The Apocalypse Watch

  “The colonel?”

  “Right on, lady.”

  “He, too, loves you very much.”

  “I think you’ve got an edge in that department. He was granted his full pension, but he hasn’t anywhere else to go. His children are grown, with kids of their own, and after a few days with them, he’s at a loss. He’s got to keep moving, Karin. Let him stay with us for a while until he has to move again, okay?”

  “I could never say no.”

  “Thank you. Nails rented us a house about ten miles down Route 34, and I’ve agreed to fly to Washington for five days a month, no more than that. Only consultation, no field duty.”

  “Are you sure of that? Can you live with that?”

  “Yes, because I’ve done my best and I have nothing else to prove—to Harry or anybody.”

  “What will we do? You’re a young man, Drew, and I’m younger than you. What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. First, we build our house, which will take a couple of years, actually, and then—well, then we’ll have to think about things.”

  “Are you really going to resign from Consular Operations?”

  “That’s up to Sorenson. Outside of five days a month, I’m on leave until March of next year.”

  “Then you haven’t made up your mind. It’s not Sorenson’s decision; it’s yours.”

  “Wesley understands. He’s been where I’ve been and he quit.”

  “Where is that?” asked Karin softly, holding Latham, her face against his chest.

  “I’m not sure,” replied Drew, his arms around her. “Thanks to Beth’s genes, I’m a pretty big guy and relatively capable of taking care of myself, but I also learned something over the past three months, and you’re part of it, a major part.… I don’t like being afraid for both of us around the clock. To tell you the truth, I really don’t like guns, although they’ve saved our lives more than once. I’m sick of the dictum Kill or be killed. I don’t care to play anymore, and I sure as hell don’t want you to.”

  “It was war, my darling, you said that yourself and you were right. But for us it’s over, we’re going to live like normal human beings. Also, I can’t wait to see Stanley!”

  As if on a perfect cue, an agitated figure appeared on the dirt road above. “Son of a bitch!” roared Colonel Stanley Witkowski, perspiring and out of breath. “The damned taxi refused to come up here!… Nice terrain, not bad. Already I’ve got some ideas—lots of glass and wood. Also, chłopak, Wes Sorenson phoned me. We’re a pretty good team, the three of us, and there’s a situation he thought we might find interesting under your new arrangement with Cons-Op.”

  “Nothing changes,” said Latham, still holding Karin. “… Forget it, Colonel!”

  “He was thinking of you, young fella, we both were,” continued Witkowski, walking down the hill of grass, wiping his forehead. “You’re too young to retire, you’ve got to work, and what the hell else do you know? I’d say the hockey rink’s pretty much out of the question; you’ve been away too long.”

  “I said forget it.”

  “I’m flying back with you next week and Wesley will lay it all out. It sounds like a piece of cake, damn fine per diems and contingency funds, and we can all take turns coming back to check on the construction here.”

  “The answer is no, Stanley!”

  “We’ll talk.… My dear Karin, you look wonderful.”

  “Thank you,” said De Vries, embracing the colonel. “You look a bit tired.”

  “It’s a hell of a walk.”

  “No, no, no!”

  “We’ll just talk, chłopak.… Now, let’s survey the grounds.”

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  I’ve rarely written a dedication longer than two or three lines. This current one is different, the reason self-evident.

  To my lovely and compassionate bride, Mary, of forty-plus years; and our children, Michael, Jonathan, and Glynis, who displayed strength, determination, and unfailing good humor (a mainstay of our family) throughout everything. They could not have been finer, nor could I ever express my love and gratitude sufficiently.

  “Your father’s off the operating table and on the recovery floor.”

  “Who’s going to pick him up?”

  To the brilliant cardiologist Jeffrey Bender, M.D. and the superb cardiothoracic surgeon Dr. John Elefteriades, as well as the surgical crew and all those in the CTICU of Yale-New Haven Hospital, whose skills and concern passeth all understanding. (Although it could be argued that I was a glorious patient—unfortunately, not very convincingly.)

