Karr rifled Martin’s pockets. There was nothing there except for a small key and a pocketknife.
Karr rose and took some pictures with his miniature digital camera. Another truck was approaching on the road where he’d almost gotten run over. As it passed, he fired two bullets point-blank into the dead man’s skull, just to make absolutely sure, then got the hell out of there.
67
He checked his watch. Two hours were left now before his target would come. The security people were already in place, most of their sweeps already done.
The assignment itself was straightforward. He was not concerned with completing it.
Afterward — that was a more difficult problem. For certainly his employer would not want him to complicate the delicate situation.
He had no doubt he could make it out of the building. Beyond that, the difficulty would increase.
His wife and son were already safe. When he eventually joined them, a deal would be arranged — the money he was owed in exchange for silence.
He doubted his employer would concede easily. But that was a problem for later.
It was possible, of course, that he would not be followed, that the rest of the money would arrive in the accounts as promised. Unlikely, but possible. The assassin by necessity planned for the alternative.
Something moved on the street. The sniper looked down from his perch toward the street as a garbage truck moved slowly past.
Two hours, no more. He rolled his head around his neck, listening to the joints crack, then sat back to wait.
68
In the hands of a skilled operator, the SVD Dragunov guaranteed a hit at 800 meters. They gave themselves another 400 meters to work with, but even so, came up with only two rows of apartments with a view of the main speaking area that weren’t already under CIA surveillance.
Lia produced a new set of IDs ostensibly showing that they were with state security. They were let into six apartments and picked the locks on two others without finding anything.
The roof was already staked out by Russian security personnel. Lia exchanged some quick and heated comments with them as Dean looked around; if there was a sniper setup he didn’t see it. The building blocked any other sight lines for at least a mile.
“I still think his own security people are the problem,” said Dean as they left.
“More likely this is all just bullshit,” said Lia.
When they reached the car, Lia took her denim jacket from the back and pulled it on, initiating the high-tech com gear that connected her to the Art Room. She got in the car and started talking. By the time Dean got in, the conversation was over and she had more than her usual frown on her face.
“Trouble?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“It must be a pain in the ass having them in your ear all the time,” he said.
She still didn’t answer.
“Where we going?”
“To go hold the CIA’s hand,” she said. “They’re getting nervous now that things are heating up.”
“We ought to check out the other site first,” said Dean. “Near the building they’re dedicating.”
Lia began threading her way through a set of narrow streets. They weren’t particularly crowded, but progress was slow anyway. As they waited in a queue to turn, Lia reached to her pocket and took out her handheld. She put her thumb in the middle of the screen, then held it on the steering wheel and wrote something with the stylus. As they turned the corner, she gave it to Dean.
“Pull down the satellite image of the area,” said Lia.
“How?”
She walked him through the steps, which involved initiating a program and then using pull-down menus. She had already stored the site images; the toolbar included buttons to update and review them. The checkbook program Dean used for his business back home was more difficult to use.
He studied the images.
“They can secure it pretty easily,” Dean told her.
He began playing with the resolutions. It was like a miniature video game, the computer cobbling different views based on its data. The 3-D screen was difficult to see except at an angle; the lines and colors were clear, but the screen was simply too small for much detail. It seemed to him likely that the president would arrive at the rear, where the position could be covered by security better than the front. He would come in through a courtyard that could be easily controlled. That put three buildings within the eight hundred or so yards within which the Dragunov was effective.
The roofs of these buildings were very steep, which meant that only the insides were suitable for a sniper. Since they were government buildings, presumably they could be easily inspected. According to Lia, the CIA people had done just that and had surveillance cams in the hallways, though they couldn’t be accessed by the handheld.
Dean pulled out the resolutions, looking at the streets and trying to psyche out the route a motorcade would take. As he didn’t know anything about Moscow traffic patterns, it was all a jumble. Even if the guy weren’t riding in a well-protected limo, there looked to be at least a dozen different ways for him to get to either of the sites; no sniper would take a chance on picking out one without reliable inside information.
No. If he was setting up to kill Kurakin, he’d have to take him either at one of those appearances, or back at the Kremlin.
If Dean were doing it, what would he do?
The construction site offered a lot of opportunity. But the security people would know that and set up a good net. Even if he got his shot he’d never get away.
The Education Building, the site they were looking at — he’d have one good shot in the courtyard. But again, the security people would have it psyched out. They’d draw a circle around the rifle’s range just as he had, find the three buildings, and watch them.
Unless you nailed him on the street leading to the back courtyard. Hit him through the car with a tank gun. Or Bar-rett. The.50-caliber bullet could get through an engine block and would probably make it through the roof of the reinforced Mercedes Kurakin used.
Or maybe not.
As a young Marine Corps sniper in Vietnam, Dean had worked primarily with a Model 70 Winchester — personalized, of course. In the callused hands of a professional, it ranked among the most accurate rifles ever produced, as long as it could be properly maintained and fine-tuned. He could hit his mark at a thousand yards, give or take. The M40A1 that replaced it was more dependable primarily because its fiberglass stock didn’t constantly pull the barrel out of line like the wood. The weapon of choice among the current generation was the M24, a somewhat lighter gun than its predecessors. But given the best circumstances, none of these weapons would guarantee a hit beyond the thousand yards or so of Dean’s day.
A Barrett 82A1, however, could make a kill at 2,000. During the Gulf War, the.50-caliber rifle adapted from the M2 machine gun had been used at least once to kill a man at 1,600 meters — roughly a mile.
If they moved the range out to 2,000 meters, the courtyard entrance would be in range of another office building.
Two, in fact.
