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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

The plane was a new Cessna, a 340 series twinengine craft, and its pilot, as Janson could tell by the fluid grace with which it touched down and came to a stop, was an extremely skilled professional, not a country doctor playing crop duster. The pilot, dressed in a white uniform, emerged from the cockpit and folded down the hinged, six-step aluminum stairs. The sun glared off the shiny fuselage, obscuring Janson’s vision. All he could make out was that a passenger was quickly ushered off the plane by a second assistant, this one in a blue uniform, and brought to the SUV. The assistant yanked the tarpaulin from the vehicle, revealing a Range Rover—armored, he surmised, from the way the body rode low on the chassis—and he held open the backseat for the passenger. Moments later, the 4 × 4 sped off.

Damn it! Janson strained intently through his scope to see who the passenger was, yet the glare of the sun and the car’s darkened interior defeated his every attempt. Frustration welled up in him like mercury in an overheated thermometer. Who was it? “Peter Novak”? One of his lieutenants? It was impossible to say.

And then the car disappeared.

Where?

It was as if it had vanished into thin air. Janson slid from his perch and peered through his scope from a number of different vantage points before he finally saw what had happened. The lane, only just wide enough to allow passage of the vehicle, was carved into the woods at an oblique angle. The surrounding stand of trees thus rendered it invisible from most points. It was a brilliant feat of landscape design meant to go unnoticed and unappreciated. Now the Cessna’s engines revved up, and the small plane turned around, taxied, and took flight.

As acrid fumes of fuel drifted through the woods, Janson set off toward the drive. It was about eight feet wide and was overhung by branches that were about six feet off the ground—just high enough to allow clearance for the armored Range Rover. The treesheltered drive was recently paved—a driver who knew the road could make good time—yet could not be seen even from overhead.

It would be an on-foot reconnaissance mission, then.