Sabotage (35 page)

“You mean a waste!”

“Thanks for trying,” Austin said. “By the way, Rachel says you're cute when you're frustrated.”

He ended the call. With two minutes until the clock struck twelve, he now had to pay close attention. He panned the marketplace. In these dense crowds, it would be easy to make a mistake.

*   *   *

Victoria hardly blinked behind her aviators. She wasn't hard to miss, and this time she wanted it that way. As promised, she stood alone and vulnerable at the center of the main square, near a pair of statues. She checked her watch repeatedly. Timing was essential. All she could do was hope the proper parties had received her messages.

The fair buzzed with activity, the streets a conflagration of color. Farmers stacked cages of ducks and pigs and hens, keeping far from the berry stands so as to prevent feathers from drifting near edibles. Plants and flowers dangled from wrought-iron posts and lanterns. Aged by centuries, human visages carved into brick buildings were overlooking candy stalls, meat and cheese stores, butcher shops, fruit vendors, flower booths. She looked from head to head, scanning the crowds for her mark, and paced. Delicate threads wove this tapestry, any one of which could easily break. A feeling of helplessness threatened to overtake her. Somewhere in the crowd, at least three men were watching her, probably more. It made her feel like she was standing naked behind a one-way mirror. She saw no one she recognized, nor was she certain she could expect to.

She had despised the idea of entrusting her life to an enemy, but felt positive there was no other way. It had been difficult casting aside doubts, and now they were starting to creep back in. She began to wonder whether desperation had played any part in shaping their little gambit, and if so, whether she would be the one to pay for their haste. Instinct screamed for her to flee. She stood rooted, reminding herself never to act as flesh-and-blood bait again.

*   *   *

Chambered for a cartridge dating back to 1891, the Dragunov probed for its target. A practiced eye peered through the scope, sweeping through the crowd and centering on the face of a tanned female. There she was, clear as diamond in his tunneled view—an exquisite creature, he thought somewhat ruefully. The rifle's barrel extension rotated about a fixed point on a bipod. Flapping street flags helped Vasya gauge wind speed. It would make little difference at close proximity, yet he erred on the side of caution.

She seemed to be alone as promised, but he guessed her partner was out there. Having seen the emotional havoc he'd wreaked with his bluff, Vasya doubted Austin would leave the young woman unaccompanied again. They were planning something; Austin would be waiting at a calculated distance. At least Vasya hoped so. He had ambitions for two bullets, not one. He adjusted the focus on his telescope to search for her partner.

A skilled marksman, he had long studied techniques to engage moving targets at a distance, accounting for wind, weather conditions, elevation, and for exceptionally long shots, even the Coriolis effect. He used his left hand to support the butt of the rifle, screwing in the suppressor to reduce flash and noise, and assuming his firing position. Years ago, he had kept a mental checklist. Now a veteran's sense guided him, one that supplemented a natural ability to realize first-round hits.

Today he would not be using his backup adjustable iron sights, sliding tangent rear lenses, or quick-detachable opticals. They weren't needed for this simple a target. He required no advanced elevation adjustment, no illuminated rangefinder grid, no night-vision reticle or infrared charging screen—only patience and a sunshade. His right hand gripped the small of the stock. Three fingers exerted a slight pull to secure the butt against his shoulder pad, which buffered the effects of breathing and pulse beat. He aligned the rifle with his objective, magnifying the selection eight times. His muscles relaxed. Unnecessary tension could compromise the procedure by generating twitches and tremors.

After scouring the scene for several minutes, he felt confident it was time. Despite her partner's apparent absence, he'd take the shot. And if the young man was hiding somewhere, perhaps her death would lure him out. He tweaked focus one final time, framing her left temple in the scope's wire crosshairs.

*   *   *

The din of the marketplace was becoming less distinct. The white noise helped Victoria organize the tidal wave of thoughts raging through her mind's darkest tunnels. She had never felt as powerless and exposed as she did in the middle of the square.

