The Lie (15 page)

Daniel Archer sat there. He was just pouring more coffee when Jean came back into the room.

“It took three calls to track him down,” said the Belgian. “But I finally reached him in Athens and arranged for a meeting
here in Brussels tomorrow night. There’ll be just the two of you.”

“Who is he?”

“Abu Mustafa.”

Archer was impressed. Wanted by no less than four governments, Mustafa had yet to be picked up by any of them. That Mustafa
would even agree to such a meeting was an indication of Jean’s reputation.

“What did you tell him?” asked Archer.

“Very little. Just that I’d known you for years, your word was good, the target was an important American, and the date was
the twelfth or thirteenth of this month in Brussels.”

“I never said the American was important.”

Jean shrugged. “So I lied to him. If you want someone with Mustafa’s reputation, money alone won’t do it. His target has to
mean something to his cause.”

Archer was silent.

“You can handle it any way you want,” said Jean. “If I were you and wanted to keep my real target a secret as long as possible,
I’d make up something impressive and stick to it right down to blast-off.”

At a bit past nine o’clock the following night, Daniel Archer was strolling along the Rue Royale where it edged the Parc de
Bruxelles when a black Saab slowed and stopped at the curb a few meters ahead of him. Archer had seen the car pass twice in
the last ten minutes, but this was the first time it had stopped.

He approached the Saab’s open passenger window, glanced in, and saw a slight, dark-haired man at the wheel.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the man in soft Arabic-accented English. “Could you tell me how to get to the Gare Centrale?”

“How did you know I spoke English?” asked Archer.

“Because you walk with the kind of arrogance that only comes with an American passport.”

Archer smiled and got into the car. “Is that why you hate all Americans, Abu?”

“Not all Americans, Mr. Lucas. Just your leaders.”

Abu Mustafa put the engine in gear and they drove for several moments in silence.

“So who do you want eliminated on the twelfth or thirteenth of September, Mr. Lucas? Please, do us both a big favor
and don’t lie to me. If you do, we’ve just wasted valuable time and I’m out of here.”

“Why would I come this far just to lie?”

“Because most people who do what we do lie as a matter of principle. Anyway, I already know your target is the president cf
the United States.”

“Do you do card tricks too?” asked Archer.

The Arab laughed. “It’s not really all that good. Jean told me it would be an important American on either September 12 or
13 in Brussels. The rest came from news reports of President Dunster being here for just those two days because of a trade
meeting.
Voilà
.”

They drove in a wide, easy circle around the Parc de Bruxelles, passing the floodlighted Palais de Beaux Arts on one side
and the Palais d’Académies on the other.

“OK,” Archer said. “What do you want to hear from me?”

“Let’s start with the president’s airport arrival and departure times.”

“He’s coming in at 9:30
A.M.
on the twelfth and is due to leave for home at the same time on the thirteenth.”

“His motorcade routes into and out of the city?”

“They’re not known yet. I’ll get them for you as soon as I can.” Archer looked at Mustafa’s hands on the wheel. Small, almost
delicate fingers. “How are you planning to do it?”

“A car bomb parked somewhere along Dunster’s arrival or departure routes. Set off by remote as his limousine passes. Any objection
to that?”

“No.”

“The casualties will be higher than I’d like,” said Mustafa, “but it’s always the surest way.”

Archer nodded.

“Good,” said the Arab. “I know Americans generally prefer guns. It’s more their stuff of myth. But the odds are bad.”

“All I want is a dead president. You can keep the stuff of myth. Along with full public credit for yourself and your cause.”

“I intend exactly that, Mr. Lucas.” Abu Mustafa’s smile was all sweetness. “Remember, I’m Palestinian.”

“Of course you are, Abu. And may Allah be with you.”

K
LAUS
L
OGEFELD FOLLOWED THE
A
UTOSTRADA
north, from Rome, for about an hour, to Montefiascone. Leaving the main route, he drove west until he passed the town of
Marta. From there, he saw the curving shore of Lago di Bosena in the near distance, and he kept the big lake on his right
for not quite twenty minutes. Moments later, he turned onto a dirt road through a patch of woods so dense that he could barely
see the water between the trees.

