“The transmitters in the flies are very low power. This picks them up and uploads to a satellite. The data is then fed through a computer which will look for anomalies — in other words, if anything changes, the program will sound an alert. We have to call our friend Mr. Austin and let him know it’s set so he can bring it on-line. It’s probably overkill, but you’re the sniper expert.”
“You don’t think they’re going to scan the site before the president comes?” asked Dean. “They’ll find the bugs.”
“I think they’ll be looking for bombs, not surveillance gear,” said Lia. “But that’s why we used the low- powered flies. They’re very difficult to detect, especially if there are other systems in the area. One of the people we saw inside was from the BBC service, so you know the media will have a feed. And then there are the security people themselves.”
“Any one of whom may be an assassin.”
“These guys, maybe,” said Lia. “But hopefully Kurakin’s people will be on top of them. There’s only so much we can do. Come on — let’s go check the apartments.”
“You got a nice butt, you know,” he said, following her.
“So do you, honey.”
66
The taxi screeched and spun and collided with something as Karr tried to grab Martin and avoid the bullets at the same time. He jerked up and bent forward, twisting with the impact of the shots against his armor. He found himself falling out of the car as the door swung open with the collision. The edge of the door smacked his head and he rolled onto the pavement, everything black for a second. He managed to get one eye open, his right, saw feet running away. Karr crawled and then got up, began running toward the blurry image. A car swerved to avoid something — maybe him — and slammed into the taxi and then another vehicle that had also stopped.
They were on a highway overlooking a ravine. Martin ran along the shoulder. Karr pointed his gun and fired. The gun clicked, but he pulled the trigger several more times, somehow not convinced that it was empty.
Martin went over the guardrail a few yards ahead of him, pushing down the shallow embankment and running along a garbage-strewn streambed. Rats scattered as he ran.
“It’s no use,” shouted Karr. “You know you can’t get away, asshole.”
Martin kept going. Karr followed. About halfway down he lost his footing on the slick rocks and slammed the side of his head as he fell. He pulled himself up in time to see Martin duck to the right past a large culvert pipe and disappear. Not sure now whether Martin was armed and planning to ambush him, Karr walked forward cautiously. As he did he changed the clip in his gun, loading his spare, which had real bullets.
“Martin, come on now. What’s your story?” said Karr as he came forward. He had his gun aimed at the spot, hoping to provoke Martin from his position. When that didn’t work, the NSA op bent low, looking to see if he might squeeze through the culvert pipe; it looked too low and narrow. He edged to the side, then threw himself across the space, gun steadied by his two hands, expecting to see Martin aiming his own weapon point-blank in his face.
Martin wasn’t there. Karr’s shoulder crashed hard on a sharp rock and his head banged against the ground, but there was so much adrenaline flooding through his veins that he didn’t feel any pain. He pulled himself up and began walking along the crevice that held the long pipe, not sure exactly where Martin could be hiding. He managed to wedge himself up at a spot about halfway down, climbing to the top. His eyes had cleared now, but the side of his head and the front of his neck were sticky with blood.
Karr felt Martin behind him, waiting for the best chance to fire point-blank into his head. As he reached the top of the cement pipe he spun around, leveled his own weapon, saw nothing. He spun back so fast his head began to float, but Martin wasn’t there, either.
A trail ran through the scrubby grass on the embankment opposite the pipe. Karr leaped across, climbing up seven or eight feet to the top.
A ravine lay down the other side. At its foot was a train yard.
Someone ran from the base of the hill.
Scumbag, thought Karr, starting down after him.
There were voices above. Martin’s contact?
He couldn’t take any chances now — he’d have to kill the asshole.
Martin had about three hundred yards on him, but Karr closed the gap to about a hundred quickly, following as Mar tin ran beyond a row of empty freight cars and then onto a train bridge.
“Give it up, dickhead,” Karr muttered, complaining to himself and feeding his anger and adrenaline. The bridge had a two-by-six down the middle of the rails for workers; as long as you didn’t look down, it was a relatively easy run. Martin was tiring; by the time he reached the end of the bridge and jumped off to another embankment, Karr was only a few yards behind.
Until now, Karr had been pretty oblivious to what else might be going on in the yard. But as he began to slide down the hill he saw a pair of tractor-trailers coming down the road that ran along the base. Martin reached the roadway just as the second passed. He tried to jump on the back but missed or slipped, falling to the pavement.
Karr leaped down to the road and reached to grab him as a third truck appeared. The driver laid on its air horn; Karr scooped at Martin but missed. As the truck barreled toward him he threw himself backward and fell out of the way.
He was sure he’d find Martin flattened in the middle of the road when the trailer passed. Instead, Karr saw him running along another run of railroad tracks.
“What are you, Superman? Jesus.” Karr crossed the road as Martin doubled back to the left and disappeared.
Finally running out of breath, Karr walked to the track. There was yet another embankment off the side where Martin had gone. A road ran across at the base of the hill.
Martin lay at the edge. Superman had tripped and knocked himself out.
Well, there was a break, thought Karr; he’d managed to get Martin alive after all. A quick shot from the syringe he had in his pocket and they’d head for the embassy.
Karr started sidestepping down. When he was ten feet away, Martin jumped to his feet. Karr didn’t even get a curse out of his mouth before the son of a bitch began running back up the opposite embankment.
There were cars on the road above. Karr couldn’t take the chance that one of them was waiting for Martin.
“Stop!” he yelled, aiming his gun.
Martin swung back, his.32 aimed at Karr’s face. The agent brought him down with a bullet square to the chest.
“Suck,” he said as Martin tumbled down past him dramatically. Karr momentarily turned his attention toward the road above, expecting someone to come over the side. With one eye on Martin, he edged up the hill, trying to see whether the bastard did indeed have a tail.
If he had, he’d fled. The road was empty.
Martin lay spread-eagled below, his face toward the sky and his legs sticking back up the hill.
“About fucking time,” Karr told Martin when he reached him. There was a black circle of blood on his shirt, but Karr took nothing for granted. He stomped on Martin’s right forearm, wanting to make sure the bastard was really out before he lifted him up and out.
It was only then that Karr conceded that Martin was probably dead. Cursing himself, he bent down for a pulse.
Nothing.
But then, this guy had been written off as dead before. Karr got down on his hands and knees and checked again.
Dead.
All that stinking work and he managed to croak anyway. It would have been easier to nail him back at the Russian Marine base.
