Read Online The Chancellor Manuscript by Robert Ludlum - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Ludlum
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forty-four; if the longstanding habit was going to be observed this night, he’d know it shortly. Suspended thirty-five feet above the ground, the man rebraced himself and tightened the safety strap until his body was pressed against the pole. He raised the rifle and jammed the curved brace into his shoulder.
He looked through the luminous green circle that was the sight and moved it carefully until he had the rear door of the director’s house clearly in view. In spite of the darkness, the picture was clear; the cross hairs of zero aim were focused directly on the steps of the entrance.
He waited. Minutes passed slowly. He stole a glance at the dial of his watch; it was ten fifty-three. He could not wait much longer; he had to return to the van to throw the switch.
Of all nights! Routine was not going to be observed!
Then he saw the porch light! The door opened; the driver felt a wave of relief.
Through his infrared scope the huge animal came into focus. It was Hoover’s enormous bull mastiff, rumored to be among the most vicious of dogs. It was said the director enjoyed the comparisons between the faces of master and animal.
The custom of years was being carried out. Every evening between ten forty-five and eleven Hoover or Annie Fields let the dog out to wander in the enclosed grounds of the residence, its waste picked up in the morning.
The door closed, the porch light remained on. The man on the pole moved his weapon with his quarry. The cross hairs were now on the animal’s enormous throat.
The driver squeezed the trigger; there was a slightmetallic click. Through the sight he could see the mastiff’s eyes widen in shock; the huge jaws sprang open, but no sound came.
The animal fell to the ground, narcotized.
A nondescript gray automobile coasted to a stop a hundred feet past the driveway of 4936 Thirtieth Street Place. A tall man in a dark suit got out of the passenger door and looked up and down the block. Near the grounds of the Peruvian embassador’s residence a woman walked a dalmatian. In the other direction, perhaps two hundred yards away, a couple were strolling up a path toward a lighted doorway.
Otherwise there was nothing.
The man looked at his watch and felt the small bulge in his coat pocket.
He had exactly half a minute, thirty seconds, and after that he would have precisely twenty seconds. He nodded to the driver and walked rapidly back toward the driveway, the crepe soles of his shoes noiseless on the pavement. He swung into the shadowed drive without breaking his stride, approached the door in the wall, and removed a small air pistol from his belt, shifting it to his left hand. The dart was in place; he hoped he would not have to use it.
He looked again at his watch. Eleven seconds; he would allow an additional three for safety. He checked the position of the key in his right hand.
Now
.
He inserted the key, turned the lock, opened the door, and entered the grounds, leaving the door open six inches. The huge dog was on the grass, its jaws slack, its enormous head pressed against the earth. The driver of the telephone van had done his job efficiently. He would remove the dart on his way out; there would be no trace of the narcotic in the morning. He returned the dart gun to his pocket.
He walked rapidly to the door on the first floor, his mind ticking off the seconds. He could see the intermittent dimming of lights throughout the house. By his estimate nine seconds remained as he inserted the second key.
The lock would not turn! The tumblers jammed. He manipulated the key furiously.
Four seconds, three …
His fingers—his surgeon’s fingers encased in surgicalgloves—delicately, swiftly maneuvered the jagged metal within the jagged orifice as if it were a scapel in flesh.
Two seconds, one …
It opened!
The tall man stepped inside, leaving this door, too, ajar.
He stood in the hallway and listened. The lights were steady again. There was the sound of a television set
He looked through the luminous green circle that was the sight and moved it carefully until he had the rear door of the director’s house clearly in view. In spite of the darkness, the picture was clear; the cross hairs of zero aim were focused directly on the steps of the entrance.
He waited. Minutes passed slowly. He stole a glance at the dial of his watch; it was ten fifty-three. He could not wait much longer; he had to return to the van to throw the switch.
Of all nights! Routine was not going to be observed!
Then he saw the porch light! The door opened; the driver felt a wave of relief.
Through his infrared scope the huge animal came into focus. It was Hoover’s enormous bull mastiff, rumored to be among the most vicious of dogs. It was said the director enjoyed the comparisons between the faces of master and animal.
The custom of years was being carried out. Every evening between ten forty-five and eleven Hoover or Annie Fields let the dog out to wander in the enclosed grounds of the residence, its waste picked up in the morning.
The door closed, the porch light remained on. The man on the pole moved his weapon with his quarry. The cross hairs were now on the animal’s enormous throat.
The driver squeezed the trigger; there was a slightmetallic click. Through the sight he could see the mastiff’s eyes widen in shock; the huge jaws sprang open, but no sound came.
The animal fell to the ground, narcotized.
A nondescript gray automobile coasted to a stop a hundred feet past the driveway of 4936 Thirtieth Street Place. A tall man in a dark suit got out of the passenger door and looked up and down the block. Near the grounds of the Peruvian embassador’s residence a woman walked a dalmatian. In the other direction, perhaps two hundred yards away, a couple were strolling up a path toward a lighted doorway.
Otherwise there was nothing.
The man looked at his watch and felt the small bulge in his coat pocket.
He had exactly half a minute, thirty seconds, and after that he would have precisely twenty seconds. He nodded to the driver and walked rapidly back toward the driveway, the crepe soles of his shoes noiseless on the pavement. He swung into the shadowed drive without breaking his stride, approached the door in the wall, and removed a small air pistol from his belt, shifting it to his left hand. The dart was in place; he hoped he would not have to use it.
He looked again at his watch. Eleven seconds; he would allow an additional three for safety. He checked the position of the key in his right hand.
Now
.
He inserted the key, turned the lock, opened the door, and entered the grounds, leaving the door open six inches. The huge dog was on the grass, its jaws slack, its enormous head pressed against the earth. The driver of the telephone van had done his job efficiently. He would remove the dart on his way out; there would be no trace of the narcotic in the morning. He returned the dart gun to his pocket.
He walked rapidly to the door on the first floor, his mind ticking off the seconds. He could see the intermittent dimming of lights throughout the house. By his estimate nine seconds remained as he inserted the second key.
The lock would not turn! The tumblers jammed. He manipulated the key furiously.
Four seconds, three …
His fingers—his surgeon’s fingers encased in surgicalgloves—delicately, swiftly maneuvered the jagged metal within the jagged orifice as if it were a scapel in flesh.
Two seconds, one …
It opened!
The tall man stepped inside, leaving this door, too, ajar.
He stood in the hallway and listened. The lights were steady again. There was the sound of a television set
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