“And how is the great man?” There was a catch in his voice as he asked.
“Always the same,” she replied, after a pause. “Thank you for asking, Dr.
Kubelik.” Her gaze was almost playful—verging, he could have sworn, on the
flirtatious. No doubt this was simply the way that certain women were trained to
make conversation with international eminences.
Janson nodded. “As we Czechs like to say, ‘To be the same is better than to be
worse.’ A certain peasant realism there, I think.”
“Come,” she said. “I’ll take you upstairs to the conference room.”
The second floor was less palatial, more intimate; the ceilings were ten feet
high, not fifteen, and the decor was much less fustian. The conference room
faced the canal, and the late-morning sun slanted through a multi-paned picture
window, casting golden parallelograms on the polished long teak table. As Janson
entered, he was greeted by a man of slightly less than average height with
neatly combed gray hair.
“I’m Dr. Tilsen,” the man said. “My in-house title is executive director for
Europe. A bit misleading, no?” He laughed a tidy, dry laugh. “Our Europe
program—that would be more accurate.”
“You’ll be safe with Dr. Tilsen,” Susanna Novak said. “A lot safer with him than
with me,” she added, leaving it up to her visitor whether to read a double
entendre in her remark.
Janson sat down opposite the pale-faced administrator. What to discuss with him?
“I expect you know why I wanted to make contact with you,” he began.
“Well, I think so,” Dr. Tilsen said. “Over the years, the Czech government has
been very supportive of some of our efforts, and less so of others. We
understand that our objectives will not always mesh with those of any particular
government.”
“Quite so,” Janson said. “Quite so. But I have begun to wonder whether my
predecessors have been too hasty in their judgments. Perhaps a more harmonious
relationship might be possible.”
“That would be most pleasing to contemplate,” Dr. Tilsen said.
“Of course, if you provide me with a tour d’horizon of your projects in our
country, I would be able to make the case more effectively with my colleagues
and associates. Really, I’m here to listen.”
“Then I shall oblige you, and speak to those very points,” Dr. Tilsen said. He
smiled, tentatively. Talking was his stock in trade, and for the next thirty
minutes, Tilsen did what he did best, describing a battery of initiatives and
programs and projects. After a few minutes, the words seemed to form a verbal
curtain, woven from the opaque nomenclature and slogans favored by professional
idealists: nongovernmental organizations … reinvigorating the institutions of
deliberative democracy … a commitment to promoting the values, institutions, and
practices of an open and democratic society … His accounts were detailed and
prolix, and Janson found his eyes beginning to glaze. With a tight, fixed smile,
he nodded at intervals, but his mind wandered. Was Peter Novak’s wife among the
conspirators? Had she herself engineered the death of her husband? The prospect
seemed inconceivable, and yet what could explain her conduct?
And what of this Dr. Tilsen? He seemed earnest, unimaginative, and well meaning,
if more than a little self-important. Could such a man be part of a nefarious
conspiracy to destroy the most important agent of progress the fragile world
had? He watched the man talk, watched the small, eroded, coffee-stained teeth,
the pleased look with which he punctuated his monologue, the way he had of
nodding approvingly at his own points. Was this the face of evil? It seemed hard
to believe.
A knock at the door. The petite redhead from downstairs.
“I’m terribly sorry, Dr. Tilsen. There’s a call from the prime minister’s
office.”
“Ah,” Dr. Tilsen said. “You will kindly excuse me.”
“But of course,” said Janson.
Left to himself, he examined the relatively spare furnishings of the room, and
then he walked over to the window, looking at the busy canal below him.
A feeling of cold ran down his spine, as if it had been stroked with a shard of
ice.
Why? Something in his field of vision—once again, an anomaly he responded to
instinctively before he could rationally analyze or describe it.
What?
Oh Jesus! Behind the bell-shaped gable of the house opposite, there was the
shadow of a man crouched upon the tightly imbricated slate tiles. A familiar
error: the sun changes position, and shadows appear where there had been no
shadows, betraying the hidden observer—or sniper. Which? The glint of sun from
the glass of a scope did not settle the question.
