The Apocalypse Watch (99 page)

“What does he do?”

“I don’t think anyone really knows. He has a bunch of computers and deals in stocks and bonds and commodities, those kinds of things. But the proudest moment came when I said to him, ‘It’s no problem, Nails. If I like it, I’ll buy it.’ ”

“What did
he
say?”

“ ‘On a government salary, buddy?’ And I said, ‘No, old buddy, I’ve put a lot of my per diems into the European markets, and
he
said, ‘Let’s have lunch, or dinner, or stay at my place for as long as you like.’ ”

“You’re shameless, Drew Latham!” They rounded the bend in the road, and what lay before them caused Karin to flush with astonishment. It was a huge, pristine blue-green lake, several white sails skimming the water, and in the distance a number of exquisitely designed houses with protruding docks below their manicured lawns. Above, glistening in the sunlight, were the receding mountains, like heavenly fortresses protecting a beautiful earthly enclave. And to their right was a large expanse of lakefront fields, uninhabited, filled with high grass and wildflowers.

“There you are, lady, that’s our house. Can’t you see it? A couple of miles over there is the southwest entrance to the Rocky Mountain National Park.”

“Oh, my darling, I can’t
believe
it!”

“Believe, it’s there. It’s ours. And in a year the
house
will be there—after you approve the plans, of course. Nails got me the finest architect in Colorado.”

“But, Drew,” laughed Karin, racing down the hill of grass toward the water’s edge and the stream that bordered the property. “It will take so long, what are we going to
do
?”

“I was thinking of pitching a pretty big tent, like squatters, but it wouldn’t work!” yelled Latham, catching up with her.

“Why not? I’d
love
it!”

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Drew, breathless, holding her by the shoulders. “Guess who’s flying out to oversee the initial construction because the
chłopak
isn’t capable?”

“The
colonel
?”

“Right on, lady.”

“He, too, loves you very much.”

“I think you’ve got an edge in that department. He was granted his full pension, but he hasn’t anywhere else to go. His children are grown, with kids of their own, and after a few days with them, he’s at a loss. He’s got to keep moving, Karin. Let him stay with us for a while until he has to move again, okay?”

“I could never say no.”

“Thank you. Nails rented us a house about ten miles down Route 34, and I’ve agreed to fly to Washington for five days a month, no more than that. Only consultation, no field duty.”

“Are you sure of that? Can you live with that?”

“Yes, because I’ve done my best and I have nothing else to prove—to Harry or anybody.”

“What will
we
do? You’re a young man, Drew, and I’m younger than you. What are we going to
do
?”

“I don’t know. First, we build our house, which will take a couple of years, actually, and then—well, then we’ll have to think about things.”

“Are you really going to resign from Consular Operations?”

“That’s up to Sorenson. Outside of five days a month, I’m on leave until March of next year.”

“Then you haven’t made up your mind. It’s not Sorenson’s decision; it’s yours.”

“Wesley understands. He’s been where I’ve been and he quit.”

“Where is that?” asked Karin softly, holding Latham, her face against his chest.

“I’m not sure,” replied Drew, his arms around her. “Thanks to Beth’s genes, I’m a pretty big guy and relatively capable of taking care of myself, but I also learned something over the past three months, and you’re part of
it, a major part.… I don’t like being afraid for both of us around the clock. To tell you the truth, I really don’t like guns, although they’ve saved our lives more than once. I’m sick of the dictum Kill or be killed. I don’t care to play anymore, and I sure as hell don’t want you to.”

“It was war, my darling, you said that yourself and you were right. But for us it’s over, we’re going to live like normal human beings. Also, I can’t wait to see Stanley!”

As if on a perfect cue, an agitated figure appeared on the dirt road above. “Son of a
bitch
!” roared Colonel Stanley Witkowski, perspiring and out of breath. “The damned taxi refused to come
up
here!… Nice terrain, not bad. Already I’ve got some ideas—lots of glass and wood. Also,
chłopak
, Wes Sorenson phoned me. We’re a pretty good team, the three of us, and there’s a situation he thought we might find interesting under your new arrangement with Cons-Op.”

“Nothing changes,” said Latham, still holding Karin. “… Forget it, Colonel!”

“He was thinking of you, young fella, we both were,” continued Witkowski, walking down the hill of grass, wiping his forehead. “You’re too young to retire, you’ve got to work, and what the hell else do you know? I’d say the hockey rink’s pretty much out of the question; you’ve been away too long.”

“I said forget it.”

“I’m flying back with you next week and Wesley will lay it all out. It sounds like a piece of cake, damn fine per diems and contingency funds, and we can all take turns coming back to check on the construction here.”

“The answer is no, Stanley!”

“We’ll talk.… My dear Karin, you look wonderful.”

“Thank you,” said De Vries, embracing the colonel. “You look a bit tired.”

“It’s a hell of a walk.”

“No, no,
no
!”

“We’ll just talk,
chłopak
.… Now, let’s survey the grounds.”

A N
OTE FROM THE
A
UTHOR

I’ve rarely written a dedication longer than two or three lines. This current one is different, the reason self-evident.

To my lovely and compassionate bride, Mary, of forty-plus years; and our children, Michael, Jonathan, and Glynis, who displayed strength, determination, and unfailing good humor (a mainstay of our family) throughout everything. They could not have been finer, nor could I ever express my love and gratitude sufficiently.

“Your father’s off the operating table and on the recovery floor.”

“Who’s going to pick him up?”

To the brilliant cardiologist Jeffrey Bender, M.D. and the superb cardiothoracic surgeon Dr. John Elefteriades, as well as the surgical crew and all those in the CTICU of Yale-New Haven Hospital, whose skills and concern passeth all understanding. (Although it could be argued that I was a glorious patient—unfortunately, not very convincingly.)

