The Apocalypse Watch

“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.

  “Hi, Mr. W,” the man had said. “You want a cabin?”

  “Not today, Hank, I’m meeting someone. I don’t see him—”

  “Nobody’s asked for you. Maybe he’s late.”

  “No, he’s here; his car’s outside.”

  “He’s probably in the can. Take a booth, and when he comes out, I’ll send him over.”

  “Thanks, and make me a double of the usual. I’m celebrating.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Withers sat in the high-backed booth at the rear of the bar. His outsize martini arrived and he sipped it, tempted to go to the front window and look again at the Aston-Martin automobile. It was the real thing! He couldn’t wait to tool around the roads in it, couldn’t wait to show it off to Anita Griswald—especially couldn’t wait for his daughter Kimberly to see it! It was a hell of a lot more exciting than anything his former snotty in-laws or his bitch ex-wife could chauffeur her around in! His enjoyable reverie was cut short by a heavyset man in a checkered shirt who suddenly appeared and slid into the booth opposite him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Withers. I’m sure you saw the DB-Four. Nice set of wheels, aren’t they?”

  “Who the hell are you? You’re not Sidney, you’re twice his size.”

  “Sidney was unavailable, so I’m taking his place.”

  “We’ve never met. How did you know it was me?”

  “A photograph.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s trivial.”

  “I’ve been here at least five minutes. Why did you wait?”

  “Just checking,” said the intruder, continually glancing at the front door.

  “Checking what?”

  “It’s nothing really. To be honest with you, I’m a bearer of great news and considerable riches.”

  “Oh?”

  “In my pocket are four untraceable bearer bonds, each in the amount of fifty thousand dollars, for a total of two hundred thousand. Along with these is an invitation to visit Germany, all expenses paid, of course. We understand that you haven’t taken your summer holiday; perhaps now you can schedule it.”

  “My God, I’m speechless! This is great. Then my contribution was appreciated, I knew it would be! I took a hell of a risk, you all know that, don’t you?”

  “The proof is in the fact that I’m here, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t wait to get to Berlin, because you’re right, we’re right! This country’s going to hell in a handbasket. Talk about ethnic cleansing, we’ll need fifty years of it—”

  “Hold it!” whispered the stranger harshly, his eyes again on the door. “The fellow who came in after you, the one in the white shirt.”

  “I didn’t notice. What about him?”

  “He had a couple of swallows of beer, paid with a deuce, and just left.”

  “So?”

  “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” The man slid out of the booth, walked rapidly around the bar to the far end of the filthy front window, and peered outside. Instantly, he moved away from the glass and returned to the booth, his expression grim, his eyes narrowed. “You stupid fool, you were followed!” he said, sitting down.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You heard me, you idiot! There are three men out there talking to the white shirt, and believe me, they’re not patrons of this dump. They’ve got federal government written all over their faces.”

  “Jesus! A deputy director named Kearns called me last night asking dumb questions, but I set him straight.”

  “Kearns of the CIA?”

  “That’s where I work, remember?”

  “All too well.” The stranger leaned forward over the table, his left hand on it, his right underneath. “You’re a liability to those who expect me to do my job, Mr. Withers.”

  “Just give me the money and I’ll get out of here through the back door, where they make deliveries.”

  “What will you do then?”

  “Wait in an empty cabin until they leave, bribe one of the hookers to swear she was with me if it’s necessary, and head home. It’s clean, I’ve done it before. Call me later about the Aston-Martin. Come on!”

  “I don’t think so.” There was a burst of raucous laughter from the bar, accompanied by four muted spits under the table. Bruce Withers lurched back in the seat, his upper body pinned to the banquette, his eyes wide as blood trickled down the corner of his mouth. The stranger in the checkered shirt sidled out of the booth and walked calmly toward the rear delivery entrance while slipping the silenced pistol under his belt. He opened the door and Mario Marchetti’s henchman disappeared. The Don of Pontchartrain was living up to his concordat.

  Nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds passed until the shouts, joined by female screams, erupted from inside the motel bar. An overly made-up woman raced out the door screeching. “For Christ’s sake, somebody call the police! A guy was shot to death in there!”

  The agents of the CIA, accompanied by their director and Wesley Sorenson, ran inside. Everyone in the bar was ordered to remain where they were and not try to make any phone ca
lls. A frustrated, dejected Knox Talbot, Sorenson at his side, came out into the diminishing sunlight. The Aston-Martin, DB-Four, was gone.

