Robert Ludlum - The Apocalypse Watch

The Apocalypse Watch

PROLOGUE

The Alpine pass, high in the Austrian Hausruck, was swept by the wintersnow and assaulted by the cold Tnorth winds, while far below, a valleysprouted crocuses and the jonquils of early spring.

This particular pass was neither a border checkpoint nor a transferpost from one part of the mountain range to another. In fact, it wasnot on any map issued for public scrutiny.

There was a thick, sturdy bridge, barely wide enough for a singlevehicle, that spanned a seventy-foot gorge several hundred feet above arushing offshoot of the Salzach River. Once crossed, and passingthrough a tree-notched maze, there was a -hidden road cut out of themountain forest, a steep, twisting road that descended well over seventhousand feet to the isolated valley where the crocuses and thejonquils grew. The much warmer flatland was dotted with green fieldsand greener trees ... and a complex of small buildings, the roofscamouflaged by slashing diagonals of painted earth colors, undetectablefrom the skies, merely a part of the mountainous,terrain. It was theheadquarters of Die Briiderschaft der Wacht, The Brotherhood of theWatch, the progenitors of Germany's Fourth Reich.

The two figures walking across the bridge were dressed in heavy parkas,fur hats, and thick alpine boots; each turned his face away from theblasts of wind and snow that buffeted him.

Unsteadily, they reached the other side and the traveler in frontspoke.

That's not abridge I'd care to cross too often, said the American,slapping the snow off his clothing and removing his gloves to massagehis face.

But you will have to on your return, Herr Lassiter,

countered the late-middle-aged German, smiling broadly under theprotection of a tree, as he, too, brushed off the snow.

Not to be annoyed, mein Herr. Before you know it, you will be wherethe air is warm and there are actually flowers. At this altitude it isstill winter, below it is springtime.... Come, our transportation hasarrived. Follow me!

There was the sound of a gunning engine in the distance; the two men,Lassiter behind, walked rapidly, circuitously, through the trees to asmall clearing, where there stood a jeep-like vehicle, only much largerand heavier, with balloon tires of very thick rubber, deeply treaded.

That's some car, said the American.

You should be proud, it is amerikanisch! Built to our specificationsin your state of Michigan.

What happened to Mercedes?

Too close, too dangerous, replied the German.

If you care to build a hidden fortress among your own, you don'temploy the resources of your own. What you will see shortly is thecombined efforts of numerous nations their more avaricious businessmen,I grant you, merchants who will conceal clients and deliveries forexcessive profits Of course once the deliveries are made, the profitsbecome a loaded gun; the deliveries must continue, perhaps with moreesoteric merchandise. It is the way of the world.

'41 bank on it," said Lassiter, smiling while he removed his fur hat torelieve the hairline sweat. He was a shade under six feet, a man ofmiddle years, his age attested to by streaks of gray at his temples andcrow's-feet at the edges of his deep-set eyes; the face itself wasnarrow, sharp-featured. He started toward the vehicle, several stepsbehind his companion. However, what neither his companion nor thedriver of the outsize vehicle saw was that he kept reaching into hispocket, subtly withdrawing his hand and dropping metal pellets into thesnow-swept grass. He had been doing so for the past hour, since theyhad stepped out of a truck on an alpine road between two mountainvillages. Each pellet had been subjected to radiation easily picked upby handheld scanners.

At the point where the truck had stopped, he had removed an electronictransponder from his belt, and feigning a fall, had shoved it betweentwo rocks. The trail was now clear; the honing device of thosefollowing would reach the top of its dial at that spot, accompanied bysharp, piercing beeps.

For the man called Lassiter was in a high-risk profession. He was amultilingual deep-cover agent for American intelligence, and his namewas Harry Latham. In the sacrosanct chambers of the Agency, his codename was Sting.

The journey down into the valley mesmerized Latham. He had climbed afew mountains with his father and his younger brother, but they wereminor, undramatic New England peaks, nothing like this. Here, as theirsteep descent progressed, there was change, obvious change--differentcolors, different smells, warmer breezes.

Sitting alone in the backseat of the large open truck, he emptied hispocket of every hot pellet, preparing himself for the thorough searchhe anticipated; he was clean. He was also exhilarated, his excitementunder control from years of experience, but his mind was on fire. Itwas there! He had found it! Yet, as they reached ground level, evenHarry Latham was astonished at what he had really found.

The roughly three square miles of valley flatland was in reality amilitary base, superbly camouflaged. The roofs of the various one-storystructures were painted to blend in with the surroundings, and wholesections of the fields were beneath a latticework of ropes fifteen feethigh, the open spaces between the ropes and poles filled with stretched,translucent green screening--corridors leading from one area to another.Gray motorcycles with sidecars sped through these concealed alleyways,the drivers and their passengers in uniform, while groups of men andwomen could be seen in training exercises, both physical and apparentlyacademic_ lecturers stood before black-boards in front of serrated ranksof students. Those performing gymnastics and hand-to-hand combat werein minimal clothing-briefs and halters; those being lectured were inforest-green fatigues. What struck Harry Latham was the sense ofconstant movement. There was an in tensity about the valley that wasfrightening, but then, so was the Briiderschaft, and this was its womb.

It is spectacular, night wahr, Herr Lassiter? shouted the middleagedGerman beside the driver as they reached the bottom road and entered acorridor of roofed rope and green screening.

Unglaublich, agreed the American.

Thantastiscb!

I forget, you speak our language fluently.

My heart is here. It always has been.

Natzirlicb, denn wi@ sind im Recht.

Mehr als das, wir sind die Wabrbeit. Hitler spoke the truths of alltruth.

Yes, yes, of course, said the German, smiling with neutral eyes atAlexander Lassiter, born Harry Latham of Stockbridge, Massachusetts.

"We'll go directly to the OberbefeWsbaber. The Kommandant is eager tomeet you:)

Thirty-two months of grueling serpentine work were about to bear fruit,thought Latham. Nearly three years of building a life, living a lifethat was not his, were about to come to an end. The incessant,maddening, exhausting travels throughout Europe and the Middle East,synchronized down to hours, even minutes, so he would be at a specificplace at a given time, where others could swear on their lives thatthey had seen him. And the scum of the world he had dealt with-armsmerchants without conscience, whose extraordinary profits were measuredby super tankers of blood; drug lords, killing and cripplinggenerations of children everywhere;

compromised politicians, even statesmen, who bent and subverted lawsfor the benefit of the manipulators-it was all finished. There wouldbe no more frenzied funneling of gargantuan sums of money throughlaundered Swiss accounts, secret numbers, and spectrograph signatures,all part of the deadly games of international terrorism. HarryLatham's personal nightmare, as vital as it was, was over.

We are here, Herr Lassiter, said Latham's German companion as themountain vehicle pulled up to a barrack door under the roped greenscreening high above.