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Back The Janson Directive
Chapters (54)
  1. Title Page
  2. Table of Contents
  3. Prologue
  4. PART ONE
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. PART TWO
  14. Chapter Nine
  15. Chapter Ten
  16. Chapter Eleven
  17. Chapter Twelve
  18. Chapter Thirteen
  19. Chapter Fourteen
  20. Chapter Fifteen
  21. Chapter Sixteen
  22. Chapter Seventeen
  23. PART THREE
  24. Chapter Eighteen
  25. Chapter Nineteen
  26. Chapter Twenty
  27. Chapter Twenty-one
  28. Chapter Twenty-two
  29. Chapter Twenty-three
  30. Chapter Twenty-four
  31. Chapter Twenty-five
  32. Chapter Twenty-six
  33. Chapter Twenty-seven
  34. Chapter Twenty-eight
  35. Chapter Twenty-nine
  36. Chapter Thirty
  37. Chapter Thirty-one
  38. PART FOUR
  39. Chapter Thirty-two
  40. Chapter Thirty-three
  41. Chapter Thirty-four
  42. Chapter Thirty-five
  43. Chapter Thirty-six
  44. Chapter Thirty-seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-eight
  46. Chapter Thirty-nine
  47. Chapter Forty
  48. Chapter Forty-one
  49. Chapter Forty-two
  50. Chapter Forty-three
  51. Epilogue
  52. ALSO BY ROBERT LUDLUM
  53. Critical Praise for Robert Ludlum
  54. Copyright Page

“Only that he needs help. As you once did. In Baaqlina.” Márta Lang pronounced the name of that dusty town as if it were a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter. For Janson, it was.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said quietly.

“Then all you have to know right now is that Peter Novak requires your assistance.”

She had spoken few words, but they were the right ones. Janson held her gaze for a long moment.

“Where to?”

“You can throw out your boarding card. Our jet is on the runway, cleared for immediate departure.” She stood, her desperation somehow giving her strength and a sense of command. “We must go now. At the risk of repeating myself, there’s no time.”

“Let me risk repeating myself: Where to?”

“That, Mr. Janson, will be our question to you.”

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

As Janson followed her up the grip-textured aluminum steps to Novak’s 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 enamel: Sok kicsi sokra megy. Hungarian, and meaningless to him.

The runway was a wall of noise, the scream of air intakes layered over 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 cabin of a man for whom price was no object, but luxury no concern. The interior was maroon; the leather-upholstered seats were large, club-sized, one on either side of the aisle; some faced each other, with a low, bolted table between them. Four grim-faced men and women, evidently members of Márta Lang’s staff, were already seated farther back in the plane.

Márta 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 Janson 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 upon you.”

“If he has an assignment for me, I’d like to hear about it sooner rather than later. And from him rather than someone else.”