"Энди Макнаб. Удаленный контроль (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

"She didn't do things my way."
Nobody did. He was the sort of guy who folded his socks instead of
putting them inside each other, and stacked his coins in their
denominations. Since his divorce he'd become Mr.
I'm-going-to-have-the-best-of-everything. People even started to call him
Mr. Ikea-you name it, track lights, entertainment center, the whole nine
yards. The inside of his house was like a showroom.
I could tell Euan was watching the two players pick up their gear and
walk away from the bar.
I took my time; no need to get right up their ass. Euan would tell me
when to move.
"Do a one-eighty," he said.
"Look to the right, just approaching the newsstand."
I casually got to my feet. It had been great to see him.
Maybe this job would turn out to be a waste of time, but at least I'd
seen my closest friend. We shook hands, and I walked away. Then I turned,
looked ninety degrees to the right, and spotted them, suit bags over their
arms.
The departures lounge looked like an Irish craft fair. I was starting
to feel out of place; I should have gotten myself a Guinness hat.
What was I going to do once I got to D.C.? I didn't know if somebody
was going to pick them up, whether they were taking a cab or the bus, or, if
they'd managed to get a hotel, whether transport was included. If they
started moving around the city, that would be fun, too. I knew Washington a
bit but not in any great detail.
They were still smoking like fiends. I sat in the lounge and picked up
a paper from the seat. McGear started scrabbling about for change in his
pocket as they talked to each other, standing at the bar. He was suddenly
looking purposeful; he was either going to go to the slot machines or the
telephone.
He got a note out and leaned over to the bartender; I could see him
asking for change. I was sitting more or less directly behind them and about
twenty feet back, so even if they turned their heads forty-five degrees to
either side, I still wouldn't be in even their peripheral vision.
McGear walked toward the slot machines but continued on past. It must
be the telephone.
I got up and wandered over to the newsstand, pretending to check the
spinning rack of newspapers outside.
He picked up the phone, put a couple of pound coins in, and dialed. He
got the number from a piece of paper, so it wasn't one that was well known
to him. I looked at my G Shock; it was 4:16 p.m. The display was still on
dual time; if there were any Iraqis in the lounge needing to know the time
in Baghdad, I was their man.
I checked my pockets for coins; I had about two and a half quid; I
would need more for what I was going to do, so I went in and bought a
newspaper with a twenty-pound note.
McGear finished his call and went back to the bar. Those boys weren't
going anywhere; they ordered more beer, opened their papers, lit another
cigarette.
I gave it a couple of minutes, then strolled over to the phone McGear