The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,244

for this toy?"

"You've broken into my house," she said. "Caused grievous bodily injury to my staff. I'd call it self-defense."

Marta Lang ran her fingers through her perfectly coifed white hair, and Janson tensed for a surprise, but her hands returned empty. There was something different about her; her speech was flatter, her affect more casual. What did he really know about this woman?

"Don't waste our time and we'll try not to waste yours," Janson said, pressing on. "You see, we already know the truth about Peter Novak. There's no use in trying to hold out. He's a dead man. It's over, dammit!"

"You poor muscle-bound idiot," Marta Lang said. "You think you've got everything figured out. But you thought that before, didn't you? Doesn't that make you wonder?"

"Give him up, Marta," Janson said with gritted teeth. "It's your only chance. They've pulled the plug on him. An executive directive from the President of the United States himself."

The white-haired woman's contempt was magnificent. "Peter Novak is more powerful than he is. The U.S. president is only the leader of the free world." She paused to let it sink in. "Getting the big picture, or are you waiting for it to come out on video?"

"You're deluded. He's somehow brought you into his own madness. And if you can't break free, you're lost."

"Tough talk from a goddamn organization man. Look into my eyes, Janson - I want to see if you even believe what you're saying. Probably you do, worse for you. Hey, like the fat lady sings, freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. You think you're some kind of hero, don't you? I feel sorry for you, you know. There's no freedom for people like you. Somebody is always manipulating you, and if it's not me, it'll just be someone else, someone a little less imaginative." She turned to Jessica. "It's true. Your boyfriend here is like a piano. He's just a piece of furniture until someone plays him. And someone's always playing him." Something between a grin and a grimace flashed on her face. "Has it never struck you that he's been three steps ahead of you all along? You're so wonderfully predictable - I suppose that's what you call character. He knows just what makes you tick, just what you're capable of doing, and just what you'll decide to do. For all your derring-do in the Stone Palace, he was playing with you like a kid with a goddamn action figure. We had remote surveillance rigged up there, naturally. Kept tabs on everything you did, every move. We knew every element of your plan and we'd prepared contingencies for every anticipated variant. Of course Higgins - oh, that was the fellow you sprang - was going to insist on saving the American girl. And of course you were going to give up your seat to the lady. What a perfect gentleman you are. Perfectly predictable. The craft was wired to blow by remote, needless to say. Peter Novak was practically waving a baton - he could have been conducting the whole goddamn operation. You see, Janson, he made you. You didn't make him. He was calling the shots before, and he's calling the shots now. And he always will."

"Permission to blow the bitch away, sir?" Jessica asked, raising her left hand like an eager cadet.

"Ask again later," Janson said. "You get only so many chances in this world, Marta Lang. Is that your name, by the way?"

"What's in a name?" she said, blase. "By the time he gets done with you, you'll think it's your name. Now here's a question for you: do you think that if the hunt goes on long enough, the fox starts to imagine it's chasing the hounds?"

"What's your point?"

"It's Peter Novak's world. You're just living in it." She flashed a strangely ethereal smile. When Janson had met her in Chicago, she seemed the very picture of a highly educated foreigner. Her accent was now decidedly American; she could have come from Darien.

"There is no Peter Novak," Jessie said.

"Remember, dear, what they say about the Devil - that his greatest trick was persuading people he didn't exist. Believe what you like."

A memory pricked at Janson. He looked at Marta Lang intently, alert to any flicker of weakness. "Alan Demarest - where is he?"

"Here. There. Everywhere. You should call him Peter Novak, though. It's rude not to."

"Where, goddammit!"

"Not telling," she said lightly.

"What does he have over you?" Janson exploded.

"Sad to say, you don't know what