The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,100

to narrow to a few essential thoughts.

He thought: Everybody has to die. But nobody should die like this.

He thought: It isn't going to last much longer, it can't last much longer, it can't.

And he thought: Why?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Berthwick House - what the Russian had described as his humble abode - was in fact a grand redbrick Georgian mansion abutting Regent's Park: a three-story pile with dormers in the slate roof and three chimneys. Security was both discreet and overt. It was surrounded by a ten-foot black wrought-iron fence, with rods that came to a sharp, spearlike end. A high-mounted videocamera in an enameled hood surveyed the driveway. There was a small gatehouse with a guard ... who waved Berman's raspberry-colored Bentley through with a respectful nod.

The spacious reception hall was painted coral and was crowded with antique reproductions. There were side chairs, highboys, and chess tables in the manner of Sheridan and Chippendale: but they were glossy with thick shellac and given an odd orange cast by antiquing stain. A pair of large hunting scenes in gilt frames looked, at first glance, like distinguished eighteenth-century canvases: up close, they looked as if they came from a department store - copies done by a hurried art student.

"You like?" Berman was puffed up with pride as he gestured around the jumble of Anglophilic knockoffs.

"I'm speechless," Janson replied.

"Look like movie set, da?" Another expansive gesture.

"Da."

"Is from movie set," Berman said delightedly, clapping his hands. "Grigori arrive at Merchant Ivory production, last day shooting. Write check to unit production manager. Buy everything. Haul off to home. Now live in Merchant Ivory set. Everyone say, Merchant Ivory do English upper class best. Best is good enough for Grigori Berman." A contented chuckle.

"From Grigori Berman, I'd expect no less." The explanation made sense: everything was off, exaggerated, because it was designed only to film well with the proper lights, lenses, and filters.

"Have butler, too. Me, Grigori Berman, poor Muscovite, spend childhood in line at government department store GUM, have butler."

The man he referred to was standing quietly at the end of the foyer, dressed in a black four-button long coat and a stiff pique shirt. He was barrel-chested and strapping, with a full beard, and thinning, neatly combed-back hair. His pink cheeks lent an air of joviality at odds with his somber demeanor.

"This is Mr. Giles French," Berman said. "The 'gentleman's gentleman.' Mr. French take care of all your needs."

"That's really his name?"

"No, not real name. Real name Tony Thwaite. Who cares? I not like real name. Give him name from best American television program."

The bewhiskered manservant gave a solemn nod. "At your service," he said plummily.

"Mr. French," Berman said, "bring us tea. And ... " He paused, either lost in thought or furiously trying to remember what might accompany tea. "Sevruga?" He sounded tentative, and the request prompted an almost imperceptibly subtle head shake from the butler. "No, wait," Berman corrected himself. Once more, he brightened: "Cucumber sandwiches."

"Very good, sir," said the butler.

"Better idea. Bring scones. Those special scones cook makes. With clotted cream and strawberry jam."

"Excellent, sir. Right away, sir."

Berman beamed, a child able to play with an action figure he'd been pining for. For him, Berthwick was a toy house, in which he'd created a bizarre parody of upscale English living, all in lavishly, lovably bad taste.

"Tell me, really, what you think?" Berman said, gesturing around him.

"It's unspeakable."

"Beyond words, you think?" Berman pinched his cheek. "You not just saying that? Sweet pea! For that I should introduce you to Ludmilla. She show you international travel without leaving bed."

Passing by a small room off the main hallway, Janson paused before a large, gleaming, powerful-looking machine with a built-in video monitor and keyboard and two black-grilled squares to either side. He nodded toward it respectfully. "That the RS/6000?"

"That? Is karaoke machine. Computer system in basement." Berman took him down a curved flight of stairs, to a carpeted room that contained several computer workstations; the heat they threw off made the window-less room uncomfortably warm. Two small electric fans stirred the air. The butler arrived with tea and scones, arrayed on Bristol delft plates. He laid them out on a small corner table, along with small ceramic pots filled with clotted cream and jam. Then he glided off.

After glancing longingly at the scones, Berman sat down at a keyboard and started to activate a series of firewall-penetration programs. He studied the results for a few minutes and then turned to Janson. "In cone of silence, tell Grigori