The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,159

to do so himself. His men came to understand that. They could pull nothing over on him, but this did not breed resentment, only respect. I think maybe I am the same way."

"Do people often try to pull things over on you?"

Lakatos grinned, flashing a row of porcelain teeth, unnaturally white and regular. "Few are so foolhardy," he replied. "They recognize the dangers." His tone wavered between menace and self-regard.

"No one has ever prospered by underestimating the Hungarian people," Janson said soberly. "But then yours is a language, a culture, that few of us can pretend to understand."

"Magyar obscurity. It served the country well when others sought to dominate it. At other times, it has served us less well. But I think those of us who operate under conditions of, shall we say, circumspection have learned its value."

A waiter appeared and filled their water glasses.

"A bottle of your 'ninety-eight Margaux," Lakatos said. He turned to Kurzweil. "It's a young wine, but quite refreshing. Unless you'd like to try the local specialty - one of those 'Bull's Blood' vintages. Some are quite memorable."

"I believe I would, in fact."

Lakatos wriggled his fat fingers at the waiter "Instead, a bottle of the Egri Bikaver, 'eighty-two." He turned again to his companion. "Now tell me," he said, "how do you find Hungary?"

"An extraordinary land, which has given the world some extraordinary people. So many Nobel Laureates, film directors, mathematicians, physicists, musicians, conductors, novelists. Yet there is one laureled son of Hungary who - how shall I say this politely? - has given disquiet to my clients."

Lakatos looked at him, transfixed. "You intrigue me."

"One man's liberty is another's tyranny, as they say. And the foundations of liberty may be the foundations of tyranny." He paused to make sure that his import was taken.

"How fascinating," Lakatos said, swallowing hard. He reached for his water glass.

Janson stifled a yawn. "Forgive me," he murmured. "The flight from Kuala Lumpur is a long one, however comfortable one is made." In fact, the seven-hour ride from Milan to Eger in the bone-rattling confines of a truck trailer loaded with cured meats had been both uncomfortable and nerve-racking. Even as he dined with the arms merchant, Jessie Kincaid would be using a false passport and credit card to rent another automobile for tomorrow's trip and carefully working out the itinerary in advance. He hoped she would be able to get some rest before long. "But travel is my life," Janson added grandly.

"I can imagine," Lakatos said, his eyes bright.

The waiter, in black tie, appeared with the local red wine; it came in a ribboned bottle without a paper label, the name of the vineyard etched directly on the glass. The wine was dark, rich, seemingly opaque as it splashed into their crystal goblets. Lakatos took a healthy swallow, sluiced it around his mouth, and pronounced it superb.

"As a region for viticulture, Eger is nothing if not robust." He held up his wineglass. "You may not be able to see through it," he added, "but, I assure you, Mr. Kurzweil, you always get value for your money. You made an excellent choice."

"I am pleased to hear you say so," Janson replied. "Another tribute to Magyar opacity."

Just then, a man in a sky blue suit but no tie came over to the table - obviously an American tourist, and obviously drunk. Janson looked up at him, and alarm bells began ringing in his head.

"It's been a while," the man said, slurring his words slightly. He placed a hairy, beringed hand on the white linen tablecloth near the bread basket. "Thought it was you. Paul Janson, big as life." He snorted loudly before he turned and walked away. "Told you it was him," he was saying to a woman who sat at his table across the room.

Dammit! What had happened was always a theoretical possibility in covert operations, but so far Janson had been fortunate. There had been an occasion once in Uzbekistan when he was meeting with a deputy to the nation's oil minister, posing as a go-between to a major petrochemical corporation. An American happened to breeze through the office - a civilian, a Chevron oil buyer, who knew him under another name, and in another context, one involving the Apsheron gas and oil fields of Azerbaijan. Their gaze met, the man nodded, but said nothing. For distinctly different reasons, he felt as chagrined at being spotted by Janson as Janson had at being spotted by him. No words were exchanged, and