of the Czech Republic,” the uniformed man said. “Jan Kubelik.” Captured by the
twin parabolics, the voices were scratchy but audible.
The foreign minister spoke a few words of Czech to his factotum and made a
gesture of dismissal. The uniformed man turned and stepped away, back toward the
limousine.
“You almost look as if you were not expecting me,” the man in the elegant navy
suit told the receptionist.
Her eyes widened. “Of course not, Minister Kubelik. We are most pleased by your
arrival.”
Ratko smiled, remembering the small panic that had swept through the
Foundation’s support staff when they received the phone call, thirty minutes
earlier, telling them that the recently appointed foreign minister would be
keeping his appointment with the executive director. A series of flustered
underlings compared notes, for the appointment had gone unrecorded. Nobody
wanted to admit to having made a scheduling error, and yet someone must have
done so. Through his Schmidt & Bender scope, Ratko had seen the little redheaded
woman’s consternation. Just two weeks ago, you double-scheduled the Swedish
minister of foreign affairs and the man from the U.N. disarmament program, the
redhead said, berating a particularly thickheaded junior secretary upstairs. The
junior secretary protested that it wasn’t her fault, but did so with an air of
hesitation that was tantamount to a confession. Another secretary, coming to the
other’s defense, maintained that the error was probably on the side of the Czech
bureaucrats. Yet it would be simply impossible, a hopeless breach of protocol,
to tell them so.
Now Ratko watched the red-haired receptionist lead the minister inside to a
fancy antechamber, where vision and sound alike grew indistinct. The Serb turned
up the electronic light amplification of his scope and switched the microphone
to a special signal-enhancement mode so that the input from the parabolics would
be further digitally improved—sharpened, with meaningless noise filtered out.
“Our executive director will be with you shortly,” he heard the redhead say, as
the aural signal was restored.
“You’re very kind,” the Czech diplomat said airily, removing his hat. “And this
is a beautiful estate. Do you mind terribly if I take a look around?”
“Sir, we would be honored,” she replied as if by rote.
Silly bureaucrat—searching for decor tips to give to his wife. He would return
to the drab presidential palace in Prague and tell his friends about the deluxe
details of Peter Novak’s Amsterdam lair.
Ratko had done Warsaw Pact exercises with Czech soldiers back when he was in the
Yugoslav army, long before the six republics of Yugoslavia struck out on their
own, and at each other. The Czechs, he always thought, had a very high opinion
of themselves. He did not share it.
A man walking very slowly in front of the house caught his attention: would
Janson be so bold? The man, seemingly a tourist, stood against the low railing
beside the canal. Slowly, he took out a map.
Ratko directed his scope toward him; the angle was not ideal, but as he took in
the tourist’s slight build and short hair, he saw how mistaken he had been. No
matter how cleverly Janson disguised himself, he could never pass for a
twenty-something woman.
Once more, Ratko felt a warmth stirring in his belly.
Janson’s eyes swept over the beautifully appointed antechamber. Paintings from
the Dutch renaissance were positioned in the center of squares formed by gilt
moldings, with obsessive concern for symmetry. The fireplace mantel was of
intricately carved marble, veined with blue. It all seemed perfectly in
character for a Dutch mansion: far from the public’s prying eyes, the vaunted
ideal of Nordic moderation was banished.
So far, so good, he thought to himself. Cooper had cleaned up remarkably well,
and once attired in that silly uniform, he conducted himself in a manner that
did not quite slide into parody. His movements were stiff and official; his
expressions imbued with a servile pomposity, every inch the dedicated assistant
of a very important official. Janson himself was relying upon the assumption
that nobody would have any idea what the Czech foreign minister looked like. The
man had been in the job for a mere two weeks, after all. And the country was not
high on the Foundation’s list of trouble spots.
No disguise was the best disguise: A bit of grease in his hair, a pair of
spectacles in a style fashionable in Eastern Europe, the sort of suiting common
to diplomats all over the Continent … and a manner that was by turns amiable and
imperious. The fact that Janson’s mother was Czech was helpful, of course,
though chiefly in imbuing his English with a persuasive Czech accent. A Czech
diplomat would be expected to speak English in a country like Holland.