  35

  The subject, Dr. Hans Traupman (residence above), is in the company of bodyguards around the clock, three-man units on eight-hour shifts who are heavily armed, even when escorting the surgeon into an operating room, where they remain throughout surgery. When Traupman goes to restaurants or attends the theater, concerts, or events of any kind, his guards are frequently doubled, flanking him in seats or chairs and often roaming the area in a most professional manner, scanning the sections. When at Traupman’s home, the bodyguards continuously patrol the elevators, the hallways, and the exterior of his luxury apartment house. This is in addition to multiple alarms and backups. In rare visits to public rest rooms, two guards enter with him, the third remaining outside to courteously prohibit others from going in until Traupman reappears. The vehicle he’s driven in is an armor-plated Mercedes limousine, the windows bulletproof, gas jets on all sides to immobilize carjackers and activated from the dashboard. When traveling, he is flown in his private jet, which is kept in an alarmed, sealed-off hanger at an airstrip south of Nuremberg. Digital cameras, operating day and night, record all activity inside and out.

  The only deviation from this security routine is when Traupman flies to Bonn and takes his motorboat out on the Rhine during those nights when he is presumably attending clandestine meetings of the neo-Nazi movement. (See previous report.) Apparently none of the members is permitted to have a crew or a captain, which accounts for the size and maneuverability of the craft. It is a small boat with a 125 hp motor and inflatable pontoons, starboard and port. However, even here he has a large degree of security by way of revolving cameras that send images and sound back to his guards at the marina, where there is the standard helicopter prepared for immediate emergency takeoff. (Here, unobserved conclusions may be drawn: There is a radar instrument that transmits river-map coordinates, and, as with his Mercedes, gas jets on the gunwales designed to deter or kill unwanted boarders, the man at the helm protected by a simple mask, which was observed.)

  Good luck, Claude. You really owe me for this one. I had to talk my way out of the Bonn marina by saying I was going to buy an American Chris-Craft. Fortunately, I left the name of a Spanish undercover pig who operates here and owes me money.

  Drew Latham, laughing quietly at the last paragraph, put Moreau’s report down on the antique table-desk and looked over at Witkowski and Karin, who were sitting on the couch. “Is there any contingency that son of a bitch hasn’t thought of?” he asked.

  “It’s pretty complete,” replied the colonel.

  “I wouldn’t know,” said De Vries. “I haven’t read it.”

  “Read it now and weep.” Drew got up and brought the report to Karin, then sat in one of the brocaded armchairs across from both of them. De Vries began reading as Latham continued. “I’ll be damned if I know where to begin,” he said. “That bastard’s really covered, right down to the men’s room.”

  “It looks rough on paper, but up close we might spot gaps.”

  “We damn well better. According to this, it’d be a lot easier to take him out than to take him.”

  “It always is.”

  “Diversion,” said De Vries, looking up from Moreau’s report. “It’s the only thing I can think of. Divert the attention of the guards somehow.”

  “That’s axiomatic,” said Witkowski. “Going further, immobilize a couple and run an assault. The question is how, and how disciplined are his gunslingers.”

  “As you say, Stosh, we won’t know until we get there.”

  “Speaking of which, the two men from NATO are downstairs in my office. They arrived on the three o’clock flight from Brussels, with new passports and papers that say they’re salesmen for an aircraft company.”

  “Good cover,” said Latham. “Those salesmen are all over Europe.”

  “We had to go around some dicey corners to clear everything. It took all morning and part of the afternoon to complete their ‘authenticity.’ They’re actually on the company’s payroll.”

  “Was all that necessary?” asked Karin.

  “Indeed it was, young lady. Any references to their real names would reveal the service records of two Special Forces commandos who operated behind the lines in Desert Storm. Each is as handy with a knife as he is with his hands, say nothing of garrotes and marksmanship.”

  “You’re saying they’re killers.”

  “Only when necessary, Karin. Frankly, they’re two nice kids, kind of shy actually, who’ve been trained to react properly in given situations.”

  “That’s a euphemism for they’ll beat your head against a rock if you’re a bad guy,” explained Latham. “You’re satisfied with them, Stosh?”

  “Very definitely.”

  “And they both speak fluent French and German?” added De Vries.

  “Absolutely. The first is a Captain Christian Dietz, thirty-two, graduate of Denison University, and a career army officer. Parents and grandparents were German, the latter part of the German underground during the Third Reich. His father and mother were sent to the U.S. as children.”

