Текст книги "Robert Ludlum's The Janson Command"

He left the yacht in charge of its captain and walked into the town, watching the narrow streets and sidewalks in the reflections of luxury shop windows, trading imperceptible nods with the muscular proprietor of a dive shop, and stopping briefly at the speedboat dock of a company that offered parasail rides. As he left the waterfront, he paused to look at the hotel. Workmen boarding up the ground-floor windows were banging industriously with hammers and nails, but the cleaners removing the graffiti were trading conspiratorial grins and not scrubbing very hard.

Janson hailed a taxi. It took him up into the hills, through tiny villages, past quarries, olive groves, and empty houses. The French language on bilingual road signs had been painted over and he saw “Corsican National Liberation Front” scrawled on a house that had its roof blown off. SR could do worse than hide Iboga here; restive islanders were not the sort to inform the police about a man on the run.

Janson got out of the taxi at a village café in an ancient stone building and asked the driver to come back in an hour. A patio shaded by a canopy presented views in two directions, turquoise water, east, and rugged mountains to the west. He could see the harbor far, far below opening into the Tyrrhenian Sea, the hundred-mile stretch of water between Corsica and Italy, and up a narrow road switch-backing down from the mountains. Scents of lavender and myrtle wafted off the sun-baked brushy land. The café was nearly empty midafternoon, and Janson had the patio to himself. He ordered a quatre fromagepizza and a glass of Ajaccio rosé and was just finishing the soft, oiled crust and peppery wine when he heard the high-pitched rasp of a powerful machine driven to the max.

Down the mountain road flew a red Ducati 848 sportbike.

One guess, Janson thought grimly, who was driving at that breakneck pace, though he could not help admiring her skill. Boots, knees, and thighs married tightly to the machine, torso levering independently, Kincaid was reading the bends in the narrow road, braking ahead of the corners, throttling early to maximize the engine’s gyroscopic and load-transfer effects, and accelerating smoothly out of them. But formidable skills aside, Janson knew she was pushing the limits of physics and luck. One mistake would flip her fatally end over end into the brush, and he had to wonder whether the near-suicidal speed meant that Kincaid was still so freaked out by the Australia catastrophe that she was pushing herself too hard to make up for it.

The Ducati whipped out of the final turn, throttle blipping a series of high-rev downshifts, braked hard, and stopped in front of the café. Kincaid, clad boot to helmet in black deerskin and festooned with high-power Swarovski field glasses and a Canon digital camera with a foot-long lens, heaved the bike onto its centerstand and swaggered onto the patio. A dog-eared copy of the British Ornithologists’ Union’s Birds of Corsicatossed on the table adjoining Janson’s explained the surveillance gear.

She removed her helmet, spiked her fingers through her hair, and glanced at Janson—one single tourist appraising another. Janson played his role with an expression of sincere interest. She ordered a pizza and a glass of wine, mimicking the local u Corsu dialect well enough to elicit an appreciative smile from the café’s waitress.

When they were alone on the patio, Kincaid said, “Stop looking at me like that. I’m all right, just lettin’ off steam.”

“Glad to hear it, and deeply relieved that they’ve suspended Newton’s Law of Gravity—so what do you think of Corsica?”

“Corsica’s like down home. I thought I was back in Red Creek with all their feudin’ ’n’ fightin’. Of course, if you’re not agin’ ’em, folks are as nice as nice can be. Specially out in the mountains. Beautiful mountains. Wow. Then you come around a bend in the road and there’s this turquoise-blue ocean jumping up at you and white sand beaches as far as you can see. Might be fun to come back sometime, when we’re not working.”

“Hard to picture you sitting still on a beach.”

“I meant rock climbing.”

“Is Iboga here?”

