The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,148

we try to coordinate our approach to troubled regions with Germany, France, Great Britain, Russia - and with Peter Novak.'

In Newsweek, similar tributes echoed:

What sets the Magyar mogul apart? Start with his immense sense of assurance, an absolute certainty that you see in both his bearing and his speech. "I don't deal with affairs of state for the thrill of it," says Novak, whose exquisitely tailored wardrobe doesn't distract from his physical vigor. Yet by now he has matched himself against the world markets and won so frequently that the game must not feel like much of a challenge. Helping rebuild civil society in unstable regions such as Bosnia or the Central Asian republics, however, provides as much challenge as any man could hope for, even Peter Novak.

Hours later, he heard quiet footsteps, bare feet on terra-cotta tile. The woman, wearing a terry-cotton robe, had finally emerged from the bedroom. Janson stood up, his head still a blur of names and dates, a fog of facts as yet undistilled into the urgent truths he sought.

"Pretty swank place," she said.

Janson was grateful for the interruption. "Three centuries ago, there was a mountainside monastery here. Almost all of it was destroyed, then overgrown by the forest. My friend bought the property and sank a lot of money into turning the remnants into a cottage."

For Janson, what appealed wasn't so much the house as the location, rustic and isolated. Through the front windows, a craggy mountain peak was visible, rising from the nearby forest. Streaks of gray, naked stone interrupted its green textures - the distance made the trees look like clinging moss - and the whole was outlined against the azure sky, where small black birds wheeled and circled and plunged, their movements coordinated but seemingly aimless. An iron pergola, draped in vines, stood in the back not far from a centuries-old campanile, one of the few vestiges of the old monastery.

"Where I come from," she said, "this isn't a cottage."

"Well, he discovered a lot of frescoes in the course of renovation. He also installed a number of trompe l'oeil paintings taken from other villas. Went a little wild with the ceiling art."

"Damn bat babies got into my dreams."

"They're meant to be little angels. Think of them that way. It's more soothing."

"Who's this friend anyway?"

"A Montreal businessman. 'Friend' is an exaggeration. If it really belonged to a friend, I wouldn't go near it - the risk would be too great. Alasdair Swift is someone I did a few favors once. Always urged me to stay at his place if I were ever in northern Italy. He spends a few weeks here in July, otherwise, it's pretty much vacant. I figure it'll serve a turn.

There's also a fair amount of high-tech communication equipment here. A satellite dish, high-bandwidth Internet connection. Everything a modern businessman might need."

"Everything but a pot of joe," she said.

"There's a sack of coffee in the kitchen. Why don't you make us a pot?"

"Trust me," she said. "That's a real bad idea."

"I'm not fussy," he said.

She held his gaze sullenly. "I don't cook and I don't make coffee. I'd say it was out of feminist principle. Truth is, I don't know how. No big whoop. Something to do with my mom dying when I was a little girl."

"Wouldn't that turn you into a cook?"

"You didn't know my dad. He didn't like me messing around in the kitchen. Like it was disrespecting my mom's memory, or something. Taught me how to microwave a Hungry-Man dinner, though, and scrape the gunk out of the foil sections and onto a plate."

He shrugged. "Hot water. Coffee grounds. Figure it out."

"On the other hand," she went on, her cheeks aflame, "I am crazy good with a rifle. And I'm generally considered hot shit at field tactics, E and E, surveillance, you name it. So if you had a mind to, you probably could put me to good use. Instead, you're acting like you got nothing in your head but boogers and a peanut shell."

Janson burst out laughing.

It was not the reaction she had expected. "That's something my dad used to say," the young woman explained, sheepishly. "But I meant what I told you. Don't sell me short. Like I say, I can come in real handy. You know it."

"I don't even know who you are." His eyes came to rest on her strong, regular features, her high cheekbones and full lips. He had almost stopped noticing the angry welts.

"The name's Jessica Kincaid," she said, and