The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,219

grocery-store manager had reported but because a command-and-control structure could not rely solely upon electronic transfers of information: packages, couriers, people, would all have to come in and out. Yet what if he was wrong and had been wasting the most valuable commodity of all - time?

He was not wrong. At first it was like the drone of an insect, but when it grew steadily louder, he knew that a plane was circling and slowing overhead for a landing. Every nerve, every muscle in his body strained for complete alertness.

The plane was a new Cessna, a 340 series twin-engine craft, and its pilot, as Janson could tell by the fluid grace with which it touched down and came to a stop, was an extremely skilled professional, not a country doctor playing crop duster. The pilot, dressed in a white uniform, emerged from the cockpit and folded down the hinged, six-step aluminum stairs. The sun glared off the shiny fuselage, obscuring Janson's vision. All he could make out was that a passenger was quickly ushered off the plane by a second assistant, this one in a blue uniform, and brought to the SUV. The assistant yanked the tarpaulin from the vehicle, revealing a Range Rover - armored, he surmised, from the way the body rode low on the chassis - and he held open the backseat for the passenger. Moments later, the 4X4 sped off.

Damn it! Janson strained intently through his scope to see who the passenger was, yet the glare of the sun and the car's darkened interior defeated his every attempt. Frustration welled up in him like mercury in an overheated thermometer. Who was it? "Peter Novak"? One of his lieutenants? It was impossible to say.

And then the car disappeared.

Where?

It was as if it had vanished into thin air. Janson slid from his perch and peered through his scope from a number of different vantage points before he finally saw what had happened. The lane, only just wide enough to allow passage of the vehicle, was carved into the woods at an oblique angle. The surrounding stand of trees thus rendered it invisible from most points. It was a brilliant feat of landscape design meant to go unnoticed and unappreciated. Now the Cessna's engines revved up, and the small plane turned around, taxied, and took flight.

As acrid fumes of fuel drifted through the woods, Janson set off toward the drive. It was about eight feet wide and was overhung by branches that were about six feet off the ground - just high enough to allow clearance for the armored Range Rover. The tree-sheltered drive was recently paved - a driver who knew the road could make good time - yet could not be seen even from overhead.

It would be an on-foot reconnaissance mission, then.

Janson's task was to follow the drive without walking on the drive; once again, he stayed parallel to it, ten yards away, lest he activate any surveillance or alarm equipment attached to the drive itself. It was a long walk, and soon a strenuous one. He bounded up razorback ridges, pushed through densely wooded patches, and across steep, eroded slopes. After twenty minutes, his muscles started to protest the strain but he never let his pace slacken. As he grabbed another branch for purchase, he was painfully reminded that his hands, once tougher than leather, had lost their calluses: too many years of tending to corporate clients. Pine sap stuck to his palm like glue; splinters of bark worked their way under his skin. As his exertions continued, heat blanketed his upper body and neck like a rash. He ignored it, keeping his attention focused on his next step. One foot in front of the other: that was the only way forward. At the same time, he tried to make his own movements as quiet as possible, preferring rocky outcroppings whenever possible to the crackle of the forest floor. The car was long gone, of course, and he already had a good notion of where the narrow drive would lead, but there was no substitute for direct observation. One foot in front of the other: soon his movements became automatic, and despite everything, his thoughts drifted.

One foot in front of the other.

The skeletal American bowed his head as he surrendered to his new captors. Word of the POW's escape had obviously made it into the surrounding countryside, for the Montagnards and other villagers knew just who he was and where he was to be returned.

He had