Natadze had two of the Korths. If he had to shoot somebody with one — and he had not had to do so yet — that gun would have to be destroyed, to avoid any possible ballistic connection to him. It was unlikely that investigators would think of the Korth as a possible weapon. They would examine any spent rounds they might find in a body, but the rifling was standard and not the European hexagonal often used in German guns. If he did have to shoot it, there would be no expended shells to worry about, since revolvers did not eject those. And if the authorities did by some chance suspect a Korth, they would hardly expect the shooter to destroy such an expensive machine. It would break his heart to do so, but in the end, it was a tool, and tools could be replaced. Dead was dead forever.
Not that he would need the gun for this mission. His preferred weapon at close range was a roll of quarters in his left hand — his left hand, never his right. He had to be too careful about the fingernails on his right hand, and so, over the years, had learned to punch left-handed. He also liked to wrap his hard fist in a leather glove. A roll of coins gripped to add heft and mass to his fist was a formidable weapon, especially against someone not expecting it. And burning a pair of twenty-dollar gloves was much cheaper and easier than getting rid of a revolver or pistol. But if he needed it, he had the gun, and he could get to it in a matter of a second if things did not look as he thought they should look.
He should not need his fists for this, either, though. Only his wits.
He smiled at the thought of what they would think back home if they knew that he was willing to smash and grind to bits a five-thousand-dollar handgun. A family in rural Sakartvelo — formerly Soviet Georgia — could live on half that for a year. Then again, the authorities in his homeland did not have the resources that the United States had at its beck. There, if you weren’t noticed in the act of shooting somebody by a dozen witnesses, you might stay free forever. Of course, you also might be unjustly accused of some other crime, tried, convicted, and executed for it. That happened all the time. If they needed a criminal and could not find the right man, anyone nearby would serve. There was a kind of balance, if not one that was fair.
As he waited for the target, he checked to make certain there was nobody watching him. This was a public parking lot and he had been parked here for less than a minute, so it was unlikely anybody would have paid him any mind. Part of the reason he had been able to operate outside the law for as long as he had without being caught was adherence to the Six-P Principle he had learned from an American movie: Proper planning prevents piss-poor performance. The less you left to chance, the less that bad luck had to work with. Think of everything that could go wrong, then have a way to deal with that; and a way to deal with the back-up going wrong, as well.
In this case, the job was simple, and chances of failure small; still, it paid to be as certain of every detail as possible.
The target arrived and alighted from his automobile — an expensive late-model whatever — and walked the few meters to the 7-Eleven’s entrance. He did this every morning — or at least he had every morning for the week that Natadze had observed him. Inside, the target would buy a cup of bad coffee, a sugary confection — usually a doughnut, sometimes a cinnamon twist or a danish — and a morning newspaper. He would then return to his car and drive to work, sipping coffee and eating the empty calories of his breakfast, and often trying to read the newspaper as he drove. Dangerous and stupid, this process, but one he had apparently been managing for some time.
The man entered the store.
Natadze exited his own car and headed for the market, walking behind the target’s auto. He had untied his shoe lace before he left his car, and now he stopped, squatted, and began to re-tie the lace. His briefcase covered the right rear tire from view, and it was the work of only a couple of seconds to pull the cut-down ice pick from where it was tucked away in his sock. Only three inches of the shaft remained on the handle, filed to a needle point, plenty long enough. He thrust the point into the tire — once, twice, thrice — between the treads, and heard the hiss of escaping air. Self-sealing tires would have likely stopped the leaks, but the target did not have those on his car, Natadze had checked the brand and model the day before to be certain.
He put the pick back into his sock, re-covered it with his trouser cuff, and stood. Nobody was near. He went into the market and to the rear of the place, selecting a bottle of water from the cooler. Part one was complete.
After the target checked out his purchase, Natadze paid for the water and returned to his car. The tire was flat, and the target stood next to it, glaring at it as if that might matter.
Natadze moved toward his car slowly, opening the cap of the bottled water.
The target pulled a small cell phone from his jacket pocket.
As he did, Natadze reached into his own jacket pocket and triggered a cell-phone jammer. This was of Japanese manufacture, not legal to use in the U.S., but with quite a following in more civilized countries. Larger models were utilized in restaurants, theaters, and anywhere else people were unwilling to listen to their fellows yammering on a mobile phone, especially in Japan. The devices produced a signal that made wireless phones useless. This small one would work for a short range, enough for this.
The target grumbled something and slapped his phone closed.
“I beg your pardon?” Natadze said. His intonation was a studied and much-practiced British. Maybe not enough to fool somebody with a genuine posh accent, but it had gulled plenty of Americans.
“Oh, sorry. My tire is flat, I need to call Triple-A, and my cell phone isn’t working!”
“Oh, dear,” Natadze said, frowing. “You can use my phone if you would like.” Natadze retrieved the little Motorola phone inside its leather case from his shirt pocket, took it from the case, and offered it to the target.
“Thank you,” the target said, as he took the phone. Natadze reached into his pocket and shut the jammer off.
The target made his call, and handed the phone back. Natadze carefully replaced the phone in its case, then put it back in this shirt pocket.
“Thanks, friend.”
“No trouble at all.”
Natadze went to his car, entered it, and carefully drove away. He waved at the target as he left.
He smiled as he departed. He could have done it one of several other ways — could have slipped into the man’s condo when he was gone, or to his office, but this was easy, involved no real risk, and it amused him to have the man hand him his fingerprints.
The phone had been treated with a special surfactant that would promote a good impression. A little super-glue vapor and he would have the print he needed. Some adapto-gel and a mold, some silicone, and he would have a fake thumb that would fool most of the print readers made — including the one that admitted the target to places where computers would record his coming and going. That would be the really easy part.
Mr. Cox, he knew, would be pleased.
Colonel Abraham Kent arrived at General Howard’s outer office thirty seconds early. He paused outside the door for almost that long, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went in.
Through the open door to Howard’s inner office, he saw Howard glance up, then down at his watch, then smile.
There wasn’t a secretary in evidence. Howard stood and waved him in.
“Abe. Come on in.”