Zhilinsky said crisply. “These are our best.”
“Very well,” Zhabnov said, suddenly growing nervous at the thought of the countermeasures Killov would take if the death squad failed. “What is their training—can they do the job? Sit, Sit, all of you,” he said, pointing to a French Provincial couch off to the side.
“The men will stand, thank you Mr. President,” the general said. “They are not used to relaxing. But I will sit, thank you.” He pulled over one of the “Jackie chairs”—English Tudor—selected by the famed wife of one of America’s most popular presidents. “These are their dossiers,” Zhilinsky said, handing a sheaf of folders to the president. “I think you’ll find their training has been more than adequate. These men are perhaps some of the most highly trained killers in history. Each has learned numerous techniques of assassination, and each has become an expert in one particular weapon of his choice.”
Zhabnov turned through the pages of the men’s personal and training history. All had killed numerous times in combat and during their training, all had been sent out to kill selected targets—American workers—to make sure they could do their jobs with the ruthless efficiency that would be required to take on Killov. They had murdered with guns, knives, their hands, and a number of other rather imaginative approaches to the cessation of life.
“Let them show you their specialties,” Zhilinsky said, with a thin, grim smile. Dragnov, the first of the men in line, stepped slightly forward and reached inside his loose-fitting fatigue jacket. He pulled out a long, glistening ice pick, nearly twenty-four inches in length. He moved his hand around in a blur of motion, stabbing at the air over and over again. Then, just as quickly, he returned the sliver of death to his inner pocket. Zhabnov was impressed. He hadn’t even been able to see the man’s hand move. Surely no one could evade a blade with such speed. The next in line, Stepsky, stepped a few inches forward and reached into his identical green-gray camouflage jacket. He came out with what looked like a blob of dark jelly, and held it up for the president to see.
“Plastique, Mr. President. Stepsky carries it throughout the lining of his clothing. It’s undetectable by metal-scanning devices, which we know Killov has placed at all the entrances to the Monolith. In fact, it’s so woven into the fabric, so stretched out, that even a frisking won’t reveal its presence.” Zhabnov smiled. He liked that one.
The next in line, Kironin, walked several inches ahead, and, as the others had done, whipped out his method of destruction—a long, thin flask containing an amber-colored gas.
“Poison, Mr. President,” the general said, raising a thick white eyebrow. “All he has to do is get within fifty feet of Colonel Killov and release this gas and—” he drew his hand across his throat. “One of the most deadly gases we’ve produced. Very painful and causes death within sixty seconds. We’ve been able to place Kironin as a clerk on Killov’s own floor. He begins next week. Should be very interesting.” The man stepped back and Andreyov, the largest of the lot, moved forward.
“And what is his little toy?” Zhabnov asked, getting into the deathly spirit of the proceedings.
“He needs no ‘toys’ Mr. President. May I have a piece of furniture you aren’t particularly fond of?” Zhabnov was puzzled by the request, but he looked around until his eyes rested on a thick dark coffee table off in one corner of the large rectangular room.
“That—over there,” he answered, pointing out the seventeenth-century antique. “I hate it.” The general rose and walked briskly over to the objet d’art and dragged it back until it was in the middle of the room. “Please,” he said to the muscle-bulging blond assassin, pointing a slightly trembling finger at the table. The man walked the few steps to it and without
“Very well,” Zhabnov said, suddenly growing nervous at the thought of the countermeasures Killov would take if the death squad failed. “What is their training—can they do the job? Sit, Sit, all of you,” he said, pointing to a French Provincial couch off to the side.
“The men will stand, thank you Mr. President,” the general said. “They are not used to relaxing. But I will sit, thank you.” He pulled over one of the “Jackie chairs”—English Tudor—selected by the famed wife of one of America’s most popular presidents. “These are their dossiers,” Zhilinsky said, handing a sheaf of folders to the president. “I think you’ll find their training has been more than adequate. These men are perhaps some of the most highly trained killers in history. Each has learned numerous techniques of assassination, and each has become an expert in one particular weapon of his choice.”
Zhabnov turned through the pages of the men’s personal and training history. All had killed numerous times in combat and during their training, all had been sent out to kill selected targets—American workers—to make sure they could do their jobs with the ruthless efficiency that would be required to take on Killov. They had murdered with guns, knives, their hands, and a number of other rather imaginative approaches to the cessation of life.
“Let them show you their specialties,” Zhilinsky said, with a thin, grim smile. Dragnov, the first of the men in line, stepped slightly forward and reached inside his loose-fitting fatigue jacket. He pulled out a long, glistening ice pick, nearly twenty-four inches in length. He moved his hand around in a blur of motion, stabbing at the air over and over again. Then, just as quickly, he returned the sliver of death to his inner pocket. Zhabnov was impressed. He hadn’t even been able to see the man’s hand move. Surely no one could evade a blade with such speed. The next in line, Stepsky, stepped a few inches forward and reached into his identical green-gray camouflage jacket. He came out with what looked like a blob of dark jelly, and held it up for the president to see.
“Plastique, Mr. President. Stepsky carries it throughout the lining of his clothing. It’s undetectable by metal-scanning devices, which we know Killov has placed at all the entrances to the Monolith. In fact, it’s so woven into the fabric, so stretched out, that even a frisking won’t reveal its presence.” Zhabnov smiled. He liked that one.
The next in line, Kironin, walked several inches ahead, and, as the others had done, whipped out his method of destruction—a long, thin flask containing an amber-colored gas.
“Poison, Mr. President,” the general said, raising a thick white eyebrow. “All he has to do is get within fifty feet of Colonel Killov and release this gas and—” he drew his hand across his throat. “One of the most deadly gases we’ve produced. Very painful and causes death within sixty seconds. We’ve been able to place Kironin as a clerk on Killov’s own floor. He begins next week. Should be very interesting.” The man stepped back and Andreyov, the largest of the lot, moved forward.
“And what is his little toy?” Zhabnov asked, getting into the deathly spirit of the proceedings.
“He needs no ‘toys’ Mr. President. May I have a piece of furniture you aren’t particularly fond of?” Zhabnov was puzzled by the request, but he looked around until his eyes rested on a thick dark coffee table off in one corner of the large rectangular room.
“That—over there,” he answered, pointing out the seventeenth-century antique. “I hate it.” The general rose and walked briskly over to the objet d’art and dragged it back until it was in the middle of the room. “Please,” he said to the muscle-bulging blond assassin, pointing a slightly trembling finger at the table. The man walked the few steps to it and without
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