When he came to a stone wall, he left his car and entered an overgrown field by way of a rusted iron gate hanging from one
hinge. There had once been a road here, but no one had driven on it for a long time and it was almost hidden in the high grass.
A rabbit dashed away in front of Klaus, and a pair of doves broke cover off to the right. Other than the brief sound of beating
wings, everything was silent in the sun.

It was a five-minute walk to the house, a two-story, stone and stucco villa half covered by vines. Rusted garden furniture
was scattered across a slate terrace, and Klaus felt the cooling shade of tall cedars crowding together. He knocked on a heavy
door and waited, letting the coolness enter him.

The door opened, revealing a tall, lean old man with a rebuilt but still terribly mutilated face and a missing arm and eye.

“Hello, Grandfather,” said Klaus in German.

“So it’s Little Jesus.”

The former Wehrmacht major’s speech was slow and careful. With the destruction of so many facial nerves, musles,
and tendons, every syllable had to be tortuously rerouted. As if to compensate for the multiple disasters below, his hair
was thick, flowing, and magnificently silvered. From the sides and rear, the old man’s hair gave him the look of an Old Testament
prophet on an embassy from the Sinai. Head-on, he resembled nothing human.

Klaus walked past his grandfather into a big room overlooking Lago di Bosena. World War II battle photographs and paintings
covered the walls, and several of the lamps had been made out of 88-millimeter shell casings. A gun rack held a Schmeisser
machine pistol and two bolt-action sharpshooter rifles. A glass cabinet held a large display of medals, with the Iron Cross
at its center.

“It’s been a while,” said the old man. “I thought maybe one of your fucked-up, homemade bombs might have finished you.”

“Not yet.”

Klaus opened a shopping bag he was carrying, took out four bottles of Napoleon brandy, and lined them up on a liquor cabinet.
Then he sat down.

“If you’re not careful,” said the former officer of the Third Reich, “you might outlive even me.”

“Never, Grandfather.”

From lack of use, the old man’s laugh had a croaking sound. “Still out there saving the world, Little Jesus?”

Klaus shrugged.

“In the end, they’ll just kill you for your trouble. You know that, don’t you, boy?”

“I guess so.”

“Why don’t you quit while you still can?”

“And do what? Become a soldier like you?”

“You could do worse. If the world is ever going to be saved, it will be by clearheaded, disciplined soldiers, not by wild-eyed
hotheads.”

Klaus looked at a battle photograph on the opposite wall, showing German Tiger tanks and steel-helmeted infantry advancing
through exploding shell fire. He knew the picture well. It represented his grandfather’s most significant combat experience.
The action had earned him his Iron Cross and cost him
his face, his eye, and his arm. It had all happened in the area immediately surrounding the house in which he now lived. When
he bought the house and land some years after the war, he said it was to stay as close as he could to his missing parts.

“Do you really think I’m a wild-eyed hothead, Grandfather?”

The old man shifted in his chair to better focus on Klaus with his one eye.

“No,” he said. “I don’t. That’s what bothers me most. You’re the best of us. Always were. You’ve got it all… brains, guts,
heart, and you fucking care. And you’re pissing it all away. Pure goddamn waste.”

Klaus took a box of cigars out of his shopping bag, opened it, gave one to the old man, and took another for himself. Then
he lit them both.

“Did you hear what I said, boy?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say? ‘Yes, Grandfather’?”

Klaus was silent.

The Wehrmacht major’s eye glared fiercely. “I know what you think of me. Just another of Adolph’s butchering Nazi turds. But
I was never that. I was a soldier fighting other soldiers for my country. You think I had any idea what they were doing at
those camps? You think I’d have just looked away if I knew? You think… I’d… have…”

The old man’s voice trailed off and the remains of his face went slack. The twisted scars, the tendons, the seared flesh,
all seemed to diminish and give up the ghost right there.

