"Destroyer 008 - Summit Chase.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

THE DESTROYER: SUMMIT CHASE
Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy
To Gene, who knows the story best.
ISBN: 0-523-41814-0
First printing, February 1973 Second printing, March 1974 Third printing, April 1978 Fourth printing. May 1979 Fifth printing, December 1979 Sixth printing, November 1981
PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN


"I hate koreans." the hired assassin stated. He preceded Remo into the suite. "Hey, old man," he called to Chuin.
Chuin did not move, but Remo saw his eyes in the mirror, lifting, scanning the scene behind him, then lowering to the TV screen. Poor Chuin. A tired old man.
"Hey. I'm talking to you," the huge man roared, Chuin studiously ignored him, so the big man went around in front of him and pulled the tape cartridge from the television set.
Chuin rose in the one smooth motion that always impressed Remo. "Please return my television program," Chuin said, extending a hand.
The big man looked at Chain's hand, then at the tape, and then with a snarl, grabbed the plastic cartridge in both hands and snapped it in half, as if it were an ice-cream stick, dropping the pieces to the floor.
He hit the floor before the pieces did.
With a roar of rage, Chuin was in the air, his feet planted deep into the thug's throat, and the big man crumpled in a heap, his hands slowly relaxing in death.
Then Chuin looked at Remo and his eyes drooped sadly. "I really feel very poorly today. I am very old and weak."

CHAPTER ONE
It is written in the ancient books that when visiting a man who is soon to die, one must carry the knotted rope of elephant tail.
So when the uniformed guard told him that the President would see him now, Vice President Asiphar waited until the guard had left, and then secreted the bulky knot in the right back pocket of his uniform trousers. Only then did he walk from his own office and follow the guard down the hall, the sounds of their heels clicking on the marble floor, the only rupture in the monumental stillness of the ornate palace.
Asiphar paused outside the carved, double-oak doors, took a deep breath and then pulled open the heavy door. He stepped inside, allowed the door to shut behind him, and looked up.
The President of Scambia was standing at the window, looking out over the grounds that surrounded the palace. The palace itself had been built of blue slatelike stones that were mined in the small and still new country; the grounds reflected the President's preoccupation with blue.
They were crisscrossed in mazes of pools and gardens and hedges. The water in the pools was blue, so were the flowers-even the precisely cut hedges were of so deep a green as to appear blue.
The uniforms of the palace guards were blue, too, and the President noted that fact with satisfaction. It would be the nation's tradition. When a nation is nothing-has nothing-tradition is not a bad place to begin building.
The only mar to the color scheme of the palace was the yellow of the uniforms of the work crew laying a sewer under the roadway, at the corner of the east wing of the palace building. It annoyed the President to see it, as it had annoyed him every day for the four weeks the crew had been working. But he would say nothing. A nation must have sewers as well as tradition.
President Dashiti turned now, to face the man who stood across the desk from him. During the interview, he would find it necessary to turn to the window from time to time, so as not to commit the discourtesy of smiling openly at the uniform Vice President Asiphar wore. It was of red gabardine, and every available inch of seam appeared to be trimmed with braid: gold braid, silver braid, blue and white braid. The uniform had been tailored in Paris, but not even its immaculate tailoring could disguise the obesity of Vice President Asiphar.
Not that many noticed, on first meeting, that Asiphar was fat. The first impression always was that he was ugly. More striking than his hideous uniforms, more impressive than his enormous bulk, was his face-a blue-black inkwell of darkness. His nose was wide, his forehead sloped back to a pointed head, that, fortunately, was hidden by his braided military cap.
President Dashiti once had wrestled for three weeks in his own mind, trying to determine if Asiphar looked more like a circus fat man or an out-of-shape Neanderthal. The body belonged to the circus, the face to pre-historic man. The question had been left unresolved.
More important was the fact that Asiphar was a military man, the choice of the generals for vice president, and it was necessary to tolerate him, no matter how loathsome Dashiti found him.