The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,168

not hopeful, and neither should you be."

Three hours later, the clerk called the number. His pessimism, he confessed to Jessie, had perhaps been premature. He explained that he had sensed that this was a matter of particular importance to her, and thus made a special effort to ascertain that the records had indeed been lost. Given the vastness of the National Archives, after all, a certain amount of misfiling was inevitable.

Jessie listened to the long-winded clerk with mounting excitement. "You mean to say you've turned them up? We can get access to them?"

"Well, not exactly," the clerk said. "A curious thing. For some reason, the records were removed to a special section. The locked section. I'm afraid access to these files is strictly regulated. It would simply be impossible for a member of the public to be allowed to see this material. All sorts of high-level ministerial certifications and documents of exception would be required."

"But that's plain silly," Jessie said.

"I understand. Your interests are genealogical - it seems absurd that such records are treated like state secrets. I myself believe it to be another instance of misfiling - or miscategorization, anyway."

"Because it would just break me up, having come all this way," Jessie began. "You know, I can't tell you how grateful I'd be if you could see a way to help." She pronounced the word grateful with infinite promise.

"I think I am too softhearted," the clerk said with a sigh. "Everyone says so. It is my great weakness."

"I could just tell," Jessie said in a sugary tone.

"An American woman alone in this strange city - it must all be very bewildering."

"If only there was somebody who could show me the sights. A real native. A real Magyar man."

"For me, helping others isn't just a job." His voice had a warm glow. "It's - well, it's who I am."

"I knew it as soon as I met you ... "

"Call me Istvan," said the clerk. "Now, let's see. What would be simplest? You have a car, yes?"

"Sure do."

"Parked where?"

"At the garage across the street from the Archives building," Jessie lied. The five-story garage complex was a massive structure of poured concrete, its ugliness compounded by the contrast with the splendors of the Archives building.

"Which level?"

"Fourth."

"Say I meet you there in an hour. I'll have copies of these records in my briefcase. If you like, we might even go for a drive afterward. Budapest is a very special city. You'll see how special."

"You're special," said Jessie.

With a reluctant mechanical noise, the elevator door opened on a floor two-thirds filled with cars. One of the cars was the yellow Fiat she had parked there half an hour ago. It was shortly before the appointed time, and nobody else was around.

Or was there somebody?

Where had she parked the car, anyway? She'd come up a different elevator this time, on the opposite end of the lot. As she looked around, she noticed in her peripheral vision a darting motion - someone's head ducking down, she realized a split second later. It was a hallmark of bad surveillance: being noticed by trying too hard not to be. Or was she jumping to conclusions? Perhaps it was an ordinary thief, someone trying to steal a hubcap, a radio; such thefts were prevalent in Budapest.

But these alternate possibilities were irrelevant. To underestimate the risks was to increase them. She had to get out of there, quickly. How? The odds were too great that someone was watching the elevators. She needed to drive out - in a different car from the one she had taken in.

She casually walked between an aisle of cars, and suddenly dropped to the ground, cushioning her fall with her hands. She crawled, at tire level, arms and legs moving together. Flattening herself toward the ground, she made her way between two cars to the adjoining aisle and scurried rapidly toward where she had seen the ducking man.

She was behind him now, and as she approached she could see his slender figure. He was not the clerk; presumably, he was whomever the clerk's controller had arranged to send in his place. The man was standing upright now, looking around, confusion and anxiety written on his middle-aged face. His eyes moved wildly, from the exit ramps to the elevator doors. Now he was squinting, trying to see through the windshield of the yellow Fiat.

He had been tricked, knew it, and knew, too, that if he did not reclaim the advantage, he would have to face the