Dean wondered how the Russians could be taken in so easily, allowing access to a restricted area in exchange for a chance to cop a feel. But there were other people inside looking at the sight lines, and one of the guards walked with them as they went. So probably they thought, What’s the big deal? And let’s squeeze a little tit if we can.
Which angered him. Feeling more than a little protective, he glared at the Russian as he led them around to the area where the press would be allowed to stand — a good fifty feet at least from the president’s path.
Lia stumbled and grabbed the Russian’s arm; as he pulled her up, Dean felt a stab of jealousy. He watched her flirt a bit more, then turn back toward the gate. Baffled, he followed her out. Lia paused and gave the guard a kiss, then began bantering with his partner and finally kissed him, too.
“What the hell was that all about?” said Dean, following as she walked back up toward the street. “Jesus. We didn’t even get close to any of the spots. And what was that about kissing them?”
“Jealous?”
“Why did we go in there and not see anything?”
“Wait.” She glanced at her watch, then took out a small folding set of opera glasses from the handbag she’d brought with her. The bag — the first Dean had seen her carry since he’d met her — seemed almost foreign.
About a half-block up, she turned and looked back. “One down. One to go. Watch them while I check the layout again,” she told Dean, handing him the glasses.
Dean peered through the small case. The first detective had slipped back into his chair and nodded out. The other was laughing at him but looking a little tired himself. He reached into his pocket and took a hit from a flask, then ran his hand along his collar.
“What’d you slip them?” Dean asked.
“It’s similar to what guys give dates to knock them out and rape them,” said Lia. She looked at her handheld, clicked one of the keys twice, then put it back in her purse. “Except it’s faster.”
“How’d you get it in them?”
“I don’t think I’m going to tell you,” she said, heading back toward the gate. “Just in case I need to use it on you.”
* * *
None of the spots Dean had picked out were pre-set for a sniper. Lia placed what looked like a thin brown elongated pebble at each one. There was a tiny hole at one end where a wide-angle video cam could survey the area. The rest of the rock was a wireless transmitter set to come on at irregular intervals. It took more than an hour for them to go to all the spots Dean had picked out; they had to work around the dozen or so other security people who were overseeing the area.
When they returned to the gate, the guards were still sleeping. Lia walked back up the block to a tree, then took what looked like a tampon holder from the purse and gave it to Dean.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” he said.
“Just hold it.”
He held it doubtfully in his hand, as gingerly as if it were a hand grenade. Lia took a small compact from the bag and took it apart, leaving the mirror. Then she took the case back, pulled it, and pushed one part onto the compact shell.
“Give me a boost,” she told him. “To the branch.”
Dean gave her a foothold with his hands. She grabbed the tree limb with one hand, pulling herself up as she held the contraption in the other. Her legs swung and her shoe almost hit him in the face as he looked up to make sure she’d made it.
It might have been worth the view. He wondered what she’d look like in a long tight skirt.
“Get your rocks off, Charlie Dean?” she asked when she jumped down.
“I’m just trying to figure out what you’re doing.”
“The transmitters in the flies are very low power. This picks them up and uploads to a satellite. The data is then fed through a computer which will look for anomalies — in other words, if anything changes, the program will sound an alert. We have to call our friend Mr. Austin and let him know it’s set so he can bring it on-line. It’s probably overkill, but you’re the sniper expert.”
“You don’t think they’re going to scan the site before the president comes?” asked Dean. “They’ll find the bugs.”
“I think they’ll be looking for bombs, not surveillance gear,” said Lia. “But that’s why we used the low-powered flies. They’re very difficult to detect, especially if there are other systems in the area. One of the people we saw inside was from the BBC service, so you know the media will have a feed. And then there are the security people themselves.”
“Any one of whom may be an assassin.”
“These guys, maybe,” said Lia. “But hopefully Kurakin’s people will be on top of them. There’s only so much we can do. Come on — let’s go check the apartments.”
“You got a nice butt, you know,” he said, following her.
“So do you, honey.”
66
The taxi screeched and spun and collided with something as Karr tried to grab Martin and avoid the bullets at the same time. He jerked up and bent forward, twisting with the impact of the shots against his armor. He found himself falling out of the car as the door swung open with the collision. The edge of the door smacked his head and he rolled onto the pavement, everything black for a second. He managed to get one eye open, his right, saw feet running away. Karr crawled and then got up, began running toward the blurry image. A car swerved to avoid something — maybe him — and slammed into the taxi and then another vehicle that had also stopped.
They were on a highway overlooking a ravine. Martin ran along the shoulder. Karr pointed his gun and fired. The gun clicked, but he pulled the trigger several more times, somehow not convinced that it was empty.
Martin went over the guardrail a few yards ahead of him, pushing down the shallow embankment and running along a garbage-strewn streambed. Rats scattered as he ran.
“It’s no use,” shouted Karr. “You know you can’t get away, asshole.”
