Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [85]
Next he opened the dark plastic, rectangular box. Inside was a Boker ceramic lock-blade knife with a titanium handle and a drop-forged, two-inch blade. It was small enough to pass as a simple pocketknife any man might carry. He snapped the blade open with just his right hand, closed it, then snapped it open again. Perfect. Closing it, he slipped the knife into his right front pants pocket.
Also in the box was a .380 Astra Constable, the Spanish version of the better known Walther PPK. Made without alloys, the weapon was surprisingly heavy for its small size, a characteristic Manfield approved of as it meant less recoil. He removed the pistol, checked it for balance, confirmed it was empty, then dry-snapped the hammer three times to test the trigger pull in double action. Smooth and light. Someone who knew his business had reworked the trigger.
Beside the pistol was a six-inch-long silencer, the size of a roll of half-dollar coins. He placed it into his left front jacket pocket beside the cell phone. Two empty metal magazines were also in the box along with the supply of Remington 102-grain Golden Saber hollow-point ammunition he’d requested. It had the best spread characteristics of all .380 ammunition and was the most lethal.
Manfield slipped bullets into each clip, filling them to capacity. Placing one in his right jacket pocket, he inserted the other into the butt of the pistol. He worked the slide once, releasing it to feed a bullet into the chamber with a sharp snap. He lowered the hammer, then removed the magazine and replaced the bullet now in the weapon, then placed the magazine back into the gun. Confirming that the safety was off so the weapon was ready for immediate use, he inserted the pistol inside his pants at the small of his back.
Next he rewrapped the box, tied the package with string, then unlocked the door, delivering the stall to a ten-year-old boy dancing on his feet.
Manfield smiled. “All yours.” He buried the package in the wastebasket so it didn’t show, then left the McDonald’s, glancing at his watch as he did: 6:13. He walked steadily back to the subway, confident he still had plenty of time.
41
MANHATTAN, NYC
FISCHERMAN, PLATT & COHEN
THURSDAY, AUGUST 31
9:08 P.M.
When Sue Tabor was sixteen years old, she’d lost her virginity to a summer boyfriend in a small park not far from Chinatown in San Francisco. She’d been visiting her grandmother and had decided this would be her best opportunity. She knew no one there, so no one would talk about her back home in Roseville. Leaving soon for college, she refused to be the only virgin freshman there.
In college, Sue had learned discretion and the advantages of sustained relationships over one-night stands. When she’d moved into her career, she’d discovered the value of sleeping up. She couldn’t care less what her coworkers thought. She liked to screw, she’d once told a girlfriend, so why not screw someone who could do her some good? In her world of computers, attractive women were rare so she’d had little competition. And she had no complaints.
Joshua Greene was a case in point. Though nearly thirty years her senior, he’d proven a surprisingly robust and satisfying lover. Separated from his wife of twenty-five years, a separation for which Sue refused to hold herself responsible, he’d turned to his young IT manager with a fierce ardor. The more she’d insisted on sex at the office, the more passionate he’d become.
Sue had learned early on that sex with a young woman, especially one with exotic looks, was quite enough for most middle-aged men. But if she threw in a few things their wives had long ago stopped doing and added a bit of excitement, they were