The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

his people. Would they even send his body back to the Dakotas? Probably not.
He'd just vanish from the face of the earth. The actions he ascribed to
policemen were the same ones he would himself have taken, but what would be good
tactics for a warrior were something else to cops, weren't they? Russell paced
the room, looking out the window at the cars and street vendors. Any one of
those people selling trinkets or Cokes to the tourists could so easily be a
police officer. No, more than one, more like ten. Cops didn't like fair fights,
did they? They shot from ambush and attacked in gangs.
9:15. The numbers on the digital clock marched forward with a combination of
sloth and alacrity that depended entirely on how often Russell turned to check
them. It was time. He lifted his bags and left the room without a backward
glance. It was a short walk to the elevator, which arrived quickly enough that
it piqued Russell's paranoia yet again. A minute later, he was in the lobby. A
bellman offered to take his bags, but he declined the offer and made his way to
the desk. The only thing left on his bill was breakfast, which he settled with
his remaining local currency. He had a few minutes left over, and walked to the
newsstand for a copy of anything that was in English. What was happening in the
world? It was an odd moment of curiosity for Marvin, whose world was a
constricted one of threats and responses and evasions. What was the world? he
asked himself. It was what he could see at the time, little more than that, a
bubble of space defined by what his senses reported to him. At home he could see
distant horizons and a huge enveloping dome of sky. Here, reality was
circumscribed by walls, and stretched a mere hundred feet from one horizon to
another. He had a sudden attack of anxiety, knowing what it was to be a hunted
animal, and struggled to fight it off. He checked his watch: 9:28. Time.
Russell walked outside to the cab stand, wondering what came next. He set his
two bags down, looking about as casually as he could manage in the knowledge
that guns might even now be aimed at his head. Would he die as John had died? A
bullet in the head, no warning at all, not even the dignity an animal might
have? That was no way to die, and the thought of it sickened him. Russell balled
his hands into tight, powerful fists to control the trembling as a car
approached. The driver was looking at him. This was it. He lifted his bags and
walked to it.
'Mr Drake?' It was the name under which Russell was currently traveling. The
driver wasn't the one he'd met for dinner. Russell knew at once that he was
dealing with pros, who compartmented everything. That was a good sign.
'That's me,' Russell answered with a smile/grimace.
The driver got out and opened the trunk. Russell heaved the bags in, then walked
to the passenger door and got in the front seat. If this were a trap, he could
throttle the driver before he died. At least he'd accomplish that much.
Fifty meters away, Sergeant Spiridon Papanicolaou of the Hellenic National
Police sat in an old Opel liveried as a taxi. Sitting there with an extravagant
black mustache and munching on a breakfast roll, he looked like anything but a
cop. He had a small automatic in the glove box, but like most European cops, he
was not skilled in its use. The Nikon camera sitting in a clip holder under his
seat was his only real weapon. His job was surveillance, actually working at the
behest of the Ministry of Public Order. His memory for faces was photographic –