my balls. I had all last night to think and it ate me up.”

Archer waited to feel anger, but it never came.

“I’ll return what you gave me,” said Charles Rougier.

“Keep it,” said Archer, suddenly anxious to get out of this car, this grove, and this country. “As a small reminder.”

“Of what?”

“How fucking lucky you are,” said Archer as he broke the connection.

He drove the Saab back to Abu Mustafa, who had only to glance at his face. “He lost his nerve?”

Daniel Archer nodded.

“What did he say?”

“We should have done it yesterday.”

Abu Mustafa laughed. “The man’s right. But he should have
told
us yesterday.”

Archer liked his being able to laugh.

“You did a good job,” he said. “The front money is yours. Maybe we can finish it up some other time.”

“If we’re around, Mr. Lucas.”

They defused the
plastique
, loaded it into the Saab’s trunk, and drove back to the city.

Archer reached Ken Harris at 4:00
A.M.
Washington time on his secure home number.

“It’s me,” he said. “Are you awake enough to listen?”

The deputy director cleared the sleep from his brain and throat. “Go ahead.”

“It’s scrubbed.”

There was a short silence.

“Anything or anyone compromised?”

“No. Nothing like that. Someone just chickened out at the last minute and there was no chance for another go.”

“Where are you calling from?” said Harris.

“Brussels Airport. I’ll explain when I see you.”

Feeling curiously lighter than he had in more than a week, Daniel Archer hung up.

P
RESIDENT
D
UNSTER’S MOTORCADE
rolled out onto the tarmac of Brussels International Airport at 9:25
A.M.
on September 13.

Fifteen minutes later, with the ceremonial pictures and sound bites out of the way, the president and his party were settled
aboard
Air Force One
for what was assumed to be their return flight to Washington.

They had been in Brussels for not quite twenty-four hours. During this period, Dunster had made his promised appearance at
the world trade conclave currently in progress, met briefly with the leaders of several other large industrial powers, attended
a formal dinner and concert given in his honor, and managed to squeeze in a bit more than five consecutive hours of badly
needed sleep.

At 9:47 with the engines of
Air Force One
still warming up, Tommy Cortlandt told Colonel McNeil, the pilot, that the president wanted to see him in his private quarters.

McNeil, a big man with carefully barbered hair and a suntan, half turned from the controls. “You mean
now
?”

Cortlandt nodded.

“It’s almost takeoff time, sir.”

“I’m sure the president knows that, Colonel.”

James Dunster was alone and at his desk when they came in.

“I have a slight change for you, Mac,” the president told his pilot. “We won’t be going directly to Washington. We’ll
be making a stop in Germany first. At our NATO air base near Eberswalde.”

The pilot stood looking at Dunster. He glanced at Cortlandt as if for corroboration. Then he looked at Dunster again.

“Is everything all right, Mr. President?”

“Everything is fine.”

“I’ll have to file a new flight plan.”

“No, Colonel.” It was Tommy Cortlandt who broke in. “No new flight plan. We’ll simply take off for Washington as scheduled.
Then when we’re at cruising altitude and off local radar, you can change direction and head straight for Eberswalde.”

“That’s not proper procedure, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mac,” said the president. “It’s only a matter of security. It will be better if no one knows we’re
coming in until the last possible minute.”

Tommy Cortlandt watched the pilot’s face as he struggled between reason and training and a direct order from his commander
in chief.

“May I have these orders in writing, Mr. President?”

Dunster scribbled a few lines and handed them to McNeil.

“A few precautions, Colonel,” said Cortlandt. “No mention of this to anyone other than your copilot and navigator. And I want
complete radio silence until you’re picked up by Eberswalde’s radar.”

“How do you want it handled at that point?”

“Just request permission for an emergency landing,” said Cortlandt. “Then I’ll get the base commander on the phone and take
it from there.”

The entire flight was projected at a bit less than an hour, and Tommy Cortlandt waited until they were halfway to Eberswalde
before he called in the four Secret Service agents who made up the president’s security contingent.

“We’re making what should be about a four- to five-hour unscheduled stop in Germany,” Dunster told them. “We’ll be
landing at our NATO air base near Eberswalde and driving to the Wannsee Conference Center outside Berlin. No one knows I’m
coming, and security at Wannsee is tight for the meeting opening there today. Just be sure you don’t say a word about this
to anyone on board.”

The silence in the cabin was heavy.

“Excuse me, Mr. President.” The voice was that of Senior Agent Richard Gordon. “What do you mean by ‘no one knows’ you’re
coming?”

“Exactly that. The only ones who know are my wife, Director Cortlandt, and one of his agents, who has been checking security
at Wannsee.”

“And how will we be getting from the air base to Wannsee, sir?”

The president looked at Cortlandt. “Tommy?”

“We’ll be using a four-car motorcade,” said Cortlandt. “It’s only about a half-hour run, and two of my own people will be
in each car for added security.”

“Eight of your agents will be there?” asked Gordon.

Cortlandt nodded.

“And they all know where the president is going?”

