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

of deep worry lines that furrowed his face.
"Colonel Phoenix? We expected you some time ago. I just finished
speaking with Mr. Brognola. I'd called to ask if you'd run into any delays."
"No more than usual," Bolan grunted, declining further explanation. He
thought quickly of the background data that Aaron Kurtzman had supplied on
the cassette regarding the general's group. "You must be Dr. Nazarour."
The Iranian nodded, visibly impressed. "I am Mehdi Nazarour. I serve as
my brother's physician," he confirmed. He spoke with the perfect clipped
cadence of a foreigner, but Bolan sensed a barely subdued nervousness about
the man. The general's brother stepped aside, holding the door open for
Bolan. "I will tell Eshan that you have arrived," he said as Bolan stepped
into the front foyer.
The physician indicated a door across the hallway that led off the
foyer. "Perhaps you would care to wait in the study. Mr. Rafsanjani is in
there now - my brother's secretary and assistant. My brother will be only a
few minutes, and I'm sure Mr. Rafsanjani will make you comfortable and fill
you in on any details about our place here. As I say, we've been expecting
you."
Then the front door was closed behind Bolan. The brother exited to
another area of the house. There was a deathly stillness about this
building. Bolan crossed to the study door. He could not ignore the feeling
in his gut that he had just stepped into a nest of vipers.
The study was warm, comfortable, softly lighted, and lushly appointed.
Two of the walls were lined with books, ceiling to floor. Another wall
boasted a well-stocked bar and video setup. The wall behind the wide desk
must have been a picture window. At the moment a curtain covered it, draped
against the night.
A short, somewhat effeminate man of indeterminate middle age rose from
behind the desk as Bolan entered and set his ordnance temporarily across the
surface of the bar. The man reminded Bolan of Peter Lorre, the forties movie
actor.
A smile seemed to slide onto the man's bland face. He leaned across the
desk with arm extended as Bolan approached. His handshake was loose and
cool. "Ah, Colonel Phoenix." The guy even had a high-register Lorre voice.
"We had begun to worry about you. May I fix you a drink?"
"No, thank you."
"I am Abbas Rafsanjani," the man said with a slight bow. "It has been
my privilege to serve General Nazarour both in Iran and in our travels. In
our exile. I want you to know that I am at your disposal, Colonel. As are
all the members of the security force outside."
"I appreciate that," Bolan said with a nod. He was trying to penetrate
those poker eyes and coming up with zero. "What about the house staff? Cooks
and such?"
"The entire house staff was dismissed at the close of yesterday's
workday," said Rafsanjani. "As you may know, we had intended to be out of
your country by this time. The staff has been reduced to the general's two
personal bodyguards, myself, and of course the general's brother and Mrs.
Nazarour." At a sound from the door, the aide looked past Bolan. "Here is
the general now."
Bolan turned to see the study door behind him opened by a burly guy in