The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,152

Sometimes it transferred funds to parties that were being recruited to play a small role in a larger operation. "Somebody from Unitech is corresponding with the executive director of the Liberty Foundation, offering to provide logistical support for its education programs in Eastern Europe. Why?"

"You got me."

"Let's imagine that somebody, some group, wanted the opportunity to get close to Peter Novak. To learn about his whereabouts."

"Somebody? You're saying Consular Operations took him down? My employers?"

"Arranged for it to happen, more precisely. Orchestrated the circumstances at a remove."

"But why?" she asked. "Why? Don't make a lick of sense."

Few things did. Had Consular Operations really arranged Novak's death? And why hadn't his passing been reported anywhere? It was growing stranger by the day: people who should have been his close associates seemed completely oblivious of the cataclysmic event.

"What you been reading all this time?" Jessie said presently, gesturing toward the various stacks of printouts.

Janson explained.

"You really think there could be something valuable buried in the public record?" she asked.

"Don't be fooled by the mystique of 'intelligence gathering' - half of the stuff you find in foreign-situation reports filed by agents-in-place they get from reading the local papers."

"Tell me about it," she said. "But you only got two eyes - "

"So says the woman who tried to drill me a third."

She ignored the barb. "You can't read that whole stack at once. Give me some. I'll go through it. Another set of eyes, right? Can't hurt."

They read together until he felt the weight of exhaustion start to press down upon him: he needed sleep, could hardly focus his eyes on the densely printed pages. He stood up and stretched. "I'm going to hit the sack," he said.

"Gets chilly at night - sure you don't need a hot-water bottle?" she asked. She held out her hands. Her tone suggested she was joking; her eyes indicated she might not be.

He raised an eyebrow. "Take more than a hot water bottle to warm these bones," he said, keeping his voice light. "Think I'd better pass."

"Yeah," she said. "I guess you'd better." There was something like disappointment in her voice. "Actually, I think I'll just stay up a little while longer, keep slogging away."

"Good girl," he said, winking, and dragged himself up. He was tired, so tired. He would go to sleep easily, but he would not sleep well.

In the jungle was a base. In the base was an office. In the office was a desk. At the desk was a man.

His commanding officer. The man who had taught him nearly everything he knew.

The man he was facing down.

Twelfth-century plainsong came through the small speakers of the lieutenant commander's eight-track tape system. Saint Hildegard.

"What did you want to see me about, son?" Demarest's fleshy features were settled into bland composure. He looked as if he genuinely had no idea why Janson was there.

"I'm going to file a report," Janson said. "Sir."

"Of course. SOP following an operation."

"No, sir. A report about you. Detailing misconduct, in re Article Fifty-three, relating to the treatment of prisoners of war."

"Oh. That." Demarest was silent for a moment. "You think I was a little rough on Victor Charlie?"

"Sir?" Janson's voice rose with incredulity.

"And you can't think why, can you? Well, go ahead. I've got a lot on my mind right now. You see, while you're filling out your forms, I've got to figure out how to save the lives of six men who have been captured. Six men you know very well, because they're under your command - or were."

"What are you talking about, sir?"

"I'm talking about the fact that members of your team have been captured in the vicinity of Lon Due Than. They were on special assignment, a joint reconnaissance with the Marine Special Forces. Part of a pattern, you see. This place is a goddamn sieve."

"Why wasn't I notified about the operation, sir?"

"Nobody could find you all afternoon - an Article Fifteen offense right there. Time and tide wait for no man. Still, you're here now, and all you can think to do is find the nearest pencil sharpener."

"Permission to speak freely, sir."

"Permission denied," Demarest snapped. "You do what the hell you want. But your team has been captured here, men who placed their lives in your hands, and you're the person best positioned to lead a force to get them free. Or you would be if you gave a damn about them. Oh, you think I was unfeeling, inhumane toward those Victor Charlies in the boonies. But I did