bourne legacy | Page 4

other ways. Perhaps we should consider—"
"There's no time. The announcement has been made, the date set. The Shaykh is right."
"The Shaykh, yes." Khalid Murat shook his head. "Always the Shaykh." At that moment, the car phone
rang. Khalid Murat glanced at his trusted companion and calmly clicked on the speakerphone. "Yes,
Shaykh," he said in a deferential tone of voice. "Hasan and I are both here. We await your instructions."
High above the street where the convoy was idling, a figure crouched on a flat rooftop, elbows atop the
low parapet. Lying along the parapet was a Finnish Sako TRG-41 bolt-action sniper rifle, one of many
he had modified himself. Its aluminum and polyurethane stock made it as light as it was deadly accurate.
He was dressed in the camouflage uniform of the Russian military, which did not look out of place with
the Asian caste of his smooth features. Over the uniform, he wore a lightweight Kevlar harness from
which hung a metal loop. In his right palm, he cradled a small matte-black box, no larger than the size of
a pack of cigarettes. It was a wireless device in which were set two buttons. There was a stillness about
him, a kind of aura that intimidated people. It was as if he understood silence, could gather it to him,
manipulate it, unleash it as a weapon.
In his black eyes grew the world entire, and the street, the buildings upon which he now gazed were
nothing more than a stage set. He counted the Chechen soldiers as they emerged from the guard vehicles.
There were eighteen: the drivers still behind the wheels and in the center vehicle at least four guards as
well as the principals.
As the rebels entered the main entrance of the hospital on their way to secure the site, he depressed the
top button of the wireless remote and C4 charges went off, collapsing the hospital entrance. The
percussion shook the street, set the heavy vehicles to rocking on their oversized shocks. The rebels
caught directly in the blast were either blown to bits or crushed beneath the weight of falling rubble, but
he knew that at least some of the rebels could have been far enough inside the hospital lobby to have
survived, a possibility he had factored into his plan.
With the sound of the first explosion still ringing and the dust not yet settled, the figure looked down at
the wireless device in his hand and depressed the lower button. The street in front and back of the
convoy erupted in a deafening blast, collapsing the shell-pocked macadam.
Now, even as the men below struggled to come to grips with the carnage he had visited upon them, the
assassin took up the Sako, moving with a methodical, unhurried precision. The rifle was loaded with
special non-fragmentation bullets of the smallest caliber the rifle could accommodate. Through its
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IR-enabled scope, he saw three rebels who had managed to escape the blasts with only minor injuries.
They were running toward the middle vehicle, screaming at the occupants to get out before it was
destroyed by another blast. He watched as they yanked open the right-hand doors, allowed Hasan
Arsenov and one guard to emerge. That left the driver and three remaining bodyguards inside the car with
Khalid Murat. As Arsenov turned away, the figure sighted on his head. Through the scope, he noted the
expression of command plastered on Arsenov's face. Then he moved the barrel in a smooth, practiced
motion, this time sighting on the Chechen's thigh. The figure squeezed off a shot and Arsenov grabbed his
left leg, shouting as he went down. One of the guards ran to Arsenov, dragged him to cover. The two
remaining guards, swiftly determining where the shot had come from, ran across the street, entering the
building on whose roof the figure crouched.
As three more rebels appeared, racing out a side entrance to the hospital, the assassin dropped the
Sako. He watched now as the vehicle containing Khalid Murat slammed into reverse. Behind and below
him, he could hear the rebels pounding up the stairs leading to his rooftop perch. Still unhurried, he fitted
titanium and corundum spikes to his boots. Then he took up a composite crossbow and shot a line into a
light pole just behind the middle vehicle, tying off the line to make sure it was taut. Shouting voices
reached him. The rebels had gained the floor directly below him.
The front of the vehicle was now facing him as the driver tried to maneuver it around the huge chunks of
concrete, granite and macadam that had erupted in the explosion. The assassin could see the soft glint of
the two panes of glass that comprised the windshield. That was the one problem the Russians had yet to
overcome: Bullet-proofing the glass made the panes so heavy it required two of them for the windshield.
The personnel