The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,41

the meantime."

"Hurry back," Janson said distractedly. He fine-tuned the image manually, rotating the camera tip occasionally for a new angle.

Through a blue haze of cigarette smoke, he saw that the men were sitting around two tables, playing cards. It was what soldiers did, God knew. Strong, armed men, with the power to make life-or-death decisions, would arm themselves against their most pressing enemy, time, with flimsy, laminated pieces of cardstock. He himself had played more card games while outfitted in combat fatigues than he cared to remember.

Janson studied the casual movements, the pickups and discards. He knew this game. He had played it for hours in the Mauritian jungle once. It was called proter, and was essentially the Indian Ocean's answer to rummy.

And because Janson knew the game, his gaze was drawn by a young man - eighteen, nineteen? - who sat at the larger table and drew glances from the others, half wary, half admiring.

The young man looked around, his acne-dotted cheeks gathering into a smile, revealing even white teeth and a sly look of victory.

Janson knew this game. Not just proter. He knew the game that the young man was playing: take maximum risk for maximum reward. That, after all, was the game they were both playing.

A bandolier of what looked like 7mm rounds was draped over the young man's shoulder; a Ruger Mini-14 was cradled in a sling around his chest. A heavier automatic weapon - Janson could not see enough to verify its make - was propped against his chair and was no doubt the reason for the bandolier. It was a complement of arms suggesting that the young man had some sort of position of leadership, in military as well as recreational matters.

Now the young man rubbed his knuckles against the blue rag tied around his crown and scooped up the entire pile.

Janson could hear a few shouts: card-game incredulity.

This was a bizarrely self-destructive move at this point of the game - unless, that is, a player was certain he could get rid of the cards at once. Such certainty required extraordinary powers of observation and retention.

The game came to a halt. Even the soldiers at the smaller second table crowded around to watch. Each had a rifle, Janson saw as the men stood, and at least one side arm. The equipment looked worn but well maintained.

The young man flipped down cards, one after another, in a string of flawless sequences. It was like the moment in a pool match when a master pockets ball after ball, appearing to play a private game. And when the young man had finished, he had no cards left. He tossed back his head and grinned. A thirteen-card set: evidently his comrades had never seen such a thing, because they burst into applause - anger at having been defeated giving way to admiration at the deftness with which the defeat had been managed.

A simple game. A Kagama guerrilla leader who was also a champion proter player. Would he be as agile with the machine gun by his chair?

Through the fiber-optic spyglass, Janson took in the intent look on the young man's face as another round of cards was dealt. He could tell who would win if the set was ever finished.

He could also tell that these were not simple farmers, but seasoned veterans. It was evident even from the way their weaponry hung on their combat garb. They knew what they were doing. If they found themselves under siege and had only seconds to regroup, any one of them would take out the prisoner. From intercepts he had seen, it was likely to be their standing instructions.

He zoomed in on the acned young man, then swiveled again. Here were seventeen seasoned warriors, at least one of whom had almost supernal powers of observation and retention.

"We're fucked": Katsaris on the lip mike, expressionless and to the point.

"I'll be right over," Janson said, retracting the camera by a few inches into the recesses of the chute. His gut clenched into a small, hard ball.

Janson stood up as far as the space allowed, his joints aching from the extended crouch. The truth was, he was too old for this sort of expedition, too old by at least a decade. Why had he chosen to play this role, the most dangerous and demanding of them? He'd told himself that he was the only one who would be willing to do it, to face the odds; or rather, if he was not willing to,