Dushku heard the doors to the elevator close. Someone had been up here. When he unlocked the utility room this morning, everything had been as he left it. He’d gone down to get the rest of his equipment, but been delayed by the extra security. Now he noticed the duffle bag had been disturbed. He’d placed a small length of transparent plastic cord across the zipper. Very thin. Nothing anyone would notice. It was gone. He got on his hands and knees and searched, and found it across the room. Someone had moved his bag. And worse, probably opened it.
He stepped out into the hall and spotted someone in an orange vest getting into the elevator. Male or female, he couldn’t tell. He ran down the corridor, but the doors closed before he could see who it had been. A worker? Probably not. The person moved like a martial artist, not some sloppy temp hired to do manual labor getting the place ready for the debate. But the figure had been slight. Maybe a woman? Probably not. This job required fighting, not seduction or misdirection. At any rate, a spy. Operatives forgot to slouch, to drag their feet when they walked. Their body language always gave them away.
Dushku made his way back to the utility room. The top floor was empty except for occasional security teams that he could easily elude. He gathered the duffle bag containing the tripod and searched for the room he’d marked as his second choice. He picked the lock and set down the bag. Opened the door to the catwalks and made his way to the bank of lights. Same wide section behind them. He double checked the view. It would do. Next, he unpacked the rest of the equipment he’d brought today, stashed it behind a row of boxes, relocked the door to the utility room, and went back to his hotel. On the way, he picked up a packaged sandwich from a 7-11.
Back at the Country Guesthouse—a rather fanciful name for a low-rent hotel in the middle of the city in his opinion, but it was anonymous—he switched on his computer, accessed the SVR server, and searched for known assassins and their current location. This would take a few minutes.
Running a pen knife through the plastic wrap sealing his sandwich, he took it out. Roast beef on white bread and dry at the edges. He considered the small packages of mayo and mustard, then threw them in the trash. He took a bottle of Brauhaus Bockbier from the small fridge and opened it. What a surprise to find a beer from home. He’d bought a case of it. The beer washed the dry bread down.
Lighting a cigarette, he went to the window and watched trash blow around in the parking lot. The computer dinged. He crushed out the cigarette, tossed the butt outside, and sat in front of the screen, running his eyes down the list. Nobody anywhere near Atlanta.
He pulled up Earl’s schedule. He was due in the Keys right before the election. Dushku looked for anyone in Florida or the Caribbean.
Nothing.
He picked up his phone and called the only number in it.
“Joe’s Pizza.”
“I’d like to order a pepperoni with anchovies. Extra cheese.”
“Hold, please.”
After a series of beeps, a familiar voice came on the line. “Dushku. This is unexpected.”
“Another sniper has the same assignment.”
“What?”
“Somebody was snooping on the ceiling catwalks. They got out before I could ID them.”
“Are you certain this is an assassin?” Kiselev finally asked. “Not just a routine check by the Secret Service or one of the private security groups?”
“He discovered my tripod and left it. Have you seen any alerts on the agency sites?”
“Nothing.”
“If nothing is reported in the next two hours, then I have competition.”
“Hmm.” Clearly, Kiselev had his doubts. “Should we just let him do the job? You be ready if he fails?”
“Nyet,” Dushku shouted, insulted by the suggestion. “We know nothing of his plans. Don’t you want a show? To make a martyr of him? This I can do like no other.”
“All right, Dushku, calm down. I’ll put another man on him. You stay focused on the primary target.”
“As you wish.”
Dushku ended the call and crushed out another half-smoked cigarette. He wouldn’t follow Kiselev’s orders. He didn’t want some amateur messing up his plans.
He took out his sniper rifle and started cleaning it. The routine calmed him, helped him think. Then he moved on to his MSS Vul, a silent pistol. He needed them both well oiled, in tiptop shape for tomorrow.
Now, how could he find this mystery assassin?