  To our nephew, Dr. Kenneth M. Kearns, also an extraordinary surgeon, who puts up with his less than saintly uncle with a tolerance known only to martyrs. And, Ken, thanks for the “Listerine.” And to brother Donald Kearns, Ph.D.-Nuclear Medicine. (How did I ever marry into such an accomplished family?) Thanks, Don, for your daily calls and visits. And to their medical associates Doctors William Preskenis and David “the Duke” Grisé of the pulmonary team. I hear you terrific guys, and I’m doing my damnedest to behave.

  To our cousins I. C. “Izzy” Ryducha and his wife, Janet, who were always there when we needed them.

  To Doctors Charles Augenbraun and Robert Greene of the Emergency Clinic at Norwalk Hospital, Connecticut, and all those wonderful people who made a pretty sick stranger feel as though he might see another sunrise. No mean feat.

  Lastly, despite all efforts to keep the event under wraps, to those scores of people, friends, and those I’ve never met but whom I certainly consider friends, thanks for all the cards and notes expressing your good wishes. They were gratefully received and avidly read.

  Now, let’s lighten up; there’s always something funny even in the worst of times. During a perfectly normal sponge bath a day or so after surgery, a kindly nurse turned me over and with great dignity, as well as a glint in her eye, said: “Not to worry, Mr. L., I’ll still respect you in the morning.”

  Amen. And to all once again, my deep thanks. I’m ready to run in a marathon.

  Bantam Books by Robert Ludlum

  Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed

  THE APOCALYPSE WATCH

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION

  THE BOURNE IDENTITY

  THE BOURNE SUPREMACY

  THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM

  THE CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT

  THE CRY OF THE HALIDON

  THE GEMINI CONTENDERS

  THE HOLCROFT COVENANT

  THE ICARUS AGENDA

  THE MATARESE CIRCLE

  THE MATARESE COUNTDOWN

  THE MATLOCK PAPER

  THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND

  THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC

  THE RHINEMANN EXCHANGE

  THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO

  THE ROAD TO OMAHA

  THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE

  THE SCORPIO ILLUSION

  TREVAYNE

  Read on for an excerpt from Robert Ludlum’s

  The Bourne Identity

  1

  The trawler plunged into the angry swells of the dark, furious sea like an awkward animal trying desperately to break out of an impenetrable swamp. The waves rose to goliathan heights, crashing into the hull with the power of raw tonnage; the white sprays caught in the night sky cascaded downward over the deck under the force of the night wind. Everywhere there were the sounds of inanimate pain, wood straining against wood, ropes twisting, stretched to the breaking point. The animal was dying.

  Two abrupt explosions pierced the sounds of the sea and the wind and the vessel’s pain. They came from the dimly lit cabin that rose and fell with its host body. A man lunged out of the door grasping the railing with one hand, holding his stomach with the other.

  A second man followed, the pursuit cautious, his intent violent. He stood bracing himself in the cabin door; he raised a gun and fired again. And again.

  The man at the railing whipped both his hands up to his head, arching backward under the impact of the fourth bullet. The trawler’s bow
dipped suddenly into the valley of two giant waves, lifting the wounded man off his feet; he twisted to his left, unable to take his hands away from his head. The boat surged upward, bow and midships more out of the water than in it, sweeping the figure in the doorway back into the cabin; a fifth gunshot fired wildly. The wounded man screamed, his hands now lashing out at anything he could grasp, his eyes blinded by blood and the unceasing spray of the sea. There was nothing he could grab, so he grabbed at nothing; his legs buckled as his body lurched forward. The boat rolled violently leeward and the man whose skull was ripped open plunged over the side into the madness of the darkness below.

  He felt rushing cold water envelop him, swallowing him, sucking him under, and twisting him in circles, then propelling him up to the surface—only to gasp a single breath of air. A gasp and he was under again.

