"...You'd never guess how we got on to him. He was so nervous about the stuff being in his suitcase that he didn't dare let it out of his sight. When he got to the airport, he insisted on carrying the bag into the terminal himself instead of letting the porter handle it. He was sweating like a pig and kept looking around to see if anyone was watching. One of our agents happened to be there on another case, saw this middle-aged guy acting like he'd just robbed a bank, and decided to have a chat with him. The moral is, amateurs always trip themselves up."
I nodded, thinking of Linda. Then Dey’s face grew serious. "There’s one more thing, Nick. I got a flash from Washington an hour ago. It seems some of the back-room boys are getting cold feet. They’re worried about the timing. You know, election year and all that. They’re afraid if this thing with Steyer and the Russians blows up in the wrong way, it could look like we’re instigating a private war on foreign soil. The word is, they might want us to pull back and handle it through 'normal channels'."
I looked at him. "Normal channels? You mean lawyers and ten years of appeals?"
"Exactly," Dey said. "But here's the kicker. The order to stall hasn't been officially signed yet. It's still 'under consideration'. Hawk was the one who took the call, and he told them he’d look into it."
Перевод пропущенного фрагмента:
— ...Никогда не угадаешь, как мы на него вышли. Он так нервничал из-за того, что в чемодане лежит товар, что не смел выпустить его из виду ни на секунду. Когда он приехал в аэропорт, он настоял на том, чтобы самому тащить сумку в терминал, и не подпустил носильщика. Он потел как свинья и постоянно озирался — не следит ли кто. Один из наших агентов оказался там по другому делу, увидел этого немолодого парня, который вел себя так, будто только что ограбил банк, и решил с ним «побеседовать». Мораль такова: любители всегда сами себя выдают.
Я кивнул, думая о Линде. Затем лицо Дэя стало серьезным. — Есть еще кое-что, Ник. Час назад я получил депешу из Вашингтона. Похоже, у некоторых кабинетных чинов задрожали поджилки. Они переживают из-за времени. Сам понимаешь — предвыборный год и всё такое. Они боятся, что если эта заварушка со Штайером и русскими пойдет не так, это будет выглядеть так, будто мы развязали частную войну на чужой территории. Прошел слушок, что они хотят, чтобы мы дали задний ход и решали вопрос через «официальные каналы».
Я посмотрел на него: — Официальные каналы? Ты имеешь в виду адвокатов и десять лет апелляций? — Именно, — подтвердил Дэй. — Но вот в чем загвоздка. Приказ о приостановке операции еще официально не подписан. Он всё еще «на рассмотрении». Звонок принимал Хоук, и он ответил им, что «изучит этот вопрос».
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yourself, T guess palm trees have to be a standard fea-
ture. It's all part of the image. But it was bad for me.
Too much open space there, with the palm trees mak-
ing for perfect cover. If anyone was waiting, I didn't
suppose it would be hula girls. My hand snaked to the
shoulder holster, releasing Wilhelmina. I let the engine
idle in neutral while I checked the clip, then laid her
on the seat, between my legs.
But this was the place I was looking for, all right.
The charts had indicated a shoal beneath me that any-
thing with more than a two-foot draft would have to
skirt widely. Conveniently, it also happened to lie as
far as it was possible to get from the small natural har-
bor at the east end, where Steyer hung out. That meant
about three miles' walking. No reason to expect a re-
ception committee—that is, if Steyer was keeping his
end of the bargain. No reason to take any chances, ei-
ther.
I cut the engine and probed the bottom with a five-
foot bamboo pole I had carried strapped to the gun-
wale. The water was waist high or a little more. About
right. I unscrewed the twin bolts that held the engine in
place and let it plonk backward into the water. I slid
overboard then, after emptying out my pockets, and
waded the rest of the way in, towing the Zodiac by its
mooring ring with one hand, the Luger out and ready
in the other.
It really wasn't worth the effort; the beach was
empty, and no one poked out through the palms. Wil-
helmina went back to her shoulder holster, and I used
both hands to tow the dinghy over the moist sand to
the edge of the palm trees. Time check: 9:05, leaving
just enough time to cover the three miles if I was lucky
and came across a path through all this scrub and
screwpalm.
First things first. r got out a big-bladed hunting knife
and slit open the sides of the rubber boat, making sure
damaged all three air compartments. I took out my
equipment, all neatly packed into a thirty-pound
backpack.
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packedmto a t
backpack.
PLOT FOR THE FOURTH REICH
-poun
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There was a path, but I lost twenty minutes tramp-
ing around before I found it. It started from a freshwa-
ter rock pool and wound its way around the edge of a
mangrove swamp, heading east. I had thought it would
be easier to find. It wasn't as if this were an island in
the middle of the Pacific. Riohacha was barely three
miles away. Still, it cost me time, and time was getting
short for all parties concerned this evening.
Time check: 10:54. With a little hustling, I'd made
it with a few minutes to spare. The path brought me
out in a clearing behind the left wing of Steyer's three-
story mansion where a shallow rainwater reservoir had
been scooped out of the rock. From the look of things,
the house must have dated from sometime around the
turn of the century, but the scaffolding on the top floor,
cement drums, and wheelbarrows all around seemed to
indicate that work was still going on. I killed the flash-
light and waited for my eyes to get acclimated to the
dark. For the time being, I wasn't interested in the
house or its occupants. My main worry was the harbor
in front. I dropped back into the trees and circled
around the house, moving noiseles«ly toward the water.