“No. They’ll just follow the lead car. And I’ll be in that one, giving step-by-step directions to the driver.”

The senior agent frowned.

“What’s bothering you, Dick?” Jimmy Dunster asked.

“This man who’s been checking security at Wannsee? How long has he known you’ll be arriving there today, Mr. President?”

Dunster again glanced at the CIA director for the answer.

“A few days,” said Cortlandt.

“Who is he?” asked Gordon.

“One of my best.”

“What’s his name?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“I don’t know a damn thing, sir. Except maybe that I’m the one ultimately responsible for the president’s life, and
that this nameless man of yours has had a few days to set him up.”

Cortlandt’s eyes were chipped glass. “I’d trust this man with my life, Gordon.”

“That’s your right, Mr. Director. But it’s the president’s life, not yours, that you’re trusting him with.”

“You’re way out of line, Dick,” said Jimmy Dunster.

“My apologies, Mr. President. But with all due respect, do
you
know who this mystery man is?”

“No. But if I can’t trust the judgment of our director of intelligence, then we’re
all
in trouble.”

T
HERE WERE HALF A DOZEN CARS
lined up ahead of Klaus Logefeld and his grandfather when they reached Wannsee’s first checkpoint, and they were barely moving.

Klaus glanced at the old man beside him. The dark glasses and gauze wrappings had been removed for purposes of identification,
so it all hung out. The real article.

They finally pulled up even with the security booth.

“Which delegation?” asked a sergeant of the guard in German.

“Italian,” said Klaus.

The sergeant flipped some pages on a clipboard.

“Names, please?”

“I’m Professor Alfred Mainz. This is Major Helmut Schadt.”

Hearing two non-Italian names, the sergeant bent, peered into the car, and caught his first glimpse of the old man. Then he
searched among the names on his clipboard until he found Mainz and Schadt.

“Passports, please,” he said.

The sergeant studied the passports and their attached pictures, but he did not look inside the car again.

They went through much the same routine at the entrance to the parking lot. Then they left the car and started toward the
villa.

Klaus walked with deliberate slowness. His hand gripped his grandfather’s arm, although he was not aware of it.

This is the time and I’m here
.

Long, sleek, chauffeur-driven limousines were pulling up in front of the historic villa to discharge their celebrated passengers,
and Klaus recognized almost every one of them. He saw the photographers and reporters, loosely held in check by the heavy
security but still hopping about with their cameras and microphones in a kind of ritual dance.

Klaus took a long, deep breath, held it briefly, and slowly let it out.

“Ready, Grandfather?”

“You know it, boy.”

His hand still gripping the old man’s arm, Klaus steered him along a route that would bring them directly in front of the
newspeople.

“Jesus, look at that,” he heard someone say in English.

And in a moment he and his grandfather were surrounded by Minicam units and still cameras.

Almost immediately three security guards were there to rescue them.

“It’s all right,” said Klaus. “This is what we’re here for.”

Questions flew in an assortment of languages and the old man began answering.

“Who are you, sir?”

“Major Helmut Schadt.”

“German delegation?”

“No. Italian.”

“With all respect, Major, are those war wounds?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How were you wounded?”

“By a mortar shell while fighting for the Wehrmacht during World War II.”

“Where, Major?”

“Near Lago di Bosena, Italy.”

“I remember now,” said a gray-haired newsman. “Wasn’t your face used on stamps and posters?”

“Yes, sir,” said the old man, and there was a buzz as others picked it up.

“Why are you here at Wannsee?”

Major Schadt stared evenly into the lens of the nearest camera. “To give people a long, hard look at me.”

“Do you believe they’ll learn anything from what they see, Major?”

“Probably not.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because I can.” The old man was silent for several seconds. “And because not to suddenly seems unthinkable.”

There was actually a scattering of applause when he finished.

Something genuine, thought Klaus.

As they entered the front door of the villa, they again had to show their passports. Then they were walked through a metal
detector and patted down for any weapons that might have been missed electronically.

A guard pinned numbered identification badges to their jackets and wrote their numbers on the backs of their hands with an
indelible marker. Another guard escorted them into the main conference room and pointed out the seating arrangements for their
delegation.

They were the only members of the Italian contingent to have arrived. Klaus saw their names attached to a couple of chairs
in the backup row around the conference table, and for the first time knew their positions in relation to everyone else.

They were directly between the German and Japanese delegations, with the United States and Canada following Japan on their
left, and France and England off to their right.

Klaus sat down in his chair, dimly aware of his grandfather settling in beside him.

Major Schadt stirred and Klaus felt the old soldier’s hand cover his own.

“It’s all right, boy. Everything will go perfectly.”

Perfectly
.

But what in Christ’s name was perfectly in something like this?

I
F
I
COULD PAINT THAT FACE
and get it right, I would have it all
.

So thought Paulie Walters as he considered the old man sitting next to Klaus Logefeld in Wannsee’s gradually filling conference
room. Indoors, the old soldier might have been the quintessential specter at the feast. Outdoors, earlier, he had been pure
street theater.