The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,198

sibling tussles that were both sport and squabble. Trying to tag each other, they would, every so often, bump into her, and their giggling apologies were perfunctory at best. The parents seemed too tired to be embarrassed. Meanwhile, the kids happily ignored her glares.

She wondered whether she should have sprung for the Rederij Lovers cruise, the passengers of which were promised "an unforgettable evening whilst enjoying an outstanding five-course menu." That scene might have been imprudent for a woman on her own, but she hadn't known the choice was between getting hit on by strange men and getting hit by strange children. Once more, she forced her eyes to focus.

Unseen by her, a man shifted slightly from his rooftop perch, high above Prinsengracht's busy streets. The time of waiting had been long, almost intolerably so, but now he had reason to think that it had not been wasted. Yes - there, standing in the glass-topped boat. It was her. As he fine-tuned his sniper scope, suspicion settled into certainty.

The American woman's face was now perfectly centered in his scope; he could even make out her spiky brown hair, her high cheekbones and sensual lips. He exhaled halfway, and then held his breath as the crosshairs settled upon the woman's upper torso.

His concentration was unwavering as his fingers caressed the trigger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Less than an hour from Dulles, Janson found himself on small winding roads that took him through some of the most tranquil territory on the Eastern Shore. Deceptively so. He recalled Jessie's words of warning. If Collins wants you dead, don't count on leaving his company alive. Jessie believed he was taking an enormous risk, meeting a deadly adversary face-to-face. But a bolus of sheer rage impelled Janson. Besides, Derek Collins gave orders: he did not execute them himself. To do so would be infra dig, beneath him. Those long-fingered hands would not be sullied. Not as long as there were others to take care of matters for him.

Chesapeake Bay covered 2,200 miles of coastline, far more if one counted the 150 tributaries along with all the coves and creeks and tidal rivers. The bay itself was shallow, ranging from ten to thirty feet. Janson knew that all sorts of creatures thrived here: muskrats and nutria, swans, geese, ducks, even osprey. The bald eagle itself bred around the lowlands of Dorchester County, as did the great horned owl. The profusion of wildlife, in turn, made it an inviting place for hunters as well.

And Janson was there to hunt.

Now he drove over the Choptank River at Cambridge, onto 13, and farther south, over another bridge, and finally to the long spit of land known as Phipps Island. As he drove the rented Camry along the narrow road, he could see the water through the salt-marsh grass, the sun glaring off its surface. Fishing sloops were moving slowly along the bay, hauling in nets laden with blue crabs and menhaden and rockfish.

A few miles farther down the road, he entered Phipps Island proper. He saw why Derek Collins had chosen it for a vacation home, a retreat from the pressures of his Washington existence. Though only a relatively short distance from Washington, it was isolated, peaceful; it was also, by dint of the land formation, secure. Janson, approaching the undersecretary's bayside cottage, was feeling distinctly exposed. A long, skinny strip of land connected it to the main peninsula, making a surreptitious land approach difficult. An amphibious arrival would be impeded by the shallowness of the water surrounding the land, much of which had only recently been reclaimed by the steadily erosive sea. The wooden docks for boat landings extended far out, where the depth of the water was sufficient for safe navigation; and the length of those docks, too, rendered potential intruders exposed and vulnerable. Without the need to rely on fallible electronics, Collins had selected an area where nature itself assured him the advantages of easy surveillance and the attendant security.

Don't count on leaving his company alive. The director of Consular Operations was a deadly and determined man; Janson had learned that from experience. Well, that made two of them.

The tires of the sedan kicked up dust - beach sand and dried salt - from the surface of the pale gray road, which stretched ahead like a discarded snakeskin. Would Collins seek to kill him before they spoke? He would do so if he believed Janson represented a mortal threat to him. More likely, he would summon backup - the Oceana