She skimmed the rooftops. They sloped steeply, too steeply to allow a decent foothold for climbing. This had factored into their equation. No sniper could have assumed a safe position on the roofs. But in this market square, a sniper needed no roof when there was the bell tower.

Something had to happen, things would soon change, and she could only hope for the right change. With so much beyond her control, any slew of mistakes could dampen her chances of survival. A dozen pieces had to come together for Austin's plan to work.

With a furtive glance toward the belfry, she feared checkmate. There was no black protrusion from the tower's lancet windows, no glint of anything, but that didn't mean he wasn't there; she knew a sniper would rather shoot from the middle of a room than expose his barrel.

It was 12:02 p.m. Her spirits were sinking toward zero.

*   *   *

Does she know I'm here? Vasya wondered as he ogled her.

No. Any rational, self-preserving human would run. But she'd looked right at him.

His index finger clamped over the trigger and began to apply pressure.

A deafening racket shattered his concentration. His muscles tensed, and he let go of the trigger, slapping a hand over his ear as twenty-seven and a half tons of metal began vibrating to the tune of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. He cursed the bells and checked his watch. It was past noontime.

Grating his teeth, he realized the midday chimes often lasted till quarter past. He would be compelled to take his shot in spite of the disruption. He reassumed position, forcing himself again to relax and take advantage of the precious instants between heartbeats.

*   *   *

The bells had bought her a few seconds. Victoria willed her legs to pace faster, imagining her own profile as viewed through a sniper scope.

She strode toward the bronze statues nearby. As they had defended fellow citizens from foes in the fourteenth century, two of Bruges's patriotic heroes, Jan Breydel and Pieter de Coninck, would temporarily protect her. She took refuge behind the pedestal supporting the Belgian nationalists. Then it occurred to her, maybe hiding was a mistake. What if it suggested to Vasya that she knew he was watching? If he suspected he'd been set up, he might bail. She continued to walk, using the pedestal as a shield only seconds at a time, still giving him at least a few opportunities to take the shot.

A hand clasped her waist. Two thumbs reached under her shirt and dug into her skin, one to still her and one, she suspected, to oblige a lustful desire. She tried to wriggle free but conceded when she felt cold metal burrowing into her back. She didn't turn around, nor did she care to.

“Don't squeal.” The voice was deeper than a mineshaft. “Start walking.”

*   *   *

Vasya looked askance. Who was that trailing behind her? Had the girl told someone else she'd be waiting there?

Through the lens he studied the new man's features. He was facing the other direction, but Vasya could tell he was hirsute and dark-complexioned. He remembered seeing the man before, sitting at another table in the Tavern Brugeoise. A bodyguard. How had Deeb's men learned of Victoria's rendezvous?

There was more to this than he knew, but it didn't matter. He'd kill them both.

He caressed the trigger again.

“Don't move.”

It was Deeb.

Vasya felt an uncomfortable prickling on the nape of his neck as his hairs stood on end. Was another coincidence really destined to foil his shot?

“One moment, Farzad,” he said, peering through the scope.

A thin veneer of civility dwindling, Deeb's answer was frosty. “I don't think so.”

It was then Vasya realized the minister and his three bodyguards each had pistols, and they were all pointed at him. Standing at the outlet by the spiraling staircase, they had blocked his only exit. Their expressions seemed twisted, animalistic. They'd found him alone in the tower, cornered him.

“Put your guns away,” Vasya dismissed. “There's no time.”

“Four handguns against one unwieldy rifle. You figure the odds.”

“Just holster your weapons. Let me take this shot.”

“We want the girl alive.”

“Why?”

“She knows the password.” Vasya's composure flickered as he recognized his folly. He'd been tricked. What could he possibly say to Deeb now? “That means we have no more use for you, Vasya. Hand over the briefcase, and we'll make this painless.”

He had no choice but to clutch at straws. He picked up the briefcase from the floor and used it as a shield in front of his chest.

“Don't shoot, or I'll hurl it over the edge,” he threatened. “The laptop will shatter. You'll have no chance of claiming Baldr.”

