"MacLean, Alistair - The Golden Gate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Alistair)

'Yes?'

'Okay.'

'Good.' There was no elation in Branson's voice and no reason why there should have been: with six weeks of solid preparation behind him he would have been astonished if anything should have gone wrong. 'You and Mack get back to the apartment Wait'

Johnson and Bradley were curiously alike, good-looking, in their early thirties, almost identical in build and both with blond hair. They also bore a striking resemblance, both in build and coloration, to the two men, newly wakened from sleep, who were propped up in the two beds in the hotel room, gazing at them with an understandable mixture of astonishment and outrage. One of them said: 'Who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you're doing here?'

'Kindly modulate your voice and mind your language,' Johnson said. 'It ill becomes a naval air officer. Who we are doesn't matter. We're here because we require a change of clothes.' He looked at the Beretta he was holding and touched the silencer with his left forefinger. 'I don't have to tell you what those things are.'

He didn't have to tell them What those things were. There was a cold calm professionalism, a chilling surety about Johnson and Bradley that discouraged freedom of speech and inhibited even the very thought of action. While Johnson stood there, gun dangling in apparent negligence by his side. Bradley opened the valise they had brought with them, produced a length of thin rope and trussed up the two men with a speed and efficiency that indicated a long or intensive experience of such matters. When he had finished Johnson opened a cupboard, produced two suits, handed one to Bradley and said: 'Try them for size.'

Not only were the suits an almost perfect fit but so also were the hats. Johnson would have been surprised if they had been otherwise: Branson, that most meticulous of planners, almost never missed a trick.

Bradley surveyed himself in a full-length mirror. He said sadly: 'I should have stayed on the other side of the law. The uniform of a Lieutenant in the US Naval Air Arm suits me very well indeed. Not that you look too bad yourself.'

One of the bound men said: 'Why do you want those uniforms?'

'I thought naval helicopter pilots were intelligent.'

The man stared at him. 'Jesus! You don't mean to stand there and tell us -'

'Yes. And we've both probably flown Sikorskys a damned sight more man either of you.'

'But uniforms? Why steal our uniforms? There's no trick in getting those made. Why do you -'

'We're parsimonious. Sure, we could get them made. But what we cant get made are all the documentation you carry about with you - identifications, licences, the lot.' He patted the pockets of his uniform. They're not there. Where?'

The other bound man said: 'Go to hell.' He looked as if he meant it, too.

Johnson was mild. 'This is off-season for heroes. Where?'

The other man said: 'Not here. The Navy regard those as classified documents. They have to be deposited in the manager's safe.'

Johnson sighed. 'Oh, dear. Why make it difficult? We had a young lady stake-out in an armchair by the receptionist's last evening. Redhead. Beautiful. You may recall.' The two bound men exchanged the briefest of glances: it was quite clear that they did recall. 'She'd go on oath in a witness stand that neither of you deposited anything.' He smiled in a wintry fashion. 'A witness stand in court may be the last place on earth she'd want to go near, but if she says it's no deposit, it's no deposit. Let's not be silly. Three things you can do. Tell us. Have your mouths taped and after a little persuasion tell us. Or, if those don't work, we just search. You watch. If you're conscious, that is.'

'You going to kill us?' "What on earth for?' Bradley's surprise was genuine.

'We can identify you.'

'You'll never see us again.'

'We can identify the girl.'

'Not when she removes her red wig, you can't.' He dug into the valise and came up with a pair of pliers. He had about him an air of gentle resignation. 'Time's a-wasting. Tape them up.'

Both bound men looked at each other. One shook his head, the other sighed. One smiled, almost ruefully: 'It does seem a gesture of useless defiance - and I don't want my good looks spoilt. Under the mattresses. At the foot.'

Under the mattresses they were. Johnson and Bradley flicked over the leaves of the two wallets, looked at each other, nodded, extracted the not inconsiderable dollar billfolds in each wallet and placed those by the bedside tables. One man said: 'Couple of crazy crooks you are.'