The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,10

He had to change his location: that rule was basic. It's urgent that we meet at once, the caller had said; if so, they would meet on his terms. Now he started to make his way out of the VIP lounge, grabbing a paper cup from a water cooler he passed. He approached the greeting counter with the paper cup held in front of him, as if it were full. Then he yawned, squeezing his eyes shut, and walked straight into the heavyset FAA inspector, who staggered back a few feet.

"I am so sorry," Janson blurted, looking mortified. "Oh, Christ, I didn't spill anything on you, did I?" Janson's hands moved rapidly over the man's blazer. "Did I get you wet? God, I'm really, really sorry."

"No harm done," he replied with a trace of impatience. "Just, you know, watch where you're going, OK? There's lots of people in this airport."

"It's one thing not to know what time zone you're in, but - Jesus, I just don't know what's wrong with me," Janson said, the very picture of a flustered and jet-lagged passenger. "I'm a wreck."

As Janson made his way out of the VIP lounge and down the pedestrian corridor that led toward Concourse B, his cell phone buzzed again, as he knew it would.

"I don't think you quite understand the urgency," the caller began.

"That's correct," Janson snapped. "I don't. Why don't you let me know what this is about?" In an angled stretch of the pedestrian corridor, he saw a recessed area, about three feet deep, and then the expected steel door to a room that was off-limits to travelers. unauthorized personnel keep out was emblazoned on a plaque above it.

"I can't," the caller said after a beat. "Not over the phone, I'm afraid. But I'm in the airport and could meet you - "

"In that case, call me back in one minute," Janson interjected, ending the conversation. Now he hit the door's horizontal push bar with the heel of his hand and made his way inside. It turned out to be a narrow room that was lined with electrical panels; LCD displays measured outputs from the airport's heat and refrigeration plant, which was just to the east of the terminal. A rack of pegs held caps and windbreakers for outdoor work.

Three airline employees in navy-blue twill uniforms were seated around a small steel-and-Formica table, drinking coffee. He had obviously interrupted their conversation.

"What do you think you're doing?" one of them yelled at Janson as the door banged closed behind him. "You can't be here."

"This ain't the fucking John," another one said under his breath.

Janson smiled without warmth. "You're going to hate me, boys. But guess what?" He pulled out an FAA badge, the item he had lifted from the heavyset man in the lounge. "Another drug-abatement initiative. Random testing for a drug-free air-transport workforce - to quote the administrator's latest memorandum on the subject. Time to fill those cups. Sorry for the inconvenience, but that's why you make the big bucks, right?"

"This is bullshit!" the third man yowled in disgust. He was nearly bald, save for a graying fringe around the back, and he kept a short pencil behind an ear.

"Haul ass, guys," Janson barked. "We're following a whole new procedure this time. My team's assembled over at gate two in Concourse A. Don't make them wait. When they get impatient, sometimes they make mistakes with the samples, if you get my drift."

"This is bullshit," the bald man repeated.

"Want me to file a report saying that an Air Transport Association member protested and/or sought to evade the drug audit? Your test comes in positive, better start combing the want ads." Janson folded his arms on his chest. "Get the hell out of here, now."

"I'm going," the bald man grumbled, sounding less sure of himself. "I'm there." With expressions of exasperation and disgruntlement, all three men hastened out of the room, leaving clipboards and coffee cups behind. It would take them a good ten minutes before they reached Concourse A, Janson knew. He glanced at his watch and counted the few remaining seconds until his cell phone buzzed; the caller had waited one minute exactly.

"There's a food court near the ticketing pavilion," Janson said. "I'll meet you there. The table on the far left, all the way to the back. See you in a few." He removed his jacket, put on a dark blue windbreaker and cap, and waited in the recessed area. Thirty seconds later, he saw the white-haired