The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,120
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.
Kazuo Onishi glanced across the smoky singles bar and then looked back at the sudsy inch of beer remaining in his mug. She was stunning: long blond hair, a pert nose, a mischievous smile. What was she doing alone at the bar?
"Kaz, is that honey on the bar stool hitting on you?"
So it had to be true: even his friend Dexter had noticed.
Onishi smiled. "Why do you sound surprised?" he smirked. "The ladies know a true stud muffin when they see one."