"Дон Пендлтон. The Iranian Hit ("Палач" #42) " - читать интересную книгу автора

The main entrance to the grounds was set in the northwestern corner of
the wall. And the general had gone hard. Yes, indeed.
The wall itself was twenty feet high and three feet thick. At first
glance it appeared like that of any of a number of similar walled properties
Bolan had noticed along the outer reaches of Persimmon Tree. This was horse
estate country. The wealthy liked their privacy. But the aura of
respectability was dispelled when one reached the front gate, which looked
like nothing so much as Leavenworth Prison. The entrance had been designed
to discourage the most determined gate crasher. The drive to the gateway was
angled so that no vehicle seeking forceful entry could pick up enough speed
to ram through the gate or the reinforced fence. Entrance onto the property
was not gained: it was permitted. There were two brick guardhouses situated
one after another, at opposite sides. A gate stretched across the entrance
in front of each gatehouse.
A cold-eyed guard checked Bolan's id while the man's twin stayed behind
bulletproof glass, cradling a Ruger Mini-14, little brother to Bolan's Ml.
Guard Number Two never took his eyes off Bolan while the other okayed the id
and moved to unlock the fence barring entrance to the narrow corridor.
The scene was repeated at Gatehouse Two.
Bolan was impressed with the general's security. Vehicles had to pass
through a two-stage entrance, stopping and slowly negotiating the narrow
corridor, which was barely wide enough to accommodate a standard American
car.
There was a third backup guard at Gatehouse Two. And fifty feet beyond
the checkpoint, snaking off in both directions in the darkness, stretched
another chain-link fence laced with barbed wire, the upper four feet angled
outward and probably electrified. Beyond the fence, the grounds of the
estate extended in a rolling, gradual incline toward the house. The
pebblestone driveway was about eighteen hundred yards long.
Bolan coasted toward the house in second gear. He was seeing and
absorbing all he could that was relevant to the terrain where the coming
battle would be fought.
Halfway to the house he passed another guard shack, this one discreetly
nestled amid a dense cluster of dogwoods. But Bolan was not required to
stop. Two guards were visible, and one of them waved the car by. The upgrade
became more pronounced, and moments later, the driveway arced onto a sort of
plateau and widened into a parking area.
Bolan parked amid a handful of darkened vehicles and unloaded his gear
from the sports car.
An Olympic-sized swimming pool, empty now, and a cluster of cabanas
separated the parking area from the house.
Bolan hurried along a stretch of cobblestone walkway that encircled the
pool. The grounds were dark. Moments later the main house began taking shape
in the moonlight.
The red brick structure was a two-story holdover from the nineteenth
century. Dated, but with its elegance intact. Several of the windows were
lighted.
A man stood in the open front doorway, waiting for Bolan. An Iranian,
early forties, of rather slight build, whose outstanding feature was the set