The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,229

Janson turned to Collins. "I asked you, when we spoke earlier, who would agree to play such a role - to have his entire identity erased. What kind of man would do such a thing?"

"Yes," Collins said, "and I answered, 'Someone who had no choice.' The fact is, you know that someone. A man named Alan Demarest."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A chill ran through Janson's veins, and for a moment all he could see was the face of his former commanding officer. Alan Demarest. Nausea flooded him, and his head began to throb.

It was a lie!

Alan Demarest was dead. Executed by the state. Janson's knowledge of that ultimate requital was the only thing that made his memories endurable.

When Janson returned stateside, he filed the lengthy reports that, he had been assured, resulted in Demarest's arraignment. A secret military tribunal had been convened; a decision had been made at the highest levels: the national morale was deemed too vulnerable to permit the public airing of Demarest's activities, but justice would be served all the same. Janson's extensive sworn depositions had made the case open-and-shut. Demarest had been found guilty after just a few hours of deliberation, and was sentenced to death. The man whom one counterintelligence operative dubbed the "Mr. Kurtz of Khe Sanh" had been executed by a military firing squad. And Janson had watched.

Mesa Grande. In the foothills of the San Bernardino Mountains. The cloth circle in front of his heart - white, and then bright red.

As Janson stared wordlessly at Collins, he could feel a vein pulsing in his forehead.

"A man who had no choice," Collins said, implacably. "He was a brilliant, brilliant man - his mind an extraordinary instrument. He also, as you discovered, had decided flaws. So be it. We needed somebody with his capabilities, and his absolute loyalty to this country had never been questioned, even if his methods were."

"No," Janson said, and it came out as a whisper. He shook his head slowly. "No, it's impossible."

Collins shrugged. "Blanks, squibs. Basic stagecraft. We showed you what you thought you needed to see."

Janson tried to speak, but nothing came out.

"I'm sorry that you were lied to for all these years. You believed Demarest should have been court-martialed and executed for the things he did, and so you were told that he was, showed that he was. Your thirst for justice was totally understandable - but you weren't looking at the big picture, not as far as our counterintelligence planners were concerned. Material like that doesn't come along very often, not in our line of work. So a decision was made. Ultimately, it was a simple issue of human resources."

"Human resources," Janson repeated dully.

"You were lied to because that was the only way we could hold on to you. You were pretty spectacular material yourself. The only way you'd be able to put it behind you was to be confident that Demarest had suffered the ultimate punishment. So you were better off, and we were better off, too, because it meant that you could go on and do what God made you to do. Totally win-win. It just made sense every which way the planners looked at it. So Demarest was presented with a choice. He could face a tribunal, and the mountainous evidence that you had provided, and probably judicial execution. In the alternative, he essentially had to give his life to us. He would exist at the discretion of his controllers, his very life a revocable gift. He'd accept whatever tasks he was given because he had no choice. It all made him a very ... singular asset."

"Demarest - alive." It was a struggle to get out the words. "You recruited him for the job?"

"The way he recruited you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Probably 'recruit' is too gentle a word," Collins said.

The DIA man spoke up. "The logic of the assignment was unassailable."

"Damn you!" Janson cried out. He saw it all now. Demarest had been the first Peter Novak: primus inter pares. The others would be matched to the frame of his body. He had been the first because of his redoubtable gifts, as a linguist, as an actor, as a brilliantly resourceful operative. Demarest was the best they had. Had the thought even arisen that there might be risks in giving this responsibility to someone so utterly devoid of conscience - to a sociopath?

Janson shut his eyes as the images flooded his mind.

Demarest was not merely cruel, he had an unsurpassed gift for cruelty. He approached