“I see,” Janson said. “Then you’ve got a decision to make.”
“But our directive … ”
“It’s my life, of course. I have an interest. But it’s yours, too. A lesson I
learned the hard way.”
She looked confused. “OK, take a peek through the range finder again. Marksman C
you’ll find in the really tall tree near Primrose Hill Gate.”
As he lifted the Swarovski dual scope to his eyes, parsing the foliage, Angus
Fielding’s words echoed in his head. Are you so confident about your own
government? Indeed, there was a certain logic there. What if Cons Ops, perhaps
working with an agent-in-place on Novak’s staff, had been responsible for the
assassination? Wouldn’t that help explain America’s official refusal to have any
direct involvement in the operation? But then who had set him up with the
sixteen million dollars? And if Cons Ops, or some other U.S. government agency,
had arranged Novak’s death—why? Why was Novak seen as such a threat? This,
Janson knew, was the crucial piece of the puzzle—a puzzle he had to solve not
only for his own sense of justice but for his own physical survival.
His thoughts came to a halt as a crushing blow landed on the side of his head.
He reeled backward, stunned, bewildered.
It was the woman. A ridged steel rod in her hand, the kind used in reinforced
concrete. On one end it was wet with his own blood. She had wrenched it from the
stack of construction materials behind the bunker a few feet away.
“Like the lady says, every tool is a weapon if you hold it right.” Another
clout, this one just above his ear, the bar bouncing off with the sickening thud
of metal against bone. The world around him seemed to waver.
“They warned us about your lies,” she growled. His vision was blurred, a red
haze, but the expression on her face was unmistakable: pure immaculate loathing.
Dammit! At a time when he should have been fully vigilant, he had allowed her to
lull him with her lies, her pretense of sympathy; in fact, she had merely been
biding her time, awaiting an opportunity. And playing him for a fool.
Sprawled on the ground, he could hear the blood pounding in his head, like a
steam engine. Groggily, he reached for the Beretta, but it was too late. She was
racing away from him at top speed.
The impact of the rebar had caused a mild concussion at the least; it would take
him a few minutes to struggle back to his feet. And by then, she would be gone.
An enemy, an asset—gone.
He felt a wave of nausea welling from his gut, and a sense, too, of emptiness.
Whom could he trust? Which sides had taken arms against him?
Which side was he on?
At this point, he could only say: his own. Could he expect allies? Did he
deserve them? The sniper believed that he was guilty; would he have done
anything different in her place?
He glanced at his watch, tried to rise, and blacked out.
“Annunciate radio check.”
“Annunciate, annunciate. All secure. Over.”
Vietnam was seldom quiet. Combat zones were a cascade of sounds and sights.
Artillery pounded, parachute flares whistled as they illuminated the night sky
like a hundred kliegs. There was the streak of tracer bullets, the whomp of
choppers, the winking lights of jets. Soon, it was all as meaningless as the
bleating horns and motors of rush-hour traffic. At the same time, their
commanding officer had helped them develop a sense of what wasn’t routine.
Dialing his scope furiously, zooming through the marsh grasses and palms, Janson
saw the clearing with two hutches. There was a cooking fire in front of one, and
two VCs squatting in front of them. Were there trip-flares? Three days earlier,
Mendez had blundered across one; within seconds, an illumination round was
automatically fired—a loudly hissing magnesium flare, which drifted slowly
toward earth on a tiny parachute, casting an eerie white glow on them all. They
could afford no such mistake now.
Janson radioed Demarest. At least two Victor Charlies identified. Three hundred
meters away. Awaiting instructions.
Awaiting instructions.
Awaiting instructions.
There was a crackle of static from the radio headphones, and Demarest’s voice
came online: “Handle contents with care. You bring them two clicks north of base
camp, and pretend they’re Waterford crystal. No breaks, bruises, or scrapes.
Think you can manage that?”
“Sir?”
“Capture with kindness, Lieutenant. Don’t speak English? I can say it in seven
other languages if you prefer.”