“Looks that way. But he’s moving around a lot.” She opened her bird guide to a blank “Notes” page and hurriedly sketched a map of Corsica. The island, a hundred miles long and fifty wide, looked like a hand closed in a fist with the index finger pointing north. “They started him up here on Capo Corso. Freddy thinks they came in from Italy by boat. Then they seemed to move him down into these mountains down the middle. But I lost them. Now Freddy’s guys think he’s on this private peninsula near Vallicone. That’s here, up the coast from Porto-Vecchio. Freddy’s absolutely convinced that’s where he’s at.”

“Why?”

“It’s a damn fortress.”

THIRTY-TWO

Jessica Kincaid flipped the page in her bird guide and drew a map of the peninsula thrusting into the Tyrrhenian Sea.

“Fifty-foot cliffs all around, so we can’t come on a boat, nowhere to land. Might do it in a little inflatable into a tiny crack of a fishing cove—though we’d need a fisherman to guide us in—then climb the cliffs. But how do we get him down without a damned derrick? Can’t helicopter in—they got radar.”

“Radar?”

“Whoever is there is scared the locals think they’re resort developers. So if it is SR, it’s kinda ironic that they’re hiding Iboga on an island that is a powder keg where all outsiders are suspect. Rumor has it SR is developing the peninsula into a gigantic resort. They have pissed off Corsican separatists, Union Corse mafia, the poor fishermen they ousted, and the ecologists, who tend to get pretty violent in France. I hear they’ve declared war on the French government and the superrich. From what I’ve seenI don’t blame them—this is the kind of place money destroys.”

“What you’re saying is no one in the government is stopping whoever owns the peninsula from defending themselves.”

“They can hold off an army, but just in case, they also have their own helicopter with long-range tanks. So if they are SR and they do have Iboga, they could make it easy to France or Italy if they had to run for it.”

“What about the road?”

“Not without tanks.” She drew a line up the spine of the peninsula. “This is the only road. They got it enfiladed here and here, with stone guardhouses. I scoped out a Dushka in the one nearest the main road.”

“A Dushka? Looks like they’re taking the separatists pretty seriously.” The DShK (“Dushka”) was a .50-caliber heavy machine gun capable of wreaking fatal destruction on any military target in the air or on the ground, short of a tank.

“I’ll bet SR thinks the separatists pose a bigger threat than little old you and me. Anyway, the machine guns tipped it for Freddy.”

“It fits SR’s way of doing things,” Janson agreed. “Strong position, but ready to jump.”

Kincaid planted a finger on the southeast coast. “They can jump anywhere from here. Across the Strait of Bonifacio is Sardinia, where you chartered your boat. How long did it take you?”

“Twenty minutes to cross the strait. A couple of hours to here.”

“Sardinia belongs to Italy. SR seems plenty comfortable crossing borders. Maybe they’re going there next. Ten, fifteen ships a day pass through the strait. They could put Iboga on one of them. Or they could settle into that Vallicone peninsula, or come down here to Porto-Vecchio. Look at those boats down in the harbor.”

Hundreds of motor yachts and bluewater sailboats packed the harbor, moored cheek by jowl in the many marinas. Several ships stood by the outer piers. Seagoing ferries were arriving from Naples and Marseille.

“They could stash Iboga on one of those big-bucks yachts—take him anywhere in the Mediterranean. Which one is yours?”

“The little hundred-footer at the end of that long row of big ones.”

“Yeah, well, you can see this is the big-bucks hangout for rich Europeans.”

“Iboga’s rich.”

“I’m thinking maybe they’ve been headed here all along, just being cagey about it. There’s like gated estates in the hills and giant yachts in the harbor. There’s a bunch of privately owned islands off Bonifacio, including at least one everybody says belongs to the Mafia. If you’re going to ground in luxury, this is the spot.”

Over the turquoise Tyrrhenian Sea came the rumble of heavy engines. Janson spotted the familiar high-wing silhouettes of a fleet of camouflage-green turboprop C-160 Transalls approaching the coast at two thousand feet.

“French Foreign Legion,” Kincaid explained. “Deuxième Régiment Étranger des Parachutistes has rapid-intervention units barracked up north at Calvi.”