I found a good spot, moved some: rocks out of the
way, and stretched out flat on my belly to have a look.
The tiny prismatic bird-watcher's field glasscs scanned
the periphery of the harbor. Some distance out from
shore, rotted wooden pilings stuck out of the water
like bad teeth waiting to be pulled. To the right, and
directly in front of the house, they had built a modern
pier out of reinforced concrete. Most of its docking
space was taken up by a small but powerful-looking
deep-vee cruiser—that would be Steyer's own oceango-
ing hotrod, I guessed. Next to that I could make out
two little outboards tied up in the corner, leaving the
other side free. No sign of any guards.
Right then and there I could have finished half the
job, if I had wanted to chance it. But there wasn't
cnough time for that. The Cubans were due to show up
at any minute. I had to wait for them to join the party,
then make my move.
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a wante toc ance It. utthere wasn
enough time for that. The Cubans were due to show up
at any minute. I had to wait for them to join the party,
then make my move.
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NTCK CARTER: KILT-MASTER
Fifteen minutes later the unmistakable whine of ma-
rine diesels mingled with the high-pitched humming of
the mosquitoes who were dive-bombing my blackened
face and hands. I trained my glasses out to sea and
caught sight of her red-and-white running lights as she
rounded the narrow headland and swung sharply star-
board into the mouth of the harbor. While I was
watching, her searchlight blinked on and probed and
stabbed along the shore with fingers of light.
Two—no, three—men came out of the house and
were walking slowly out to the pier. How many more
still inside? I'd find out soon enough. It was too dark
to see their faces.
But the boat stood out clearly enough, and T got a
surprise. I don't know why, but for some reason I was
expecting a military craft—a patrol boat or something
sub-chaser size. Instead, my pigeons were coming to
roost in a fifty-foot luxury trawler yacht, a Hong
Kong-built CheoyLee. The Panamanian ensign hung
limp at her stern. Four men on deck, all armed, with
an officer shouting orders from the flybridge. Even with
the glasses, I •couldn't see much. I didn't have to. I
knew those things that looked like loaves of French
bread cradled in their arms were standard Cuban navy
issue, Czech M61s or Russian Stechkins, just as sure as
I could picture their young, prematurely hardened
faces bundled in olive-green fatigues.
The three figures had paused midway out on the
dock and stood waiting passively as the trawler cut her
engines to a muted chortle and coasted in at dead stop.
Bumpers were hastily tossed over the side, and the four
men on deck shouldered their machine guns and stood
ready with the mooring lines.
When she was all snubbed in parallel with Steyer's
cruiser on the other side of the pier and secured, her
crew didn't lose any time in scrambling off her. count-
ed seven of them, not including a tall man who wasn't
carrying a gun. Height alone was enough for positive
indentification. AXE Records Division had him entered
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187
this wasn't exactly our first encounter—a rematch,
more like it.
Subarov stepped forward and ceremoniously shook
hands with each of the three waiting men. There was
some talking; then they all started back to the big
house, Subarov and another man leading the way and
talking in undertones with the Cuban strong-arm squad
marching in step behind them, two by two on the nar-
row concrete shelf that jutted between the boats.
I waited until the door had closed behind them and
lights winked on in one of the first-floor windows. Now
came the tricky part. How many men had they left on
board to guard the trawler?
There was only one that I could see. r hoped there
wasn't another lurking belowdeck. I followed him
through the glasses as he paced nervously around the
trawler two, three times, then abruptly sat down on the
stern freeboard staring out at the lapping water. I gave
him five minutes, hoping he would light up a cigarette.
Carefully, I undid the binoculars from around my
neck and unbelted my shoulder holster. I laid Wilhel-
mina down on the backpack beside me. This had to be
done quietly or not at all.
I was waiting for him to get bored and make another
round of the boat.
Finally, he got up. Another desultory tour was com-
pleted with a long pause to stare at Steyer's cruiser be-
fore he returned to the stern and sat down again, this
time on the storage locker positioned below the lifeboat
winch. T got up and broke cover, running in a low
crouch for the pier. My tennis shoes scuffed over the
wet sand as close to silently as I could dare hope for.
All the way across the beach and out the length of
the dock I ran: then I stopped dead in front of the
duckboard gangplank leading to the boat. r had to
wait—wait for the Cuban to get up and move. Other-
wise, he'd feel the balance shift when I stepped aboard,
and I'd be dead. I had to let him provide the lurch and
then take advantage of it.
One minute. The name Of the boat was the Juan Sal-
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NICK CARTER: KTLLMASTER
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vador Gaviota. I made a mental note of that. Later, it
would be interesting to see what kind of front had got
her registered in Panama. Two minutes. The Cuban
got up and stretched, planted his foot on the gear
locker, then reached down and started to fiddle with
his heavy boot. The second the boat wobbled I moved
quickly to board her, increasing the tilt only slightly.
I edged my way along the narrow space between the
main cabin and the edge of the boat, crowding against
the portholes. My left hand was wrapped tightly
around the haft of the stiletto. The idea was the classic
commando kill—get him from behind with my right
arm around his throat, then drive the blade home.
I was five feet from him when something made him
jerk clumsily to his feet and start to turn around.
What happened next happened in less time than it
takes to describe it. I flipped Hugo out of my useless
left hand, caught it by the hilt with my right hand, and
flicked it forward, all in the same split-second motion.