  And there was heat, a strange moist heat at his temple that seared through the freezing water that kept swallowing him, a fire where no fire should burn. There was ice, too; an ice-like throbbing in his stomach and his legs and his chest, oddly warmed by the cold sea around him. He felt these things, acknowledging his own panic as he felt them. He could see his own body turning and twisting, arms and feet working frantically against the pressures of the whirlpool. He could feel, think, see, perceive panic and struggle—yet strangely there was peace. It was the calm of the observer, the uninvolved observer, separated from the events, knowing of them but not essentially involved.

  Then another form of panic spread through him, surging through the heat and the ice and the uninvolved recognition. He could not submit to peace! Not yet! It would happen any second now; he was not sure what it was, but it would happen. He had to be there!

  He kicked furiously, clawing at the heavy walls of water above, his chest burning. He broke surface, thrashing to stay on top of the black swells. Climb up! Climb up!

  A monstrous rolling wave accommodated; he was on the crest, surrounded by pockets of foam and darkness. Nothing. Turn! Turn!

  It happened. The explosion was massive; he could hear it through the clashing waters and the wind, the sight and the sound somehow his doorway to peace. The sky lit up like a fiery diadem and within that crown of fire, objects of all shapes and sizes were blown through the light into the outer shadows.

  He had won. Whatever it was, he had won.

  Suddenly he was plummeting downward again, into an abyss again. He could feel the rushing waters crash over his shoulders, cooling the white-hot heat at his temple, warming the ice-cold incisions in his stomach and his legs and.…

  His chest. His chest was in agony! He had been struck—the blow crushing, the impact sudden and intolerable. It happened again! Let me alone. Give me peace.

  And again!

  And he clawed again, and kicked again … until he felt it. A thick, oily object that moved only with the movements of the sea. He could not tell what it was, but it was there and he could feel it, hold it.

  Hold it! It will ride you to peace. To the silence of darkness … and peace.

  The rays of the early sun broke through the mists of the eastern sky, lending glitter to the calm waters of the Mediterranean. The skipper of the small fishing boat, his eyes bloodshot, his hands marked with rope burns, sat on the stern gunnel smoking a Gauloise, grateful for the sight of the smooth sea. He glanced over at the open wheelhouse; his younger brother was easing the throttle forward to make better time, the single other crewman checking a net several feet away. They were laughing at something and that was good; there had been nothing to laugh about last night. Where had the storm come from? The weather reports from Marseilles had indicated nothing; if they had he would have stayed in the shelter of the coastline. He wanted to reach the fishing grounds eighty kilometers south of La Seyne-sur-Mer by daybreak, but not at the expense of costly repairs, and what repairs were not costly these days?

  Or at the expense of his life, and there were moments last night when that was a distinct consideration.

  “Tu es fatigué, hein, mon frère?” his brother shouted, grinning at him. “Va te coucher maintenant. Laisse-moi faire.”

  “D’accord,” the brother answered, throwing his cigarette over the side and sliding down to the deck on top of a net. “A little sleep won’t hurt.”

  It was good to have a brother at the wheel. A member of the family should always be the pilot on a family boat; the eyes were sharper. Even a brother who spoke with the smooth tongue of a literate man as opposed to his own coarse words. Crazy! One year at the university and his brother wished to start a compagnie. With a single boat that had seen better days many years ago. Crazy. What good did his books do last night? When his compagnie was about to capsize.

  He closed his eyes, letting his hands soak in the rolling water on the deck. The salt of the sea would be good for the rope burns. Burns received while lashing equipment that did not care to stay put in the storm.

  “Look! Over there!”

  It was his brother, apparently sleep was to be denied by sharp family eyes.

  “What is it?” he yelled.

  “Port bow! There’s a man in the water! He’s holding on to something! A piece of debris, a plank of some sort.”

  The skipper took the wheel, angling the boat to the right of the figure in the water, cutting the engines to reduce the wake. The man looked as though the slightest motion would send him sliding off the fragment of wood he clung to; his hands were white, gripped around the edge like claws, but the rest of his body was limp—as limp as a man fully drowned, passed from this world.

