Deep Black

27

The weapon was simplicity itself. A stainless steel barrel, an aluminum frame, a plastic stock. The bolt eased bullets into firing position, treating them like the perfectly selected hand-prepared rounds they were. The sight itself was not particularly powerful at 6X42, but it was more than adequate and perfectly matched to the weapon. With the proper preparation, the assassin could guarantee a hit at 600 meters. Even at that range, the 7.62mm bullet would slice through a man’s skull as easily as if it were an overripe cantaloupe.

Once, the assassin’s commander had objected to the fact that he preferred the British gun — an L96A1, procured at a ridiculous cost that included two lives — to the more readily available and homegrown Snaiperskaya Vintivka Dragunov. The SVD was not, in fact, a poor weapon and, depending on the circumstances, might surpass the L96A1. If the assassin still did his work in the field, for example, he would perhaps have preferred the SVD for its reliability.

But he did not do his work in the field. He was stationed now in the second story of a hotel in Doneck on the Black Sea, waiting for his target’s limousine to appear on the street. He had waited here in fact for two days. Another man might think, after so long a wait, that the information that had been provided to him was incorrect. Another man might have sought other instructions.

But the assassin did neither. This was, in large part, his great value. He did not need to sleep — a bottle of blue pills, one every six hours, took care of that. He kept a large chamber pot and never drank or ate while waiting. He had been at his post for eighteen hours straight and could stay for at least another twelve, if not eighteen or twenty-four. He had waited three entire days to kill a leader of the Chechnya criminals, so this was nothing.

The assassin had killed twenty-three people, not counting the men he had slain as a paratrooper. Besides the L96A1 zeroed in on the entrance to the hotel across the street, the assassin had a submachine gun at his feet. This was not intended for his target — the L96A1 was more than adequate. But the assassin did not trust his employers — for good reason, he knew — and in fact much of his preparation had involved finding an acceptable escape route.

The phone on his belt began to vibrate. Still watching the window, he reached down and pressed the talk button.

“Yes?” he said.

“It is postponed,” said the voice on the other end. “Go to Moscow. Be there the day after tomorrow.”

Without saying another word, the assassin punched the end button and began to take down his weapon.