“Let me risk repeating myself: Where to?”
“That, Mr. Janson, will be our question to you.”
CHAPTER TWO
As Janson followed her up the grip-textured aluminum steps to Gulfstream V, his
eye was caught by a legend that was painted on its side, the white cursive
letters in shimmering contrast to the jet’s indigo paint: Sok kicsi sokra megy.
Hungarian, and meaningless to him.
The runway was a wall of noise, the scream of air intakes layered the bass-heavy
roar of the exhausts. Once the cabin door was closed however, silence reigned
supreme, as if they had stepped into a soundproof booth.
The jet was handsomely appointed without seeming lavish, the call of a man for
whom price was no object, but luxury no concern. The interior was maroon; the
leather-upholstered seats were large, club-style, one on either side of the
aisle; some faced each other, with a low table between them. Four grim-faced men
and women, evidently members of Marta Lang’s staff, were already seated farther
back in the plane. Marta gestured for him to take the seat opposite her, in the
front of the cabin, and then picked up an internal phone and murmured a few
words. Only very faintly could fanson detect the whine of the engine revving up
as the plane began to taxi. The sound insulation was extraordinary. A carpeted
bulkhead separated them from the cockpit.
“That inscription on the fuselage, what does it mean?”
“It means ‘Many small things can add up to a big one.’ A Hungarian folk saying
and a favorite motto of Peter Novak’s. I’m sure you can appreciate why.”
“You can’t say he’s forgotten where he came from.”
“For better or worse, Hungary made him who he is. And Peter is not one to forget
his debts.” A meaningful look.
“Nor am I.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said. “It’s why we know we can rely on you.”
“If he has an assignment for me, I’d like to hear about it sooner than later.
And from him rather than someone else.”
“You will have to make do with me. I’m deputy director of the Foundation and
have been with him for many years.”
“I don’t question your absolute loyalty to your employer,” Janson said coolly.
“Novak’s people are … renowned for it.” Several rows back, her staffers seemed
to be huddled over maps and diagrams. What was going on? He felt a growing sense
of unease.
“I understand what you are saying, and also what you are too polite to say.
People like me are often seen as starry-eyed true believers, I realize. Please
accept that we have no illusions, none of us. Peter Novak is only a mortal. He
puts his pants on one leg at a time, as you Americans like to say. We know that
better than anyone. This isn’t a religion. But it is a calling. Imagine if the
richest person you knew was at once the smartest person you knew and the kindest
person you knew. If you want to know why he commands loyalty, it’s because he
cares—and cares with an intensity that really is almost superhuman. In plain
English, he gives a damn. He wants to leave the world a better place than he
found it, and you can call that vanity if you like, but if so, it’s the kind of
vanity we need more of. And the kind of vision.”
“‘A visionary’ is what the Nobel committee called him.”
“A word I use under protest. It’s a debased coin. Every article of Fortune
proclaims some cable titan or soft-drink CEO a ‘visionary.’ But the Liberty
Foundation was Novak’s vision, and his alone. He believed in directed democracy
when the idea seemed a pipe dream. He believed that civil society could be
rebuilt in the parts of the world where totalitarianism and strife had
eviscerated it. Fifteen years ago, people laughed when he spoke of his dream.
Who is laughing now? Nobody would help him—not the United States, not the
U.N.—but it didn’t matter. He changed the world.”
“No argument,” Janson said soberly.
“Your State Department analysts had endless reports about ‘ancient ethnic
enmities,’ about conflicts and border disputes that could never be settled, and
about how nobody should try. But he tried. And time and again, he succeeded.
He’s brought peace to regions that had never experienced a moment of it for as
long as anyone could remember.” Marta Lang choked up, and she stopped speaking.
She was obviously unaccustomed to such displays of emotion, and Janson did her
the favor of talking while she regained her composure. “I’d be the last person
to disagree with anything you’ve said. Your employer is a man who seeks peace
for the sake of peace, democracy for the sake of democracy. That’s all true.
It’s also true that his personal fortune rivals the GDP of many of the countries
he has dealings with.”
Lang nodded. “Orwell said that saints should be judged guilty until proven
innocent. Novak’s proved who he really is, again and again. A man for all
seasons, and a man for all peoples. It has become difficult to imagine the world
without him.” Now she looked at him, and her eyes were red-rimmed.
“Talk to me,” Janson said. “Why am I here? Where’s Peter Novak?”
Marta Lang took a deep breath, as if what she had to say was going to be
physically painful. “He’s a captive of the Kagama rebels. We need you to set him
free. An ‘exfiltration’ is what I gather you people call it. Otherwise, he will
die where he is, in Anura.”
Anura. A captive of the Kagama Liberation Front. One more reason—the main
reason, no doubt—that they wanted him for the job. Anura. A place he thought
about nearly every day and had for the past five years. His own private hell.
“I’m starting to understand,” Janson said, his mouth dry.
“A few days ago, Peter Novak arrived on the island, trying to broker a peace
between the rebels and the government. There had been many hopeful signs. The
KLF said they regarded Peter Novak as an honest broker, and a meeting place in
the Kenna province was agreed upon. A rebel delegation agreed to many things
they had flatly rejected in the past. And a lasting accord in Anura—an end to
the terror—would be a very great thing. I think you understand that as well as
anyone.”
Janson said nothing, but his heart began to pound.
Their home, furnished by the embassy, was in Cinnamon Gardens, in the capital
city of Caligo, and the area was still interspersed with the trees that once
forested the land. In the morning breeze, leaves rustled and birds cawed. What
roused him from his light sleep, though, was a soft coughing noise from the
bathroom, then the running of the faucet. Helene came back from the bathroom,
brushing her teeth vigorously. “Maybe you should stay home from work today,”
he’d said drowsily. Helene shook her head. “It’s called morning sickness for a
reason, my darling,” she told him with a smile. “It vanishes like the morning
dew.” She started dressing for work at the embassy. When she smiled, she smiled
with her whole face: with her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes—especially her eyes …
The images flooded his mind—Helene laying out her clothes for a day at the
office, proofreading State Department reports.
A blue linen skirt. A white silk blouse. Helens opening the bedroom windows
wide, inviting in the tropical morning air, scented with cinnamon and mango and
frangipani. The radiance of her face, retrousse nose and limpid blue eyes. When
the nights at Caligo were hot, Helene was cool against his body. How callused
and rough his battered hide always felt next to the velvet of her skin. “Take
the day off, my dearest,” he’d told her, and she’d said, “Better not, my
darling. Either they’ll miss me or they won’t miss me at all, and either way
that’s not good.” She kissed him on the forehead as she left. If only she had
stayed with him. If only.
Public acts, private lives—the bloodiest of crossroads.
Anura, an island in the Indian Ocean the size of West Virginia, had a population
of twelve million, and was blessed with rare natural beauty and a rich cultural
legacy. Janson had been posted there for eighteen months, charged with directing
an intelligence-gathering task force to make an independent assessment of the
island’s volatile political situation and to help trace whatever outside forces
were’helping to foment unrest. For during the past decade and a half, Paradise
had been disrupted by one of the deadliest terror organizations in the world,
the Kagama Liberation Front. Thousands of young men, in thrall to the man they
called the Caliph, wore leather pendants with a cyanide capsule at the end; it
symbolized their readiness to give their lives for the cause. The Caliph had a
particular fondness for suicide bombings. At a political rally for Anura’s prime