An orange smoke flare began burning on the beach. Kincaid scoped it with her field glasses.

“It’s an exercise. There’s brass observing.”

As they watched, the airborne Legionnaires jumped, spreading behind the planes in tight formation. They plummeted nearly to the ground. Seconds after they opened their parachutes, they hit the sand.

“Very nice,” said Janson.

Kincaid passed him her field glasses. “Look how they bunch on the beach.”

The paratroopers were free of their chutes and aiming assault rifles at their objective—a truck on top of which stood a sergeant glaring at his hand. Janson couldn’t see it, but he knew it had to be a stop watch.

“ ‘Hard Training—Easy War,’ ” said Kincaid. “Legion motto.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I had a glass of wine with their colonel.”

“Really? …” He looked at her. “Did the colonel express an opinion about the Vallicone peninsula?”

“I did not think Iboga was a subject to raise with a French officer.”

“Roger that,” said Janson. He checked his watch and stared at the maps Kincaid had drawn.

She said, “I’ve got Freddy and his boys holding the fort at Vallicone—awaiting the word from you.”

“I’ve got helicopters on call and fast boats on a freighter standing by in the Bonifacio Strait. What I don’t have is proof Iboga is on that peninsula.”

Kincaid tapped her map. “To me, these machine guns say Iboga’s there. So do the radar and the helicopters. We have to hit them fast, before they move him.”

“If we raid the peninsula and he’s not there, we end up in a shooting war with some outfit that feels strongly enough about its security to mount machine guns, radar, and helicopters.”

“We can’t just sit around while they whisk him out from under our noses.”

“I want to know more before I commit to a raid that could turn into an ugly mistake.”

“We have to do something.”

“We’ll start by getting you out of that leather. Go down to Porto-Vecchio and buy some clothes.”

“It’s a Eurotrash town. The shops only sell slutwear.”

“Slutwear will be most appropriate.”

“Come again?” Kincaid asked with a dangerous glint in her eye.

Janson opened his wallet and showed her an engraved invitation.

“The Ministry of Economic Affairs, Industry and Employment and Agence Développement Economique de la Corse request the pleasure of Janson Associates’ company at a champagne reception for investors in a hotel and condo consortium.”

“Where’d you get that?”

“Friend in Paris. There’ll be deep-pockets developers and a bunch of French business elite. Someone ought to have the lowdown on a valuable piece of real estate like Vallicone peninsula. We’ll do our act and nail down some intelligence we can count on.”

“Which act?”

“Rich old corporate security consultant hired to protect Agence Développement Economique de la Corse from criminals who launder money through legitimate projects—accompanied by trophy girlfriend masquerading as personal assistant.”

“Which part do you play?”

“Meet me at the yacht. It’s called Tax Free.”

Kincaid nodded, still impatient, but liking the new challenge. “Where’s the plane?” she asked.

Janson looked at his watch again.“Ed and Mike should be taking off from Zurich just about now,” he assured her. “They’ll be landing at Figari Airport in two hours.” He knew she wasn’t asking about the Embraer. She meant where was her favorite rifle?

* * *

JANSON COMMANDEERED Tax Free’s flying bridge to make phone calls. High above the water, the outside steering station on the roof of the motor yacht’s wheelhouse offered a view of the crowded marina, Porto-Vecchio’s harbor, and the sun-washed houses of the town, and privacy from the crew scrubbing decks, polishing chrome, varnishing brightwork, and vacuuming carpets.

Quintisha Upchurch reported that everything he had requisitioned was in place. “Including the decoy, though I must say the Russians were really prickly about it. It would have been easier to get one of your arms dealers to sell us a real one.”

Janson confirmed names, numbers, and details, and she closed by saying, “Mr. Case called. He said to tell you he had been ‘underground’ and that you would know what he meant.”

“Thank you, Quintisha, talk to you soon.”

Janson returned Case’s call eagerly. “Underground” would be Doug’s jokey code for “mole.”

