"Murphy, Warren - [Destroyer 060] - The End of the Game" - читать интересную книгу автора (Destroyer)

"Gone," insisted the leader.

Out of the night toward the campfire came something bouncing. It was a little larger than a soccer ball. It dripped dark liquid in its trail. It had hair.

The young men looked around the fire, then to the leader. They knew now what the sound of cracking had been. It had been a neck wrenching. The head had come back to them out of the night.

But even as they looked toward the leader, he moved back away from the firelight, and then he was gone into the night with that vision.

Remo could feel the man struggle inside the heavy coat and he let the coat be a bag that restrained the man more than protected him. He played the man beyond the sentries with little slaps, as simply as if keeping pizza dough spinning overhead.

Away from the campfire and the guards, Remo let the man down.

"Good evening," he said politely. "I have come with a message. The White House is off-limits."

"We have no harm against Americans. We have no harm."

"Lying isn't nice," Remo said. "Liars lose their coats."

He snapped the coat from the man's back, cracking an arm as he did so. He knew the man had broken an arm because he was trying to keep warm now with only one arm.

"Now know one thing. The White House is off-limits. The President of the United States is off-limits."

The leader nodded.

"Why is it off-limits?" Remo asked patiently.

"Because he is not the Great Satan?" said the Iranian.

"I don't care what goes on under those rags you wear on your heads. Call him the Greatest Satan if you want. Hell, you can call him Two-Gun Justice if you want. But know one thing and keep it warmly in your mind. You are not going to kill the American President. Do you know why?"

The man shook his head. Remo took off the man's shirt.

"Say why. Say why. Say why," said the man, reaching for the shirt.

"Because," said Remo. "That's why." He held out the shirt for a moment and then threw it over the man's shoulders. He added the big wool coat.

"Hear now something else. You do not represent God. You are little men and have been for a thousand years. You have come up, with all your talk of being God's anointed, you have come up against something that has found your camp in your country, ignored the bullets of your guards, and the fearsome cold of your winters. That ought to give you pause. Do you know the old legends?"

"Some," said the man. He clutched his coat tightly, hoping it would not be snatched from him again.

"Have you heard of Sinanju?"

"A new American airplane?"

"No. Sinanju is old. Very old."

"The Shah's men?" the Iranian said.

"You're getting warmer," said Remo. "But not the new Shah. The old Shah. A long time ago. Before Mohammed."