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

'Anything?'

Two drivers, is all'

'Guards?'

"Okay. No suspicions.'

'Wait.'

Branson flipped a switch as another buzzer rang.

'P5,' the speaker said. 'On schedule. Thirty minutes.'

Thank you.'

Branson made another switch.

'P2?' The code for Johnson and Bradley.

'Yes?'

'You can go now.'

'We go now.' The voice was Johnson's. He and Bradley, immaculate in their naval air uniforms, were sauntering casually along in the direction of the US Naval Air Station Alameda. Both men were carrying smooth shiny flight bags into which they had transferred the contents of the valise. As they approached the entrance they increased their pace. By the time they reached the two guards at the entrance they were giving the impression of two men who were in a considerable hurry. They showed their cards to one of the guards.

'Lieutenant Ashbridge, Lieutenant Martinez. Of course. You're very late, sir."

'I know. Well go straight to
'I'm afraid you can't do that, sir. Commander Eysenck wants you to report to his office at once.' The sailor lowered his voice confidentially. The Commander doesn't sound very happy to me, sir.'

"Damn!' Johnson said, and meant it. 'Where's his office?' . 'Second door on the left, sir.'

Johnson and Bradley hurried there, knocked and entered. A young petty officer seated behind his desk pursed his lips and nodded silently towards the door to -his right. His demeanour indicated that he had no desire whatsoever to participate in the painful scene that was about to follow. Johnson knocked and entered, head down and apparently searching for something in his flight bag. The precaution was needless. In the well-known demoralization ploy of senior officers deepening their intimidation of apprehensive junior officers, Eysenck kept on making notes on a pad before him. Bradley closed the door. Johnson placed the flight bag on the edge of the desk. His right hand was concealed behind it So was the aerosol gas can.

'So kind of you to turn up.' Eysenck spoke in a flat drawling accent: Annapolis had clearly failed to have any effect on his Boston upbringing. 'You had your strict orders." He raised his head in what would normally have been a slow and effective gesture. 'Your explanations -' He broke off, eyes widening, but still not suspecting anything untoward. 'You're not Ash-bridge and Martinez.'

'No, we're not, are we?'

It was clear that Eysenck had become suddenly aware that there was something very very far untoward. His hand stretched out for a desk button but Johnson already had his thumb on his. Eysenck slumped forward against his desk. Johnson nodded to Bradley who opened the door to die outer office and as he closed it behind him it could be seen that his hand was fumbling in the depths of his bag. Johnson moved behind the desk, studied the buttons below the phone, pressed one as he lifted the phone.

'Tower?'

'Sir?'

'Immediate clearance Lieutenants Ashbridge and Martinez.' It was a very creditable imitation of Eysenck's Boston accent. Branson again called P3, the two watchers by the garage.

'And now?'

123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142434445464748495051525354555657585960616263646566676869707172737475767778798081828384858687888990919293949596979899100101102103104105