He shrugged. It didn’t matter anyway. It was time to get to work. He stepped out from under the shelter of the tarpaulin and carried his sandbags to the two-foot-high retaining wall at the edge of the roof, facing Columbia Road. He duck-walked as he approached, to avoid detection by the crowd assembling eight stories below.
After stacking the sandbags, creating a nice V-shaped notch, Nikolai retrieved his sniper rifle. Fully assembled, scope attached, full magazine. He combat-crawled to the edge of the roof. Reached the retaining wall and eased his rifle onto the sand bags. Lifted himself up and peered over the edge. The top of his head would be visible from street level but there was no way to avoid that. The Secret Service would be scanning the buildings, but from a distance of over one hundred feet and eight stories up, he would be as good as invisible.
The temporary platform from which President Reagan would deliver his remarks — the few he would live to deliver — was filled with dignitaries. There was not one empty chair behind the podium. Nikolai didn’t recognize any of the people, figured they must be local politicians and businessmen. The sun was shining brightly and everyone was squinting against the glare and fanning themselves. Nikolai eased his Dragunov onto the sandbags, seating it carefully.
Behind the podium, a pair of shiny black armored limousines idled at the curb. As Nikolai watched, the rear door of the first one in line opened and out stepped the target. Ronald Reagan rose to his full height — he was taller than Nikolai would have expected — and strode briskly along the sidewalk. A group of people moved with him, like moons orbiting a planet. Nikolai assumed the moons probably represented an even split between political aides and Secret Service agents.
When he reached the platform, Reagan climbed the stairs, moving well for a man in his seventies. He stopped short of the podium, waiting to be introduced. In his hand he held a sheaf of papers, undoubtedly the notes for his remarks.
At the podium, a youngish man, hair slicked back, glasses perched on his nose, was speaking into a microphone. The air was clear and Nikolai could hear every word. “And now, please join me in welcoming the man responsible for the resurgence of our economy, and of the United States in general, President Ronald Reagan!”
The people behind the podium stood and clapped, the crowd cheered, and Reagan stepped to the podium, pausing to shake the hand of the man who had introduced him. He smiled easily, waiting for the applause to die down so he could begin.
Nikolai leaned onto the top of the retaining wall, bracing himself with his elbows, holding the Dragunov loosely in his hands. He peered through the scope and after a quick adjustment, Reagan’s face filled the viewfinder, his teeth white and straight and his smile perfect. It was as if he was standing directly in front of Nikolai, no more than a few feet away.
Nikolai centered the crosshairs on Reagan’s forehead and prepared to change history.
48
Tracie raced to the roof access door, glancing at her watch as she did. Nearly ten. She was out of time.
She reached the door and skidded to a stop, hyper-aware of the need for speed but knowing her only chance for success was in not alerting the assassin to her presence. She knelt and examined the space at doorknob height between the door and the metal jamb. The KGB operative had forced the latch back with duct tape.
Tracie opened the door slowly and stepped through, then eased the door closed. Turned and started up the concrete steps and then pulled up suddenly, squinting as she bent down to look at the steps. A trail of fresh-looking blood meandered up them.
She hurried up the steps and in seconds had arrived on the roof. The front of the building and Columbia Road were to her right, obscured by the rusting metal bulkhead. That was where the assassin would be stationed, with President Reagan scheduled to begin speaking any second now. For all she knew, the president was at the podium already.
She glanced left and saw a pair of shoes, black and heavy, attached to legs in uniform pants. They weren’t moving. The murdered security guard.
She took a deep breath and turned her attention away from the body. She eased her eyes around the bulkhead, using the metal structure for cover, and her pulse quickened. At the far end of the roof, sighting through a sniper scope, rifle angled down and toward the platform where the president would soon speak, was the KGB assassin. She prayed Reagan had not yet reached the podium.
The man was dressed in what looked like a janitor’s uniform. A dark ball cap covered his head, and he appeared calm and collected, the rifle held steady.
Tracie drew her weapon and stepped clear of the bulkhead. The assassin’s attention was focused completely on Reagan as he peered through his scope. He would never know what hit him.
But there was a problem. She wouldn’t be able to hit him. She was aiming at a target at least forty feet away with a handgun after running up eight flights of stairs, her hands shaking from exertion and adrenaline.
She sighted down the barrel, holding her Beretta in a two-handed shooter’s grip, and swore to herself, frustrated. There was no way. If she fired now, she would almost certainly miss, and the advantage of surprise would be gone. The assassin would still have time to shoot Reagan before turning to defend his position against Tracie.
She stepped left and then forward, moving away from the bulkhead, hoping he wouldn’t sense her in his peripheral vision.
Still too far. She needed to get closer.
Another step left. Two more forward.
Better, but not good enough.
She continued moving, knowing the president had to be on the platform by now, maybe even behind the podium, so she likely had just seconds left. But her odds of hitting the Russian were still no better than fifty-fifty. She had to get closer.
Through the warm air Tracie could hear President Reagan as he began to speak. “Good afternoon, Washington,” he said. “Thank you for joining me as we celebrate the continued revitalization of a neighborhood that is quickly becoming a model for what can be achieved when government gets out of the way and allows its citizens to take charge.”
The crowd cheered and Tracie tuned out the president’s voice.
She took another step forward, her attention entirely on the assassin. Another step, and then she felt a tug of resistance above her ankle and lost her balance, toppling to the roof, crashing down in a spray of gravel.
She thrust her hands out reflexively and her weapon skittered away. She hit the surface and rolled, feeling pain in both palms as the gravel bit into her skin. She knew immediately what had happened, knew she had just condemned the president of the United States to death by her own stupidity and lack of awareness.
The assassin had strung fishing line across the roof, maybe a foot above its surface. A tripwire. In the sunshine, with her attention wrapped up in the shooter, Tracie had never seen it. She knew all this in the half-second it took to hit the roof.
She rolled once and rose to a crouch, scanning desperately for her gun. A slug struck the gravel no more than an inch from her left leg and she dived to the surface again, rolled again. The assassin had missed her once, probably due to surprise, but he would not likely miss a second time.
One desperate lunge, her feet scrabbling for purchase, and Tracie reached the cover of the air conditioning unit. She was safe, but only for a moment. Her weapon lay eight feet to her right, tantalizingly close, but directly in the shooter’s line of fire.
She risked a quick look around the corner of the air conditioner, and heard the ping of a shot ricocheting off the sheet metal. She drew back instinctively.