The Apocalypse Watch

  “How?”

  “He comes late at night, and the absolution he’s looking for is between his two legs!”

  “She accepts him?”

  “She feels she has no choice. He’s her confessor.”

  “Son of a bitch! Listen to me, I have to find her. I’ve spoken to that priest and he gave me her name. Not for the reason you might think, only because he may have said things to her he shouldn’t have said.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Someone who, believe it or not, is fighting France’s battle as much as I am my own country’s. The Nazis, madame, the goddamned Nazis are beginning to march again all over Europe! I know that sounds melodramatic, but it’s true.”

  “I was a small child and saw them execute people in the streets,” said the old woman, whispering, her lined face pinched. “They can do it again?”

  “They’re a long way from it, but we’ve got to stop them now.”

  “How is our Butterfly involved?”

  “She was given information she may have innocently imparted to others. Or perhaps not innocently. That’s as honest as I can be. If she’s not here, where is she?”

  “I was about to tell you to go to Les Trois Couronnes, a café down the street, but it is past midnight, and you need not go there. She’s right behind you, being helped up the steps by her neighbor, Monsieur Du Bois. As is quite apparent, her malady is that she drinks too much wine. There are things she has to forget, monsieur, and she does it with wine.”

  “Do you know what they are?”

  “It is not my business to know, and what I know I keep to myself. We take care of our Butterfly, here.”

  “Will you accompany me to her flat so you can see for yourselves, both you and Monsieur Du Bois, that I mean no harm to her? That I merely want to ask her a few questions?”

  “You will not be alone with her, I can assure you of that. There’ll be no priests in fancy street clothing.”

  Phyllis Cranston was a diminutive woman of forty-five or fifty, her figure compact, even athletic. Although unsteady on her feet, each foot was planted firmly, defiantly, both admitting and denying her state of drunkenness.

  “So who’s going to make some coffee?” she demanded in a solidly nasal midwestern American accent as she fell back in a chair at the far end of her flat, her companion, Du Bois, at her side.

  “I’ve got it on the stove, Butterfly, don’t you worry,” said the old woman from the lobby.

  “Just who is this creep?” asked Cranston, gesturing at Latham.

  “An American, mon chou, who knows that dirty priest we told you to stay away from.”

  “That pig forgives old broads like me, because we’re the only women he can get! Is this bastard one of them? Did he come here to get his rocks off?”

  “I’m the last person you could imagine being a priest,” said Drew softly, calmly. “And as to sexual satisfaction, I’m very much committed to a lady who takes care of those needs and whom I expect to stay with for the rest of my life, with or without religious sanction.”

  “Boy, you sound like a real square! Where are you from, baby?”

  “Connecticut, originally. Where are you from? Indiana or Ohio, or maybe northern Missouri?”

  “Hey, you’re pretty much on target, macho-boy. I’m a St. Louis girl, born and brought up in the parochial system—what a drag, right?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “But how did you know I was from that part of the good old U.S.A.?”

  “Your accent. I’m trained to spot such things.”

  “No kidding?… Hey, thanks for the java, Eloise.” The embassy secretary accepted the mug of coffee and took several sips, shaking her head after each. “I guess you figure I’m a real loser, don’t you?” she continued, looking at Latham, then suddenly sitting up, staring at him. “Wait a minute, I know you! You’re the Cons-Op officer!”

  “That’s right, Phyllis.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Father Manfried Neuman, he gave me your name.”

  “That prick! So you could fire me?”

  “I see no reason to fire you, Phyllis—”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Father Neuman, that’s why. He told you who a Colonel Webster was, didn’t he? That he was a deep-cover American intelligence officer from the embassy who was going underground with a new identity, a new appearance. He told you that, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, he was so full of shit, you couldn’t find an outhouse big enough. He did that all the time, especially when he got so excited I thought he’d tear my bottom apart. It was like he was playin’ God, telling secrets only God would know, and then when he came off, exploded, he’d grab my face and say God would condemn me to the fires of hell if I ever repeated what he said.”

