The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,227
a perpetual five o'clock shadow. There were also a few colorless but nervous-looking technicians: he knew the type immediately.
"Have a seat, Paul." Yes, it was Derek Collins, his slate eyes cool behind his chunky black plastic glasses. "Make yourself at home." He gestured around him wryly. "If you can call this a home."
The room was both spacious and ornate, paneled and plastered in the seventeenth-century English style; burnished mahogany walls gleamed beneath a fine crystal chandelier. The floor marquetry was in an intricate pattern of lighter and darker woods, oak and ebony.
"Apologies for the programmed misdirection, Paul," Collins went on.
Programmed misdirection?
"The courier was on your payroll," Janson said, toneless.
Collins nodded. "We'd had the same thought as you about getting access to the incoming documents. As soon as he reported your contact, we knew we had a golden opportunity. Look, you weren't exactly going to respond to an engraved invitation. It was the only way I could bring you in."
"Bring me in?" Indignation choked off the words in his throat.
Glances were exchanged between Collins and the president. "And it was the best way to show these other good people that you still have what it takes," Collins said. "Demonstrate that your abilities live up to your reputation. Hot damn, that was one impressive infiltration. And before you get all hurt and sulky, you better understand that the people in this room are pretty much the only ones left who know the truth about Mobius. For better or worse, you're now a member of this select group. Which means we've got an Uncle Sam Wants You situation here."
"Goddamn you, Collins!" He reholstered his pistol and put his hands on his hips. Fury coursed through him.
The president cleared his throat. "Mr. Janson, we really are depending on you."
"With all respect, sir," he said, "I've had enough of the lies."
"Watch it, Paul," Collins interjected.
"Mr. Janson?" The president was looking into his eyes with his famous high-beam gaze, the kind that could be equally mournful or amused. "Lies are pretty much the first language for most folks in Washington. You'll get no argument from me. There are lies and, yes, there will continue to be lies, because the good of the country requires it. But I want you to understand something. You're inside a top-secret ultrasecure federal facility. No tape, no log, no nothing. What does that mean? It means we're at a place where we can all open our kimonos, and that's exactly what we're going to do. This meeting has no official status whatsoever. It never happened. I'm not here, you're not here. That's the sheltering lie, the lie that's going to make all the truth-telling possible. Because here and now, it's all about telling the truth - to you and to ourselves. Nobody's going to shine you on. But it's dead urgent that you get briefed on the situation with the Mobius Program."
"The Mobius Program," Janson said. "I've already been briefed. The world's greatest philanthropist and humanitarian, this one-man roving ambassador, the 'peacemaker' - he's a goddamn fiction, brought to you by your friends in Washington. This latter-day saint is a wholesale creation of ... what? A task force of planners."
"Saint?" the National Intelligence Council chairman interrupted. "There's no religious valence here. We were always careful to avoid anything like that."
"Praise the Lord." Janson's voice was icy.
"I'm afraid there's a lot more going on than you know," offered the secretary of state. "And given that it's the most explosive secret in the history of the republic, you'll understand if we've been a little skittish."
"I'll give you the log line," the president said. It was clear that he was chairing the meeting; a man used to command did not have to make a show of his authority. "Our creature has become - well, not our creature anymore. We've lost control of the asset."
"Paul?" Collins said. "Really, have a seat. This is going to take a while."
Janson lowered himself into a nearby armchair. The tension in the room was palpable.
President Berquist's gaze drifted to the window, which gave a view of the gardens in the rear of the estate. In the moonlight, it was possible to make out the Italian-style formal garden, a rectilinear maze of clipped yew and box hedges. "To quote one of my predecessors," he said, "we made him a god when we didn't own the heavens." He glanced at Douglas Albright, the man from the Defense Intelligence Agency. "Doug, why don't you start?"