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

"Thanks for telling me," Remo said.
"I figured it wouldn't matter," Smith said. "Now what did Devlin say?"
Remo recounted the story, the plan to assassinate the President of Scambia, to set the small nation up as a haven for the world's criminals, the implicating of the Vice President, Alibaba, or something…
"Asiphar," Smith interrupted.
"Yeah, Asiphar. Anyway, he's in it, but he's not the leader. Devlin didn't know the leader."
"When is it scheduled to happen?"
"In a week," Remo said. Deep inside his stomach, he felt that first small tinge that unfailingly told him of impending catastrophes, such as the necessity to postpone his vacation.
"Mmmmm," Smith mused. Then he was silent. Then "mmmmm" again.
"Don't bother telling me what 'mmmm' means. I know," Remo said.
"This is serious, Remo, very serious."
"Yeah? Why?"
"Have you ever heard of Baron Isaac Nemeroff?"
"Sure. I buy all my shirts from him."
Smith ignored him. "Nemeroff is probably the most dangerous criminal in the world today. He has a houseguest this week at his villa in Algeria."
"Do I get three guesses?"
"You don't need any," Smith said. "It's Vice President Asiphar of Scambia."
"So?" Remo said.
"So, that means, that Nemeroff is involved in this. Probably the man who started it. And that is very dangerous."
"All right. Assume everything you say is true," Remo lectured. "It's still a job for the CIA."
"Thank you for your lecture on policy," Smith sniffed. "Now let me tell you something. You seem to have forgotten our basic mission which is to fight crime. That effort will be seriously compromised if Nemeroff and Asiphar are allowed to make this Scambia a haven for criminals."
Remo paused. "So I'm elected?"
"You're elected."
"And what about my vacation?"
"Your vacation?" Smith said loudly. "All right, if you insist upon talking about it, let's discuss vacations. How many weeks a year do you think you're entitled to?"
"With my longevity, at least four," Remo said.
"All right. Where did you spend three weeks of last month?"
"In San Juan, but I was training," Remo said. "I've got to keep in shape."
"All right," Smith said. "But the four weeks you spent in Buenos Aires, in a damned chess tournament? That was training too, I suppose."
"Certainly, it was," Remo said indignantly. "I've got to keep my wits razor-sharp."
"Do you think it was sharp-witted to enter the tournament under the name of Paul Morphy?" Smith said coldly.
"It was the only way I could get a game with Fischer."
"Oh, yes, that game. You spotted him pawn and move, I believe," Smith said.
"Yeah, and I would have beat him too if I hadn't gotten careless and let him capture my queen on the sixth move," Remo said, annoyed to even have to remember the business in Buenos Aires, which had not been one of his brighter moments. "Look," he said hurriedly. "You're too upset now to talk about things like vacations. Suppose I do this job and then we'll talk about vacations? What do you say?"
What Smith said was, "I'll get a file to you. Everything we know. Perhaps something will come out of it. But about all this vacation time…"
Remo turned the dial on the earpiece from fourteen to twelve and immediately Smith's voice went berserk again.
"Grbble, breek, gleeble."
"I'm sorry, Doctor Smith, we're having trouble again with this de-" Remo turned the dial on the mouthpiece to another setting. He could picture Smith at Folcroft, furiously twisting the dials, trying to get Remo's voice back.
Into the mouthpiece, Remo said: "Brueghel, Rommel, Stein and Hinderbeck. Sausage meat machines. Cold cuts, one dollar the pound, up to your ankle. Don't make no bull moves, Dutch Schultz." He hung up. Let Smith chew on that one for awhile.
As he removed the scrambler units from the phone, he tried not to feel his annoyance. He didn't need a file from Smith. He didn't need any neat computer printouts. All he needed was the description and location of the targets. Nemeroff. Asiphar. They were dead. That was that. Girl scouts could do it. A stupid thing to let louse up a vacation.
Remo put the scrambler units back in the drawer, kicked off his tennis shoes and watched the back of Chiun's head. He wanted to tell Chiun about his feelings today at the federal prison. How he had been frightened and nervous, almost out of control.
He wanted to tell him. It was important. He hoped a commercial would come soon.
He lay there, waiting for one. But if I tell Chiun, what? Will he lecture me? Give me exercises to do? Tell me that white men can never control their feelings?
Maybe, a year ago, he would. But now? Probably, he just wouldn't be interested. He'd just grunt and keep staring at the television.
Remo did not want that to happen. He decided not to tell Chiun.

CHAPTER FOUR
"C'mon, you want to go to the zoo?"
The old man had turned off the television and was beginning to hook up his TV tape player to play back the shows he had missed because of concurrent scheduling.
Even his white robe seemed to rise in indignation as he looked at Remo, then answered softly:
"This is all a zoo. All the place, all around the place. No, thank you. But you go. Perhaps you can teach the bull moose how to bellow."