The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,136

head. He sank to the floor, and began to roll toward the door.

Gunshots without shots: they had come from a silenced rifle. He should have been used to it by now.

Then a loud gun blast came from outdoors, an odd counterpoint to the silenced firing. Other sounds ensued: The screeching of tires. The noise of a car door opening and closing.

And from elsewhere in the mansion, panicked screams.

Madness!

A quiet fusillade was loosed, as deadly projectiles snapped though the air, some hitting glass, some traveling uninterrupted through already broken panes. They buried themselves in the walls, ceilings, floors. They pinged off the brass chandelier, ricocheted in unpredictable ways.

The throbbing of his temple had grown so forceful that it required a conscious exertion simply to focus his eyes.

Think! He had to think! Something had changed. What made sense of the assault, the contrast in weaponry and approach?

Two teams were attacking. Two teams that were not coordinated.

Mrs. Novak must have reported him. Yes, he was certain of it now. She had been onto him the whole time, playing along, playing him. Hence the mischievous look. She was one of Them.

The only place of refuge from the fusillade was deep in the mansion, in one of the inner chambers: yet surely they were counting on him seeking it out, which meant that this refuge was the most dangerous place he could be.

He phoned Barry on his Ericsson.

Cooper was uncharacteristically flustered. "Jeepers, Paul! What the hell's going on? It's like the Battle of Midway out here."

"Can you make visual on anyone?"

"Um, you mean, can I see 'em? A glimpse, once in a while. There's a couple of them in military drab. They look mean. The arms-are-for-hugging message hasn't reached these guys, Paul."

"Listen, Barry, we specified that the limo have bulletproof windows when we ordered it. You'll be safest there. But be ready to haul ass at my signal."

Now Janson bolted for the door and raced down the stairs to the first floor. When he reached the landing, he saw the security guard unholster his weapon and approach the front window. Then the gun clattered to the floor.

The guard's mouth sprang open, and a circle of red formed about his left eyebrow. Blood spewed out in a pulsing rush that rolled over the unblinking eye. And all the while, the man stood, upright, as if transmuted into a statue. Slowly, as if in some danse macabre, the man's legs started to twitch, then give way, and he toppled onto the ancient Chinese carpet. Janson rushed over and retrieved the man's gun, a Clock pistol.

"Minister Kubelik," the red-haired receptionist cried out. "We've all been ordered to the rear annex. I can't explain what's happening but ... " She trailed off, stunned and perplexed at the sight of a high government minister in a controlled firing roll.

The roll got him across the hallway and near the front door while remaining within two feet of the ground. It was faster than a crawl, and speed was now of the essence. "Toss me my hat."

"What?"

"Toss me the goddamn hat," Janson yelled. More quietly: "You'll find it's about a meter from your left hand. Throw it to me."

The terrified receptionist did so, as one obeys a dangerous madman, and fled to the rear annex.

The small square in the double-hung window that was cleaner than the rest of it: a sniper would be there.

He had to use the thick wooden door as a movable shield. He jumped up, turned the knob, and opened it a crack.

Two thuds: bullets that dug into the thick wood. Bullets that would have struck him had he continued out the door.

The door was now ajar, just eighteen inches, but it should suffice for a well-targeted shot. That grimeless, sparkling square of glass - with luck, he could hit it from here, even with a mere handgun.

His enemies would be scoped; he would not be. But scopes had their limitations, too. The greater the magnification, the more restricted the field of vision. And it took perhaps ten or twenty seconds to reposition the scope and adjust its optics when the target position changed abruptly.

He crawled to where the security guard lay slain on a pale blue carpet now darkening with his blood and dragged the body toward the foyer, knowing that he would be shielded by the four-foot wall of brick beneath the window. He pulled out a handkerchief and hurriedly wiped the blood from the man's face. He draped his suit jacket on the man's upper body