"Энди Макнаб. Последний свет (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Now that it was clear of bodies, I could just about penetrate the
shadows inside. It looked like a canteen, the sort where you drag your tray
along the counter and pay at the end. What a let-down: I'd been expecting
something a bit more regal.
The door-frame was soon filled again, by another woman with a mobile
phone stuck to her ear. This one had a clipboard in her free hand; she
stepped on to the terrace, closed down her mobile, and looked around.
The blonde PR guru came into view. There was lots of nodding, talking,
and pointing around the killing area, then they both went back where they'd
come from. I felt a wave of apprehension. I wanted to get on with it and get
aboard that Eurostar.
"One of the team," the Yes Man had said.
One of the team, my arse. The only things that would help me if this
went wrong were my security blanket and a quick exit to the States.
Seconds later, human shapes began filling the area behind the door, and
were soon pouring out into the killing area. The woman with the clipboard
appeared behind them, shepherding them with a fixed, professional smile. She
guided them to the glasses on the table by the door as if they could have
missed them.
Then the catering staff were on top of them like flies on shit, with
nibbles on trays, and a whole lot more champagne.
The South American contingent was easy to identify, not by brown or
black skin but because they were far better dressed, in well-cut suits and
expertly knotted ties. Even their body language had more style. The group
was predominantly male, but none of the women with them would have looked
out of place in a fashion magazine.
Obligingly, Clipboard coaxed the guests away from the doorway and into
the killing area. They spread out and mingled with the advance party. It
became clear that everybody was going to continue standing up rather than
move over to the benches. I'd have preferred them to sit down like a line of
ducks at a fairground, but it wasn't going to happen. We were going to have
to settle for a moving target.
The Yes Man was due to arrive ten minutes after the main party. The
plan was that he'd spend five minutes by the door, making a call, which
would give all four of us time to ping him. From there he would move off and
ID the target.
All three would now be taking slow, deep breaths so they were fully
oxygenated.
They would also be constantly checking the wind indicators until the
last minute, in case they had to readjust their optics.
My heart pumped harder now. The snipers' hearts, however, would be
unaffected.
In fact, if they'd been linked to an ECG
machine they'd probably have registered as clinically dead. When they
were in their zone, all they could think about was taking that single,
telling shot.
More people cut across my field of view, then the Yes Man appeared in
the doorway. He was five foot six tall, and not letting me down by wearing
the same sort of dark, badly fitting business suit as the rest of the Brits.
Under it he had a white shirt and a scarlet tie that made him look like a