p&c.brimstone-第39节

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Syria。　If　Bullard　gets　away　with　this；　the　U。S。　will　have　laid　out　a　hundred　billion　dollars　developing　an　antimissile　system　that　will　be　obsolete　on　deployment。　And　if　that　happens；　it's　the　CIA　that's　going　to　get　hammered。　The　administration　will　experience　sudden　and　plete　amnesia　as　to　how　they　deliberately　shut　down　our　investigation。　The　Congress　is　going　to　demand　an　official　inquiry　on　the　so…called　intelligence　failure。　We'll　be　everyone's　whipping　boy。〃　
　〃Something　we　at　the　FBI　know　a　little　about。〃　
　〃I　spent　eighteen　months　investigating　Bullard；　and　I'll　be　goddamned　if　I'm　going　to　let　it　go。　I'm　a　patriotic　American。　I　want　you　to　nail　Bullard。　I　don't　want　a　nuclear　missile　to　take　out　New　York　because　some　American　businessman　paid　off　a　few　congressmen。〃　
　Pendergast　put　the　folder　to　one　side。　〃Why　me？〃　
　〃I've　heard　you're　pretty　good；　even　if　you　are　FBI。〃　The　man　allowed　himself　a　cynical　smile。　〃And　I　liked　the　way　you　dragged　Bullard　down　to　headquarters　like　a　mon　criminal。　That　took　guts。　You　really　pissed　some　people　off。　Big　time。〃　
　〃Regrettable。　But　I　fear　it　is　not　the　first　time。〃　
　〃You　better　watch　your　ass。〃　
　〃I　shall。〃　
　〃You　won't　find　any　smoking　guns　in　the　file；　Bullard's　covered　his　tracks　well。　You've　got　your　work　cut　out。〃　
　He　started　the　engine；　flicked　on　the　headlights；　pulled　through　the　turnaround；　and　headed　back　up　to　the　traffic　droning　southward　into　lower　Manhattan。　He　said　nothing　else　until　turning　off　the　highway　at　145th　Street；　the　skyscrapers　of　Midtown　like　glowing　crystals　in　the　distance。　
　〃You　never　heard　of　me；　I　never　heard　of　you；　and　this　conversation　never　took　place。　That　file　has　been　cleaned　of　intelligence　markers；　so　even　if　it　gets　back　to　the　CIA；　no　one　will　know　where　it　came　from。〃　
　〃Won't　they　suspect　you；　anyway？　It　was　your　case。〃　
　〃You　worry　about　your　ass；　I'll　worry　about　mine。〃　
　He　left　Pendergast　a　few　blocks　north　of　his　house。　As　Pendergast　was　exiting　the　car；　the　man　leaned　toward　him　and　spoke　once　again。　〃Agent　Pendergast？〃　
　Pendergast　turned　back。　
　〃If　you　can't　nail　the　bastard；　kill　him。〃　
　　　
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　The　man　calling　himself　Vasquez　looked　carefully　around　thelittle　space　where　he　would　be　spending　the　next　several　days　of　his　life。　A　few　minutes　earlier　he　had　tensed；　preparing　for　an　unexpected　opportunity；　when　the　door　of　the　porte…cochère　opened　across　the　way。　A　quick　check　through　the　scope　confirmed　the　target　was　leaving。　However；　another　man　had　been　with　him。　Vasquez　had　laid　aside　the　rifle　and　made　a　note　in　his　log：22：31。04　。　The　two　men　walked　to　a　car　parked　a　few　yards　down　the　street；　an　unmarked　law　enforcement　Chevy；　obviously　a　government　model。　
　As　the　car　had　pulled　away；　there'd　been　a　brief　flash　of　white　in　the　doorway　of　the　porte…cochère；　Vasquez　saw　the　retreating　figure　of　a　man　in　a　tuxedo；　shutting　the　door　again。　Butler；　from　the　look　of　it。　But　who　heard　of　a　butler　in　this　part　of　town？　