His eyes now scrutinized the eaves and attic windows of the house for anomalies.
There—a small section of a large double-hung window had been cleaned, by someone
who wanted to be able to see out of it more clearly.
The hoist beam in front of him: something was odd about it as well. A moment
later, he realized what. It was no hoist beam—the beam had been replaced by the
barrel of a rife.
Or was his overheated imagination conjuring things into existence, seeing
threats in shadows, the way children turned their bedposts into the talons of
monster? The bruise on the side of his head throbbed painfully. Was he jumping
at ghosts?
Then one of the small square panes exploded, and he heard the harsh splitting of
wood as a bullet buried itself somewhere in the parquet floor. Another pane
exploded, and then another, shooting splinters of glass through the air,
showering the conference table.
Jagged cracks appeared in the plaster of the wall opposite the window. Another
pane exploded, another bullet shattered the plaster, this one cracking inches
above his head. He sank to the floor, and began to roll toward the door.
Gunshots without shots: they had come from a silenced rifle. He should have been
used to it by now.
Then a loud gun blast came from outdoors, an odd counterpoint to the silenced
firing. Other sounds ensued: The screeching of tires. The noise of a car door
opening and closing.
And from elsewhere in the mansion, panicked screams.
Madness!
A quiet fusillade was loosed, as deadly projectiles snapped though the air, some
hitting glass, some traveling uninterrupted through already broken panes. They
buried themselves in the walls, ceilings, floors. They pinged off the brass
chandelier, ricocheted in unpredictable ways.
The throbbing of his temple had grown so forceful that it required a conscious
exertion simply to focus his eyes.
Think! He had to think! Something had changed. What made sense of the assault,
the contrast in weaponry and approach?
Two teams were attacking. Two teams that were not coordinated.
Mrs. Novak must have reported him. Yes, he was certain of it now. She had been
onto him the whole time, playing along, playing him. Hence the mischievous look.
She was one of Them.
The only place of refuge from the fusillade was deep in the mansion, in one of
the inner chambers: yet surely they were counting on him seeking it out, which
meant that this refuge was the most dangerous place he could be.
He phoned Barry on his Ericsson.
Cooper was uncharacteristically flustered. “Jeepers, Paul! What the hell’s going
on? It’s like the Battle of Midway out here.”
“Can you make visual on anyone?”
“Um, you mean, can I see ’em? A glimpse, once in a while. There’s a couple of
them in military drab. They look mean. The arms-are-for-hugging message hasn’t
reached these guys, Paul.”
“Listen, Barry, we specified that the limo have bulletproof windows when we
ordered it. You’ll be safest there. But be ready to haul ass at my signal.”
Now Janson bolted for the door and raced down the stairs to the first floor.
When he reached the landing, he saw the security guard unholster his weapon and
approach the front window. Then the gun clattered to the floor.
The guard’s mouth sprang open, and a circle of red formed about his left
eyebrow. Blood spewed out in a pulsing rush that rolled over the unblinking eye.
And all the while, the man stood, upright, as if transmuted into a statue.
Slowly, as if in some danse macabre, the man’s legs started to twitch, then give
way, and he toppled onto the ancient Chinese carpet. Janson rushed over and
retrieved the man’s gun, a Clock pistol.
“Minister Kubelik,” the red-haired receptionist cried out. “We’ve all been
ordered to the rear annex. I can’t explain what’s happening but … ” She trailed
off, stunned and perplexed at the sight of a high government minister in a
controlled firing roll.
The roll got him across the hallway and near the front door while remaining
within two feet of the ground. It was faster than a crawl, and speed was now of
the essence. “Toss me my hat.”
“What?”
“Toss me the goddamn hat,” Janson yelled. More quietly: “You’ll find it’s about
a meter from your left hand. Throw it to me.”
The terrified receptionist did so, as one obeys a dangerous madman, and fled to