The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,187

would get there soon.

A few minutes later, only slightly winded, Janson arrived at the old woman's dilapidated farmhouse. The screams had ceased, replaced by something even more ominous: utter silence.

The door was ajar, and inside was a spectacle that Janson knew would be forever etched on his mind. The noble Kuvasz lay on its side; it had been disemboweled, and its viscera spilled from its belly onto the flatweave rug, in a glistening, red mound, steaming faintly in the chilly air. Splayed in the nearby rocking chair was Gitta Bekesi, a woman who had survived Red Terrors and White, the annihilating clashes of two world wars, the tanks of 1956, outbreaks and plagues of man and nature both. Her face was hidden by her coarse muslin frock, which had been yanked up and over her head, exposing her flaccid torso - and the unspeakable horrors that had been visited upon it. Small, red-rimmed wounds - each corresponding to the plunge of a bayonet, Janson knew - crisscrossed her silvery flesh in a grotesque arrangement. The blades of her assailants had plunged into her dozens of times. On her exposed arms and legs he could see a cluster of red weals caused by the pressure of gripping fingers. The woman had been held down, and tortured with a plunging blade. Were they seeking information from her? Or merely punishing her, sadistically, for the information she had already divulged to him?

What kind of monsters would do such a thing?

Janson's face felt frozen, numb. He looked around, saw spatters of the dead woman's blood on the floor and on the walls. The atrocity had occurred just minutes before. Her visitors had been as swift as they were savage.

And where were they now? They could not be far. Was he meant to be their next victim?

Janson's heart beat in a powerful, slow rhythm. The prospect of confrontation did not fill him with anxiety, but with a strange sense of transport. The old woman might have been easy prey; whoever had done this to her would find that he was not. A convulsing feeling of rage ran through him, familiar and oddly comforting in its familiarity. It would find release.

The half-taunting words of Derek Collins returned to him: Violence is something you're very, very, very good at, Janson ... You tell me you're sickened by the killing. I'm going to tell you what you'll discover one day for yourself: that's the only way you'll ever feel alive.

It felt true now. For years, he had run from his nature. He would not run from it today. As he surveyed the carnage, one thought ran through his mind like a saber. Those who had inflicted such suffering would themselves know suffering.

Where were they?

Close, very close. Because they were looking for him. They would be up the hill. Would Jessie make it to the Lancia in time?

Janson needed elevation if he was to get a proper view of the field of operation. The farmhouse, he saw, was built around a courtyard in the traditional L, with living and working areas under one roof. At right angles to the house was a big portico with a hayloft above and, adjoining it, horse stables. Now he ran into the courtyard and climbed a ladder to the tall hayloft opposite. A hinged door in the rough-planked roof allowed him to clamber to its highest point.

A quarter mile up the hill, he could see, a small party of armed men were making their way toward Jessie Kincaid. Their figures were difficult to make out in the dim light, but broken tree limbs and trampled grass showed their progress. Then Janson saw and heard the flutter of black birds, swooping from the nearby underbrush into the sky, with strident caws; something had disturbed them. A moment later he saw movement in the overgrown trees and bushes surrounding the old farmhouse, and he realized what it meant.

He had fallen into a trap!

The men had been counting on his overhearing the old woman's screams. They had sought to lure him back to the old farmhouse.

They had him exactly where they wanted him - would do to him exactly what they wanted to! Adrenaline filled his veins, brought a terrible icy focus to his perception.

The farmhouse was itself a gated enclosure, but the armed men had it surrounded on all four sides, and now they showed themselves, edging out of the underbrush and into the yard. They must have seen him enter, had probably been waiting