He had studied the formation of trees from a distance and had determined the tallest one. Now he had to turn a distance map into a proximal map, corresponding to the very terrain under his feet.

It was the hour when the park emptied out. This had advantages and disadvantages, and yet everything had to be used for advantage: there was no choice. Willed optimism was the order of the day. A sober reckoning of the odds might well lead to defeatism and paralysis, making the dire outcome even more probable.

He sprinted toward one tree, waited, then rushed toward another. He felt a tingle in his stomach. Had he been silent enough? Inconspicuous enough?

If his instincts were correct, he was directly below the tree where at least one of the snipers had positioned himself.

Marksmanship was an activity of intense concentration. At the same time, concentration required shutting out peripheral stimuli, as he knew from experience. Tunnel vision was a matter not merely of the narrowness of field through the scope but of the intensity of mental focus. Now he had to take advantage of that tunnel vision.

The soccer team had crossed the bridge, then made its way past a brick building, Regent’s College, a Baptist institution. If he were one of the snipers, that would arouse suspicions, particularly when the crowd spaced out and he discovered that his target was not among them. They would have to entertain the possibility that he had somehow ducked into the brick building. It was not a terribly worrying possibility: they could wait him out.

The marksmen would be intensely scrutinizing every square yard of the park in their purview. But one did not scrutinize one’s own feet. Then, too, the snipers would have radiophones to keep them in touch with their coordinator. Yet these would further reduce their sensitivity to ambient sounds. So there were elements in Janson’s favor.

Now he heaved himself up the trunk, as quietly as he could. Progress was slow but steady. When he reached ten feet, what he saw astonished him. Not only was the sniper rifle brilliantly camouflaged, but the entire apron of branches on which the sniper reposed was fake. It was incredibly lifelike, admittedly—the work of an arboreal Madame Tussaud—but up close he could see that it was an artificial construction attached to the trunk by means of metal rigging, an arrangement of steel-wire rope, rings, and bolts, all spray-painted an olive drab. It was the kind of equipment that no individual had access to, and only a very few agencies. Consular Operations was one.

He reached for the rigging and, with a sudden yank, he released the central eyebolt; the steel cable slithered free, and the sniper’s nest was suddenly unanchored.

He heard a muffled curse, and the whole nest dropped through the tree, breaking branches as it tumbled to the ground.