Deep Black (32 page)

74

The car pulled into the lot flanked by two larger limousines carrying the security people. The assassin slid his finger ever
so slightly against the edge of the trigger.

This was the difficult moment, the point at which time suspended itself. The moment could stretch to an infinity.

The reticule—the American scope used crosshairs rather than the pointer familiar on older Russian devices—was zeroed in on
the left side of the car. He had a good, clean view, would see his target’s face clearly before firing.

One shot. Then out. He could feel the people who’d been sent to get him already working the building, waiting for him to come.
They’d have the entrances guarded, be on the roof. But he was ready.

One of the bodyguards knocked on the car window, then moved away. There were others nearby, six or seven people, bodyguards
and aides now trotting through the courtyard from another vehicle, a small bus. He ignored them all, waiting for the door
to open. Finally, it cracked. His target put his foot on the pavement, hesitated.

There was a noise in the distance as the moment floated in its infinity. A bodyguard moved. The target remained in the limo.
The assassin’s finger remained steady on the trigger.

75

“Back!” she hissed at Dean, sliding down the wall. He threw himself to the floor as she whipped her knife at the glass.

The doorway exploded. Dean jumped up and ran, following her inside, shooting blindly, knowing that the sniper would be somewhere
near the window in the front of the room.

But he wasn’t—this room connected to another, just beyond.

The sniper loomed at the side, an MP-5 in his hand. As Lia fell to Dean’s left, a bullet spun Dean so fiercely he slammed
against the wall.

God, Lia.

Dean saw the sniper retreat—not from the apartment but back to his post, starting to sight his weapon. He wedged his left
arm beneath him and fired his pistol with his right, knowing that the bullet would miss.

It did, but the second caught the sniper in the side. As he fell against his gun he fired, and the room reverberated with
the report of the massive gun.

Dean’s third bullet struck just at the lambda where the rear sections of the bone came together. Fragments flew through the
sniper’s brain; by the time Dean’s next bullet caught the assassin in the spinal cord he was already dead.

Dean’s first instinct was to look through the man’s scope to see what was going on. Something grabbed him as he bent toward
it.

Lia.

Lia?

“No prints,” she said.

“You’re OK?”

“He just got my vest. Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Did he hit or miss?”

“Just go—we can’t do anything about it now.” She pulled him toward the outside room.

“Wait,” he said. He nodded back at the sniper, who had crumpled sideways to the floor, one hand still up on his gun. “There
are people waiting for him.”

“How do you know that?”

“He chose this room because he could escape from it without being stopped. The question is, how?”

76

Malachi Reese felt his head starting to pound as the flight crossed east toward the Urals, rushing toward a group of four
MiG-27s that had just taken off from Nizhni Tagil. The planes were fighter-bombers, old but fully capable of dropping several
tons’ worth of munitions on any number of targets, military or civilian.

At the moment it wasn’t clear where the MiGs were headed or even if they were part of the coup; their unit had not been ID’d
earlier and so escaped the general jamming and confusion campaign. The Art Room was trying to sort it all out, but at the
moment their orders were to shoot the MiGs down.

Train had the two lead F-47Cs, both of which were armed with Sidewinders and AMRAAMs. Malachi had the second half of the group,
which were flying with laser-guided Pave-ways for ground attack if needed, along with a pair of Sidewinders each. Malachi
would take over as Train’s wingman when the flight closed to attack. The computer would handle the two planes configured for
ground attack, basically holding them as reserves against these relatively weak opponents.

The lead planes were at 60,000 feet, moving at Mach 2; they’d intercept the MiGs in about five minutes.

“I want to go to active radar to get us an attack vector,” Riddler told Train. He needed permission because the radar would
make it easier for the MiGs and other Russian assets to detect them. Thus far they had not been seen by the defenses.

“Roger that,” said Train. “You awake over there, Mala-chi?”

“Wide awake.”

“Get into Two and take my wing on my mark. Go to auto-flight first.”

The step-by-step instruction was unnecessary, but Malachi took no offense. He took control of his fighter as Riddler activated
the radar in Bird Four. The precise plot found the MiGs slightly closer and faster than they had thought, moving at 500 knots
at flight level twenty-five degrees to the south of Bird One’s nose. The planes were flying a combat trail; from above it
would look like a somewhat disjointed string.

“No data on weapons,” said Riddler. “Still looking for their radar. Negative on that.”

The MiGs gave no indication that they “saw” the Birds’ radar or even knew the planes existed. Malachi’s hand tensed on his
control stick. Missing his music, he started to play a vintage Clash song in his head, “Police on My Back,” as mixed and rehashed
by XtaVigage, thrash rappers from Miami.