To our nephew, Dr. Kenneth M. Kearns, also an extraordinary surgeon, who puts up with his less than saintly uncle with a tolerance known only to martyrs. And, Ken, thanks for the “Listerine.” And to brother Donald Kearns, Ph.D.-Nuclear Medicine. (How did I ever marry into such an accomplished family?) Thanks, Don, for your daily calls and visits. And to their medical associates Doctors William Preskenis and David “the Duke” Grisé of the pulmonary team. I hear you terrific guys, and I’m doing my damnedest to behave.

To our cousins I. C. “Izzy” Ryducha and his wife, Janet, who were always there when we needed them.

To Doctors Charles Augenbraun and Robert Greene of the Emergency Clinic at Norwalk Hospital, Connecticut, and all those wonderful people who made a pretty sick stranger feel as though he might see another sunrise. No mean feat.

Lastly, despite all efforts to keep the event under wraps, to those scores of people, friends, and those I’ve never met but whom I certainly consider friends, thanks for all the cards and notes expressing your good wishes. They were gratefully received and avidly read.

Now, let’s lighten up; there’s always something funny even in the worst of times. During a perfectly normal sponge bath a day or so after surgery, a kindly nurse turned me over and with great dignity, as well as a glint in her eye, said: “Not to worry, Mr. L., I’ll still respect you in the morning.”

Amen. And to all once again, my deep thanks. I’m ready to run in a marathon.

Bantam Books by Robert Ludlum
Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed

THE APOCALYPSE WATCH

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION

THE BOURNE IDENTITY

THE BOURNE SUPREMACY

THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM

THE CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT

THE CRY OF THE HALIDON

THE GEMINI CONTENDERS

THE HOLCROFT COVENANT

THE ICARUS AGENDA

THE MATARESE CIRCLE

THE MATARESE COUNTDOWN

THE MATLOCK PAPER

THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND

THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC

THE RHINEMANN EXCHANGE

THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO

THE ROAD TO OMAHA

THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE

THE SCORPIO ILLUSION

TREVAYNE

Read on for an excerpt from Robert Ludlum’s
The Bourne Identity

The trawler plunged into the angry swells of the dark, furious sea like an awkward animal trying desperately to break out of an impenetrable swamp. The waves rose to goliathan heights, crashing into the hull with the power of raw tonnage; the white sprays caught in the night sky cascaded downward over the deck under the force of the night wind. Everywhere there were the sounds of inanimate pain, wood straining against wood, ropes twisting, stretched to the breaking point. The animal was dying.

Two abrupt explosions pierced the sounds of the sea and the wind and the vessel’s pain. They came from the dimly lit cabin that rose and fell with its host body. A man lunged out of the door grasping the railing with one hand, holding his stomach with the other.

A second man followed, the pursuit cautious, his intent violent. He stood bracing himself in the cabin door; he raised a gun and fired again. And again.

The man at the railing whipped both his hands up to his head, arching backward under the impact of the fourth bullet. The trawler’s bow dipped suddenly into the valley of two giant waves, lifting the wounded man off his feet; he twisted to his left, unable to take his hands away from his head. The boat surged upward, bow and midships more out of the water than in it, sweeping the figure in the doorway back into the cabin; a fifth gunshot fired wildly. The wounded man screamed, his hands now lashing out at anything he could grasp, his eyes blinded by blood and the unceasing spray of the sea. There was nothing he could grab, so he grabbed at nothing; his legs buckled as his body lurched forward. The boat rolled violently leeward and the man whose skull was ripped open plunged over the side into the madness of the darkness below.

He felt rushing cold water envelop him, swallowing him, sucking him under, and twisting him in circles, then propelling him up to the surface—only to gasp a single breath of air. A gasp and he was under again.

And there was heat, a strange moist heat at his temple that seared through the freezing water that kept swallowing him, a fire where no fire should burn. There was ice, too; an ice-like throbbing in his stomach and his legs and his chest, oddly warmed by the cold sea around him. He felt these things, acknowledging his own panic as he felt them. He could see his own body turning and twisting, arms and feet working frantically against the pressures of the whirlpool. He could feel, think, see, perceive panic and struggle—yet strangely there was peace. It was the calm of the observer, the uninvolved observer, separated from the events, knowing of them but not essentially involved.

Then another form of panic spread through him, surging through the heat and the ice and the uninvolved recognition. He could not submit to peace! Not yet! It would happen any second now; he was not sure what it was, but it would happen. He had to
be
there!

He kicked furiously, clawing at the heavy walls of water above, his chest burning. He broke surface, thrashing to stay on top of the black swells. Climb up!
Climb up!

A monstrous rolling wave accommodated; he was on the crest, surrounded by pockets of foam and darkness. Nothing. Turn!
Turn!

It happened. The explosion was massive; he could hear it through the clashing waters and the wind, the sight and the sound somehow his doorway to peace. The sky lit up like a fiery diadem and within that crown of fire, objects of all shapes and sizes were blown through the light into the outer shadows.

He had won. Whatever it was, he had won.

Suddenly he was plummeting downward again, into an abyss again. He could feel the rushing waters crash over his shoulders, cooling the white-hot heat at his temple, warming the ice-cold incisions in his stomach and his legs and.…

His chest. His chest was in agony! He had been struck—the blow crushing, the impact sudden and intolerable. It happened again!
Let me alone. Give me peace
.

And again!

And he clawed again, and kicked again … until he felt it. A thick, oily object that moved only with the movements of the sea. He could not tell what it was, but it was there and he could feel it, hold it.

Hold it! It will ride you to peace. To the silence of darkness … and peace
.