The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,115

her head. "Can't blame a girl for trying," she said under her breath.

"Got anyone stationed by Park Road?"

A beat. She knew he knew; prevarication would be pointless. "Ehrenhalt's on the minaret," she admitted.

He nodded. "And who's enfilading to your left?"

"Take my range finder," she said. "You don't trust me, you can see for yourself. Marksman B is in position three hundred yards northwest." It was a low brick structure that housed telecom equipment. "He's on top. The height's not optimal: that's why he hasn't been able to get any good shots yet. But if you had tried to leave via the Jubilee Gate, you'd be a dead man. There are men on foot on Baker Street, Gloucester Street, and York Terrace Way. Strollers with Clocks. Two sharpshooters have a complete review of Regent's Canal. And there's a man on the roof of Regent's College. We were hoping you'd try to use it as shelter. Within two hundred yards, all of us are X-circle accurate - head-shot accurate."

We were hoping you'd try to use it as shelter. He almost had.

Janson mapped out in his head the vertices she had specified: they made sense. It was how he would have designed the operation.

Keeping the gun securely in one hand, he looked through her Swarovski 12x50 dual range finder scope. The concrete bunker she'd mentioned was exactly the sort of structure that dotted the urban landscape, that people saw without seeing. A good position. Was there really someone there? It was mostly obscured through the leafy canopies, but a few centimeters of concrete were visible. A sniper? He dialed up the magnification until he saw - something. A glove? Part of a boot? It was impossible to say.

"You're coming with me," Janson announced abruptly, grabbing the sniper's wrist. With every lingering moment, the team of marksmen would begin to reevaluate probabilities: if they decided that he had left the purview of their axial sight lines, they would reposition, and that would change the ground rules altogether.

"I get it," she said. "It's just like at the Hamas encampment in Syria, near Qael-Gita. You took one of the sentries hostage, forced him to divulge the location of another one, repeated the process, had the perimeter defenses peeled off in less than twenty minutes."

"Who the hell have you been talking to?" Janson said, taken aback.

Those operational details were not widely known, even within the organization.

"Oh, you'd be surprised the things I know about you," she said.

He strode down the greenway, dragging her along with him. Her footsteps were noisy, deliberately so. "Soundlessly," he said. "Or I'll start to think you're not cooperating."

Immediately, her footfalls grew careful, picking out landing spots, avoiding leaves and twigs; she had been trained in how to move quietly: every member of her team would have received such training.

As they grew nearer to the boundary of Regent's Park, the noise of traffic and the smell of exhaust drifted toward them. They were in the heart of London, a greensward established almost two centuries before and preserved, lovingly, every year since. Would the carefully trimmed grass end up soaked with his blood?

They approached the concrete bunker, and Janson placed a finger on his lips. "Not a sound," he said. The Beretta remained loosely gripped in his hand.

Now he stooped down, and signaled her to do the same. Atop the low brick structure, the marksman was, he could now see, in prone position, the fore end of his rifle supported by his left hand. No sniper ever let the barrel rest on anything; it distorted the resonance, affecting the shot. He was a picture of complete concentration, peering through the scope, using his left elbow as a pivot as he moved the field of view slightly. His shoulders were level, the rifle butt close to his shoulder pocket. The rifle itself rested in the V of his left thumb and forefinger, its weight resting on the palm. Perfect position.

"Victor!" the woman called out suddenly.

The gunman jerked at the sound, swiveled his rifle around, and squeezed off a shot, wildly. Janson leaped to one side, lifting the woman with him. Then he somersaulted toward the bunker and, with a lightning-fast motion, seized the gun by the barrel and jerked it out of the marksman's grasp. As the man hurriedly reached for his side arm, Janson swung the scoped rifle like a bat, connecting with the man's head. He slumped forward, prone as before but now unconscious.

The woman propelled herself with all her coiled force toward