The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,72

visible to him, dividing it up like a quadrate grid, to the point that his eyes began to ache.

At four o'clock, a worried-looking Agger came into view; he was carrying his navy linen jacket flung over a shoulder, his blue striped shirt dappled with sweat, no doubt a vexing development for the fastidious analyst, who seldom ventured far from the air-conditioned ambit of office and residence.

Now, as Janson could see from his perch in the pines above, Agger sat down on the long marble bench by the fountain, breathing heavily, looking around for his old drinking companion.

Janson lowered himself to the ground

The man with the artist's pad: Muscle? Surveillance only? The fact that he was Greek concerned him. The observers on the street were, he had ascertained, Americans, part of the standard military intelligence detail attached to U.S. embassies. They weren't amateurs, but they displayed no high level of professional skill, either. They were, he had concluded, the best that could be summoned on extreme short notice. Athens sector hadn't had advance word that he'd be in town; after all, he had made the decision himself, at the spur of the moment, only twelve hours previously.

But these Greeks: Who were they? Not CIA employees. These were professionals, to whom a job had been outsourced. The kind of men you kept at arm's length - until you needed them. Often that meant a sanction, an act that no official members of a security detail could be entrusted with.

But Janson was getting ahead of himself, he knew: there was no cause for a sanction order. Not yet, anyway.

Janson crawled on his belly along the untamed arbor, staying close to a long retaining wall made of piled shale. The scrub of maquis impeded his progress. Blades of crabgrass tickled his nose; tall weeds sprouted in clumps every few feet, and Janson took care not to flag his presence by disturbing them. Two minutes later, he raised his head quickly above the berm line, verifying that he was within a few feet of the man with the sketchpad. That man was standing now, the stick of charcoal having been carelessly dropped to the ground like a cigarette butt.

The Greek's back was to him, and he could see how powerfully built the young "artist" was. The man's gaze was resolutely on Agger, on the marble bench before the fountain, and his muscles seemed strained for immediate response. Then Janson saw him reach for something under his caftanlike shirt.

Janson lifted a large piece of shale from the rock terrace, taking care to maintain absolute silence; any unexpected noise, such as the sound of two rocks rubbing against each other, would cause the Greek to whirl around instantly. Janson hoisted the rock above his head and flung it with all his strength, aiming for the back of his neck. The man had begun to turn when the shale struck him, and he staggered to the ground. Janson stepped over the low wall and seized the man by his hair, clamping his forearm against his mouth. He flipped him over the wall and onto his back.

He yanked a flat-sided gun - a powerful automatic pistol, a Walther P99 - from the man's trouser band and saw that it had a perforated cylinder permanently attached. A silenced weapon: meant to be used, not displayed - a weapon for fulfilling threats, not simply making them. The man was a professional, with professional equipment. Janson ran his fingers along the man's embroidered collar, feeling for the microphone, and made sure that the contactor switch had not been activated. He flipped over the fabric, exposing a small blue-black plastic disk with a copper wire running out from it.

"Tell your friend it's an emergency!" he said, whispering in his ear. He knew that the task would not have been outsourced to people who did not speak English and might misunderstand orders. "Let him know that you have been betrayed! As you have been!"

"Den omilo tin Aggliki," the man said.

Janson pushed his knee against the man's throat until he gagged. "Don't speak English? Then I guess there's no reason for me not to kill you."

The man's eyes widened. "No! Please, I do what you say."

"And remember. Katalaveno ellinika." I understand Greek. A half-truth, anyway.

Pressing the hidden contactor toward the front of his collar, the Greek activated his microphone and began to speak, the urgency made more intense as Janson gouged his Walther into his temple.

Once the message was relayed, he slammed the Greek assassin