The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,151

his knees in apology, moves on. Only, the beggar is none other than Paul Janson, our own Dr. J, and while he was kowtowing, he rigged an explosive device under the vehicle."

Janson stared at her blankly.

"An hour later, Jamal Nadu does pile into the car. But so do four high-priced ladies - Jordanian hookers he'd hired. You notify control of the changed circumstances, and the orders are to proceed anyway. In your report, you say that you subsequently attempted to blow up the car but that the detonator failed. Operation foiled by mechanical screwup."

"These things happen."

"Not to you," she said. "See, that's why I never believed the official account. You were always a goddamn perfectionist. You made that detonator yourself. Now, two days later Jamal Nadu is on his way back from a meeting with a group of Libyans when suddenly his brains start to leak down his collar, because somebody, with a single well-aimed shot, had blown off the back of his head. You file a report suggesting that a rival from Hamas did him in."

"Your point?"

"You might have thought what really went down was pretty obvious. Four women in the car - the operative didn't have the stomach to kill 'em. Maybe didn't see why it was necessary. Maybe figured once he had a drop on the sumbitch, he could find another way to do it without a lot of collateral killing. And maybe the Department of Planning didn't see it that way. Maybe they wanted a flashy, fiery end and didn't give a shit about the whores. So you made things happen the way you thought they should happen."

"You did have a point, didn't you?"

"The really interesting question, way I see it, is this. In the world of covert ops, taking out a superbaddy like Nadu would make a lot of people's careers. What kind of man does it, and then doesn't take credit for it?"

"You tell me."

"Maybe somebody who doesn't want the controlling officer to be able to claim a big win."

"Tell me something else, if you know so much. Who was controlling the operation?"

"Our director, Derek Collins," she said. "At the time, he headed up the Middle East sector."

"Then if you have any questions about procedures, I suggest you take it up with him."

She formed a W with her thumbs and forefingers. "Whatever," she said, half sulkily. "Truth is, I had a hard time getting a fix on you."

"How do you mean?"

"It's one of the reasons the Jamal Nadu thing was a puzzle. Hard to say what makes you tick. Hard to square what I seen with what I heard. For damn sure, you ain't no choirboy. And there are some pretty brutal stories about the stuff you got up to in Vietnam - "

"There's a lot of bullshit out there," he said, cutting her off. He was surprised at the anger that flared in his voice.

"Well, the rumors are pretty heavy, is all I'm saying. They make it sound like you had a hand in some real sick shit that went down there."

"People make things up." Janson was trying to sound calm, and was failing. He did not quite understand why.

She looked at him oddly. "OK, man. I believe you. I mean, you're the only person who would know for sure, right?"

Janson stabbed at the fire with a poker, and the pine logs crackled and hissed fragrantly. The sun had begun to sink over the far mountain peak. "I hope you won't take offense if I ask you to remind me how old you are, Miss Kincaid," he asked, watching her hard face soften in the glow of the hearth.

"You can call me Jessie," she said. "And I'm twenty-nine."

"You could be my daughter."

"Hey, you're as young as you feel."

"That would make me Methuselah."

"Age is just a number."

"In your case, but not mine, a prime number." He stirred red smoking embers with the poker, watched them burst into yellow flames. His mind drifted back to Amsterdam. "Here's a question for you. You ever hear of a company called Unitech Ltd."

"Well, sure. It's one of ours. Supposed to be an independent corporate entity."

"But used as a front by Consular Operations."

"It's about as independent as a dog's leg," she said, running a hand through her short, spiky hair.

"Or a cat's paw," Janson said. The dim memories were surfacing: Unitech had played a minor role over the years in a number of endeavors; sometimes it helped anchor part of an undercover agent's legend, providing an ersatz employment record.