The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,135

Europe program - that would be more accurate."

"You'll be safe with Dr. Tilsen," Susanna Novak said. "A lot safer with him than with me," she added, leaving it up to her visitor whether to read a double entendre in her remark.

Janson sat down opposite the pale-faced administrator. What to discuss with him?

"I expect you know why I wanted to make contact with you," he began.

"Well, I think so," Dr. Tilsen said. "Over the years, the Czech government has been very supportive of some of our efforts, and less so of others. We understand that our objectives will not always mesh with those of any particular government."

"Quite so," Janson said. "Quite so. But I have begun to wonder whether my predecessors have been too hasty in their judgments. Perhaps a more harmonious relationship might be possible."

"That would be most pleasing to contemplate," Dr. Tilsen said.

"Of course, if you provide me with a tour d'horizon of your projects in our country, I would be able to make the case more effectively with my colleagues and associates. Really, I'm here to listen."

"Then I shall oblige you, and speak to those very points," Dr. Tilsen said. He smiled, tentatively. Talking was his stock in trade, and for the next thirty minutes, Tilsen did what he did best, describing a battery of initiatives and programs and projects. After a few minutes, the words seemed to form a verbal curtain, woven from the opaque nomenclature and slogans favored by professional idealists: nongovernmental organizations ... reinvigorating the institutions of deliberative democracy ... a commitment to promoting the values, institutions, and practices of an open and democratic society ... His accounts were detailed and prolix, and Janson found his eyes beginning to glaze. With a tight, fixed smile, he nodded at intervals, but his mind wandered. Was Peter Novak's wife among the conspirators? Had she herself engineered the death of her husband? The prospect seemed inconceivable, and yet what could explain her conduct?

And what of this Dr. Tilsen? He seemed earnest, unimaginative, and well meaning, if more than a little self-important. Could such a man be part of a nefarious conspiracy to destroy the most important agent of progress the fragile world had? He watched the man talk, watched the small, eroded, coffee-stained teeth, the pleased look with which he punctuated his monologue, the way he had of nodding approvingly at his own points. Was this the face of evil? It seemed hard to believe.

A knock at the door. The petite redhead from downstairs.

"I'm terribly sorry, Dr. Tilsen. There's a call from the prime minister's office."

"Ah," Dr. Tilsen said. "You will kindly excuse me."

"But of course," said Janson.

Left to himself, he examined the relatively spare furnishings of the room, and then he walked over to the window, looking at the busy canal below him.

A feeling of cold ran down his spine, as if it had been stroked with a shard of ice.

Why? Something in his field of vision - once again, an anomaly he responded to instinctively before he could rationally analyze or describe it.

What?

Oh Jesus! Behind the bell-shaped gable of the house opposite, there was the shadow of a man crouched upon the tightly imbricated slate tiles. A familiar error: the sun changes position, and shadows appear where there had been no shadows, betraying the hidden observer - or sniper. Which? The glint of sun from the glass of a scope did not settle the question.

His eyes now scrutinized the eaves and attic windows of the house for anomalies. There - a small section of a large double-hung window had been cleaned, by someone who wanted to be able to see out of it more clearly.

The hoist beam in front of him: something was odd about it as well. A moment later, he realized what. It was no hoist beam - the beam had been replaced by the barrel of a rife.

Or was his overheated imagination conjuring things into existence, seeing threats in shadows, the way children turned their bedposts into the talons of monster? The bruise on the side of his head throbbed painfully. Was he jumping at ghosts?

Then one of the small square panes exploded, and he heard the harsh splitting of wood as a bullet buried itself somewhere in the parquet floor. Another pane exploded, and then another, shooting splinters of glass through the air, showering the conference table.

Jagged cracks appeared in the plaster of the wall opposite the window. Another pane exploded, another bullet shattered the plaster, this one cracking inches above his