“Bandits are beginning a turn east,” said Riddler. “Accelerating.”

Malachi had them on his screen, four red triangles that moved in slow staccato in the lower right quadrant.

“Stay with me, Malachi.”

“On you.”

They traded quick updates on speed and position, accelerating slightly. They were beyond visual range; the AMRAAMs could be
launched at will.

“They may be heading back to their base,” said Riddler. “Getting data now on instructions, voice instructions. They may have
an order to return back.”

“Whacker, ask Desk Three if we’re cleared to shoot them down. I want a direct yes.”

“Yeah.”

“Hang tight, guys,” said Riddler. “Hang tight. Their altitude is dropping.”

Malachi leaned forward in his seat as they continued to close the distance on the bandits. Whacker had opened a small pop-up
target data screen on the main flight view; the computer had designated and locked its tracking mode on the bandits. A white
box at the center of the screen plotted where Malachi should be in the formation; he was pushing forward a little too fast
and a little high, and the computer began blinking the box to scold him.

“Break off the attack,” said Riddler. “We have confirmation that they’re returning to base.”

“Desk Three says not to fire,” said Whacker.

“Shit,” said Malachi.

“Enough of that,” said Train. “We’ll maintain our course eastward and make sure they do land. Get me a vector to their base.”

77

As Rubens started to tell Telach he needed to talk to the Bird strike team, something exploded in the right corner of the
picture on the screen at the front of the Art Room. Realizing he was seeing the assassination attempt, Rubens stopped and
focused on the screen, where a video feed from a CIA-planted video fly covering part of the courtyard was now being displayed.
The view was partly blocked off and delayed a second and a half because of all the encryption and the routing, but it was
clear enough for him to see Perovskaya standing a few feet from where the bullet had hit, his arms jerking up out of shock.

For a moment, Rubens worried that there would be another shot. Then the bodyguards started to move, pushing the defense minister
back into the car and out of the frame.

“Lia and Dean got the assassin,” said Rockman, nearly shouting. “He got the shot off, but they got him. He’s down.”

Rubens turned to Hadash nearby. “Tell President Marcke to ask to speak to Perovskaya. Otherwise, they’ll kill him. He was
the target—if Kurakin wants him dead it must be to our advantage that he’s alive. Quickly.”

Hadash started to relay the message. On the screen behind him, cars whipped by. The video transmission suddenly stopped—the
Russians must’ve turned on a wide-spectrum jammer.

Rubens turned to Telach. “Where’s the Bird strike force?”

She hot-keyed a sitrep map onto the now-blank main screen. It showed the four-plane flight almost over the Urals.

“Put up the Wave Three target. And the laser facilities themselves.”

The planes were sixty-three miles to the southwest of one site and another hundred miles farther west of the other. The command
bunker, the target of the Wave Three mission, was in the middle.

Take the two sites. Now.

“Telach, what channel is the Bird commander on?”

“What’s going on?” asked Hadash.

“Two-two-alpha,” said Telach.

“Listen in,” Rubens told him.

78

“He had a way to use the air shaft,” Dean told Lia. “It runs along this wall somewhere.”

“How do you know?” asked Lia.

“Because if he chose his spot according to what the best sight line was, he would have gone higher.”

“Maybe he thought there were people there.”

“There weren’t, remember?”

“Maybe this door was easier to fix.”

“Nah.” Dean looked at the wall where the air shaft would be. It seemed solid, but maybe there was a trapdoor or something.
He put his ear against it and began banging with his fist, looking for a hole.

“No,” said Lia.

“They’ll be waiting at the exits.”

“The roof?”

“Check with your gizmo.”

She fiddled with her screen while Dean looked for a hollow spot. There didn’t seem to be one, nor was there a closet.

So what was the dead bastard thinking? Maybe it did have to do with the door or the interior; maybe there was no partition
in the other office.

Dean stepped out of the office, trying to put himself in the assassin’s head. He knew his business very well. The only thing
that had tripped him up was something so far out of the range of possibilities that he never could have foreseen it—American
agents trying to save a Russian president’s butt.

He’d definitely have had a slick way out.

The next office was on the corner of the building. Dean went to the door; it was unlocked. This office was very similar to
the other, except that it had a window on the side. Dean stood in the middle of the room, his mind blank, as if the solution
would just float into it. There were footsteps in the hallway—Lia’s. He turned, saw something coiled behind the door.

A short run of chain and a spike.

“What’s going on?” said Lia.

“It’s like a fire escape.” Dean grabbed the chain and went to the window. It opened easily. He looked below the ledge and
found a small, deep hole; the spike went in easily. The chain fell to the ledge of the window below.

