"Дон Пендлтон. Renegade Agent ("Палач" #47) " - читать интересную книгу автора

International Zone at Heathrow Airport in London."
"That way," April explained, "any cargo held for transshipment only
does not have to pass British customs."
"Third," Kurtzman growled on, "Transworld Ist is a front run by our
friends in MI5 - BRITISH Intelligence. And fourth, there is here Kurtzman
shuffled through the printouts '4-a 99.3 percent chance that this "Sir
Philip" whose name you saw, Mack, in Charon's datebook is Sir Philip
Drummond, a high ranking MI5 official."
"Wait a minute," Bolan objected. "That doesn't make sense."
Kurtzman smiled with satisfaction. "It does if you add in point number
five." He held up his hand, palm out, all digits splayed. "Sir Philip
Drummond is a puppet," he announced. "And the Kremlin is pulling his
strings."
Bolan's coffee cup was still half-full when he left the War Room.
Within an hour, he was in a military jet, clearing the Atlantic coast,
racing to meet the incoming twilight.

3

The man sitting alone at the corner table was in his mid-fifties, and
wore the years well. He was dressed in an impeccably cut Savile Row
three-piece suit, gray with muted gray pin striping, and his full head of
silvery hair looked as if it had been styled that morning, every strand in
place. He was slim and tall, carried himself with an offhand grace, visible
now as he came into the vip lounge on the first floor of the departures
section of Terminal Three at Heathrow Airport, London, England.
From his position four tables away, Mack Bolan had a clear line of
sight to the elegant man. Two walls of the lounge were glass, looking out on
the airport's terminal aprons. Planes with a variety of international
markings taxied to or from the building every minute or so; Terminal Three
handled intercontinental traffic. A third wall of the lounge was faced by a
long table on which a luxurious buffet brunch had been laid out, a
complimentary courtesy for the international passengers that the various
airlines were most anxious to woo: business people, statesmen, anyone who
did a good deal of traveling. The brunch was presided over by a Pakistani
chef in livery, as was the cocktail bar tucked up to the fourth wall.
At mid-morning, there were no more than a dozen people in the room. Of
the four at the bar, Mack Bolan knew the identities of three. The
sandy-haired man at one end was named Voorhis; the man with whom he appeared
to be in deep conversation was named McMahon. Both were American
Intelligence agents.
At the other end of the bar, a young blond man, hardly twenty-five,
appeared to be dawdling over a Guinness stout.
In fact he was an agent of MI5. Like his American colleagues, he was
fully briefed on what was to come down.
The distinguished-looking man at the corner table glanced at his watch,
then took a sterling silver cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket.
He extracted a slim brown-paper cigarette, produced a lighter that
matched the case, drew in flame.
His name was Sir Philip Drummond, and although he did not know it, he