　Vasquez　refused　to　allow　himself　any　regret。　Finishing　a　job　so　prematurely　just　never　happened。　Besides；　it　always　paid　to　be　overly　cautious。　Putting　his　notebook　away；　he　went　back　to　preparing　his　kill　nest。　The　abandoned　room　of　the　old　welfare　hotel　was　a　wreck。　There　were　used　needles　and　condoms　piled　in　a　corner；　a　torn　mattress　on　the　floor　with　a　dark　stain　in　its　middle；　as　if　somebody　had　died　on　it。　As　his　hooded　light　moved　around　the　room；　cockroaches　fled　in　panic；　their　greasy　brown　backs　flashing　dully；　countless　legs　rustling　like　leaves。　But　Vasquez　was　used　to　such　things；　and　he　was　well　pleased　with　his　acmodations。　He　had；　in　fact；　rarely　seen　a　setup　quite　so　ideal。　He　replaced　the　small　piece　of　plywood　from　the　boarded…up　room's　lone　window　and　went　back　to　his　preparations。　
　Yes；　this　would　do　perfectly。　The　window　faced　north；　looking　out　over　the　great　dark　bulk　of　the　ruined　mansion　at　891　Riverside　Drive。　It　was　a　crazy　place　for　the　target　to　live；　but　each　to　his　own。　Three　stories　down　and　across　137th　Street　was　the　porte…cochère；　its　semicircular　driveway　running　under　a　brick　and　marble　arch。　He　could　just　see　the　edge　of　the　door　the　target　used　for　ingress　and　egress：　the　one　he　had　just　e　out　of。　So　far　he　had　used　no　other　door…but　then；　Vasquez　had　been　watching　for　only　twelve　hours。　
　Yes；　this　was　a　fine　setup。　In　this　part　of　Harlem；　there　were　no　inquisitive　doormen　hanging　out　in　front　of　their　buildings；　no　hidden　video　cameras；　no　old　ladies　who　would　call　the　police　at　the　mere　howl　of　an　alley　cat。　Here；　even　gunshots　didn't　necessarily　trigger　a　call　to　the　police。　What's　more；　Vasquez　had　found　this　abandoned　building　directly　across　from　the　target　residence。　It　had　a　basement　entrance　hidden　from　the　mansion；　leading　to　an　alley　fronting　136th。　
　You　couldn't　ask　for　better。　
　The　target；　an　FBI　agent；　seemed　to　be　a　man　of　regular　habits。　In　the　ing　days；　Vasquez　would　ascertain　just　how　regular　those　habits　were。　As　with　hunting　any　animal；　success　lay　in　learning　the　creature's　patterns　of　behavior。　Vasquez　intended　to　bee　an　expert　in　this　particular　creature。　He　would　learn　by　what　doors　he　came　and　left；　and　when；　he　would　ascertain　who　lived　in　the　old　mansion；　who　visited；　what　kind　of　security　was　in　place。　By　understanding　the　movements；　he　would　gain　an　insight　into　the　man's　psychology。　Even　people　who　varied　their　habits　out　of　fear　of　assassination　always　varied　them　in　a　pattern。　From　what　little　he'd　observed；　he　already　realized　he　was　dealing　with　an　exceptionally　cautious；　intelligent　target。　But　then；　Vasquez　always　assumed　at　the　beginning　that　the　target　was　smarter；　craftier；　cleverer　than　he　was。　Vasquez　had　stalked　and　killed　them　all：　federal　agents；　diplomats；　mobsters；　minor　heads　of　state；　even　physicists。　He'd　been　in　the　business　twenty…two　years　in　as　many　countries；　and　he　had　learned　a　trick　or　two。　But　it　was　wise　to　stay　humble。　