“I don’t blame you, sir,” said Klaus quietly. “I know there was nothing you could have done. I’ve always known that.”

My ritual granting of absolution
, thought Klaus, wondering if it would sound better in Latin. It was an old litany, worn smooth by repetition and finally
polished into a minor art form. This time, though, there was a difference.

“Grandfather?” he said.

The pale blue eye opened and looked at him.

“I have to tell you something,” said Klaus.

“So? Tell me.”

“I’m going to Germany soon and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get here again.”

“When are you ever sure? When you get here, you’ll be here.”

“This time there’s a good chance I might never get here at all,” said Klaus. “I just wanted you to know.”

“All right. So now I know.”

They sat quietly for a while, smoking their cigars.

“This trip to Germany,” said the major. “No doubt it has something to do with saving the world?”

Klaus grinned.

“I said something funny?”

“No.”

“Then why are you sitting there grinning like an asshole with teeth?”

“Because you have such a wonderful way with words.”

“To hell with you, boy.”

“I love you too, Grandfather.”

The old man stared at Klaus seriously for a moment. “
Do
you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

About to give a flip, knee-jerk answer, Klaus decided not to. Not if this might be their last conversation.

“Because you’re my grandfather,” he said. “Because you loved me and took me seriously when no one else did. Not even my mother
and father. And all I ever did was spit on the best of you.”

The old man nodded slowly. “As I deserved. As you should have done. Exactly right.

“You always knew I was lying, didn’t you, boy?”

Klaus pretended not to understand. “About what?”

“About our national slaughterhouse. About my never knowing what was happening. About my just being a good soldier who fought
cleanly and with honor. About all the rest of what our ‘master race’ left behind to stink up the earth for the next thousand
years.”

“You were no worse than seventy million others.”

“I should have been
better
,” the old man whispered. “I was the worst of cowards. I knew, yet I pretended not to know. I fought, but I fought the wrong
enemy, in the wrong places, for the wrong reasons. I should have been out screaming the truth on street corners. I should
have been out grabbing Germans, and shaking them, and telling them we weren’t fucking barbarians. When that failed, I should
have grabbed a couple of Schmeissers, strapped on a dozen grenades, and gone after the lunatics at the top. At least I’d have
died for a good purpose.”

Klaus looked past the old man’s head and stared at the lake shining in the sun. He saw a flight of ducks come in low over
the trees and land so gently on the water that they barely made a ripple.

“Like
you’re
about to do,” said the major. “Or aren’t you going to Germany to die for a good purpose?”

“I’m not going to Germany to die for
any
purpose, Grandfather. This has a lot more to do with living than dying.”

“Still, you did imply you might not make it back.”

“In such things, there’s always that chance.”

“In this case, I take it, there’s a lot more than just a chance.”

Klaus was silent.

“I wish I could go with you.”

Klaus smiled. “You’re that eager to die, sir?”

“Only for a good purpose. Only if it could help me make up for what I never had the balls to do when I was young, beautiful,
and in one piece.”

“What makes you so sure you’d find your good purpose with
me
?”

“Because since you were twelve all you’ve been after is to save the world.”

“I haven’t done much of a job of it, so far.”

“At least you’re trying.”

Klaus drew on his cigar, found it dead, and spent a long moment relighting it.

“I’ll tell you something I once used to think about,” the old man said. “It was when I was in the hospital fifty-four years
ago, when I first saw what they’d given me for a face. I
wouldn’t eat or speak for three days and was just waiting for a chance to kill myself.

“Then I thought maybe if I lived, I could do some good. I thought maybe I could take my face and parade it through the capitals
of the world. I figured I could walk up and down roads for the remaining thirty or forty years of my life and frighten every
man, woman, and child who saw me into remembering what they’d otherwise forget: that this was what hate produced, that this
was its true face.”

The major looked at his grandson. “Of course I wasn’t anywhere near brave enough for that. I just crawled back here where
it all happened and waited to die alone in my own puddle of piss.”

Some crows called from outside until their sounds faded into the silence.