With a cup of coffee in hand, she said, 'Why don't you and I leave now? You've got those passports in the safety-deposit box. Let's clean it out when the bank opens and go.'
'Leave all this?'
'We wouldn't be leaving anything we couldn't do without or replace.'
'There's nowhere to hide. Not in this day and age.'
'Myron. Think this through.'
'I don't want to run,' he said. 'I'm too old.'
He dressed carefully in nondescript clothes, old tan slacks, lace-up leather shoes, a long-sleeve shirt, and a windbreaker to hide the pistol in the shoulder holster. He dusted his hands with talcum powder, then pulled on latex gloves. Only then did he carefully wipe the pistol and the shells and load it. Silencer, knife, he wiped them carefully. He did the wooden handles of the garrote too.
He should take a rifle, just in case. He went to the basement, unlocked the safe in an old potato cellar under the stairs, and stood looking.
He had three Remingtons standing there, all in.220 Swift, without a doubt the finest small-caliber round ever invented. Years ago he had learned that the rifle he could shoot best was the one that recoiled the least. The cartridge's only drawback was the semirimmed case, which was not a problem in a bolt action. He had built the rifles himself, installed composite stocks and custom triggers, hand-loaded the ammo with the new 55-grain Nosier bullets with plastic, frangible tips. All three were serious weapons — and untraceable. His favorite had a little scratch on the right side of the barrel… he automatically reached for it, wiped it down, picked up ten cartridges and pocketed them.
He left the house just at dawn. The woman stood in the doorway. She didn't wave, just stood there watching as he got out of the car and loaded it and drove away. At the end of the driveway he looked back, and she was gone. The door was closed.
Traffic was light. He had an address in Rosslyn, had a map…
Jesus, this was half-baked! He had never even been to the address before. For all he knew this guy lived next door to a police station.
He did know what the guy looked like. The Man had given him three photos last week. Just in case. And the guy was in the navy. That meant a uniform, although in that neighborhood there should be a lot of uniforms. He had the best photo with him, if he needed to refresh his memory. He had studied it and shouldn't need it.
Christ, if he were caught! A photo of the intended victim, an unlicensed, loaded pistol, an unlicensed silencer, a rifle… he would be lucky to draw a sentence of less than twenty years.
He knew the city well enough that he didn't make any wrong turns, but he did have to pull over once and consult the map.
The day was going to be gorgeous — the heat of summer had eased and the haze had blown out after the front went through yesterday. On such a day, why was he taking chances like this?
He parked as near as he could to the guy's building — so many dead cars had been hauled away that there were actually parking places — and sat looking things over. The nearest Metro station was two blocks down the street to the north. It wasn't running these days. There was a bus stop there too, and the city had brought in buses from all over. Of course, this guy could be driving one of these cars. Or have a limo picking him up. Or a car pool.
This is where he should be starting several weeks of observation of the subject, not looking for a fleeting opportunity to do him! Even if he dropped the guy here this morning, how was he going to get away? Walk back to the car and drive off? Into rush-hour traffic? In his own car? He certainly didn't have time to steal one.
Matheny put his head on the steering wheel and took a deep breath.
Relax! Just take it easy, watch, see if this guy gives you an opening. If he does, bang. If he doesn't, you'll learn enough so that you can do it safely in a few days. If The Man doesn't like it, tough shit. The bastard can pop this guy himself.
People were coming out of the buildings, streaming along the street. Traffic was building. Probably not as many people as usual; with the electricity off, many people weren't working or had left the city.
Now or never.
Myron Matheny checked that the pistol was loaded, made sure the safety was on. He screwed the silencer onto the barrel and lowered the pistol into the shoulder holster, which had a hole in the bottom to accommodate the silencer. The garroting wire was in his right jacket pocket. He got out of the car and locked it. He inserted four quarters in the parking meter, then walked up the slightly inclined sidewalk to the entrance of the guy's building.
The lobby was dark. Of course, the elevators weren't working. He began climbing the stairs. He would just wait until the guy came out of his apartment and follow him down the stairs. Shoot him in the back of the head and keep right on going. Out and into the car, drive away.
That was a plan. Baring something freaky, he had a fairly decent chance of getting away with it. Car pool, private car, bus, limo— however this guy was going to work wouldn't matter.
On the second flight of stairs he heard someone coming down, looked up… and there the guy was, wearing a white naval officer's uniform.
Two people were following him. Matheny stood aside to let the three men pass. The guy even made eye contact with him. Gray eyes under a naval officer's white hat with black rim, nose a little large. Then he moved by and the next two guys were trooping past. They didn't make eye contact.
Matheny put his hand on the butt of the pistol, trying to decide. All three? Right here?
Then it was too late. The guy in the lead, the guy he wanted to get, went around the landing and disappeared from view. There had been a four- or five-second window of opportunity, and he hadn't been able to make up his mind.
Shit!
There was another flight of stairs! He would do them then. All three. He leaped to follow the trio.
Only at the second floor, more people came through the fire door into the staircase, joined the procession going down. A woman was now in front of the guy, another woman got between the guy and the man behind him, and another man in uniform fell in behind the whole parade.
By the time Matheny exited the stairwell into the lobby, the guy was going through the front door of the building. He had plenty of company. There were a dozen people within thirty feet.
Out on the sidewalk the guy went over to the curb.
Okay, he's waiting for a car pool. Standing there, looking up the street.
Myron Matheny was three steps away, his hand on the pistol butt, when a white government pool car slid to a halt on the street, and the guy walked between two cars toward it.
The guy got into the backseat, pulled the door firmly closed, and the vehicle eased away into traffic, leaving Myron Matheny standing helplessly on the sidewalk.
He drove to Crystal City, had a hell of a time finding a place to park. Finally he put the car in a parking garage in a nearby building. He never saw the guy arrive at the building where he worked. Maybe he was there, maybe he wasn't, but Myron Matheny couldn't just climb the stairs and ask.
He stood on the sidewalk out front looking things over. The Crystal City area consisted of a dozen or so medium-sized office buildings, around twenty stories each. Some of them had limited outside parking; most people had to put their vehicles in multistoried garages. The Lee Highway ran north and south along the west side of the area. On the east side was Reagan National Airport. Just to the north was the Pentagon surrounded by several hundred acres of parking lot.
Beneath Crystal City was an underground shopping area, a mall with Metro stops at both ends. Without electricity the underground resembled a coal mine tunnel. The people who were in the buildings — perhaps half the usual number — had to eat somewhere, so one of the underground restaurant entrepreneurs had gotten permission to set up an outdoor eating area.
Myron Matheny watched as a crew of people unloaded two trucks. Barbecue grills were set up, filled with charcoal, and lit. Portable generators to run coolers, folding tables, boxes of food and paper plates, stacks of plastic
