Deep Black

“What kind of access to weapons would this guy have?” Dean asked Lia.

“What do you mean?”

“Could he get a Western rifle?”

“It’s best to assume he could get anything he wanted,” she said. “Why?”

“We’ve been thinking of a Russian gun. They’re accurate at eight hundred, a thousand meters. If he used a long-range American weapon he could almost double that.”

“And still be accurate?”

“Accuracy depends on the shooter, and there are always trade-offs. But yes.”

Lia found a place to park. They checked the first site again using the new range criteria; there wasn’t a tall enough building there.

“So basically, we just extend the circle on the Education Building,” she said.

“These two buildings,” Dean said, leaning close to show her.

She gently leaned her head against his chest as she examined the screen.

“Let’s do it,” she said, pulling up right and hitting the gas.

69

The satellite image showing the troop movement came into the Art Room about ten seconds before the translated intercept was delivered, and in that small space Rubens feared that they had missed something, that their massive network of sensors and stations had somehow failed to pick up the command for the coup to begin — or worse, that they had picked up the signal but failed to interpret it properly.

But then it was like the start of a thunderstorm, information pouring in from every direction, more units starting to move.

“We have confirmation,” said Rubens, looking at Hadash. “Launch Piranha. Initiate the rest of the attacks.”

Hadash nodded. Telach pushed her button. The Piranha unit, ensconced in its own bunker in another part of Crypto City, unleashed the viruses. Within thirty seconds, Russian computer systems began to overload and fail. Meanwhile, the jammers began disrupting communications, and the other virus attacks were launched.

“Time to alert Kurakin,” Rubens told Hadash.

Hadash nodded. He told the aide on the other end of his phone line to put President Marcke on.

“They’re putting through the call now,” said Hadash. He listened for a second, then relayed a question from President Marcke. “Where is Kurakin?”

“Still at the Kremlin,” said Rubens.

“Negative,” corrected Telach. “He’s just getting into his limo to go out to the Education Building. We have that marked in sector three. He has a passenger.”

“Who?” asked Rubens.

“We’re working on it,” said Telach. She had to practically shout to make her voice heard over the din. “But we think it’s Vladimir Perovskaya, the defense minister.”

“Can’t be,” said Rubens. “He’s orchestrating the coup.”

70

Dean craned his head upward, not so much looking at the buildings as absorbing them into his brain. If he were the sniper, where would he be?

He was a sniper a million years ago under completely different circumstances, called on to do completely different things.

If he were the sniper, where would he be?

The buildings had about equal views, if the simulation on Lia’s handheld computer was accurate. So Dean would opt for the apartment building — there’d be less coming and going during the middle of the day.

Three, possibly four rows of windows would have a shot. Which would he take?

Dean would go to either the most obvious place, which would be dead center in the top row, or a considerably more obscure spot at the left side of the building, where the window offered a narrower view but probably just as good an angle.

His position would depend on all sorts of things, starting simply with access.

If he were the sniper, he’d think about how he was going to get away. One of his instructors had pointed out, aeons ago, probably on the first day they met, that you weren’t really successful unless you lived.

“How do we get in?” Dean asked Lia when she returned from casing the block. There was nothing suspicious.

“We just go in,” she told him. “Why this one?”

“Because it’s an apartment building,” said Dean. “Less people to run into.”

“No, it’s crammed with people,” she said. “These especially — they get four or five families to an apartment. You could have six people in a room. He couldn’t chance someone coming in, even if he took the others hostage.”

Dean shrugged. Lia played with her handheld for a few seconds. “That building is mostly vacant.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s on our inventory of government buildings.”

She turned the screen toward him, but Dean didn’t bother looking at it; he’d already turned to examine the building.

A little higher than the apartment building, different angles but essentially the same choices.

Lia nudged him toward it. “We only have time for one. Austin says Kurakin’s on his way.” She began to trot; Dean fell in alongside.

Was this the ultimate irony: two Americans — hell, the entire NSA, CIA, and God knew who else — working to save the life and government of a Russian president?

In Dean’s day, the Americans would have applauded if there was a coup; they might even have engineered it.

This was Dean’s day. Still. He was in it as deeply as he’d ever been.

The door was carded. Lia took a card with a set of wires on it from her pocketbook. She inserted the card into the reader, the wires hanging down, then attached what looked like a small, thin travel clock to the wires. There was a loud buzz; the lock popped on the door.

“Which floor?” she asked, trotting toward the steps.

“Top,” said Dean. “There’s no elevator?”

“I doubt it works,” she said. “Come on.”

Dean was huffing by the third floor, and there were twenty-something to go. On the fifth landing he stopped for a breath and looked through the doorway. There was an elevator about halfway down.

“Hey!” he shouted to Lia. “Let’s check the elevator.”

“Go ahead!” she yelled, still running.

He walked out into the foyer, still huffing. As he punched the button, someone emerged from an office a few doors down. Dean tried to turn his grimace into a smile as the man approached, praying the man wouldn’t say anything that he’d have to respond to. As he reached to punch the button again the elevator door opened. Dean stepped in and jabbed the button for the top floor.

As the doors started to close, the man began to shout and run toward the car. Dean hit the close-doors button, pretending at the same time to put his hand out as if to stop the car. The man jammed his hand against one of the doors but failed to hold it; he jerked his hand away and they traded puzzled looks as the car began to move even before the doors had fully closed.