“What’s up?” he asked when Case answered.

Case said, “I’m not sure what this means, but Kingsman Helms has been badmouthing the hell out of Acting President Poe. I get the impression he’s raising sentiment in the company against him.”

“To what purpose?” asked Janson.

“You’re asking me to guess?”

“You’re in ASC’s Houston HQ,” said Janson. “I am not.”

“My best guess? Helms is laying the groundwork to turn ASC against Poe.”

“To what end?”

“Backing a replacement.”

“Interesting,” said Janson. “That will bear some thinking. How are things otherwise?”

“Personally, I’m itching to get out of here.”

“Hang in there,” said Janson. “Let all this play out. Any luck with the Reaper connection?”

“No. And I’m not expecting any. It would be a personal connection—strictly one-to-one—retired officer in private work paying a ton of dough or promising a brilliant future to a serving officer.”

“That is obvious,” said Janson. “Keep poking. What do you know about GRA?”

“Rings a bell. Sort of. Can’t place it. What does it stand for?”

“Ground Resource Access.”

“That’s oil talk.”

“Yes, but could it be a company name?”

“Who knows?”

“I’m asking you.”

“I’ll get back to you on that. Where are you?”

“London. But call Quintisha. I’m probably heading out of here.”

“Talk to you.”

* * *

DOUG CASE SAID good-bye to Paul Janson and hung up smiling.

Cons Ops had trained them how to lie. Glibly. Effortlessly. There wasn’t a lie detector or voice analyzer invented they couldn’t fox. He had been one of the best. Janson, per usual, thebest. So damned good that Doug Case was half-inclined to believe that Janson really was in London—even though he knew beyond any doubt that Paul Janson was in Porto-Vecchio on the island of Corsica.

THIRTY-THREE

Jessica Kincaid stalked into Tax Free’s salon wearing six-inch spike heels and white vintage Capri pants low on her hips. The iridescent clutch in her hand was barely big enough to hold a cell phone and a knife, and it was a mystery to Janson how a silk handkerchief had been reengineered as a halter top.

“How do I look?”

“Young enough to be carded by a responsible bartender– Wait a minute! No, you don’t. Where are your muffin tops?”

Kincaid cast a wintery eye at the bared swell of her hips. “I don’t have muffin tops.”

“But teenagers do. You don’t look chubby enough to pass for my teenage girlfriend.”

“Russian girls are the main competition for rich dudes in this town. We ain’t gonna see no muffin tops at that party.”

As they started to leave, Janson’s phone rang.

“One second. This guy’s returning my call.” He said hello, listened briefly, and covered the phone.

“What’s up?” asked Kincaid.

“Did you tell me that Van Pelt was wearing shorts when you tangled with him in Cartagena?”

“He was pretending he was a boat bum.”

“Did he have a tattoo on his leg?”

“No. Why?”

“Sydney Harbour Patrol found a shark-bit leg. But it had a tattoo, a big snake wrapped around his leg.”

“Jesus H … Going up the leg? Or down?”

“You know, I didn’t ask.”

“Either way, it’s not his.”

“Then it’s possible your boy’s still in business.”

* * *

THE RECEPTION WAS held on a four-hundred-foot mega-yacht– Main Chanceof Hong Kong—moored stern-to at the marina’s outermost pier. A ballroom opened onto a vast deck, on which most of the hundred guests had gathered, since the evening was warm and the sky clear and the band inside too loud. The intense evening sun illuminated the stone and stucco houses on the surrounding hills, a startlingly pretty sight marred by the blackened remains of the burned-out hotel.

As Janson had expected, he was not the only man at the party accompanied by a young girlfriend, publicist, or personal assistant. They accepted champagne from a passing waitress wearing even less than Kincaid, pretended to sip it, and went to work. Kincaid acted as roper, catching the attention of deeply tanned middle-aged men wearing gold, Janson stepping in to introduce themselves as, “Paul Janson, Janson Associates—my colleague Ms. Kincaid.” When the men spoke only French, Janson let Kincaid translate, although he usually understood most of what they were saying.

