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

was sitting right in the middle of a suck.
A West Indian waiter in immaculate whites approached Bolan's table and
refilled his coffee cup. Bolan's protective coloration for this rather
refined corner of the human jungle consisted of a lightweight turtleneck and
conservative slacks. The coordinated jacket was specially cut to conceal the
Detonics mini .45 Associates automatic pistol riding in custom-crafted
shoulder leather under his left arm.
On the table next to him was a slimline Samsonite attache-case with
combination lock.
Three tables away, Sir Philip stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and
glanced impatiently at the lounge's entrance. He did not smile, but his
frown relaxed as he rose from his seat. Frederick Charon crossed the room.
The two men shook hands with no particular warmth, then both sat down.
Bolan kept them in the corner of his vision. To all appearances, two
classier members of a pair of great nations, meeting to discuss something of
worth or import within the elegant surroundings to which they had been bred.
In reality, two traitors, pooling resources to sell out those great
nations. For all their intelligence, culture, and social status, to Mack
Bolan these two men were certainly no less harmful than a pair of fat old
Mafia dons who argued obscenely about how to split the profits of their
vicious exploitation.
It was all a question of choices. Charon and Sir Philip could have
chosen to be leaders, men who enriched the societies to which they had
climbed to the top.
Instead they had chosen to be criminals.
The clue to the tie-in had come with the notation on the datebook of
Charon's secretary: "Brunch with Sir Philip." It was an elementary computer
exercise for Aaron Kurtzman: compare that name to all names filed in the
Stony Man Farm data banks, with crosscheck to the NSC computer. It had taken
exactly 51 seconds - Kurtzman was proud to announce to produce the correct
name.
Bolan had studied the printout summary of Sir Philip Drummond's dossier
on his transatlantic flight. Now aged fifty-six, he was the only son of a
titled family that traced its lineage back to England's famed House of York.
He was a member of the House of Lords, and was third-ranked officer below
the Minister of Defence. His private school was Eton, after which he read
for his baccalaureate at Cambridge University. In addition he held a Master
of Arts degree from Oxford.
And for more than thirty years, Sir Philip had been a double agent for
the Russian KGB.
This creep had first become involved with communism as a theoretical
system, when he joined a socialist student faction at Cambridge. Such an
association was not particularly unusual in those days, was considered no
more than a harmless intellectual flirtation. Since Sir Philip had renounced
it quite quickly, it was no barrier for his entrance into the British
Intelligence service, first as a military officer during the Second World
War, then with MI5 after mustering out.
That is how the "old school tie" has always worked in England.
In fact Sir Philip had embraced communism totally.
When an old college chum who had already gone turncoat approached him,