"Chalker, Jack L - G.O.D. Inc 3 - The Maze in the Mirror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Chalker Jack L)

hadn't touched, sat down, turned on the personal computer on one desk, and
called up his special name and numbers file, the one that you had to have a lot
of passwords to get to and which would give you a lot of wrong information even
then if you didn't know how to use it just right.
It was going to be a long afternoon of phone calls. Lieutenant McCabe of the
Pennsylvania State Police might be the best to call first, but there was also
Louie "Cement Shoes" Gigliani in Philadelphia, Al "The Turtle" Snyder in
Pittsburgh, and many more. Local cops and middle level gangsters in five states,
all of whom owed him one or ones he wouldn't mind owing. It was time to call in
all his chips on this one.
By eleven that night the various phone lines began to bring him a great deal of
information. Three mini-vans had been rented in Harrisburg by a company called
Villahermosa Ltd., which turned out to be a New York based subsidiary of an
import-export business chartered in the Dominican Republic. No one seemed too
clear on what they imported and exported but a security squad checked their New
York offices and found an empty warehouse with no particular signs it had ever
been used as more than a garage and a mail drop. Other Company security was now
checking the other end down in Santo Domingo but it was unlikely they'd have
much luck before morning, when places with records and people who could get at
them were open and available.
The mini-vans were of greater interest since as of now they had not yet been
turned back in in Harrisburg or in any other rental location. The company credit
card they'd used was valid and active, though; a call down to Florida resulted
in his computer printer spewing out a very long list of transactions on that
account the oldest of which was only five months ago, when they had leased the
New York warehouse. The credit report also gave the name of Villahermosa's New
York bank, and before morning he'd have a list of all the checks they'd written,
to whom, and when.
As he'd expected, all three driver's licenses used in the rental were total
forgeries. Hell, one of 'em was to Mr. Juan Valdez of Colombia. Maybe they
exported coffee or something. Of course, number two was driven by Mr. Pancho
Villa of El Paso, and the third was Simon Bolivar of New York. Spanish Harlem,
no doubt. These guys weren't even trying hard to disguise their phonyness, and
that worried him. It also bothered him that all three were using Hispanic names,
and from their descriptions looked it. The rental people usually wouldn't
remember anybody in particular, but when you rent three mini-vans on a
Spanish-sounding corporation to three South American types in Harrisburg, they
tend to notice.
He doubted if the man behind this was anywhere around, or even in this world,
but he suspected who it was and he very much wanted to meet him. Preferably in a
dark alley of Sam's own choosing. They had never met, but even without all this
Sam owed him a very slow, lingering death.
The phony licenses were enough to get an APB out on the vans in all states
around Pennsylvania. They didn't want to report the kidnapping; that would bring
in the F.B.I., phone taps, and all the rest and might cause a lot of trouble as
well as a great many embarrassing questions. But now the cops would be on the
lookout for those vans, and even if they'd changed vehicles by now the pursuers
would be one step closer.
The checks proved very illuminating as well, particularly when matched against
the charge records. Airplane tickets, rental houses, you name it. By morning the