The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,202

the area. This afternoon it's Ambrose and Bamford. Make sure nobody's fishing where they shouldn't be, that's what they get up to most of the time."

"You stay here alone?"

Collins smiled wanly. "A suspicious mind would find menace in that question." He wandered over to his kitchen, which gleamed with stainless-steel counters and high-end appliances. "But yes, I've come to prefer it that way. I get more thinking done."

"In my experience, the more thinking you people do, the more trouble you make," Janson said with quiet mordancy. The Beretta was still in his right hand, its butt braced on the counter. When Collins moved behind the exhaust vent of his Viking range, Janson repositioned himself subtly. At no point was Collins ever protected from the 9mm in Janson's hand.

Now Collins set a mug of coffee by Janson. His movements, too, were calculated - calculatedly nonthreatening. A mug of scalding fluid could be a weapon, so he was careful to slide the mugs slowly across the counter. He did not want Janson even to consider the possibility that their contents might be flung into his face, and take countermeasures. It was a way of treating his guest with respect, and it was a way of sparing himself any preemptive violence. Collins had gone through decades clambering to the top of an elite covert intelligence agency without so much as injuring a fingernail; he evidently sought to preserve his record.

"When Janice had all this done" - Collins gestured around them, at the fixtures and furnishings - "I believe she called this a 'nook.' Dining nook or breakfast nook or some such damn thing." They sat together now at the black honed-granite counter, each perched on a high round stool of steel and leather. Collins took a sip of the coffee. "Janice's Faema super-automatic coffeemaker. A seventy-five-pound contraption of stainless steel, plus more computational power than the lunar module, all to make a cup or two of Java. Sounds like something the Pentagon might have come up with, doesn't it?" Through his chunky black glasses, his slate-gray eyes were at once inquiring and amused. "You're probably wondering why I haven't asked you to put the gun away. That's what people always say in these situations, isn't it? 'Put the gun away and let's talk' - like that."

"You always want to be the brightest kid in the classroom, don't you?" Janson's eyes were hard as he took a sip of the coffee. Collins had taken care to pour the coffee in front of him, tacitly letting him verify that his coffee had not been spiked or poisoned. Similarly, when he brought the two mugs to the counter, he let Janson choose the one he would drink from. Janson had to admire the bureaucrat's punctiliousness in anticipating his ex-employee's every paranoid thought.

Collins ignored the taunt. "Truth is, I'd probably rather you keep the gun trained on me - just because it'll soothe your jangled nerves. I'm sure it's more calming to you than anything that I could say. Accordingly, it makes you less likely to act rashly." He shrugged. "You see, I'm just letting you in on my thinking. The more candor we can manage, the more at ease you'll be."

"An interesting calculation," Janson grunted. The undersecretary of state had evidently decided he was more likely to escape grievous bodily harm by making it clear and unambiguous that his life was in the field agent's hands. If you can kill me, you won't hurt me - so ran Collins's reasoning.

"Just to celebrate Saturday, I'm making mine Irish," Collins said, pulling over a bottle of bourbon and splashing some in his mug. "You want?" Janson scowled, and Collins said, "Didn't think so. You're on duty, right?" He poured a dollop of cream in as well.

"Around you? Always."

A resigned half smile. "The shrike we saw earlier - it's a hawk that thinks it's a songbird. I think both of us remember an earlier conversation we had along those lines. One of your 'exit interviews.' I told you that you were a hawk. You didn't want to hear it. I think you wanted to be a songbird. But you weren't one, and never will be. You're a hawk, Janson, because that's your nature. Same as that loggerhead shrike." Another sip of his Irish coffee. "One day, I got here and Janice was at her easel, where she'd been trying to paint. She was crying. Sobbing. I thought maybe - I don't know what I thought. Turns out she watched