　Without　moving　any　of　the　original　contents　of　the　room；　Vasquez　began　to　unroll　thick　canvas　tarps　over　the　floor　and　partway　up　the　walls；　fixing　them　in　place　with　gaffing　tape。　The　room　filled　with　the　strong；　pleasant　smell　of　waterproof　duck。　Next　he　laid　out　his　tools；　mentally　running　through　the　checklist　in　his　mind。　They　were　all　there；　as　he　knew　they　would　be；　but　he　double…checked　just　to　make　sure。　He　picked　up　his　Remington　M21　bolt…action　rifle；　removed　the　box　cartridge；　made　sure　its　small　magazine　was　filled　with　the　subsonic　7。62　by　51　military　cartridges　he　preferred。　The　weapon　was　of　an　old　design；　but　Vasquez　was　not　interested　in　the　latest　frills　or　gimmicks：　what　mattered　to　him　was　simplicity；　accuracy；　and　reliability。　He　rammed　the　magazine　home；　cranked　a　round　into　the　chamber；　examined　the　permanently　fixed　tactical　telescopic　sight。　Satisfied；　he　put　the　weapon　aside　and　carefully　laid　out　packets　of　beef　jerky　and　jugs　of　water　sufficient　for　five　days。　Next；　he　set　up　his　laptop　puter；　arranging　a　dozen　freshly　charged　battery　packs　beside　it。　A　pair　of　night…vision　goggles　was　inspected　and　found　to　be　in　excellent　order。　Then；　moving　to　a　far　corner；　the　man　set　up　his　washstand　and　toilet　by　the　dim　light　of　his　torch。　He　would　not　be　disturbed：　the　door　had　already　been　locked；　screwed　shut　in　the　jambs　with　a　battery…operated　screwdriver；　and　light…sealed　with　the　gaffing　tape。　A　small　bathroom　window　in　the　back　provided　fresh　air。　
　Returning　to　the　front　of　the　room；　he　switched　off　the　light　and　removed　the　piece　of　plywood　from　the　shooting　hole：　a　hole　just　large　enough　for　the　barrel　and　scope。　He　snapped　open　a　bipod　assembly　and　mounted　it　to　the　fore　end　of　the　stock。　He　very　carefully　positioned　the　rifle　onto　the　porte…cochère；　at　head　height。　Then　he　reached　for　a　handheld　laser　range　finder；　pointed　it　at　the　mansion's　front　door。　It　returned　a　distance　of　30。66　meters。　With　a　rifle　that　was　accurate　beyond　five　hundred　yards；　30　meters　was　nothing。　He　would　be　shooting　down　through　cool　air　with　his　target　outside：　the　conditions　he　favored　above　all　others。　A　few　final　adjustments　and　the　weapon　was　ready。　
　His　kill　nest　was　plete。　
　Vasquez　peered　out　again　through　the　sight。　The　house　was　still　and　dark；　the　windows　boarded　up。　This　was　not　a　normal　home。　Something　illicit　must　be　going　on　inside。　But　since　it　didn't　make　his　target　in　any　way　erratic；　Vasquez　didn't　really　care。　He　had　a　job　to　do；　limited　in　scope　and　restricted　in　time。　He　didn't　care　who　it　was　who　had　hired　him；　or　why。　He　cared　about　only　one　thing：　the　two　million　dollars　that　had　appeared　in　his　numbered　account。　That　was　all　he　needed　to　know。　
　He　returned　to　his　patient　observation。　Sometimes　he　liked　to　think　of　himself　as　a　kind　of　naturalist；　studying　the　habits　of　shy　woodland　creatures。　He　had　the　perfect　blend　of　intelligence；　discipline；　and　disposition　for　sitting　in　a　blind　in　the　jungle　for　weeks　at　a　time；　observing；　taking　notes；　looking　for　patterns。　
　Only　thing　was；　there　was　no　money　in　that。　And　besides：　nothing　could　pare　with　the　thrill　of　the　kill。　
　　　
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　It　was　almost　midnight；　D'Agosta　saw　from　his　watch；　andHayward　was　still　at　her　desk。　The　rest　of　the　H