"Destroyer 001 - Created, the Destroyer.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

"That's Newark, New Jersey," MacCleary questioned. "Not Newark, Ohio?"
"Yes sir."
"Good job."
"Thank you, sir," the Marine had said and closed his eyes without bothering to reach for the helmet as a shade.
That had been the last time MacCleary had seen those lids shut. It was a long time ago. And it had been a long time since MacCleary had been with the CIA.
Williams slept just as peacefully under drugs. MacCleary nodded to the dark-haired man. "Okay, switch off the lights."
The sudden blackness was just as blinding as the brightness.
"Expensive son of a bitch, wasn't he?" MacCleary asked. "You did a good job."
"Thanks."
"Got a cigarette?"
"Don't you ever carry them?"
"Not when I'm with you," MacCleary said.
The two men laughed. And Remo Williams emitted a low groan.
"We got a winner," the dark-haired man said again.
"Yeah," MacCleary said. "His pain's just beginning." The two men laughed again. Then MacCleary sat quietly smoking, watching the cigarette glow orange red every time he inhaled.
In a few minutes, the ambulance turned off the simple two-lane road onto the New Jersey Turnpike, a masterpiece of highway engineering and driving boredom. Several years before, it had had the best safety record in the United States, but the growing control of the road, its staff and the state police by politicians had turned it into one of the most dangerous high-speed highways in the world.
The ambulance roared on into the night. MacCleary bummed five more cigarettes before the driver slowed down and tapped on the window behind him,
"Yes?" MacCleary asked.
"Only a few more miles to Folcroft."
"Okay, keep going," MacCleary said. A lot of big shots were waiting for this package to arrive at Folcroft.
The journey was one hundred minutes old when the ambulance rolled off the paved road and its wheels began kicking up gravel. The ambulance stopped and the man with the hook jumped from the rear door of the ambulance. He looked around quickly. No one in sight. He faced toward the front of the big Buick. A high iron gate loomed overhead, the only entrance through high stone walls. Over the gate, a bronze sign glinted in the October moon. Its somber letters read: Folcroft.
Inside the ambulance, another groan.
And back at the prison, Harold Haines realized what had been wrong. The lights had not dimmed when Remo Williams had died.
At that moment, Remo Williams' "corpse" was rolling through the gates of Folcroft and Conrad MacCleary was thinking to himself: "We should put up a sign that says 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.'"

CHAPTER SEVEN
"He's already in Medical?" asked the lemon-faced man sitting behind the immaculate glass-topped desk, the silent Long Island Sound dark behind him, and the computer outlets waiting by his fingertips like metallic butlers of the mind.
"No, I left him lying on the lawn so he could die from exposure. That way we can finish the work of the state," growled MacCleary. He was drained, emptied by the numbing exhaustion of tension.
He had borne that tension for four months-from setting up the shooting in the Newark alley until last night's execution. And now, the unit chief, Harold W. Smith, the only other person at Folcroft who knew for whom everyone really worked, this son of a bitch with his account sheets and computers, was asking him whether he had looked after Remo Williams properly.
"You don't have to be so touchy, MacCleary. We've all been under a strain," Smith said. "We're still not out of the woods either. We don't even know if our new guest is going to work out. He's a whole new tactic for us, you know."
Smith had that wonderful way of explaining something you were fully aware of. He did it with such casualness and sincerity MacCleary wanted to break up the computer outlets with his hook and shred them over Smith's immaculate gray-vested suit. MacCleary, however, only nodded and said: "Do I tell him it will be only five years?"
"My, we are in a nasty mood today," Smith said in his usual professorial manner. But MacCleary knew he had gotten to him.
Five years. That was the original arrangement. Out of business in five years. That was what Smith had told him five years ago when they both resigned from the Central Intelligence Agency.
Smith had been wearing that same damned gray vested suit. Which looked pretty damned peculiar because the two of them were on a motor launch ten miles east of Annapolis in the Atlantic.
"Five years should see this thing all wrapped up," Smith had said. "It's for the safety of the nation. If all goes well, the nation will never know we existed and the constitutional government will be safe. I do not know if the President authorized this. I have one contact whom you are not permitted to know. I am your contact. No one else. Everyone else is deaf, dumb and blind."
"Get to the point, Smitty," MacCleary said. He had never seen Smith so shaken.
"I chose you because you have no real ties to society. Divorced. No family. No prospects of ever starting one. And you are also, despite some odious character defects, a... well, a rather competent agent."
"Stop the crap. What are we doing?"
Smith stared across the foaming waves. "This country is in trouble," he said.
"We're always in some kind of trouble," MacCleary said.
Smith ignored him. "We can't handle crime. It's that simple. If we live within the constitution, we're losing all hope of parity with the criminals, or at least, the organized ones. The laws don't work. The thugs are winning."
"What's it to us?"
"It's our job. We're going to stop the thugs. The only other options are a police state or a complete breakdown. You and I are the third option.
"We're going under the name of CURE, a psychological research project sponsored by the Folcroft Foundation. But we are going to operate outside the law to break up organized crime. We're going to do everything, short of actual killing, to turn the tables. And then we disband."
"No killing?" MacCleary asked.
"None. They figure we're dangerous enough as it is. If we weren't so desperate in this country, you and I wouldn't be here."
MacCleary could see moisture well in Smith's eyes. So he loved his country. He had always wondered what moved Smith. Now he knew.
"No way, Smitty," MacCleary said. "I'm sorry."
"Why?"
"Because I can see the whole pack of us, everyone who knows about this CURE thing, being ferried out to some crappy island in the Pacific after we close shop. Anyone who knows anything about this is going to be dead. You think they're going to take a chance on you and me writing our memoirs? No way, Smitty. Well, not me, baby."