The man in the photo was me.
FOUR
I’d seen an identical photo to the one the gunman was carrying a few years ago. Back then it had been found on a Russian security contractor in Ukraine. It was a surprise then and was no more welcome now. Lightning clearly did strike twice.
I’d told myself more than once that it was bound to happen some day; the bright light of exposure beaming down on me in spite of the efforts I’d made to stay in the shadows. The world was now so infested with cameras recording our every move, staying out of sight was no longer as simple as it had once been. Sooner or later your likeness will pop up somewhere, caught by accident or intent and filed automatically, to be twinned eventually by a facial recognition software system in a law enforcement or intelligence agency data bank.
But this was no twin; it was an original. I knew that because I recognized the place where it had been taken: it was outside a CIA front office in New York City and I’d been on the way in to meet Brian Callahan, one of their Clandestine Service Officers. The shot had been lifted from the agency’s security cameras at the entrance and I hadn’t known then how it had got out to a Russian security contractor in Ukraine. Fact was, I still didn’t know.
I put it in my pocket. There would be time to think about it in detail later. For now I had to get out of here to a place of safety. But first it would help if the shooter told me who he was and who he worked for.
I was too late. When I looked down his eyes had gone slack and dull and there was no chest movement. I bent close to him. He’d stopped breathing. I debated covering him with stones but the predators in these hills would soon rip them away. It would also take too much time which was something I might not have. If the shooter had someone waiting for him, say a back-up staying with whatever transport had got him here, they’d eventually come looking when he didn’t report in. I thought it odd that he didn’t have a phone or a radio on him, but maybe he’d forgotten it or left it behind for safe keeping.
I used my phone to take a photo of the man’s face. It wasn’t a trophy but a potential means of identifying him and the people behind him. If he was an official assassin it was possible there might be a picture of him on the vast databases which western intelligence agencies spend millions of dollars and man-hours building and feeding. It was a big if, but if he was in there it would eventually show up. Then I got the hell out of there. I paused long enough to survey my surroundings, then jogged across the hill to the track where I’d left my car.
I scanned the area where I’d left it in the lee of a rocky outcrop at the side of the track and waited. I couldn’t see any other vehicles but I wasn’t about to go rushing out there and get my head blown off. Wherever the shooter had left his ride it was out of sight somewhere and I didn’t have time to look for it.
I crossed the track to see if anybody had touched the Land Cruiser. There were no broken windows, which was a good sign, and when I peered beneath the chassis I couldn’t see any little black-box type surprises. I’d taken the precaution of throwing a handful of dust on the door handles before leaving for my observation point, but they were untouched. I jumped in and closed the door carefully.
Just as I pushed the key in the ignition I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.
A man had stepped out from a depression in the rock wall.
He was busy zipping up his pants so I guessed he hadn’t heard me arrive or spotted me. Nor, it seemed, if he’d heard the shooting, had he been concerned enough to go take a look.
I eased back in my seat and watched him, assessing my chances. I knew he wasn’t here for the scenery because he had an AK-74 assault rifle hanging from his shoulder on a webbing sling. If he had a back-up weapon it was probably out of sight beneath his jacket. Like the other man he was dressed in a camo jacket and pants, two peas out of the same military-style pod.
There was no time to get out and hide, but being inside the car was no protection either. If he saw me and got the rifle into play, the bullets would punch holes through both door panels and out the other side. On the way they would rip off shards of metal and other debris to spray the inside of the car with shrapnel and put me out of action.
I bit down on my impatience to move and waited for him to get closer. He’d have to unsling the rifle to do anything, and providing he wasn’t too far off I had a good chance of taking him by surprise. When I heard the crunch of grit beneath his boots getting closer I clicked the door open and stepped out. It had occurred to me as soon as I saw him that there might be a third man somewhere and I didn’t want to use the gun in my pocket if I could avoid it. I also wanted to get him to talk and find out what was going on here and why the shooter was carrying my photo.
He had his head down surveying the ground for footprints, and
