Net Force - Tom Clancy [40]
When she was at the first condo past the targets, she whispered, loud enough for the dog to hear but not the agents: Scout, dump.
The little poodle was very well trained. He stopped, squatted and left a little pile on the grass next to the edge of the walk. With some apparent effort, the old lady bent and half squatted, and scooped the poop up with a little cardboard-and-plastic container designed for that purpose. Good boy, Scout! she said, loud enough for the agents to hear this time. She proceeded onward, seemingly oblivious to the young men playing chess in the car across the street. She would bet dollars to dimes theyd be smiling. Aw, look at that, isnt that cute, old grannys little toy dog crapping on the grass.
She didnt know if the guards were permanent-probably not, but it didnt matter. Two men in a parked car on a street were not much of a threat. Now they had seen her as she wished them to see her. She would be back in the morning, and again at night, for at least the next week, perhaps longer. Soon, the day and night sets of guards would file her away under harmless. Mrs. Phyllis Markham was but one of several shadows who might become an unseen part of the targets life. Another one was an office temp who could soon go to work for the Marines Civilian Liaison Office at Quantico. There was a new driver for a Taco Tio lunch wagon that sometimes fed part of the FBI, and half-a-dozen other possibilities, if necessary. She would chose the ones best suited, after she had done a little more observation.
And if it was Phyllis Markham who drew the assignment to delete the target, he would probably die quietly in his bed one night in the next week or two, with nobody the wiser. The old lady could circle around the condo after the deed was done, then walk right past the agents assigned to watch the target, and they would never have a clue.
By the time anybody knew the target was dead, the poodle would be back in upstate New York at his kennel, and the old lady would have ceased to exist.
Lets go around the block and go home, Scout. What do you think?
The toy poodle wagged his tail. He was a sweet pup. And just like the T-shirt said, the more she learned about people, the better she liked dogs.
Monday, September 20th, 8:17 a.m. Kiev
Colonel Howard had just finished a field-strip and reassembly on the H&K G3A3Z assault rifle. This was a major piece of small-arms ordinance. It roared like a thunderclap and fired the big 7.62mm NATO round full-auto. The expended brass ejected so hard that anybody within fifty or sixty feet to the right and slightly back of a shooter risked having an eye put out by a spinning shell. Sometimes the empties flew so fast they whistled as air blew across the mouth of the fired cartridge.
He wiped excess dry lube from the weapon and put it back on the table. Maybe he should clean his handgun, too?
He pulled the S&W Model 66 from its holster and looked at it. It was a six-shot stainless-steel revolver in.357, with a four-inch barrel and Craig Spegel custom-wood boot grips. Hardly regulation, the sidearm-most of the teams carried H&K USP tactical pistols in.40, with high-density plastic slides and frames, laser sights and suppressors, and more than twice as many rounds per magazine as the old wheelgun carried. But it was his talisman, the Smith, and he trusted it. He could shoot it well enough to hit a man-sized target out to a hundred meters on a good day, and it never jammed the way an auto-pistol sometimes did. He opened the cylinder and checked the loads.
Your hardware gets any cleaner youll be able to do surgery with it, sir.
He looked at Fernandez. You know, a less indulgent commander would have thrown you into the stockade years ago and left you there.
Yes, sir. Your patience does you proud, Colonel.
Howard shook his head.
Zero-eight-one-eight, sir, Fernandez said.
Howard raised his eyebrows. I wasnt going to ask what time it was, Sergeant.
No, sir, of course not, sir.
Howard grinned again. He closed the cylinder on his revolver