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  “Why?” Phyllis Cranston drank a large portion of her coffee. She answered simply. “Because my friends here explained to me that I was a damn fool. I’m a good person, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is—and I have a problem which is confined to these few streets. So go to hell.”

  “Beyond the obvious, what is your problem, Phyllis?”

  “I will answer that for you, Monsieur Américain,” said the old lady. “This bilingual child of French parents lost her husband and three children in the American Midwest floods of ’ninety-one. The raging river by their house destroyed everything. Only she survived, clinging to the rocks until rescued. Why do you think she looks after the children here whenever she can?”

  “I have to ask her one more question, the only question, really.”

  “What is it, Mr. Latham—that is your name, isn’t it?” said Phyllis Cranston, sitting up, now more exhausted than drunk.

  “After Father Neuman told you who I was—whom did you tell?”

  “I’m trying to remember.… Yeah, in the peak of a hangover, I told Bobby Durbane in the comm center, and a lower-pool stenographer I hardly know, not even her name.”

  “Thank you,” said Latham. “And good night, Phyllis.”

  Drew walked down the steps of the apartment house in the rue Pavée; a bewildered man. He had no idea who the pool stenographer could be, but her status hardly suggested much influence. Robert Durbane, however, was a shock. Bobby Durbane, the gray fox of the comm center, the veteran expert of ethereal communications, the man who only days earlier had Drew on his mysterious grids and sent out embassy vehicles to rescue him from a neo assault? It was beyond understanding. Durbane was the quiet man, the ascetic, the intellectual who pored over his esoteric crossword puzzles and double crostics, who was so generous to his crew that he frequently took the midnight-to-dawn shifts so his subordinates could get some rest from the daily bombardments.

  Or was there another Robert Durbane, a far more secretive one? A man who chose the deserted, early morning hours so he could send his own messages through the ether to others who precalibrated his unknown frequencies and read his codes. And why had the armed embassy cars with all their firepower arrived barely a minute after the Nazi limousine had swung around the street, spraying their bullets everywhere, killing a neo named C-Zwölf? Had Bobby Durbane orchestrated the would-be massacre by alerting the Nazis first? These were questions that had to be answered; the unknown embassy pool stenographer had to be tracked down as well. Both could wait until morning; now it was time for Father Neuman’s adviser, Antoine Lavolette, retired priest and former intelligence cryptanalyst.

  The address was easily gotten from the telephone book. Latham found a vacant taxi two blocks east. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning, just the hour, he decided, to confront the elderly Father Lavolette, defrocked man of God, who possessed secrets that might have to be pried out of him.

  The house in the quai de Grenelle was a substantial three-story structure of white stone and freshly painted strips of green wood, bringing to mind a Mondrian canvas. The owner also had to be substantial, at least in income, f
or the neighborhood rivaled the avenue Montaigne in upscale opulence; it was not for the marginally rich, only the rich. The former cryptanalyst and retired man of the cloth had done very well for himself in the material world.

  Drew walked up the short flight of steps to the enameled green door, the shining brass of the bell plate and the knob casement glistening in the wash of the street lamps. He rang the bell and waited; it was twenty-six minutes after one o’clock in the morning. At 1:29 the door was opened by a startled woman in a bathrobe; she was perhaps in her late thirties, her light brown hair mussed from sleep.

  “My God, what do you want at this hour?” she blurted out in French. “The household is asleep!”

  “Vous parlez anglais?” asked Latham, holding out his black-bordered embassy identification, a document that was both reassuring and intimidating.

  “Un peu,” replied the apparent housekeeper nervously.

  “I must see Monsieur Lavolette. It’s a matter of great importance and cannot wait until morning.”

  “You stay outside, I’ll get my husband.”

  “He’s Monsieur Lavolette?”

