fluttered nervously at his sides. “The Loyalty Inducer is unique among our suite of drugs. You see, unlike sleep and fear and so forth, loyalty is a higher cognitive process. Our more primitive inducers, the Sleep Inducer for example, can affect any subject, but the Loyalty Inducer functions only on persons strongly sympathetic to the person on whom they will be imprinted.”
“I don’t like what I hear. Neither will The Founder. What about the Fight Inducer? The drug is critical for my commando operations. All of the damned drugs are critical to everything we do. Does this ‘small problem’ happen often?”
Singh gave him the obsequious smile that played more than a small part in fomenting Maurus’s loathing of the man. “Transition from producing small quantities of the drugs for experiments to a larger scale must inevitably entail some difficulties.”
The Indian scientist wrung his hands. The enforcer knew he superficially scared Singh, but Singh knew his value only too well. Fifteen years ago, this brilliant non-entity had developed and offered The Founder the first drug—the Sleep Inducer—and the promise of many related drugs tailored to regulate human behavior. The drugs were not only capable of bending people’s minds and wills, what made them particularly useful—and frightening—was that they had the astonishing ability to be delivered to the brain through the nasal passages. One inhalation and the subject, or victim, succumbed. In return, for fifteen years Maurus had, at The Founder’s direction, supplied Dr. Sanjiv Singh with his “recreation”—little boys.
Maurus noticed that the girl in the chamber hadn’t moved so much as an eyebrow. He nodded toward the girl. “Who the hell is she and what’s wrong with her?”
“Ah. She is Helmut’s latest girl. He finished with her and I asked if I could use her. I’ve just tested my latest drug on her. The first human test. I call it a Pacification Inducer. Seems to have worked perfectly.”
“Why doesn’t she move?”
“The drug is essentially a permanent, chemically induced lobotomy. She will live and carry out all basic functions, but she no longer has any will.”
“A damn vegetable!”
“Yes. Quite right. Quite useful as a threat or blackmail weapon, don’t you think?”
Maurus rubbed his dead cheek. “You’re a scary man, Singh.”
Chapter 8
Berlin, 3:30 p.m.
With the naval aviator dash Nova had come to expect, Cardone zipped their rental car off the Messendamm and into the parking facilities of Berlin’s International Congress Center—a white, steel-and-concrete mammoth. The beautifully cut suit he’d worn when she’d met him had been replaced by a casual look, at the moment consisting of blue sneakers, baggy brown slacks and a red, open-necked pullover from L.L. Bean. He looked remarkably young. He could pass for twenty-one or two.
At four o’clock, Jean Paul König would speak to a sold-out crowd of thousands and for the first time she’d see her mark in person. Yesterday, within an hour of their arrival in Germany, they had met at a safe house with Martin Davidson—code name Cupid—to review strategy.
“Just like chumming for fish,” their chief of station had said. Davidson was as round all over as his code name suggested, but he would never put one in mind of a sweet cherub; more like a Swiss banker: conservatively subdued, with gold-rimmed glasses and eyes that conveyed no emotion. “We scatter tempting stuff in front of König to get his attention, first Nova and then the idea of a photo piece on his pet project.”
Cardone knew exactly where to go, having spent part of yesterday scouting the congress center’s halls and conference chambers.
They stepped inside to find the massive space already three-quarters full. A young woman with a doll’s rosy cheeks and Delft-blue eyes stuck a brochure in Nova’s hand. The girl said to Joe, “Your tickets?” She was giving him that same sparkly look Nova had seen over and over from women in the handsome Texan’s presence.
“Just follow me,” the girl said as she led them to their row. She reluctantly left only after a parting smile to Cardone.
Nova could not stop a grin. “Do you always have that effect on women?”
He shrugged and grinned back. “Not always. I haven’t had that effect on you.”
They took their seats and she noted with approval that he began what appeared to be a professional scrutiny of the crowd: he’d be looking for anything unusual, any familiar faces, especially, known terrorists or sympathizers.
Electricity rippled through the room. This was an audience holding its collective breath, waiting for the magician to make the beheaded beauty reappear.
She skimmed the flashy brochure. In the past ten days she’d studied many similar materials from the König camp. Her appraisal was that his ideas sounded too idealistic. According to the Company’s analysts, what made König controversial—and exciting—weren’t his views per se, but the radical rate at which he proposed to make changes.
Cardone asked in a half whisper, “Feel the excitement?”
“Absolutely. These folks are dying to pounce on something.”
Four men and a woman sat on the stage. None was König. A slender, slightly stooped man— Detlev Kleitman—rose and proceeded to the lectern. Kleitman, as head of König’s German Homeland Party, was also strongly suspect. Other teams were doubtless pursuing Kleitman in whatever way Company strategists felt most likely to succeed.
Kleitman waited with palms down on the lectern till the hum of conversation subsided. After introducing the program and the VIPs, he took a deep breath and, with a dramatic pause, introduced the main attraction. “I present with great pleasure the rising star of the German Homeland Party, the next Governor of Bavaria, Jean Paul König.” The audience burst into applause and from stage right König strode to the podium. He shook hands with Kleitman, then eased into his presentation.
Nova raised opera glasses and studied the face of the man she’d been sent to dissect. She possessed every shred of information the Company had on his life. She’d memorized his psychological profile. But success would only be hers when, beyond these facts, she learned the hidden desires that were the essence of the man, and found a way she could fulfill some of those desires for him.
König had short blond hair, light eyebrows, and deeply set eyes. “Glacial blue” according to his file. His nose was straight and sharp, his jawline square and strong. The Company’s psychological profilers had described Jean Paul König as a man with the message of a saint, the speaking skills of a demagogue and the looks of a movie superstar.
Nova was already becoming comfortable with German again, and König made listening pure pleasure. He spoke in flawless High German, the words rolling out of his mouth and into and around the room. Cardone, she noted, watched the crowd, not König. Logical, since Cardone didn’t understand much more of German than danke schön and gesundheit. But very soon, even Cardone’s eyes fixed on the tall presence in the center of the stage. The rhythm of König’s speech, the lithe way he moved, the occasional turning of his side to the audience, the grace of his hand as he lifted it to accent a point, all compelled attention. She couldn’t pull her gaze away.
Nova raised the opera glasses to view his face again and
