“I had to shoot him,” said Karr. “No doubt about him being a scumbag. I’m guessing it went back some, too. They must’ve had a pretty important reason to blow the penetration on Wave Three, don’t you think?”
Rubens didn’t say anything. Obviously, he’d already figured that out.
That’s why he was the boss.
“Sorry I bothered you,” said Karr.
“Wait for Rockman,” said Rubens, going off the line.
As he waited for the runner, Karr looked up and saw that the woman was now peering at him from the doorway. She had a bag of ice in her hand — and a bottle of vodka in the other. Karr waved her over. What the hell.
Karr jerked away as the ice touched the side of his head, but the woman’s soft grip on his chin turned him back.
“Thanks,” he told her, forgetting for a moment and speaking in English. He repeated it in Russian, adding that she was an angel; the woman smiled and told him he was welcome.
73
Rubens pointed to Rockman, signaling him to take the line back. As he turned back toward Telach, Johnny Bib ran into the room.
“They’re using fractals,” shouted Johnny, arms flying crazily. His head bounced back and forth; he seemed to be having one of his fits.
Perfect timing.
“Excuse me, Johnny,” said Rubens.
“Look,” said Bib. He shoved some pictures in Rubens’ hand. “They’re at the base of the photos, these sequences down here. We’re working on them, but the significant thing isn’t the cipher, it’s the pictures.”
“These pictures are of Perovskaya,” said Rubens.
“It’s a setup to discredit him. They’ve just started to circulate. From the president’s office, with information about a coup.”
The pictures showed the defense secretary and a young male in bathing suits. Perovskaya had his hand around the man’s waist, reaching toward his crotch.
“Oh,” said Rubens aloud. “Oh.”
Rubens realized why it wasn’t clear who was behind the coup. Even before Martin had turned up alive, it had been obvious the Russians were hiding something important concerning the Wave Three target — now he knew what it was.
He turned to Hadash.
“Perovskaya’s the assassin’s target,” he said. “Perovskaya, not Kurakin. Kurakin set it all up.”
“Why would he do that? He could just fire the defense minister.”
“Yes,” said Rubens. “It’s a cover — the Wave Three target — we must strike the lasers immediately. This was all arranged by Kurakin to cover an attack on us.”
74
The car pulled into the lot flanked by two larger limousines carrying the security people. The assassin slid his finger ever so slightly against the edge of the trigger.
This was the difficult moment, the point at which time suspended itself. The moment could stretch to an infinity.
The reticule — the American scope used crosshairs rather than the pointer familiar on older Russian devices — was zeroed in on the left side of the car. He had a good, clean view, would see his target’s face clearly before firing.
One shot. Then out. He could feel the people who’d been sent to get him already working the building, waiting for him to come. They’d have the entrances guarded, be on the roof. But he was ready.
One of the bodyguards knocked on the car window, then moved away. There were others nearby, six or seven people, bodyguards and aides now trotting through the courtyard from another vehicle, a small bus. He ignored them all, waiting for the door to open. Finally, it cracked. His target put his foot on the pavement, hesitated.
There was a noise in the distance as the moment floated in its infinity. A bodyguard moved. The target remained in the limo. The assassin’s finger remained steady on the trigger.
75
Lia ran full steam to the door, then stopped abruptly. She reached not to the knob or lock but to the glass, pushing the side of her head against it. Then quickly she took her knife out, started to pick at the lock.
“Back!” she hissed at Dean, sliding down the wall. He threw himself to the floor as she whipped her knife at the glass.
The doorway exploded. Dean jumped up and ran, following her inside, shooting blindly, knowing that the sniper would be somewhere near the window in the front of the room.
But he wasn’t — this room connected to another, just beyond.
The sniper loomed at the side, an MP-5 in his hand. As Lia fell to Dean’s left, a bullet spun Dean so fiercely he slammed against the wall.
God, Lia.
Dean saw the sniper retreat — not from the apartment but back to his post, starting to sight his weapon. He wedged his left arm beneath him and fired his pistol with his right, knowing that the bullet would miss.
It did, but the second caught the sniper in the side. As he fell against his gun he fired, and the room reverberated with the report of the massive gun.
Dean’s third bullet struck just at the lambda where the rear sections of the bone came together. Fragments flew through the sniper’s brain; by the time Dean’s next bullet caught the assassin in the spinal cord he was already dead.
Dean’s first instinct was to look through the man’s scope to see what was going on. Something grabbed him as he bent toward it.
Lia.
Lia?
“No prints,” she said.
“You’re OK?”
“He just got my vest. Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Did he hit or miss?”
“Just go — we can’t do anything about it now.” She pulled him toward the outside room.
“Wait,” he said. He nodded back at the sniper, who had crumpled sideways to the floor, one hand still up on his gun. “There are people waiting for him.”
“How do you know that?”
“He chose this room because he could escape from it without being stopped. The question is, how?”
76