The fire-gutted building offered an easy opening and the words “security consultant” were greeted by remarks along the lines of, “You’ll be busy here, you can see,” and, “They’ve got this overly green attitude in Corsica about the coastline.”

Janson and Kincaid heard complaints from some about the scarcity of opportunity: “Corsicans hate selling property. They think without a house they’re not a Corsican.” Others reveled in the value such scarcity produced. Nonetheless, “housing prices,” they were told repeatedly, “are still cheaper than the Riviera.”

Jessica swooped into a scrum of rich old men draped in jewelry and engaged them in conversation. Janson cruised some more and was told several times that the market was starting to take off.

“Big villas run a million to two million euros on Corsica. Double that here in Porto-Vecchio.”

“Now’s the time to swing a big deal,” a transplanted Atlanta, Georgia, developer assured him.

Jessica snagged an elderly Frenchman. Suntanned and covered in age spots, he had yellow teeth, a pound of gold around his neck, and a four-carat emerald dangling from his left ear.

“Monsieur Lebris,” she told Janson, “is under the impression that you are my father.”

Janson returned Lebris’s curt nod and told Kincaid, “Monsieur Lebris is hopingI am your father.”

“Monsieur Lebris invests in land around Vallicone.”

“Wonderful,” said Janson. “Please use your excellent French to tell him that I said that several of our clients have expressed interest in that area. Too bad the peninsula is not for sale.”

Kincaid translated.

Lebris shook his head emphatically and replied in a torrent of French too rapid for Janson to understand.

“What did he say?”

“The peninsula is not necessarily not for sale. It is currently under a short-term lease and the owners, an ‘ancient’ family in Paris, just might sell for the right price.”

“Rented?”

“Rented fits SR’s pattern,” Kincaid observed quietly to Janson. “Keep moving. They’re gypsies. No fixed base. Just like us.”

Lebris spit a sudden oath and pointed angrily at the shore. A gang of agile separatists was draping a huge sail from the roof of the burned-out hotel. Dripping letters of red paint spelled:

RESISTENZA!

CORSE POUR CORSICANS

ÉTRANGÈRE ALLER LOIN

FLNC

The party fell silent, but for the beat of the band inside the ballroom. Lebris cursed, “ Terroriste!,” rushed to the railing, and shook his fist.

“ ‘Foreigners, get lost!’ ” Jessica translated. “FLNC is the Corsican National Liberation Front.”

“I like their style. These people could be a big help.”

“For a diversion?”

“If we can find a way to do it without getting them shot.”

“They seem capable of looking out for themselves.” Three masked men were rappelling rapidly down the side of the building like professional mountaineers. Swiftly responding squads of gendarmerie and agents of the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire found the narrow streets blocked by a trio of abandoned trucks. In the confusion a jet-black cigarette boat roared up to the jetty. The separatists leaped aboard and the high-speed craft raced toward the darkening east, leaving patrol boats in its wake.

Kincaid said, “A big fire would do the job. The Legion colonel told me that the brush is so flammable that his trainees are only allowed to dry-fire their rifles.”

“A French cop told me arson is Corsica’s national pastime. Any thoughts about wangling an introduction to FLNC? I doubt your friend the colonel is on friendly terms with any arsonists.”

Kincaid looked around the deck. The guests had turned their backs on the burned-out hotel and the party had resumed as if nothing had happened. “Doubt these folks know any.”

Janson glanced at the gangway up which guests were still arriving and got a surprise. “Speaking of the devil.”

“Where?”

Janson directed her attention across the deck. “The pale Frenchman.”

“The one who looks rich or the one who looks like a cop?”

“Ex-cop,” said Janson. “I met him in London. Dominique Ondine.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know. He was head of security here until he got transferred for pissing off the president of France.”