“You wouldn't jeopardize that kind of profit.”

“I would with my life on the line.”

Deeb snickered. “Maybe so. Maybe I shouldn't take my chances.”

He fired two shots. Vasya roared in pain and began bleeding from both feet. Blood stained his shoes from the inside and began to pool on the floor. He slouched against the wall and dropped the briefcase.

“Farzad, you idiot! I'm trying to help you! I want you to have the satellite!”

“A moment ago you were ready to break it.” Deeb took several steps forward and drove the heel of his boot into Vasya's fresh wounds. The Russian's face contorted. “You traitor.”

“What?”

“As soon as I wire the money, you'll disappear and bring Baldr to the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. I'm aware of your efforts to procure technology for the SVR.”

“Farzad, you have it all wrong.”

“Does it matter if I do? The laptop is mine now, and I will soon have Baldr's password.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think I do.”

“It was the girl, wasn't it? What did she tell you? She's trying to set you up, like she did me.”

“If
she
set
you
up,” Deeb said acidly, “how is it you were about to blow her brains out?”

“She's playing you,” Vasya said.

“I think it's you who's been playing us—including the Viking.”

Vasya shook his head, desperate to go on despite the splitting pain. “No, you're wrong … you have it all wrong…”

“I will be sure to tell him of your deceit.”

“You don't understand. You don't know anything about this operation!”

“You're pathetic. The Viking would hunt you down and make you suffer if he learned of your treachery. It would be far worse than my way of dealing with you.”

“Farzad, you moron, tell your men to put their weapons down!” Vasya shouted. “I
am
the Viking!”

 

THIRTY-FIVE

Rove would rather have remained comatose than wake with his hands and feet bound to a chair on the weather deck of the Black Marauders' flagship. Gradually his vision began to clear. A crowd of at least a half dozen soldiers had formed a circle around him. He'd lost his sense of time and bearing. The acute pain in the back of his neck had lessened to a dull throb. He distinguished little and heard nothing beyond the pulsations in his ears.

His head sagged as if someone had stuffed it full of lead. His mouth hung open, dry as a sandpit. Dehydration had begun to crack fissures in his lips. A memory of his previous torture room scorched through his mind. Scouts had captured him, and he'd been carried from the Colombian jungles into an underground cocaine factory. This time, he had no SEAL Team Four to bail him out. He was alone, and apparently he'd taken a few too many steps on enemy turf. He blinked, trying to remember what had happened and what he'd been doing. It was an odd feeling, blinking, like trying to move fingers on a hand without blood circulation. His eyelids responded slowly, out of sync with his mental commands. Through the fog he discerned the shape of a man standing in front of him.

“Hello, Jake,” said the man, the blaze of red hair coming into focus. “I was ready to scrap you to the seafloor while you were unconscious. Seeing that you've killed several of my brothers and left me with something to remember you by, I reconsidered.”

Ragnar held up his elbow. The discolored, chemical-eaten flesh had grown inflamed. Rove tried to speak, but his tongue stuck to his palette, and he felt too weak to remove it.

Ragnar unfolded a paper and waved it in the air.

“We found this in your pocket,” he said. “Good idea, demanding I release passengers on lifeboats. I've never heard of a hostage turning his anonymity against the captors.”

“Go on and finish this,” Rove said, discovering a shred of utility in his vocal chords.

Ragnar grabbed Rove by a cheek and leaned in close. “I made a promise to you back on the bridge. I intend to keep it.”

“Apathy is your best weapon,” Rove said. “It's obvious I've affected you. If you intend to slake some kind of thirst for vengeance, do it behind closed doors. Don't let your soldiers see weakness in their leader.”

“Since when is the desire for vengeance a sign of weakness?”

“Sometimes it isn't. You're clearly driven to exact revenge on more accounts than my own. I wouldn't blame all the hard feelings, especially after that
Firecat
incident.” Ragnar flared up, never averting his gaze. “But for a flesh wound, it makes you look fragile.”