The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,165

a heart attack. Common in your country, as he was just explaining. You're going to lift this man, let him lean against you, and together we're going to walk out of the restaurant." As he spoke, he buttoned the fallen man's jacket, ensuring that the splash of blood was concealed beneath it. "And if I can't see both your hands, you'll find that the attack is contagious. Perhaps the diagnosis will be changed to acute food poisoning. And you two will be shopping for wheelchairs together - assuming either of you lives."

What ensued was ungainly but effective: one man supporting his stricken companion, moving him swiftly out of the restaurant. Sandor Lakatos, Janson saw as they rounded the corner, was no longer at his table. Danger.

Janson suddenly reversed direction and dove through the double doors to the restaurant's kitchen. The din was surprisingly loud: there were the noises of meat sizzling in oil, of fluids boiling, of knives rapidly chopping onions and tomatoes, of veal cutlets being pounded, dishes being washed. He paid little attention to the white-coated men and women at their stations as he raced through the kitchen. He knew there had to be some sort of service entrance. It was impossible that the supplies to this kitchen arrived through the exquisitely carpeted lobby.

At the far end, he found the rusty metal stairs, cramped and steep. They led to an unlocked steel panel, flush with the ground overhead. Janson barged through, and the night air felt cool on his skin after the steamy warmth of the kitchen.

He closed the steel panel doors as quietly as he could and looked around him. He was on the rear right side of the Palace Hotel, next to the parking lot. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that twenty yards ahead of him were long-limbed trees and grass: concealment, but not protection.

A sound - a scraping noise. Someone moving with his back to the wall, his feet planted firmly on the ground. Someone who was moving toward him. The person knew he was armed, and was taking all possible precautions.

He felt the stinging spray of brick and mortar against his face before he heard the cough of the gun. His assailant had gained an angle on him! His assailant was three hundred feet away; accuracy would be paramount. He had, he calculated, four seconds to assume the rollover prone position. Four seconds.

Janson dropped to both knees and extended his left hand in front of him to break his fall as he pitched forward; then he extended his firing arm downrange and rested it upon the ground, rolling up on his right side as he did so. With his left ankle braced against the back of his right knee, he stabilized his position. Now he was able to put his supporting hand on the weapon, the heel of his palm firmly and squarely on the packed-gravel ground: it would provide a solid shooting rest as he placed his forefinger inside the trigger guard of the CZ-75. What the Czech gun lacked in concealability, it made up for in stopping power and accuracy. It would enable far more accurate cluster shooting than his own palm-sized weapon.

He identified his target - it was the suited guard he had just left below - and squeezed off two shots. They were silenced, but the recoil reminded him of just how much force they conveyed. One missed his target; the other struck him in the neck, and the man sprawled to the ground, spouting blood.

A muted explosion came from behind him: Janson tensed until he realized that it was the tire of an SUV ten feet away, abruptly deflating as a bullet struck it. There was another gunman stalking him, it appeared, and the direction of the impact plus the geometry of the building told him approximately where he was situated.

Still in the rollover prone firing position, Janson pivoted thirty degrees and saw Sandor Lakatos himself, holding a gleaming, nickel-plated Clock 9mm. The preening peacock, he thought to himself. The shiny surface reflected the light of the parking lot halogens, making him an easier target. Janson aligned the gun's small sights along the man's round torso and he felt his gun buck as he squeezed off another two shots.

Lakatos returned fire spasmodically, the muzzle flash leaving a dark shadow in Janson's night vision, and he heard the thunk of one of the Hungarian's bullets hitting the hard-packed gravel a few inches from his right leg. He was proving