Ludlum, Robert by The Apocalypse Watch

Author:The Apocalypse Watch [txt] [Watch, The Apocalypse]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-06-25T19:28:48+00:00

M

“I like your phraseology,” said the Deuxi@me chief.

“It is, indeed, all we have.”

“In death, his brother lives after him,” said Karin, crossing to Drew and taking his hand.

“Let’s go back to Tratipman and Kroeger and the second Mrs.

Courtland,” said Latham, releasing Kgrin’s hand and sitting down at the desk, impatiently opening a drawer and removing several pages of hotel stationery.

“A connection’s going to be made, it has to be.

But how? The first assumption is your secretary, Claude, your Monique -whatever her name.”

“Entirely possible. We can get her internal telephone calls;

they’ll show us whom she reached.”

“Also the calls she made at home-“

“Certainement. I can do that in minutes.”

“Put ‘em all together and confront her with them. Tell her she’s expendable-put a gun to her head if you have to. If Sorenson’s right, this Traupman has to ow what’s going on, and she’s the bitch who can tell him! Then we move on to that all-too-waffling scholar, Heinrich Kreitz, ambassador from Germany, and I don’t give a damn if we put him into a tank until he sends out the alarms to Bonn.”

“You move swiftly, my friend; you cut through diplomatic imperatives. It’s attractive, but it could backfire on you. @5

“Fuck it! I’m impatient!”

The telephone rang. Moreau picked it up, identified himself, and listened. The muscles in his strong face fell; his flesh went pale.

“Merci,” he said, hanging up.

“Another failure,” he added, closing his eyes.

“Monique d’Agoste was beaten to death. Obviously, that’s how the information of my whereabouts was extracted from her…. Where is our God?”

Vice President Howard Keller was five feet eight inches tall, but he gave the impression of being a much larger man. Many had remarked on this fact, but few had rendered a satisfactory explanation. Perhaps the closest was that of an aging New York choreographer who had observed the Vice President during one of those White House cultural evenings. He had whispered to a dancer, “Watch him. He’s simply walking to a microphone to introduce someone, but watch him. He breaks the space in front of him, parting the air with his body.

Truman did that; it’s a gift. A rooster in the barnyard.”

Gift or rooster notwithstanding, Keller was a politician to be reckoned with, a Washington insider to the core, having spent four terms as a congressman and twelve years as a senator, rising to chair the powerful Finance Committee. He had weathered the Beltway’s slings and deadly arrows, accepting the nomination for Vice President despite the fact that he was older and far wiser than his party’s nominee for President. He did so because he knew he could deliver the states to guarantee the election, which for him was a national priority. Beyond this, he was genuinely fond of the President, admiring his courage as well as his brains, although the latter had a hell of a lot more to absorb about Washington than was evidenced so far.

At the moment, however, such considerations were far distant concerns as he sat behind his large, cluttered desk and gazed at Consular Operations’ Wesley Sorenson.

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