  “The other?” said Drew.

  “A lieutenant named Anthony, Gerald Anthony. He’s a little more interesting,” said the colonel. “He has dual master’s degrees in French and German literature, was going for his Ph.D. while teaching at a small college in Pennsylvania, when he decided, in his own words, that he couldn’t take campus politics. I thought I’d ask them up here,” continued Witkowski. “We’d sort of get to know each other quietly, informally.”

  “That’s a good idea, Stanley,” said Karin. “I’ll have the kitchen prepare some hors d’oeuvres and coffee, perhaps drinks.”

  “No,” countered Drew. “No hors d’oeuvres, no coffee, and definitely no drinks. This is a cold paramilitary operation, let’s keep it that way.”

  “Isn’t that a bit too cold?”

  “He’s right, young lady, although I never thought I’d hear him say it. I was wrong, the time for that kind of informality comes later. After you see the slack, or lack of it, in their ropes.”

  De Vries looked at him questioningly.

  “They’re still being evaluated,” explained Latham. “Interviewed for the job—how do they behave, what have they got to offer? Two Special Forces officers who’ve operated behind enemy lines in any war should have input.”

  “I wasn’t aware that we had such a pool of candidates.”

  “We don’t, but they don’t know that. Call for them to come up, Stanley.”

  Captain Christian Dietz, except for his relatively short stature, could have walked out of a poster for the Hitler Youth. Blond, blue-eyed, and with a body to be envied by an Olympic champion, he carried himself like the experienced commando he was. Lieutenant Gerald Anthony, on the other hand, was equally muscular but much taller and dark-haired, a reed-thin man who evoked the image of an upright bullwhip, ready to coil and lash out lethally at any given instant. Contradictorily, both their faces were utterly devoid of malice, their eyes without a trace of hostility. And to complete the incongruity, they were, as Witkowski had mentioned, basically shy men, hesitant to expound on their past activities or their citations.

  “We were at the right place at the right time,” said Dietz without comment.

  “Our intelligence was excellent,” added Anthony. “Without it, we’d have been roasted over an Iraqi fire, that is, if they’d ever learned how to make one in the sand.”

  “You worked together, then?” asked Drew.

  “Our radio code was Alpha-Delta.”

  “Delta-Alpha,” Dietz corrected Gerald Anthony.

  “Both were used,” said Anthony, grinning at his friend.

  “Okay,” agreed the captain, smiling modestly.

  “You’ve read the Traupman report,” Latham went on. “Any suggestions?”

  “A restaurant,” said Lieutenant Anthony.
r />   “The river,” said Captain Dietz simultaneously. “I say we wait in Nuremberg and follow him to Bonn, using the river.”

  “Why a restaurant?” asked Karin, addressing Anthony.

  “It’s easy to create a diversion—”

  “I said that,” interrupted De Vries.

  “… by starting a fire,” continued the lieutenant, “or by spotting the bodyguards and immobilizing them by force or with instant sedatives in their water or food. Frankly, I think a fire is more effective. All those flambé dishes; it’s so simple to switch sauces and the whole place is filled with flames that are short-lived but distract everyone while we take the subject.”

  “And the river?” interjected Witkowski.

  “You can cork the gas jets on the gunwales—we’ve done it before. Saddam Hussein’s patrols all had them. Then you blow out the cameras with high-powered pellets, as if the electrical systems had malfunctioned. The key is doing it by scuba, out of camera range, and before the boat gets near shore. You climb on board and get out of the area.”

  “Let’s go back,” said Latham. “Lieutenant, why do you think a restaurant in Nuremberg is more efficient than the river in Bonn?”

  “Saves time, to begin with, and there’s too much room for error on the water, sir. Visibility is poor, gas jets could be missed, as well as the transmitting cameras—even one. The emergency helicopter has powerful searchlights and the motorboat is easily identifiable. As I understand it, the enemy would prefer that the subject be killed by strafing or bombing than be taken alive.”

  “Good point,” said the colonel. “And you, Captain, why do you think a restaurant is a poor choice?”

  “Again, too much room for error, sir,” Dietz said. “A panicked crowd is meat and potatoes to security units. The moment a fire diversion is activated, they’ll race to the subject to protect him, and there’s no way to sedate the guards who aren’t at surrounding tables, even if you know who they are.”

  “So you disagree with your associate,” said Karin.

  “It’s not the first time, ma’am. We usually work it out.”

  “But you’re his superior,” Witkowski interrupted brusquely.