Martin kept going. Karr followed. About halfway down he lost his footing on the slick rocks and slammed the side of his head as he fell. He pulled himself up in time to see Martin duck to the right past a large culvert pipe and disappear. Not sure now whether Martin was armed and planning to ambush him, Karr walked forward cautiously. As he did he changed the clip in his gun, loading his spare, which had real bullets.
“Martin, come on now. What’s your story?” said Karr as he came forward. He had his gun aimed at the spot, hoping to provoke Martin from his position. When that didn’t work, the NSA op bent low, looking to see if he might squeeze through the culvert pipe; it looked too low and narrow. He edged to the side, then threw himself across the space, gun steadied by his two hands, expecting to see Martin aiming his own weapon point-blank in his face.
Martin wasn’t there. Karr’s shoulder crashed hard on a sharp rock and his head banged against the ground, but there was so much adrenaline flooding through his veins that he didn’t feel any pain. He pulled himself up and began walking along the crevice that held the long pipe, not sure exactly where Martin could be hiding. He managed to wedge himself up at a spot about halfway down, climbing to the top. His eyes had cleared now, but the side of his head and the front of his neck were sticky with blood.
Karr felt Martin behind him, waiting for the best chance to fire point-blank into his head. As he reached the top of the cement pipe he spun around, leveled his own weapon, saw nothing. He spun back so fast his head began to float, but Martin wasn’t there, either.
A trail ran through the scrubby grass on the embankment opposite the pipe. Karr leaped across, climbing up seven or eight feet to the top.
A ravine lay down the other side. At its foot was a train yard.
Someone ran from the base of the hill.
Scumbag, thought Karr, starting down after him.
There were voices above. Martin’s contact?
He couldn’t take any chances now — he’d have to kill the asshole.
Martin had about three hundre
d yards on him, but Karr closed the gap to about a hundred quickly, following as Mar tin ran beyond a row of empty freight cars and then onto a train bridge.
“Give it up, dickhead,” Karr muttered, complaining to himself and feeding his anger and adrenaline. The bridge had a two-by-six down the middle of the rails for workers; as long as you didn’t look down, it was a relatively easy run. Martin was tiring; by the time he reached the end of the bridge and jumped off to another embankment, Karr was only a few yards behind.
Until now, Karr had been pretty oblivious to what else might be going on in the yard. But as he began to slide down the hill he saw a pair of tractor-trailers coming down the road that ran along the base. Martin reached the roadway just as the second passed. He tried to jump on the back but missed or slipped, falling to the pavement.
Karr leaped down to the road and reached to grab him as a third truck appeared. The driver laid on its air horn; Karr scooped at Martin but missed. As the truck barreled toward him he threw himself backward and fell out of the way.
He was sure he’d find Martin flattened in the middle of the road when the trailer passed. Instead, Karr saw him running along another run of railroad tracks.
“What are you, Superman? Jesus.” Karr crossed the road as Martin doubled back to the left and disappeared.
Finally running out of breath, Karr walked to the track. There was yet another embankment off the side where Martin had gone. A road ran across at the base of the hill.
Martin lay at the edge. Superman had tripped and knocked himself out.
Well, there was a break, thought Karr; he’d managed to get Martin alive after all. A quick shot from the syringe he had in his pocket and they’d head for the embassy.
Karr started sidestepping down. When he was ten feet away, Martin jumped to his feet. Karr didn’t even get a curse out of his mouth before the son of a bitch began running back up the opposite embankment.
There were cars on the road above. Karr couldn’t take the chance that one of them was waiting for Martin.
“Stop!” he yelled, aiming his gun.
Martin swung back, his.32 aimed at Karr’s face. The agent brought him down with a bullet square to the chest.
“Suck,” he said as Martin tumbled down past him dramatically. Karr momentarily turned his attention toward the road above, expecting someone to come over the side. With one eye on Martin, he edged up the hill, trying to see whether the bastard did indeed have a tail.
If he had, he’d fled. The road was empty.
Martin lay spread-eagled below, his face toward the sky and his legs sticking back up the hill.
“About fucking time,” Karr told Martin when he reached him. There was a black circle of blood on his shirt, but Karr took nothing for granted. He stomped on Martin’s right forearm, wanting to make sure the bastard was really out before he lifted him up and out.
It was only then that Karr conceded that Martin was probably dead. Cursing himself, he bent down for a pulse.
Nothing.
But then, this guy had been written off as dead before. Karr got down on his hands and knees and checked again.
Dead.
All that stinking work and he managed to croak anyway. It would have been easier to nail him back at the Russian Marine base.
Karr rifled Martin’s pockets. There was nothing there except for a small key and a pocketknife.
Karr rose and took some pictures with his miniature digital camera. Another truck was approaching on the road where he’d almost gotten run over. As it passed, he fired two bullets point-blank into the dead man’s skull, just to make absolutely sure, then got the hell out of there.
67
He checked his watch. Two hours were left now before his target would come. The security people were already in place, most of their sweeps already done.
