The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,122

than a little dizzy. It must really be strong tobacco. He felt himself flushing, and starting to sweat.

"Oh my poor dear, look at you," the blonde said. "You seem like you could use some fresh air."

"Might do some good," Onishi agreed.

"Come on," she said. "Let's go for a walk together." He started to reach for his wallet but she put down a twenty, and he was feeling too faint to demur. Dexter would be wondering what happened to him, but he could explain later.

Outdoors, in the cooler air, the dizzy feeling persisted.

She reached out and squeezed his hand reassuringly. In the streetlights, she looked even more beautiful - unless that was more evidence of his dizzy state.

"You don't seem so steady on your feet, you know," she said.

"No," he said, and he knew he had a silly grin on his face but could do nothing about it.

She made a tsking noise of mock reproach. "Big hunk like you, laid low by a Balkan Sobranie?"

Blondie thought he was a big hunk? That was encouraging. A major positive data point in the multivariate mess that was his sex life. His grin became wider.

At the same time, he found his thoughts growing oddly scrambled, though he also found it hard to care.

"Let's get in my car and go for a drive," she said, and her voice sounded as if it were coming from miles away and something inside him was saying, Maybe this isn't a good idea, Kaz, and he found he could do nothing but say yes.

He would go with the beautiful stranger. He would do what she said. He would be hers.

He was only dimly aware of her smoothly shifting the gears of her blue convertible and driving off somewhere with the controlled movements of somebody who had a schedule to keep.

"I'm going to show you the time of your life, Kazuo," she said, her hands brushing his crotch as she reached over to lock his door.

A thought glinted and flashed: I never told her my name. It was followed by another thought: Something is very wrong with me. And then all such thoughts disappeared into the dark void that was now his mind.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PART THREE

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Hasid, nervously clutching his battered hard-sided briefcase, walked over to the railed edge of the upper foredeck in an old man's shuffle. His eyes were vaguely fearful, owing more, it seemed, to his temperament than to his particular circumstances aboard the Stena Line HSS. The giant twin-hull ferry took just four hours to travel from Harwich to Hoek van Holland, where special trains, stationed right alongside the ferry, brought passengers to Amsterdam's Centraal Station. The high-speed ship did all it could to make the trip comfortable: on board were several bars, a couple of restaurants, a number of shops, and a movie theater. The Hasidic man with the battered case did not have the appearance of someone who would avail himself of these diversions, however. He was a recognizable type: the diamond dealer - could there be any doubt of it? - who had no interest in such luxuries as he purveyed, like a teetotaler running a distillery. Other passengers glanced at him and looked away. It wouldn't do to stare. One would not want the Hasid to get the wrong idea.

Now the salty breeze ruffled the man's full white beard and earlocks, his black woolen coat and trousers. The round black hat remained firmly planted on his head as the man continued to take in the pewter sky and the gray-green seas. The vista wasn't inspiring, but the Hasid seemed to find comfort in it.

A figure like him, Janson knew, became invisible by virtue of standing out. If the spirit gum on his cheeks itched, and the woolen cloak was uncomfortably hot, it was easy to produce the low-grade anxiety that his role called for. He let the breeze cool him, dry his sweat. There wasn't any reason to doubt that he was who his passport said he was; from time to time, he took out a small, plastic-encased photograph of the late Rabbi Schneerson, considered by many Hasids to be the messiah, or mosiach, and regarded it lovingly. Such details mattered when one was in character.

He turned around slowly, hearing the footfalls of someone approaching him. His stomach dropped as he took in the man's round-brimmed hat and severe black garb. It was a Hasid - a real one. A fellow Hasid, he told himself urgently. You are who you pretend to