The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,63

Then there were his whores, the young women, and sometimes young men, who would accompany him at inappropriate junctures. As long as he himself was taken care of, he cared little whether he was jeopardizing the safety of others, as well as the integrity of the networks with which he made contact.

Nikos Andros had grown rich as a Cold War profiteer; it was as simple as that. Janson had contempt for such men, and though he could never afford to display this contempt when he might still require their goods and services, that time was long past.

"Who sent you?" Janson demanded.

"Oh dear," Andros said. "Now you're behaving like a koinos eglimatias, a common thug - a danger to yourself and others. You know, your acquaintances are divided between those who think you have changed since your days in Vietnam ... and those who know you haven't."

Janson tensed visibly. "You have no idea what you're talking about." His face grew hot.

"Don't I? You've left quite a few enemies from those days, a number of whom went on to pursue similar careers to your own. There are some who find it difficult to forgive you. In my travels, I myself have met one or two who, after a bottle of ouzo or two, will admit that they consider you a monster. It's said that you gave evidence that got your commanding officer executed for war crimes - despite the fact that what you yourself did was as bad or worse. What a curious sense of justice you have, always pointed outward, like the guns of a fortress."

Janson stepped forward, placed a hand on Andres's chest, and slammed him hard against the wall. A clamoring filled his mind - then was silenced by sheer force of will. He had to focus. "What is it that you want to say to me, Andros?"

Something like hatred flashed in Andres's eyes, and Janson recognized, for the first time, that his contempt was not unreciprocated. "Your former employers wish to see you."

"Says who?"

"That's the message I was asked to deliver. They wanted me to tell you that they need to talk to you. They want you to come in."

Come in: a term of art, whose significance Andros appreciated as much as anyone. Come in - report to stateside headquarters, to submit to analysis, interrogation, or whatever form of debriefing was deemed appropriate. "You're talking nonsense. If Cons Op command wanted me to come in, they wouldn't give the message to a pampered sociopath like you. You're a person who might work for anyone. I'd love to know who your real employer is today, message boy."

" 'Message boy,' you say."

"That's all you ever were."

Andros smiled, and weblike creases formed around his eyes. "Do you remember the story behind the original Marathon? In the fifth century b.c., the Persians launched an invasion, landing at the coastal town of that name, Marathon. A message boy, Phidippides, was tasked with running to Athens to summon troops. The Athenian army, outnumbered four to one, launched a surprise offensive, and what looked like suicide turned out to be astonishing victory. Thousands of Persians lay dead. The rest fled to their ships, to try to attack Athens directly. A secret message had to be sent again to Athens, to tell them of the victory and of the impending assault. Once more, the message boy Phidippides was entrusted with the mission. Mind you, he'd been on the battlefield all morning himself, in heavy armor. No matter. He ran all the way, ran as fast as his feet could carry him, twenty-six miles, delivered the news, and then keeled over dead. Quite a tradition, that of the Greek message boy."

"Surprise attacks and secret messages - I can see why the tale appeals to you. But you're not answering my question, Andros. Why you?"

"Because, my friend, I happened to be in the neighborhood." Andros smiled again. "I like to imagine that's what the boy of ancient Greece panted before he collapsed. No, Janson, you've got it all wrong. In this case, the message belongs to the one who can locate its recipient. Thousands of carrier pigeons were sent out - this one happened to arrive. It seems that by the time your old colleagues got word you'd arrived in this country, they'd lost your scent. They needed me, with my network of connections. I know someone in just about every hotel, taverna, kapheneion, and ouzeri in this part of town. I put word out, I got word