Ondine glided through the party with the self-assurance of a man carrying a warrant and a gun.

“What does he want?” asked Kincaid. “Money?”

“Let’s hope so.”

They exchanged nods across the crowd as Ondine drew near. He looked Jessica up and down, glanced at the other scantily clad young women, and said to Janson, “I see you’ve adopted the local custom.”

“My associate Ms. Kincaid,” said Janson.

Ondine bowed over Kincaid’s hand. “Mademoiselle.”

Janson said, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“I imagine you didn’t.”

“Are you looking for work?” he asked, explaining to Kincaid, “Monsieur Ondine is a private security consultant.”

“Like you,” said Ondine.

“Forensic accounting?” asked Kincaid.

The Frenchman smiled. He had not been drinking cognac, not today, thought Janson. “Nothing so intellectual,” said Ondine. “More the sort of security that involves weapons.”

“Not our thing,” said Janson.

“Mr. Janson, I’ve reconsidered your question about Securité Referral.”

“Why?” asked Janson, watching him carefully, while Kincaid scoped the party for Ondine’s backup.

“Why? If there is such an animal as an honest policeman, it is I.”

Paul Janson told Dominique Ondine, “I want to know why a man who calls himself ‘an honest policeman’—and is a retiredhonest policeman at that—followed me all the way to Corsica at his own expense.”

Dominique Ondine indicated the burned-out hotel with the red-lettered protest sail flapping from the roof. “The fire was last week. Only the latest incident. Empty villas have been shot up, their owners’ Mercedes bombed while they’re away, their boats sunk.”

“You told me that in London. Corsica’s a powder keg. Separatists, Union Corse mafia, poor fishermen, and environmentalists. Not Securité Referral.”

“To be sure,” Ondine agreed. “Arson and vendetta are endemic in Corsica. Corsicans routinely take matters into their own hands.”

“You told me that in London, too. You also told me that you had never heard of SR. May I ask you again? Is Securité Referral a Corsican organization?”

“Non.”

“Then what is the connection? You’re baffling me, Monsieur Ondine.”

“Securité Referral thrives under such lawlessness.”

Janson and Kincaid exchanged smiles visible only to them. SR thrived among the lawless? So did CatsPaw.

“Continue, monsieur,” Janson said brusquely. “What do you want from me?”

“Work. The consulting business is slow.”

“Can you give me information that will help me fight Securité Referral?”

“Do accountants fight?” Ondine smiled.

“Don’t get cute,” said Kincaid.

Ondine looked at her sharply. Kincaid stared back.

The Frenchman dropped his gaze. “I cannot give you such information.”

“Can’t or won’t?” asked Janson.

“I cannot. I do not know it. But if I could, I would not. I am not inclined to suicide.”

“At least we agree that you know of them.”

“A little. Securité Referral is international, but it was conceived by French intelligence officers—servants of their country turned criminal—who learned their trade spying in Russia. Now it is everyone—Russians, Serbs, Croats, Africans, Chinese. That is all I can tell you.”

“There is something else you can do for me.”

“Name it.”

Janson nodded at the burned-out hotel. “Do you see the sign they hung from the roof?”

“Of course.”

“By midnight tonight, I want a secure meeting with the operators who hung that sign.”

“You’re not serious. The separatists are my enemies. As a policeman I hunted them.”

“You better believe he’s serious,” said Kincaid. “If you work for us, when you see a job that needs doing you do it. This meeting job needs doing. You’re the man. Set up the meeting.”

Ondine swallowed hard. “What may I offer them to come?”

“Money.”

“How much?”

“One million euros.”

Ondine gasped. “One million euros to come to a meeting?”

“No. One million if they do the job.”

“What job?”

“The job they’ll learn about at the meeting.”

“What is my cut?”

“Ten percent finder’s fee. After they do the job.”

“I will do my best.”

“Midnight,” said Janson.

“And when we leave this party,” said Kincaid, “tell those two cops moonlighting as waiters not to follow us.”