  “No, he is the patron’s chauffeur … among other things. He also speaks anglais more better. Outside!”

  The door was slammed shut, forcing Drew out on the small brick porch. The only comforting fact was that the woman turned on the carriage lights that flanked the entrance. Moments later the door opened again, revealing a large, heavyset man, also in a bathrobe, broad of face and with a chest and shoulders that qualified him as a potential linebacker who would not need much padding. Beyond his menacing size, Latham’s eyes were drawn to the bulge in his right bathrobe pocket; the black steel of an automatic’s handle was clearly visible through the gap at the top.

  “What business do you have with the patron, monsieur?” asked the man in a surprisingly gentle voice.

  “Government business,” answered Drew, again holding out his identification. “It can be relayed only to Monsieur Lavolette himself.” The chauffeur took the ID and studied it in the foyer’s light.

  “The American government?”

  “My branch is intelligence, I work with the Deuxième.”

  “Ahh, the Deuxième, the Service d’Etranger, the secret corps of the Sûreté, and now the Americans. When will you leave the patron alone?”

  “He’s a man of great experience and wisdom, and there are always urgent matters.”

  “He’s also an old man who needs his sleep, especially since his wife passed away. He spends exhausting hours in his chapel speaking to her and God.”

  “Still, I have to see him. He’d want me to; a friend of his could be in terrible trouble over an event that concerns the governments of France and the United States.”

  “You people always scream ‘emergency,’ and when your conditions are met, you sit on the information for weeks, months, even years.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I worked for you people for years, and that’s all I’ll say about it. Tell me, why should I believe you?”

  “Because, goddammit, I’m here! At one-thirty in the morning.”

  “Why not eight-thirty, or nine-thirty, so the patron can sleep?” The question was asked innocently; there was no threat whatsoever in the chauffeur’s voice.

  “Come on, man, you’re busting my chops! Has it occurred to you that I’d rather be home with my wife and three children?”

  The lie was interrupted by a loud whirring sound. Instinctively, the huge man turned as the door swung open farther, exposing the foyer and a long hallway. At the end of the hall was a small brass-webbed door; in seconds a miniature elevator descended into view. “Hugo!” cried the frail voice of the white-haired figure inside. “What is it, Hugo? I heard the bell and then people arguing in English.”

  “It would be better if you kept your door closed, patron. You would not be awakened.”

  “Come, come, you overprotect me. Now help me out of this damn thing, I wasn’t really sleeping anyway.”

  “But Anna said you didn’t eat well and then spent two hours on your knees in the chapel.”

  “All to good purpose, my son,” said the former Father Antoine Lavolette. Helped from the elevator chair, he cautiously stepped into the hallway. He was a reed of a man in his red-checked bathrobe, over six feet in height but thin to the point of emaciation. His face had the chiseled features of a Gothic saint—an aquiline nose, severe eyebrows, and wide-open eyes. “I truly believe God is hearing my prayers. I said to Him that since He created everything, He was responsible for my feelings about my wife. I even scolded Him, pointing out that neither His Son nor the Holy Scriptures ever said anything forbidding a priest to marry.”

  “I’m certain He heard you, patron.”

  “If He didn’t, I shall loudly complain about my constantly painful kneecaps, if I ever greet Him. I wonder if our Lord God has knees that must bend. But, of course, He does, we’re made in His image—that may have been a big mistake.” The old man stopped in front of Latham, who was now standing in the hallway. “Well, well, whom do we have here? Are you the intruder who breaks into the tent of night?”

  “I am, sir. My name is Latham, and I’m with the American Embassy, an officer with the United States Consular Operations. Your chauffeur is still holding my identification in his hand.”

  “For heaven’s sake, give it back to him, Hugo, you’re finished with all that nonsense,” instructed the former priest, suddenly shaken, his head trembling.

  “Nonsense, sir?” said Drew.

