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Back The Janson Directive
Chapters (54)
  1. Title Page
  2. Table of Contents
  3. Prologue
  4. PART ONE
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. PART TWO
  14. Chapter Nine
  15. Chapter Ten
  16. Chapter Eleven
  17. Chapter Twelve
  18. Chapter Thirteen
  19. Chapter Fourteen
  20. Chapter Fifteen
  21. Chapter Sixteen
  22. Chapter Seventeen
  23. PART THREE
  24. Chapter Eighteen
  25. Chapter Nineteen
  26. Chapter Twenty
  27. Chapter Twenty-one
  28. Chapter Twenty-two
  29. Chapter Twenty-three
  30. Chapter Twenty-four
  31. Chapter Twenty-five
  32. Chapter Twenty-six
  33. Chapter Twenty-seven
  34. Chapter Twenty-eight
  35. Chapter Twenty-nine
  36. Chapter Thirty
  37. Chapter Thirty-one
  38. PART FOUR
  39. Chapter Thirty-two
  40. Chapter Thirty-three
  41. Chapter Thirty-four
  42. Chapter Thirty-five
  43. Chapter Thirty-six
  44. Chapter Thirty-seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-eight
  46. Chapter Thirty-nine
  47. Chapter Forty
  48. Chapter Forty-one
  49. Chapter Forty-two
  50. Chapter Forty-three
  51. Epilogue
  52. ALSO BY ROBERT LUDLUM
  53. Critical Praise for Robert Ludlum
  54. Copyright Page

A master sniper had supernal skill, but he had supernal patience, too. He had to be responsive to uncertainties: in a long-range shot, even a slight unexpected breeze could push a flat shot several feet from its intended destination. A subject could move unexpectedly; in this case, Berman had raised his hand after the shot was fired. A sniper had to be aware of such possibilities. And he had to be more patient than his target.

And yet who was the target?

The butler had assumed it was his employer, Berman. A natural assumption. And a dangerous one. He recalled Berman’s arm around his shoulder, drawing him close. The bullet that hit the Russian was fifteen inches from Janson’s head.

Fifteen inches. An uncontrollable variance at two-thirds of a mile. Whether it was a hit or a near miss, the shot’s accuracy was incredible. But the sensible assumption had been that Janson was the real target. He was the only new element in the situation.

He could hear the siren of the ambulance Thwaite had summoned. And now he felt a tug on his trouser leg—Berman, from the floor, feebly trying to communicate, to get his attention.

“Janson,” he said, speaking as if through a mouthful of water.

His fleshy face had taken on a veal-like pallor. A thin rivulet of blood seeped from the corner of his lips down his chin. Air was sucking through his chest wound, and he pressed his good right hand to the area. Now he raised his bloodied left hand and extended a wagging index finger. “Tell me truth: Turnbull and Asser shirt ruined?” A wet cough came instead of the usual guffaw. At least one of his lungs had filled with blood, and would soon collapse.

“It’s seen better days,” Janson said gently, feeling a rush of affection toward the ebullient, eccentric maven.

“Get son of whore who did this,” Berman said. “Da?”

“Da,” Janson said huskily.

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Thwaite took Janson aside and spoke to him in a low voice. “Whoever you are, Mr. Berman must have trusted you, or he wouldn’t have invited you here. But I’ve got to ask you to make tracks.” A wry look. “Chop-chop.”

Janson raced down oak parquet floors, past the eighteenth-century French paneling a Woolworth heiress had installed decades ago, and through a rear exit. A few minutes later, he had vaulted over the wrought-iron fence and into the eastern bulge of Regent’s Park. “Twenty-four hundred acres in the middle of London, like my backyard,” Berman had said.

Was it safe?

There were no guarantees—except that it was the only place to which he dared retreat. A sniper on the minaret could easily target anyone emerging from the other exits of Berthwick House. The perch would not afford a sight line to most areas of the park itself.