Deep Black (30 page)

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 hundred 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. According 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.

A Barrett 82A1, however, could make a kill at 2,000. During the Gulf War, the .50-caliber rifle adapted from the M2 machine
gun had been used at least once to kill a man at 1,600 meters—roughly a mile.

Move the range.

If they moved the range out to 2,000 meters, the courtyard entrance would be in range of another office building.

Two, in fact.

“What kind of access to weapons would this guy have?” Dean asked Lia.

“What do you mean?”

“Could he get a Western rifle?”

“It’s best to assume he could get anything he wanted,” she said. “Why?”

“We’ve been thinking of a Russian gun. They’re accurate at eight hundred, a thousand meters. If he used a long-range American
weapon he could almost double that.”

“And still be accurate?”

“Accuracy depends on the shooter, and there are always trade-offs. But yes.”

Lia found a place to park. They checked the first site again using the new range criteria; there wasn’t a tall enough building
there.

“So basically, we just extend the circle on the Education Building,” she said.

“These two buildings,” Dean said, leaning close to show her.

She gently leaned her head against his chest as she examined the screen.

“Let’s do it,” she said, pulling up right and hitting the gas.