was a piece of string. No, a twig.
Harvor extended the hand not holding the phone. “Those, too, Mr. Peters.”
“And I will take both those and the cell phone,” said a voice.
Harvor and Jason turned to see a man holding a gun. His face could have been the surface of the moon it was so pocked with scars. Acne? Jason thought he recognized the black matte polymer of a Russian made GSh-18, the original, if brief, replacement for the Makarov as the standard Soviet military sidearm. The fact the man had his finger curled around the square trigger guard instead of the trigger itself reminded him the weapon had a Glock-like safety that was automatically released when the trigger was squeezed.
The stranger was no amateur.
“Unless you are a police officer, you have no permit for that weapon,” Harvor said with a huff. “You can be sent to prison for even possessing such a thing.”
Jason didn’t take his eyes from the stranger. “I don’t think he’s overly worried about the possibility. I’d suggest you do as he asks.”
The man gave a sharklike smile exposing teeth the color of old ivory. “And I suggest, Commissioner, that you do as Mr. Peters says.”
The English was near perfect, yet there was an accent. Russian? Eastern European?
Jason kept his face frozen, unwilling to register surprise the man with the gun knew his name.
Harvor did not. “How did you … ?” He faced Jason indignantly. “Did you know this man was here?”
Jason shook his head. “No, but it was a good guess.”
The intruder extended the hand not holding the gun, motioning for the demanded items. “The phone and whatever else you found. Questions later.”
There might not be a “later.” Jason had no doubt this man had intended to kill Boris, most likely to protect whatever secrets the camera-enabled phone, the twig, and the scrap of metal might reveal. Why would he spare two strangers who discovered what Boris had hidden? As soon as he had what he wanted, it was probable Jason and Harvor would suffer the same fate.
Jason swore at himself silently. The Glock was still in his bag in the car. He had hesitated to strap on the holster in front of Maria, listen to her reproachful reminder that this was a mission to get information, nonviolent.
Harvor was extending the phone. If Jason was going to act, now was the time, gun or not.
16
Jason stood by as the police commissioner extended the phone and the two other items. He watched the man with the gun stuff the cell phone, the twig, and the piece of metal into the pocket of his jacket.
“Who hired you?” Jason asked.
He didn’t expect an answer. The question was simply a play for time, something he had absorbed long ago from the psychological training to which every Delta Force member was subjected. The more desperate the situation, the greater the need to start a conversation or do anything that served the purpose of delay. The longer disaster could be postponed, the more likely it could be averted.
The man looked at Jason, surprised. Men like this one rarely revealed their employers if, in fact, they even knew who was really paying them. “You don’t need to know.”
Jason’s back was against one of the stone walls. He was moving his shoulder back and forth as though scratching an itch he couldn’t quite reach. “Oh, but I do! You know who I am, you know I’m not without means. I’m sure whatever your employers want, I can provide in a much more, er, civil, manner.”
The man grinned. He had heard pleas like this before and obviously enjoyed them. “They are not interested in your money, Mr. Peters. Or should I say, the money of the company for which you work.”
Jason was reaching a hand behind his back, trying to scratch a really pesky itch, when Harvor broke in. “Surely you do not mean to kill us? You will certainly be caught and imprisoned.”
Again, the shark’s smile. “I will take that chance. Now, if …”
He never finished. Harvor began to tremble,
Harvor extended the hand not holding the phone. “Those, too, Mr. Peters.”
“And I will take both those and the cell phone,” said a voice.
Harvor and Jason turned to see a man holding a gun. His face could have been the surface of the moon it was so pocked with scars. Acne? Jason thought he recognized the black matte polymer of a Russian made GSh-18, the original, if brief, replacement for the Makarov as the standard Soviet military sidearm. The fact the man had his finger curled around the square trigger guard instead of the trigger itself reminded him the weapon had a Glock-like safety that was automatically released when the trigger was squeezed.
The stranger was no amateur.
“Unless you are a police officer, you have no permit for that weapon,” Harvor said with a huff. “You can be sent to prison for even possessing such a thing.”
Jason didn’t take his eyes from the stranger. “I don’t think he’s overly worried about the possibility. I’d suggest you do as he asks.”
The man gave a sharklike smile exposing teeth the color of old ivory. “And I suggest, Commissioner, that you do as Mr. Peters says.”
The English was near perfect, yet there was an accent. Russian? Eastern European?
Jason kept his face frozen, unwilling to register surprise the man with the gun knew his name.
Harvor did not. “How did you … ?” He faced Jason indignantly. “Did you know this man was here?”
Jason shook his head. “No, but it was a good guess.”
The intruder extended the hand not holding the gun, motioning for the demanded items. “The phone and whatever else you found. Questions later.”
There might not be a “later.” Jason had no doubt this man had intended to kill Boris, most likely to protect whatever secrets the camera-enabled phone, the twig, and the scrap of metal might reveal. Why would he spare two strangers who discovered what Boris had hidden? As soon as he had what he wanted, it was probable Jason and Harvor would suffer the same fate.
Jason swore at himself silently. The Glock was still in his bag in the car. He had hesitated to strap on the holster in front of Maria, listen to her reproachful reminder that this was a mission to get information, nonviolent.
Harvor was extending the phone. If Jason was going to act, now was the time, gun or not.
16
Jason stood by as the police commissioner extended the phone and the two other items. He watched the man with the gun stuff the cell phone, the twig, and the piece of metal into the pocket of his jacket.
“Who hired you?” Jason asked.
He didn’t expect an answer. The question was simply a play for time, something he had absorbed long ago from the psychological training to which every Delta Force member was subjected. The more desperate the situation, the greater the need to start a conversation or do anything that served the purpose of delay. The longer disaster could be postponed, the more likely it could be averted.
The man looked at Jason, surprised. Men like this one rarely revealed their employers if, in fact, they even knew who was really paying them. “You don’t need to know.”
Jason’s back was against one of the stone walls. He was moving his shoulder back and forth as though scratching an itch he couldn’t quite reach. “Oh, but I do! You know who I am, you know I’m not without means. I’m sure whatever your employers want, I can provide in a much more, er, civil, manner.”
The man grinned. He had heard pleas like this before and obviously enjoyed them. “They are not interested in your money, Mr. Peters. Or should I say, the money of the company for which you work.”
Jason was reaching a hand behind his back, trying to scratch a really pesky itch, when Harvor broke in. “Surely you do not mean to kill us? You will certainly be caught and imprisoned.”
Again, the shark’s smile. “I will take that chance. Now, if …”
He never finished. Harvor began to tremble,
Similar Books
