He should probably just lighten up, Monroe thought; nobody else seemed to find her annoying, not even Dormov, and he’d have expected the old man to be a prize grouch. Not that it would have occurred to Monroe to think any defector could be good-natured or likeable. On the other hand, Dormov was originally from Russia, so maybe the old man didn’t feel like he was defecting so much as he was simply going home to retire. Maybe he still missed the place even after thirty-five years in the US. Now that the old Soviet regime was no more, he didn’t have to worry about the KGB taking him away in the middle of the night and sending him to a gulag in Siberia.
Still, Monroe doubted Dormov would find retirement in Russia to be as cushy as it would have been in the US. And if he wasn’t retiring, if he was going to carry on with his so-called ‘work’, he would discover that despite all the classified information he had brought with him from the US, the Russians would never be able to give him a lab as good as the state-of-the-art facilities and tech he’d taken for granted in America. Hell, he’d be lucky to get a chair with good lumbar support. Old guys were always complaining their chairs didn’t have good lumbar support, or at least all the old guys Monroe knew.
Well, Dormov wouldn’t have to worry about that, nor would he be spilling his guts. And Monroe would only have to tolerate the hyperactive kid until the next stop, where he’d be getting off if everything went according to plan. He was certain it would. He was working with Henry Brogan and Henry never failed to come through. When Henry was on a job, he was like a machine. Nothing rattled him or distracted him; he had focus like a laser and a sense of timing that was practically supernatural. The jumpiness Monroe always felt at the start of a mission was, in fact, sheer anticipation.
Today, however, that kid running up and down the aisle chattering away with her little-girl curls bouncing around her face was driving him crazy. Was she six? He wasn’t good at guessing kids’ ages.
Or any ages, he thought, remembering how he’d assumed Henry was in his late thirties. When Henry told him he was fifty-one, his jaw had dropped. How could anyone look that good in their fifties?
Dammit, where were that kid’s parents? The train would be pulling out any minute, why hadn’t they corralled her already? Oh, right—everything was different in Europe, including methods of parenting. Monroe had heard somewhere the French started giving their kids wine with dinner when they were three years old. The practice probably extended to every country where they spoke French, like here in the Liège province. He looked at his watch as the girl pattered past him for the millionth time, her mouth running like a motor. Too bad dinnertime was still hours away—a little wine would calm her down. She might even sleep all the way to wherever. Which, now that he was thinking of it, might have been why the French gave their kids wine in the first place.
Across the aisle and three rows down from him, one of Valery Dormov’s bodyguards was fussing over him, had been ever since they’d boarded the train. Maybe he’d been a nursemaid in a previous incarnation. He wouldn’t let up even though Dormov kept waving him off and telling him he was fine.
The bodyguard’s unrelenting solicitude was getting on Monroe’s nerves as much as the girl was. It was torment just having to listen to him asking him over and over if Dormov wanted something to eat or drink or read, did he need a pillow, was his seat okay. Nyet, nyet, nyet, the old man said, waving one hand. If it had been anyone else, Monroe might have actually gotten up and told them to leave the poor guy in peace. Dormov was hardly a poor guy, and he would rest in peace soon. The thought put a smile on Monroe’s face.
The little girl ran past Monroe again going the other way. If the train didn’t get underway soon, he thought, he’d have to start running up and down the aisle himself just to blow off steam. Still, it didn’t really matter if they ran late, just as long as Henry was on time. And he would be.
As if in response to his thoughts, the train gave a jerk and began to move forward. At the same moment, a female voice came over the PA system, making an announcement about travel times, destinations, and passenger safety and, since it was all in French, it sounded enchanting and a bit seductive. Monroe had been told that Belgians had a softer accent than they did in France. His ear wasn’t good enough to tell the difference. Henry’s probably was, though; he was that kind of precise.
He looked out the window. “Car number six,” he said, his voice quiet and clear. “We’re moving. Four alpha. Repeat: four alpha. Window seat, his team on all sides.”
Some miles to the south and east, Henry replied, “Copy that.”
His eyes were still on the tracks in the distance, specifically on the spot where they disappeared into a tunnel cut into a hill. The entrance to the tunnel was somewhat lower than his vantage point. Moving quickly but without hurrying, Henry got out of the driver’s seat and went around to the rear to raise the hatch before pausing a moment to check the time on his wristwatch. He’d bought it on base when he was still in boot camp because it looked right to him, like the kind of watch a Marine would wear. It was still working and he still liked seeing it on his wrist. Then he opened the hard case in the back of the SUV.
The Remington 700 sniper rifle was old and sturdy, like his watch, like himself, and they were all still going. The moment he began assembling the Remington, a sensation of calm control bloomed inside him and flowed outward from his core into his head and his hands, into the air around him so that he breathed the same imperturbable, perfect balance that made up his mind and body. And the Remington.
Henry calibrated the Remington’s telescopic sight, attached it to the bipod on the barrel, then lay down on his stomach enjoying the way his body warmed to the position. It felt like coming home; it always did.
“Speed?” he asked.
“238 kilometers per hour and holding steady,” said Monroe’s voice in his ear. Henry smiled.
Monroe shifted in his seat. It was as if his skin were on too tight. He transferred the book he’d been pretending to read—or trying to pretend to read—from one hand to the other and back again.
“You sound excited,” Henry said, as calm and matter-of-fact as ever.
“I do love capping bad guys,” Monroe said, shifting again. If Henry had seen him, he might have knocked him out with the butt of the Remington. Had to, for your own good, he’d say later when Monroe came to. You were going to give the whole thing away.
Monroe forced himself to stare down at the book instead of stealing another look at Dormov and his bodyguards. This wasn’t his first rodeo; he knew damned well you had to be careful not to look at the target too much. They would notice and get the idea something was up. Then he looked anyway.
Dormov was finally starting to show a little impatience with the helpful bodyguard, waving him off without bothering to turn away from the window. It wouldn’t be much longer now. Knowing that made Monroe even jumpier.
The train appeared on the track eight hundred yards from the hilltop where Henry lay on his belly.
He loaded a single bullet into the Remington. One shot was all he’d get. If he couldn’t do it in one shot… but he always had.
He tapped the stock twice and took aim.
“Wait. Wait.”
Henry could practically hear Monroe’s knuckles whiten. He was about to tell him to unbunch his panties when Monroe said the magic words: