I can do about that. It's far more important that you stay alive, see Harry, and get on with the business at hand. Every day the new Nazi leadership survives, the deeper they entrench themselves."
"Then you don't insist on taking me to your old friends from Amsterdam." Latham did not ask a question.
"How can I? You won't listen to me, so of course not."
"Then take me to, them You're right, I really don't know who to trust."
"You're impossible, you realize that, I presume!"
"No, I'm not, I'm just very cautious. Did I mention that I've been shot at three times in less than thirty-six hours, and ten minutes ago someone tried to bomb me to the moon? Oh, yes, lady, I'm very cautious."
"You've made the right decision, believe me."
"I have to. Now, who are these people?"
"Germans, mostly. Men and women who loathe the ncos more than any of us do-they see their country being soiled by the socalled inheritors of the Third Reich."
"They're here in Paris .. . ?"
"And in the U.K." the Netherlands, Scandinavia, the Balkanswherever they believe the Briiderschaft is operating' Each cell is small in number, fifteen to twenty people, but they operate with renowned German efficiency" secretly funded by a group of German industrial leaders and financiers who not only despise the ncos but fear what they could do to the nation's image and thus its economy."
Chapter Nine
"They sound like the flip side of the Brotherhood."
"What do you think is tearing the country apart? That's exactly what they are, it has to be. Bonn is political; business is practical.
The government must appeal for votes from a diverse electorate;
the financial establishment must, above all, guard against isolation from world markets because of the specter of a Nazi revival."
"These people, your friends-these 'cells'-do they have a name, a symbol, something like that?"
"Yes. They call themselves the Antinayous."
"What kind of name is that?"
""I really don't know, but your brother laughed when Freddie told him. He said it had something to do with ancient Rome and a historian called Dio Cassius, I believe. Harry said it fit the circumstances."
"Harry's a piece of work," mumbled Drew.
"Remind me to replace my encyclopedia.. .. Okay, let's meet your friends."
"They're only two streets away."
Wesley Sorenson had made up his mind. He had not spent an adult lifetime in the service of his country to be frozen out of essential information by an intelligence bureaucrat who drew an erroneous, insulting conclusion. In short, Wcs Sorenson was an angry man and he saw no reason to conceal that anger. He had not sought the directorship of Consular Operations, he had been summoned by a thinking President who saw the need to coordinate the intelligence services so that one branch or another did not frustrate post-Cold War State Department objectives. He had answered the call out of a pleasant retirement, in which, thanks to an affluent family, there was no need of a pension. Still, he had earned it many times over, as, indeed, he had earned the respect and trust of the entire intelligence community. He would make his feelings known at the conference he was about to attend.
He was ushered into the enormous office, where Secretary of State Adam Bollinger sat behind his desk. In front of the Secretary, in one of two captain's chairs, his body turned in greeting, was a large, heavyset black man in his early sixties. His name was Knox Talbot, the director of Central Intelligence, a former ranking intelligence officer in the Vietnam action, and a giant intellect who had made several fortunes in the back-stabbing worlds of commodities and arbitrage. Sorenson liked Talbot, and was constantly bemused by the way he masked his brilliance with selfdeprecating humor and a show of wide-eyed innocence. Secretary Bollinger, on the other hand, was a problem for the Cons-Op director. Sorenson acknowledged the Secretary of State's political acumen, even his international stature, but there was a hollowness in the man that disturbed him. It was as if everything he said and did was calculated, contrived, devoid of passionate commitmenta cold man with a bright smile that held surface charm but little warmth.
"Good morning, Wcs," said Bollinger, his smile perfunctory, for this was a meeting of dire consequence, no time for amenities, and he wanted his subordinates to know it.
"Hello there, ye spook of spooks," added Knox Talbot, smiling.
"It seems we neophytes need a touch of input here."
"Nothing on our agenda is remotely amusing, Knox," noted the Secretary, his neutral eyes glancing up from