The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,133

you double-scheduled the Swedish minister of foreign affairs and the man from the U.N. disarmament program, the redhead said, berating a particularly thickheaded junior secretary upstairs. The junior secretary protested that it wasn't her fault, but did so with an air of hesitation that was tantamount to a confession. Another secretary, coming to the other's defense, maintained that the error was probably on the side of the Czech bureaucrats. Yet it would be simply impossible, a hopeless breach of protocol, to tell them so.

Now Ratko watched the red-haired receptionist lead the minister inside to a fancy antechamber, where vision and sound alike grew indistinct. The Serb turned up the electronic light amplification of his scope and switched the microphone to a special signal-enhancement mode so that the input from the parabolics would be further digitally improved - sharpened, with meaningless noise filtered out.

"Our executive director will be with you shortly," he heard the redhead say, as the aural signal was restored.

"You're very kind," the Czech diplomat said airily, removing his hat. "And this is a beautiful estate. Do you mind terribly if I take a look around?"

"Sir, we would be honored," she replied as if by rote.

Silly bureaucrat - searching for decor tips to give to his wife. He would return to the drab presidential palace in Prague and tell his friends about the deluxe details of Peter Novak's Amsterdam lair.

Ratko had done Warsaw Pact exercises with Czech soldiers back when he was in the Yugoslav army, long before the six republics of Yugoslavia struck out on their own, and at each other. The Czechs, he always thought, had a very high opinion of themselves. He did not share it.

A man walking very slowly in front of the house caught his attention: would Janson be so bold? The man, seemingly a tourist, stood against the low railing beside the canal. Slowly, he took out a map.

Ratko directed his scope toward him; the angle was not ideal, but as he took in the tourist's slight build and short hair, he saw how mistaken he had been. No matter how cleverly Janson disguised himself, he could never pass for a twenty-something woman.

Once more, Ratko felt a warmth stirring in his belly.

Janson's eyes swept over the beautifully appointed antechamber. Paintings from the Dutch renaissance were positioned in the center of squares formed by gilt moldings, with obsessive concern for symmetry. The fireplace mantel was of intricately carved marble, veined with blue. It all seemed perfectly in character for a Dutch mansion: far from the public's prying eyes, the vaunted ideal of Nordic moderation was banished.

So far, so good, he thought to himself. Cooper had cleaned up remarkably well, and once attired in that silly uniform, he conducted himself in a manner that did not quite slide into parody. His movements were stiff and official; his expressions imbued with a servile pomposity, every inch the dedicated assistant of a very important official. Janson himself was relying upon the assumption that nobody would have any idea what the Czech foreign minister looked like. The man had been in the job for a mere two weeks, after all. And the country was not high on the Foundation's list of trouble spots.

No disguise was the best disguise: A bit of grease in his hair, a pair of spectacles in a style fashionable in Eastern Europe, the sort of suiting common to diplomats all over the Continent ... and a manner that was by turns amiable and imperious. The fact that Janson's mother was Czech was helpful, of course, though chiefly in imbuing his English with a persuasive Czech accent. A Czech diplomat would be expected to speak English in a country like Holland.

Janson peered at the red-haired receptionist over his round hornrimmed glasses. "And Peter Novak? He is here as well?"

The petite woman smiled dreamily. "Oh no, sir. He spends most of his time on the road, flying from place to place. Sometimes we don't see him for many weeks at a time."

When Janson had arrived, he did not know whether a pall of grief would be hanging over the Foundation. But what Agger had told him remained true: they clearly had no idea that anything had befallen their revered founder. "Well!" said Janson. "He's got the whole world in his hands, yes?"

"You could say that, sir. But his wife is in today. Susanna Novak. She helps run the NGO development program."

Janson nodded. Novak was insistent about keeping his family from the public gaze, evidently afraid of