  “Loop the ropes!” yelled the skipper to his brother and the crewman. “Submerge them around his legs. Easy now! Move them up to his waist. Pull gently.”

  “His hands won’t let go of the plank!”

  “Reach down! Pry them up! It may be the death lock.”

  “No. He’s alive … but barely, I think. His lips move, but there’s no sound. His eyes also, though I doubt he sees us.”

  “The hands are free!”

  “Lift him up. Grab his shoulders and pull him over. Easy, now!”

  “Mother of God, look at his head!” yelled the crewman. “It’s split open.”

  “He must have crashed it against the plank in the storm,” said the brother.

  “No,” disagreed the skipper, staring at the wound. “It’s a clean slice, razorlike. Caused by a bullet; he was shot.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “In more than one place,” added the skipper, his eyes roving over the body. “We’ll head for Ile de Port Noir; it’s the nearest island. There’s a doctor on the waterfront.”

  “The Englishman?”

  “He practices.”

  “When he can,” said the skipper’s brother. “When the wine lets him. He has more success with his patients’ animals than with his patients.”

  “It won’t matter. This will be a corpse by the time we get there. If by chance he lives, I’ll bill him for the extra petrol and whatever catch we miss. Get the kit; we’ll bind his head for all the good it will do.”

  “Look!” cried the crewman. “Look at his eyes.”

  “What about them?” asked the brother.

  “A moment ago they were gray—as gray as steel cables. Now they’re blue!”

  “The sun’s brighter,” said the skipper, shrugging. “Or it’s playing tricks with your own eyes. No matter, there’s no color in the grave.”

  Intermittent whistles of fishing boats clashed with the incessant screeching of the gulls; together they formed the universal sounds of the waterfront. It was late afternoon, the sun a fireball in the west, the air still and too damp, too hot. Above the piers and facing the harbor was a cobblestone street and several blemished white houses, separated by overgrown grass shooting up from dried earth and sand. What remained of the verandas were patched latticework and crumbling stucco supported by hastily implanted pilings. The residences had seen better days a number of decades ago when the residents mistakenly believed Ile de Por
t Noir might become another Mediterranean playground. It never did.

  All the houses had paths to the street, but the last house in the row had a path obviously more trampled than the others. It belonged to an Englishman who had come to Port Noir eight years before under circumstances no one understood or cared to; he was a doctor and the waterfront had need of a doctor. Hooks, needles and knives were at once means of livelihood as well as instruments of incapacitation. If one saw le docteur on a good day, the sutures were not too bad. On the other hand, if the stench of wine or whiskey was too pronounced, one took one’s chances.

  Tant pis! He was better than no one.

  But not today; no one used the path today. It was Sunday and it was common knowledge that on any Saturday night the doctor was roaring drunk in the village, ending the evening with whatever whore was available. Of course, it was also granted that during the past few Saturdays the doctor’s routine had altered; he had not been seen in the village. But nothing ever changed that much; bottles of scotch were sent to the doctor on a regular basis. He was simply staying in his house; he had been doing so since the fishing boat from La Ciotat had brought in the unknown man who was more corpse than man.

  Dr. Geoffrey Washburn awoke with a start, his chin settled into his collarbone causing the odor of his mouth to invade his nostrils; it was not pleasant. He blinked, orienting himself, and glanced at the open bedroom door. Had his nap been interrupted by another incoherent monologue from his patient? No; there was no sound. Even the gulls outside were mercifully quiet; it was Ile de Port Noir’s holy day, no boats coming in to taunt the birds with their catches.

  Washburn looked at the empty glass and the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside his chair. It was an improvement. On a normal Sunday both would be empty by now, the pain of the previous night having been spiraled out by the scotch. He smiled to himself, once again blessing an older sister in Coventry who made the scotch possible with her monthly stipend. She was a good girl, Bess was, and God knew she could afford a hell of a lot more than she sent him, but he was grateful she did what she did. And one day she would stop, the money would stop, and then the oblivions would be achieved with the cheapest wine until there was no pain at all. Ever.