The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,34

the blueprints had specified - loomed several yards away. He was almost exactly in the center of an area that was approximately the size of half a football field and that was eerily quiet. There was, he confirmed, no sign of movement - no sign that his arrival had been observed.

Now he unhooked his rig, removed his flight suit, and quickly gathered the canopy from the cobblestoned courtyard. It would have to be hidden before further action could be taken. Even a starless night was not wholly devoid of illumination. The black nylon, visually protective against the night sky, contrasted with the light gray cobblestone. It couldn't be allowed to lie on the ground.

But where was Katsaris?

Janson looked around. Had Katsaris overshot the courtyard? Landed on the beach, far below? Or on the hard-packed gravel road that led to the compound? Either mistake could be lethal - to him and to the others involved in the mission.

Dammit! Once again, a small fist of fury and fear gathered strength within him. It was the hubris of the planner that he - he, of all people - had succumbed to: the desk jockey's error of thinking that what worked on paper would mesh with tactical reality. The tolerances were too small. Every member of the team knew it; the men were simply too much in awe of his record to drive the point home. The jump required something close to perfection, and perfection wasn't possible in this fallen world.

Janson felt a surge of frustration: who knew that better than he did? It was sheer luck that he himself had made it this far.

His thoughts were interrupted by a faint rustle - the sound of the cells of a nylon canopy gently collapsing overhead. Janson looked up into the black sky. It was Katsaris, floating down slowly, as he flared his chute and landed with a gentle, noiseless roll. He scrambled to his feet and came toward Janson.

Now there were two of them.

Two of them. Two highly experienced, highly skilled operatives.

And now they were in place - in the middle of the Stone Palace courtyard. The last place, he had to believe, where anyone would expect visitors.

There were two of them - against an entire battalion of armed guerrillas.

Still, it was a start.
CHAPTER SIX
Now Janson activated the communication system and tsked into the filament microphone near his mouth, a click and sibilant. Military protocol.

Katsaris followed his lead: he silently removed his flight suit, then gathered the canopy into a tight bundle.

The two of them packed the nylon fabric of canopy and suit into the dank basin of the grand stone fountain that stood in the center of the courtyard. Once an impressive feat of sculpture - its marble was finely incised - it now gathered rainwater and algae. A light-absorbing scum adhered to the sides of the wide, circular pool like a black liner. It would do. Black on black: the protective coloration of the night.

Janson's hands groped over his vest and fatigues, his fingers identifying the key items of equipment. Katsaris, standing nearby, was doing the same; each visually inspected the other's camouflage and gear, standard procedure for such operations. They had each traveled a long distance in turbulent conditions. A lot could happen in that time. Punched by the slipstream, whipped by crosswinds, a paratrooper could arrive without his full complement of equipment, however securely it had been attached to his combat vest and fatigues. Janson had learned that from his SEAL days; Katsaris had learned it from him.

Janson surveyed his partner. The whites of his eyes were the only beacons from his painted face. Then he saw a patch of pale over his right shoulder. Katsaris's shirt had been torn during his landing roll, revealing light skin. Janson signaled him to stand still while he pulled out a few inches of black electricial tape from a spool in his fatigues. He taped the seams together, and the light patch disappeared. Tailoring in the drop zone, Janson thought to himself.

And yet such details could make all the difference. Their black garb would help them disappear into the shadows of a deeply shadowed courtyard. By the same token, even a few inches of silvery flesh could spell betrayal in the carelessly roving beam of a guard's flashlight.

As he had emphasized on Katchall, the rebels would not have hightech perimeter defenses, but they would have defenses of a sort that technology had not yet equaled: the five senses of vigilant human beings. An