Janson peered at the red-haired receptionist over his round hornrimmed glasses.
“And Peter Novak? He is here as well?”
The petite woman smiled dreamily. “Oh no, sir. He spends most of his time on the
road, flying from place to place. Sometimes we don’t see him for many weeks at a
time.”
When Janson had arrived, he did not know whether a pall of grief would be
hanging over the Foundation. But what Agger had told him remained true: they
clearly had no idea that anything had befallen their revered founder. “Well!”
said Janson. “He’s got the whole world in his hands, yes?”
“You could say that, sir. But his wife is in today. Susanna Novak. She helps run
the NGO development program.”
Janson nodded. Novak was insistent about keeping his family from the public
gaze, evidently afraid of kidnapping. His own public stature was necessary for
the success of his work; he reluctantly acceded to media coverage for that
purpose. But he was not a Hollywood star, and his family was not fair game: that
had been the message for years, and by and large the press agreed to abide by
those rules. The fact that his primary residence was in Amsterdam made it
easier: the burgerlich sensibilities of that city served to shield the great
man’s privacy.
Hidden in plain view.
“And what’s over here?” He pointed toward another room, to the left of the main
hallways.
“Peter Novak’s office,” she said. “Where you would surely be meeting Mr. Novak
if he were in town—he’d insist on it.” She opened the door and pointed to a
canvas on the wall opposite. “That painting is by Van Dyck. Remarkable, don’t
you think?” The portrait was of a seventeenth-century nobleman, rendered in a
palette of muted browns and blues, yet curiously vivid all the same.
Janson turned on the overhead lights and strode toward the canvas. He peered
closely. “Extraordinary,” he said. “He’s one of my very favorite artists, you
know. Of course, the artistic heritage of the Czech Republic is illustrious
indeed. But, between us, we have nothing like this in Praha.”
He reached into his pocket and, fingering the side buttons of his Ericsson cell
phone, he dialed one of the numbers he had preprogrammed into it. This number
went to the receptionist’s direct line.
“Would you excuse me,” she said, hearing her phone ring.
“Certainly,” Janson said. As she hastened to her telephone, he scanned the
papers that lay neatly stacked on Novak’s desk and credenza. They were from the
usual assortment of great and good institutions, with a heavy representation of
Dutch ministries. One item of correspondence, however, caused a memory to clang
distantly, hazily—a freighter just out of view in foggy weather. Not the brief,
innocuous message, but the letterhead. unitech ltd. The company name meant
something to him—-but did it mean something to Paul Janson, corporate security
consultant, or to Paul Janson, quondam Consular Operations agent? He wasn’t yet
sure.
“Minister Kubelik?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes?” Janson looked up to see a tall blond woman smiling at him.
“I’m Peter Novak’s wife. I’d like to welcome you here on his behalf. Our
executive director is still in a meeting with Holland’s ambassador to the United
Nations. It won’t be long at all.” She spoke with a neutral American accent.
The woman was beautiful in the Grace Kelly mode, at once voluptuous and
patrician. Her frosted, wet-looking lipstick seemed less than businesslike, but
it suited her, as did the chartreuse suit that hugged her contours a little more
snugly than was strictly necessary.
This was not a woman in mourning. She could not have known. She did not know.
Yet how could that be?
Janson strode up to her and bowed slightly. Would a Czech diplomat kiss her
hand? He decided that a handshake would suffice. But he could not take his eyes
off her. Something about her was familiar. Hauntingly so. The blue-green Côte
d’Azur eyes, those long, elegant fingers …
Had he seen her before recently? He racked his brain. Where? In Greece? England?
Had it been a fleeting glimpse, enough to register on the subconscious mind
only? It was maddening.
“You’re American?” Janson said.
She shrugged. “I’m from a lot of places,” she said. “Like Peter.”