  “My friend Hugo was among the Praetorian guards recruited from the Foreign Legion and sent to Command Saigon when he was a young man. You left him behind, but he got himself out.”

  “He speaks English very well.”

  “He should, he was a special activities officer under the direction of the Americans.”

  “I never heard of any Praetorian guard or of French officers in Saigon.”

  “Praetorian was a euphemism for suicide squads, and there were many things you never heard of in that action. The Americans paid them ten times what they could make in the Legion; they brought back information from behind the lines. You people forget so easily. French was a language far better known than English among the ruling cadres in Southeast Asia.… Now, why are you here?”

  “Father Manfried Neuman.”

  “I see,” said Lavolette, staring at Latham, their eyes level, for the former priest was as tall as Drew. “Escort us into the library, Hugo, and relieve Monsieur Latham of his weapon, which you will keep in your possession until we’re finished.”

  “Oui, patron.” The chauffeur held out Latham’s identification while simultaneously signaling with the fingers of his right hand that Drew give him his gun. Noting that Hugo’s stare centered on the slight bulge on the left side of his jacket, Latham reached in slowly and removed his automatic. “Merci, monsieur,” said the chauffeur, taking the gun and handing Drew his ID card case. He took his patron’s elbow and led them through an archway into a book-lined room profuse with heavy leather chairs and marble tables.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Monsieur Latham,” said Lavolette, sitting in an upright chair, gesturing for Drew to sit across from him. “Would you care for something to drink? I know I would. Conversations at this hour require a touch of the grape, I believe.”

  “I’ll have whatever you have.”

  “From the same bottle, of course,” said the former priest, smiling. “Two Courvoisiers, Hugo.”

  “Good choice,” said Latham, looking around the elegant, high-ceilinged library. “This is a lovely room,” he said.

  “Being an avid reader, it suits my purpose,” agreed Lavolette. “Guests are frequently astonished when they ask me if I’ve read every volume, and I answer, ‘Usually two or three times.’ ”

  “That’s a lot of reading.”

  “When you reach my age, Monsieur Latham, you’ll find that words are far more permanent than the fleeting images on
television.”

  “Some people say one picture is worth a thousand words.”

  “One photograph out of ten thousand, perhaps, I will not deny that. However, one exhausts the familiar, doesn’t one, even a painting.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t thought that much about it.”

  “No, you probably haven’t had time. At your age I never did.” Their snifters of brandy arrived, the liqueur in each precisely an inch from the bottom. “Thank you, Hugo,” continued the retired cryptanalyst and former priest, “and if you’d close the doors and wait in the foyer, I’d be most pleased.”

  “Oui, patron,” said the chauffeur, leaving the room and pulling shut the heavy double doors.

  “All right, Drew Latham, how much do you know about me?” asked Lavolette sharply.

  “That you left the priesthood for marriage, and when you were quite young you were a cryptanalyst for French intelligence. Other than that, virtually nothing. Except, of course, Manfried Neuman. He told me you’re helping him with his problem.”

  “No one can help him but a trained behavioral psychiatrist, which I’ve implored him to seek.”

  “He says you’re giving him religious counseling because you had the same problem.”

  “That is the merde of the bull, as you Americans say. I fell in love with one woman and stayed faithful to her for forty years. Neuman has the impulse to fornicate with many women, selectivity being merely a result of time and place and maximum opportunity. I’ve begged him repeatedly to seek help before he destroys himself.… You came here at this hour to tell me that?”

  “You know I didn’t. You know why I’m here because I saw your expression when I said who I was. You tried to hide your reaction, but it was as if you’d been punched in the stomach. Neuman told you about me and you told somebody else. Who?”

  “You don’t understand, none of you can ever understand,” choked Lavolette, breathing deeply.

  “Understand what?”

  “They have us all with ropes around our necks, not just our necks—that would be easy to dispense with—but others, so many others!”

  “Neuman told you who a Colonel Webster was, didn’t he? That he was a man named Latham!”