the alley at a diagonal, at approximately a fifty-degree angle to the shop. He was standing four feet from it now, waiting.
The man slid sideways along the wall of the alley, nearer to where Charlie stood. He was carrying something flush against the right side of his body. Step, step.
He was less than ten feet away when he suddenly stopped and turned, looking behind him. Charles Mallory held his breath. A small shadow moved along the base of a building. A cat, perhaps.
The man resumed his motion—not quite walking—along the shuttered back of a warehouse, taking short, deliberate sideways steps. Approaching the spot. Mallory knew what he was feeling. Understood how focused he was on accomplishing the thing he had come here to do. The man stopped tight against the wall, sized up the arrangement. He lifted a rifle. He was close enough now that Charlie could smell the damp wool of his jacket and see the details of his gun—an M24 military rifle, the kind used by American Army snipers in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Hassan moved sideways a step, then another, slightly shorter, step. Charlie saw his dark, cold eyes, concentrating on the window. His eyelashes dropping and rising. He saw him lift the gun again and aim. Sighting his prey. He lowered it, moved another step. Focused, insanely focused. Charlie held his breath again. When the man moved once more, he raised his right hand and fired the Glock, seven inches from Hassan’s left temple.
The rifle fell to the asphalt first, then Hassan on top of it.
Charlie quickly checked the man’s pockets for a wallet, a cell phone, cash, anything at all. Nothing. His pockets were empty. He left him there and hurried through the alley to the north street end, then a block and a half to the Peugeot. He drove through the busy night streets toward the harbor.
They had surprised him in Kampala. This time, he had won. But Frederick Collins was going to have to disappear now. For good. And, for a while at least, Charles Mallory would have to disappear, too.
TEN
THE
WEEKLY AMERICAN
OFFICES were in the Foggy Bottom section of Northwest Washington, a few blocks from the State Department and about a half mile from the National Mall. The magazine occupied the first three floors of a small 1960s office building: advertising and circulation on the first floor, editorial on the second, executive offices on the third.
Jon Mallory kept a cubbyhole office on the second floor, which he shared with another writer. Jon visited the offices once or twice a week, mostly to talk with Roger Church, his editor. Offices made him uneasy.
Once he finished going through his e-mails, he knocked twice on Church’s office door, which was always one-third open. Church was a rangy, soft-spoken Brit with a mop of silvery hair, once an almost legendary international reporter who seemed trapped now in an editor’s job.
He looked up from his computer and motioned for Jon to come in and close the door. As was customary, his tie had been loosened three or four inches, his shirt sleeves rolled up below his elbows.
“Busy?”
“No. Please.”
Church, who always seemed willing to engage in conversation, had the restless energy of a twenty-five-year-old and the weathered, lined face of an old man. Jon Mallory admired him.
“A lot of e-mails about your blog this morning.”
“Or lack of it.”
“Yeah. People were expecting something.”
“I know, sorry. I hit a snag yesterday. Maybe I was a little premature in writing what I did.”
“No need to be sorry. As I said the other day, I’m with you on this. Nothing I’ve heard has changed that.”
Jon looked at him. “Okay,” he said. “What’ve you heard?”
Church showed a rare smile and shifted in his chair. “One of our board members weighed in,” he said. “Same concerns you’ve already heard. We’re creating ‘misleading impressions.’ Raising unnecessary questions.”
Jon could guess who: Kenneth Luskin. Billionaire investor. Executive board
The man slid sideways along the wall of the alley, nearer to where Charlie stood. He was carrying something flush against the right side of his body. Step, step.
He was less than ten feet away when he suddenly stopped and turned, looking behind him. Charles Mallory held his breath. A small shadow moved along the base of a building. A cat, perhaps.
The man resumed his motion—not quite walking—along the shuttered back of a warehouse, taking short, deliberate sideways steps. Approaching the spot. Mallory knew what he was feeling. Understood how focused he was on accomplishing the thing he had come here to do. The man stopped tight against the wall, sized up the arrangement. He lifted a rifle. He was close enough now that Charlie could smell the damp wool of his jacket and see the details of his gun—an M24 military rifle, the kind used by American Army snipers in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Hassan moved sideways a step, then another, slightly shorter, step. Charlie saw his dark, cold eyes, concentrating on the window. His eyelashes dropping and rising. He saw him lift the gun again and aim. Sighting his prey. He lowered it, moved another step. Focused, insanely focused. Charlie held his breath again. When the man moved once more, he raised his right hand and fired the Glock, seven inches from Hassan’s left temple.
The rifle fell to the asphalt first, then Hassan on top of it.
Charlie quickly checked the man’s pockets for a wallet, a cell phone, cash, anything at all. Nothing. His pockets were empty. He left him there and hurried through the alley to the north street end, then a block and a half to the Peugeot. He drove through the busy night streets toward the harbor.
They had surprised him in Kampala. This time, he had won. But Frederick Collins was going to have to disappear now. For good. And, for a while at least, Charles Mallory would have to disappear, too.
TEN
THE
WEEKLY AMERICAN
OFFICES were in the Foggy Bottom section of Northwest Washington, a few blocks from the State Department and about a half mile from the National Mall. The magazine occupied the first three floors of a small 1960s office building: advertising and circulation on the first floor, editorial on the second, executive offices on the third.
Jon Mallory kept a cubbyhole office on the second floor, which he shared with another writer. Jon visited the offices once or twice a week, mostly to talk with Roger Church, his editor. Offices made him uneasy.
Once he finished going through his e-mails, he knocked twice on Church’s office door, which was always one-third open. Church was a rangy, soft-spoken Brit with a mop of silvery hair, once an almost legendary international reporter who seemed trapped now in an editor’s job.
He looked up from his computer and motioned for Jon to come in and close the door. As was customary, his tie had been loosened three or four inches, his shirt sleeves rolled up below his elbows.
“Busy?”
“No. Please.”
Church, who always seemed willing to engage in conversation, had the restless energy of a twenty-five-year-old and the weathered, lined face of an old man. Jon Mallory admired him.
“A lot of e-mails about your blog this morning.”
“Or lack of it.”
“Yeah. People were expecting something.”
“I know, sorry. I hit a snag yesterday. Maybe I was a little premature in writing what I did.”
“No need to be sorry. As I said the other day, I’m with you on this. Nothing I’ve heard has changed that.”
Jon looked at him. “Okay,” he said. “What’ve you heard?”
Church showed a rare smile and shifted in his chair. “One of our board members weighed in,” he said. “Same concerns you’ve already heard. We’re creating ‘misleading impressions.’ Raising unnecessary questions.”
Jon could guess who: Kenneth Luskin. Billionaire investor. Executive board
Similar Books