“Downstairs,” he said, turning back into the room. “His way out is downstairs. You go first.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, come on—the chain’s held by a spike. I’ll hold it up for you, then come out myself.”

Lia looked at him doubtfully but went to the window. Dean closed the door behind her, locking the latch. She was already outside
by the time he got back, hanging off the ledge and trying the chain.

“I think it’ll pull right out,” she said.

“Yeah, probably,” said Dean.

“It only goes down to the next floor.”

“Yeah. Go.” He dropped to his knees and bent over, grasping the chain with both hands and trying to brace himself against
the wall. “Go!”

“Hey.”

He looked up. Her face was next to his.

“Good luck,” she said. She leaned forward to kiss him.

He gave her a peck in return. “Go.”

“Some kiss, Charlie Dean,” she said, disappearing. “Work on it.”

She looked small, but her weight nearly pulled the chain out of his hands. He kept his head up, not watching. He heard her
break the glass and the pressure released on his fingers.

Dean heard something in the hallway outside as he rose. The spike had bent slightly, but it was still in place. He slid over
the side and started down. As his shoes hit the top pane of the glass he could feel the chain slip. He felt for the opening
with his feet, got into the office, and tugged the spike out, letting the chain fall to the ground.

“Here,” said Lia. She was on the opposite end of the room, pulling at the wallboard. A piece of thick cellophane tape came
off in her hand, revealing a seam; Lia pulled back and the board fell to the floor, revealing the metal of the air shaft.
She started tapping to try to find the opening; Dean gave it a kick with his heel and the metal caved in on the side and bottom.
He cut two of his fingers trying to get it out of the way; finally he just let it fall down the shaft.

“Up or down?” asked Lia.

Dean looked into the shaft. It was about three-foot square, a tight squeeze for his shoulders.

“Down, I think,” said Dean. “Because they’d go to the top, thinking he might run up the stairs.”

“Hold on,” said Lia. She took her handheld out, staring at it.

“Come on. Screw the high-tech crap.” Dean got into the hole and started downward. “We can’t wait.”

“They’re above,” she said. “Four men on the roof. At least two others on the top floor.”

“Good to know we figured it out,” said Dean. He sidled his way downward, slipping every third or fourth move. He soon realized
that there were small connecting ducts and irregular joints that made it easier to get a grip; he began using them and made
safer, though slightly slower, progress. For about the first fifty feet he descended in darkness. Then a pin of light played
downward—Lia had retrieved a small flashlight.

It wasn’t much help at first; all it illuminated was more darkness. Finally the light made a kind of arrow below; it was the
panel he’d kicked in, blocking their way.

Dean pushed it aside with his foot but couldn’t get it quite far enough away. He slammed it with his heel, but even though
he bent it, the panel stubbornly continued to block the path. Finally he tried wedging it down, putting most of his weight
against it. It slid a few feet, then got stuck again. Even with all of his weight he couldn’t budge it.

“Son of a bitch,” he said.

“Sshhh,” she hissed.

Dean kicked at it, then began to try to squeeze past. His legs hit something else.

They were at the bottom.

So where the hell was the door?

Was there a door?

“That flashlight,” said Dean.

“They’re up there.”

“Give me the light.”

She dropped it. He saw it at the last second and grabbed for it, but it kicked off his fingers and bounced on the ground.
He had to contort his body to reach it; as he started to examine the shaft he heard the growls above them, curses in Russian.

Dean spotted a crack in the wall and pushed against it, but the metal didn’t give. He threw his head back and hit the wall—it
gave a little.

He turned and looked at the metal behind him. It seemed solid, and while it did flex when he put his hand against it, there
was no opening that he could find.

“Here,” Lia was saying. “Here.”

She was a few feet above him, in a hole.

“It’s here; it’s here,” she said, leaning down. But instead of trying to pull him up, she turned toward the top and fired
her gun.

The rumble nearly broke his eardrums. Dean pushed upward, squeezing through the hole just as gunfire erupted down the shaft.

They were in a basement. Lia had another flashlight. No larger than a cigarette, its light played along the walls as she looked
for some sort of opening. There were stairs upward, obviously back into the building. Another set led to the side, probably
to an alley. Lia started for it and Dean began to follow, though he knew the Russians would be watching it.

“This would be a good time to call for backup,” he told Lia.

“I already have.”

Lia had reached the door when Dean saw a piece of plywood against the far wall. He ran to it and pulled it away.

There was a grate in front of a hole. It didn’t fit right; he pulled it away and tossed it down.

“This way,” he told Lia, ducking inside.