The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,106

connected the point of penetration of Berman's upstretched arm to the upper-left-quadrant chest wound. An elevation of approximately thirty-five degrees from the horizontal. Yet there was nothing visible in the vicinity at that angle.

Ergo the bullet had not been fired from the immediate vicinity.

The mass that Berman had pulled out was confirmation. It had to have been a long-distance shot, toward the end of its trajectory. Had it been fired within a hundred yards, it would have penetrated Berman's body and punched an exit wound. The amount of crumple and the size of the projectile: the crucial information was there.

He stooped and picked up the bullet. What had it been? A six- or seven-hundred-grain, brass-jacketed round. Penetration had been two inches; had it struck Berman's head, it would have been instantly fatal. As it was, the lung hemorrhage made a fatal outcome fairly probable. What had it delivered: a hundred, two hundred foot-pounds of force?

Because of air resistance, impact diminished in a nonlineal relation to distance elapsed. The greater the velocity, the greater the air resistance, or drag force, so it wasn't a simple, linear relation. The velocity-distance matrix involved a first-order differential equation, and Reynolds number - the sort of thing Alan Demarest could solve in his head, maybe Berman, too - but, relying on trained intuition, Janson estimated that the distance traversed would have been twelve hundred yards out, or about two-thirds of a mile.

Janson's mind filled with the skyline of the area, the Palladian roofs of Hanover Terrace, the round dome of the Central London Mosque ... and the minaret, the tall, slender tower with the small balcony, used by the muezzin to summon the faithful to prayer. Lacking intrinsic value, it was likely unguarded; a professional would have had no problem gaining entry. If Janson's rough calculations were correct, one had.

It was diabolical. A sniper had stationed himself on the balcony of the minaret, a flyspeck from the perspective of Berthwick House, and bided his time, waiting in case his target appeared in the casement windows. He would have had plenty of time to figure out the requisite angles and trajectories. But how many men were even capable of such a shot? Were there forty such in the world? A couple of Russians. The Norwegian sniper who came in first in a worldwide competition hosted in Moscow last year. A couple of Israelis, with their Galil 7.62 rifles. A handful of Americans.

A master sniper had supernal skill, but he had supernal patience, too. He had to be responsive to uncertainties: in a long-range shot, even a slight unexpected breeze could push a flat shot several feet from its intended destination. A subject could move unexpectedly; in this case, Berman had raised his hand after the shot was fired. A sniper had to be aware of such possibilities. And he had to be more patient than his target.

And yet who was the target?

The butler had assumed it was his employer, Berman. A natural assumption. And a dangerous one. He recalled Berman's arm around his shoulder, drawing him close. The bullet that hit the Russian was fifteen inches from Janson's head.

Fifteen inches. An uncontrollable variance at two-thirds of a mile. Whether it was a hit or a near miss, the shot's accuracy was incredible. But the sensible assumption had been that Janson was the real target. He was the only new element in the situation.

He could hear the siren of the ambulance Thwaite had summoned. And now he felt a tug on his trouser leg - Berman, from the floor, feebly trying to communicate, to get his attention.

"Janson," he said, speaking as if through a mouthful of water.

His fleshy face had taken on a veal-like pallor. A thin rivulet of blood seeped from the corner of his lips down his chin. Air was sucking through his chest wound, and he pressed his good right hand to the area. Now he raised his bloodied left hand and extended a wagging index finger. "Tell me truth: Turnbull and Asser shirt ruined?" A wet cough came instead of the usual guffaw. At least one of his lungs had filled with blood, and would soon collapse.

"It's seen better days," Janson said gently, feeling a rush of affection toward the ebullient, eccentric maven.

"Get son of whore who did this," Berman said. "Da?"

"Da," Janson said huskily.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thwaite took Janson aside and spoke to him in a low voice. "Whoever you are, Mr. Berman must have trusted you, or he wouldn't have invited you here.