Slaton eased off the power, and the big bike coasted downhill for the final half mile. He’d reached the coast quickly, no traffic whatsoever in the predawn hours. The sun remained no more than a dim prospect beyond the low eastern hills.
The main coast road lay a mile from the jutting promontory of rock that was his objective. This worked to Slaton’s benefit, as his final approach had to be on foot. He idled past two driveways that led to villas, and then a long-abandoned service road that was probably a remnant of the main road’s construction. He remembered all three sidings from the photographs.
Slaton’s strategy for the morning was based on two sequential assumptions. First was that the light-colored box he’d seen in the surveillance image of the cliffs had been placed there by the killer—most likely the targeting system for the long-range gun. The second assumption was an extension of the first: if it was the targeting unit, then it had been prepositioned for a reason. Action was imminent.
Slaton gave the entire scenario a fifty-fifty chance of playing out. Not the best odds he’d ever had, but in that moment he felt he was closing in on the assassin. He was also driven by the perishable nature of his assumptions: if Ovechkin were to be eliminated, there was no telling where, or even if, the shooter would ever surface again.
On waking two hours ago, Slaton had tried for updates using his Langley-issued phone. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to make a connection. It might have been a problem with the handset, or perhaps satellite coverage was erratic in this far-flung corner of Africa. As much as he wanted fresh intel, he couldn’t afford to wait until the orbital gods were smiling. He’d briefly weighed using his burner phone, but decided to keep it in reserve.
After correlating the terrain before him with the reconnaissance image he’d memorized—the two always held subtle differences—he doubled back and rode down the service road. Slaton descended a modestly steep grade for a hundred yards. He then steered off the road and across hardpan earth until the BMW was well out of sight. He stood up the bike, broke a leafy branch from a tree, and dusted away the most obvious tracks. Fortunately, there hadn’t been any recent rain—the big bike would have left deep ruts on softer ground.
From the saddlebags he removed the canvas bag. Slaton took off his loose outer shirt, donned the body armor, then shrugged the shirt back on with a much tighter fit. The spare magazine for the UMP went into the thigh pocket of his cargo pants. He considered keeping the gun in the canvas bag for the sake of discretion, but decided against it. This stretch of coastline was exceedingly remote, and the chance of encountering hikers or beachcombers at this hour seemed nonexistent. Far more likely: a surprise encounter with someone like himself. With one last check of the gun, he fitted its three-point sling to put the weapon across his chest for a right-handed grip.
He set out downhill, paralleling the service road for a time. In his back pocket was the folded “big-picture” overhead photo Smith had provided. Slaton didn’t expect to use it, having spent twenty minutes this morning memorizing every gulley, outcropping, and tree line along this narrow section of coast. He knew precisely how he would approach the cliffs. Where to conceal himself once he got there. Where his eyes would be trained.
The only question: Would the Russian come?
* * *
Tikhonov was driving the command truck, his massive frame suited perfectly to the wide trucker’s seat. “Where is the turnoff?” he asked.
Zhukov was next to him in the passenger seat. He referenced a map on his phone and compared it to the scene outside. “We are almost there, less than a kilometer to go.”
The phone was dead-on—a gravel side road soon appeared, and Tikhonov slowed and made the turn. Just ahead they both saw a thin chain strung between two poles, a halfhearted attempt to discourage access. Tikhonov brought the truck to a stop. He stared at the chain, then stole a glance at the colonel.
Zhukov waved his hand forward.
Tikhonov shifted into first gear and accelerated, the massive truck snapping the chain like a ribbon at a finish line.
“The grade is steep ahead,” Zhukov said, “but I walked all the way to the top on my survey—it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The climb took ten minutes. The grade was indeed steep, and a few hairpin turns demanded caution. On reaching the top both paused to take in the scene. It could hardly be called a mountain—not after a night spent negotiating the High Atlas Range—but it was without question the highest point within miles. Which, of course, was why they were here.
“You didn’t mention those,” said Tikhonov. He pointed to a nearby clearing where a pair of modest antennas stood like steel sentinels.
“Are they a problem?” Zhukov asked.
“It depends. If they use a common bandwidth we could have inference in our signals. Chances are, they’re only mobile communications relays—those operate on a different frequency than our equipment.”
“How can we know for certain?”
The engineer shrugged. “We turn everything on and see if it works.”
He guided the truck onto a patch of asphalt between the two antennas, the place where maintenance teams probably parked once or twice a year. With the nearest of the aerials fifty feet away, he set the parking brake and turned off the engine.
For a moment the two men simply looked out over the water. To the north a belt of rocky cliffs arced out toward the sea, and long-winged birds rode effortlessly on the updrafts. To the left, half a mile distant and hundreds of feet lower, was the villa where Ovechkin had taken up residence. Zhukov had wanted to simply park there, thinking it more secure, but Tikhonov convinced him that elevation was necessary to ensure signal integrity.
“Yes,” Tikhonov said, having only seen the place on a map. “This will do nicely.”
“It had better. There’s not much time. Do what you need to do.” Zhukov got out of the cab, and was soon pacing along a gravel siding with his phone to his ear.
Tikhonov cranked up both generators, then went in back and began powering up the vital systems. Computers whirred to life, circuits energizing and fans spinning up. The antenna array on the truck’s roof went through an extensive self-test sequence. It took twenty minutes to get everything up to speed, and Tikhonov saw no faults in the system.
As screens came to life at the control station, he programmed the sat-comm handset Zhukov had provided with the correct log-on settings. That done, he sat back and waited.
Waited for the arrival of an order that would change his life forever.
* * *
One hundred miles distant, on the darkened ramp of the RosAvia complex, the Russian named Ivan glanced at his watch. It was almost time.
He watched the MiG get towed from the hangar, less interested in the aircraft than the two men pulling it—one drove the pushback tug, and the other sat in the MiG’s cockpit, presumably to operate the brakes if an emergency stop was necessary. There were six other men in the hangar, three in the office, and two near the runway—the last pair seated on the roof of a ridiculous van with an umbrella on top. It was all precisely as he’d been told. Thirteen workers in all, six Russian technicians and seven locals. All were busy this morning, preparing for a mission that none of them realized would be the last for this RosAvia outpost.
The tug stopped near the end of the runway, and the two men went to work. One removed the tow bar that connected the tug to the fighter, and the other began pulling safety pins from the landing gear. That done, they mounted the tug together, drove to a nearby taxiway, and parked. As they settled in to wait, the soothing light of dawn began painting the horizon.
Ivan looked again at his watch. 0635 hours.
It was time.
The small backpack was in his left hand. He unzipped it, put his right hand inside, and walked purposefully toward the office.