“No, sir. I understand, sir. But I’m not sure just how we’ll manage—”
“You’ll find a way, Janson.”
“I appreciate the confidence, sir, but—”
“Not at all. You see, I know that I would find a way. And, like I say, I’ve got
a feeling that you and I are a lot alike.”
His finger groped the ground: trimmed grass, not jungle vine. He forced his eyes
open again, took in the green vistas of Regent’s Park, looked at his watch. Two
minutes had elapsed. The retention of consciousness itself would be a supreme
effort, yet one at which he must not fail.
The thoughts that had coursed through his brain were drowned out by another,
more urgent one: There was no time.
The collapse of the axial array must already have been detected, simply by the
absence of radio signals. Others would proceed into the area. His vision
swimming, his head ringing with pulsing, pounding agony, he crashed through an
obstacle course of cone-shaped yews until he had made his way to Hanover Gate.
A black cab was letting out an elderly couple as he staggered to the curb. They
were American, and slow-moving.
“No,” the bloated and dyspeptic-looking woman was saying, “you don’t tip. This
is England. They don’t tip in England.” Garish red-orange lipstick ringed her
mouth, drawing attention to the vertical creases of age above and below.
“Sure they do,” her husband groused. “What do you know? You don’t know anything.
Always got an opinion, though.” He was feebly looking through the unfamiliar
currency in his wallet, with the care and deliber-ateness of an archaeologist
prizing apart ancient papyrus. “Sylvia, do you have a ten-pound note?”
The woman opened her purse and, with agonizing slowness, began peering into it.
Janson watched with mounting frustration, for there were no other cabs visible
on the street.
“Hey,” Janson said to the American couple. “Let me pay for it.”
The two Americans looked at him with frank suspicion.
“No, really,” Janson said. The American couple kept moving in and out of focus.
“It’s no problem. I’m in a generous mood today. Just … let’s get a move on.”
The two exchanged glances. “Sylvia, the man here said he’ll pay … ”
“I heard what the man said,” the woman replied peevishly. “Tell him thank you.”
“So what’s the catch?” the old man said, his thin lips drawn into a half frown.
“The catch is, you get out, now.”
The two lumbered to the sidewalk, and stood there blinking. Janson slid inside
the roomy vehicle, one of the classic black cabs made by Manganese Bronze
Holdings PLC.
“Wait a minute,” the woman called out. “Our bags. I had two shopping bags … ”
She spoke slowly and petulantly.
Janson found two plastic bags emblazoned with the Marks & Spencer logo, opened
the door, and heaved them at her feet.
“Where you bound, guy?” the driver asked. Then he looked at Janson through the
rearview mirror and winced. “Got yourself a nasty gash there.”
“Looks worse than it is,” Janson murmured.
“You better not get any claret on my upholstery,” the driver groused.
Janson pushed a hundred-pound note through the glass partition.
“That’s a bit of all right,” the driver said, his tone suddenly shifting.
“You’re the boss, I’m the hoss, crack the whip, I’ll make the trip.” He seemed
pleased with his taxi doggerel.
Janson told the driver the two stops he had to make.
“Bob’s your uncle,” the driver said.
The pounding in his head had the force and regularity of a jackhammer. Janson
pulled out a handkerchief and tied a bandana around his scalp, trying to staunch
the seepage of blood. “Can we go now?” He looked out the rear windshield of the
cab—which suddenly spiderwebbed in the lower left corner, near his head. A
subsonic bullet remained lodged in the laminated glass.
“Mother of Christ!” shouted the driver.
“Just floor it,” Janson said unnecessarily, hunching down in his seat.
“Bob’s your fucking uncle,” the driver said, as the engine roared to life.
“He is if you say he is.” Janson pushed another hundred-pound note through the
partition.
“Am I gonna have any more problems?” the driver asked, looking dubiously at the
banknote. They were now at Marylebone Road, merging into fast-moving traffic.
“Not at all,” said Janson grimly. “Trust me on this. It’s going to be a walk in
the park.”
She was looking at him. He wasn’t imagining it.