"Mack Reynolds - Pacifist" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

McGivern said, coldly, deliberately. The building is surrounded, Casey. Surrender yourself. There are more
than fifty security police barring any chance of escape.”


The Pacifist’s mind snapped to attention. Was there anything he had to do? Was there anything in the
apartment that might possibly betray the organization or any individual member of it? He wanted a few
moments to think.


He attempted to keep his voice even. “What do you want, McGivern?”


“My son!” The Politician was glaring his triumph.
“I’m afraid Fredric is out of my hands,” Casey said. Was the senator lying about the number of police? Was
there any possibility of escape?”


Then whose hands is he in? You have him. Warren Casey, but we have you.”


“He’s not here,” Casey said. There might still be a service he could perform. Some way of warning the
organization of McGivern’s method of tracking him down. “How did you know my name?” McGivern snorted.
“You’re a fool as well as a criminal. You sat in my office and spoke in the accent of your native city. I
pinpointed that, immediately. You told me you’d been a bomber pilot and obviously had seen action, which
meant that you’d been in the last war. Then as a pseudonym you used the name Jakes. Did you know that
persons taking pseudonyms almost always base them on some actuality? We checked in your home city,
and, sure enough, there was actually a newspaperman named Jakes. We questioned him. Did he know a
former bomber pilot, a veteran of the last war? Yes, he did. A certain Warren Casey. From there on the job
was an easy one - criminal. Now, where is my son?”


For a moment, Warren Casey felt weary compassion for the other. The senator had worked hard to find his
boy, hard and brilliantly. “I’m sorry, McGivern, I really don’t know.” Casey threw his glass, destroying the
telephone screen.


He was on his feet, heading for the kitchen. He’d explored this escape route long ago when first acquiring the
apartment.


The dumbwaiter was sufficiently large to accommodate him. He wedged himself into it, slipped the rope
through his fingers, quickly but without fumbling. He shot downward.


In the basement, his key opened a locker. He reached in and seized the submachine pistol and two clips of
cartridges. He stuffed one into a side pocket, slapped the other into the gun, and threw off the safety. Already
he was hurrying down the corridor toward the heating plant. He was counting on the fact that the security
police had not sufficient time to discover that this building shared its central heating and air-conditioning plant
with the apartment house adjoining.