The assignment itself was straightforward. He was not concerned with completing it.
Afterward — that was a more difficult problem. For certainly his employer would not want him to complicate the delicate situation.
He had no doubt he could make it out of the building. Beyond that, the difficulty would increase.
His wife and son were already safe. When he eventually joined them, a deal would be arranged — the money he was owed in exchange for silence.
He doubted his employer would concede easily. But that was a problem for later.
It was possible, of course, that he would not be followed, that the rest of the money would arrive in the accounts as promised. Unlikely, but possible. The assassin by necessity planned for the alternative.
Something moved on the street. The sniper looked down from his perch toward the street as a garbage truck moved slowly past.
Two hours, no more. He rolled his head around his neck, listening to the joints crack, then sat back to wait.
68
In the hands of a skilled operator, the SVD Dragunov guaranteed a hit at 800 meters. They gave themselves another 400 meters to work with, but even so, came up with only two rows of apartments with a view of the main speaking area that weren’t already under CIA surveillance.
Lia produced a new set of IDs ostensibly showing that they were with state security. They were let into six apartments and picked the locks on two others without finding anything.
The roof was already staked out by Russian security personnel. Lia exchanged some quick and heated comments with them as Dean looked around; if there was a sniper setup he didn’t see it. The building blocked any other sight lines for at least a mile.
“I still think his own security people are the problem,” said Dean as they left.
“More likely this is all just bullshit,” said Lia.
When they reached the car, Lia took her denim jacket from the back and pulled it on, initiating the high-tech com gear that connected her to the Art Room. She got in the car and started talking. By the time Dean got in, the conversation was over and she had more than her usual frown on her face.
“Trouble?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“It must be a pain in the ass having them in your ear all the time,” he said.
She still didn’t answer.
“Where we going?”
“To go hold the CIA’s hand,” she said. “They’re getting nervous now that things are heating up.”
“We ought to check out the other site first,” said Dean. “Near the building they’re dedicating.”
Lia began threading her way through a set of narrow streets. They weren’t particularly crowded, but progress was slow anyway. As they waited in a queue to turn, Lia reached to her pocket and took out her handheld. She put her thumb in the middle of the screen, then held it on the steering wheel and wrote something with the stylus. As they turned the corner, she gave it to Dean.
“Pull down the satellite image of the area,” said Lia.
“How?”
She walked him through the steps, which involved initiating a program and then using pull-down menus. She had already stored the site images; the toolbar included buttons to update and review them. The checkbook program Dean used for his business back home was more difficult to use.
He studied the images.
“They can secure it pretty easily,” Dean told her.
He began playing with the resolutions. It was like a miniature video game, the computer cobbling different views based on its data. The 3-D screen was difficult to see except at an angle; the lines and colors were clear, but the screen was simply too small for much detail. It seemed to him likely that the president would arrive at the rear, where the position could be covered by security better than the front. He would come in through a courtyard that could be easily controlled. That put three buildings within the eight hundred or so yards within which the Dragunov was effective.
The roofs of these buildings were very steep, which meant that only the insides were suitable for a sniper. Since they were government buildings, presumably they could be easily inspected. Accordin
g to Lia, the CIA people had done just that and had surveillance cams in the hallways, though they couldn’t be accessed by the handheld.
Dean pulled out the resolutions, looking at the streets and trying to psyche out the route a motorcade would take. As he didn’t know anything about Moscow traffic patterns, it was all a jumble. Even if the guy weren’t riding in a well-protected limo, there looked to be at least a dozen different ways for him to get to either of the sites; no sniper would take a chance on picking out one without reliable inside information.
No. If he was setting up to kill Kurakin, he’d have to take him either at one of those appearances, or back at the Kremlin.
If Dean were doing it, what would he do?
The construction site offered a lot of opportunity. But the security people would know that and set up a good net. Even if he got his shot he’d never get away.
The Education Building, the site they were looking at — he’d have one good shot in the courtyard. But again, the security people would have it psyched out. They’d draw a circle around the rifle’s range just as he had, find the three buildings, and watch them.
Unless you nailed him on the street leading to the back courtyard. Hit him through the car with a tank gun. Or Bar-rett. The.50-caliber bullet could get through an engine block and would probably make it through the roof of the reinforced Mercedes Kurakin used.
Or maybe not.
As a young Marine Corps sniper in Vietnam, Dean had worked primarily with a Model 70 Winchester — personalized, of course. In the callused hands of a professional, it ranked among the most accurate rifles ever produced, as long as it could be properly maintained and fine-tuned. He could hit his mark at a thousand yards, give or take. The M40A1 that replaced it was more dependable primarily because its fiberglass stock didn’t constantly pull the barrel out of line like the wood. The weapon of choice among the current generation was the M24, a somewhat lighter gun than its predecessors. But given the best circumstances, none of these weapons would guarantee a hit beyond the thousand yards or so of Dean’s day.
Deep Black db-1 Page 29
