"Ahern, Jerry - Survivalist 003 - The Quest" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ahern Jerry)

Rourke turned around and started through the brush toward the main parking area of the abandoned drive-in, somehow feeling better inside and at the same time feeling worse. He'd always labeled himself either laid back or uptight, he'd never been sure which. And he wasn't used to hearing himself let go. His jaw set, he kept walking.

Rourke edged toward the farthest end of the tall standing pine trees, their bare shadows casting long, thin lines along the ground from the reflected light of Coleman lanterns in the center of the drive-in lot. Rourke watched the assembled men, no women. He didn't like the rendezvous; it was too open. He waited as the now-silent Reed edged up near him.

The man rasped, "After this is through, you and me."

Rourke simply nodded. Reed, competent, tough and, Rourke thought, about as bull-headed as he, was the last thing on his mind.

Chapter 26.

General Varakov sat in darkness. Other than the light from the long rectangular lamp that bathed his desk in yellow, beyond was shadow and then beyond it blackness, and far into the main hall near the skeletons of the mastodons was a ceiling light, but it shone more like a beacon than a source of illumination. The light cast shadows from the bones of the two prehistoric giants and seemed only to accentuate how they somehow did not fit in the real world of men and yet emphasized the mortality they shared with men.

Varakov wiped his hands across his eyes, and stared at the file folder. It was the KGB file on John Thomas Rourke. He scanned through it once again. Doctor of Medicine, with no particular specialty, and training toward general practice, and after the degree, internship at, Varakov didn't recognize the name of the hospital. After there was an unaccounted-for year, and then Rourke had joined Central Intelligence as a case officer, the translation for that Varakov knew was a spy, an agent. He had moved into the Black Section, Covert Operations, and had killed several times for the agency, targets usually in Latin America. Varakov noted with interest that apparently Karamatsov and Rourke had crossed paths in Latin America once. And Rourke had bested Karamatsov.

For some reason not clear in the file, Rourke had quit Central Intelligence after an affair in Latin America, which he'd barely survived. There had been an ambush, Rourke's people had been killed, and only Rourke's body had not been found, and then several weeks later a man matching Rourke's general description had been seen near the docks and after that, Rourke had apparently drifted into Miami, barely alive.

His nerve gone? Varakov doubted that, for after leaving CIA Rourke had begun to freelance, not in Intelligence, but in counter-terrorist training, survival training, weapons skills, etc. He had been spotted working with pro-American military and police units in virtually every corner of the world where the Americans needed the help most. Varakov made a mental note to see if Rourke had really left the Company, as it was called, or simply assumed a cover.

Rourke had written several books on the medical, psychological, and weapons-related aspects of survival, short and long-term. He was an expert; Varakov noted curiously that some of Rourke's works had been pirated, translated, and were adapted as training manuals in the Soviet Union. The thought amused him; he wondered if Rourke would take such knowledge well? He doubted it. He scanned through the family background; wife works as an artist, illustrator, and writer of children's books; two children, Michael and Ann. Varakov worked the dates, the boy would be nearing seven, the girl nearing five.

He scanned through the file to the skills section. There was a repeat of the medical background, the standard things one expected in an Intelligence agent, or former agent, dealing with radio, etc. He was qualified on helicopters, fixed-wing aircraft, military jets. Rourke's Georgia driver's license number appeared there, curiously, Varakov thought, the same as Rourke's social security number. He was reportedly an expert marksman, but that was to be expected. Habitually carried .45ACP or .357 Magnum-caliber handguns.

Perfect, he'd liked the sound of the man when he'd spoken with him and realized that despite their political, ideological, and other differences, to Varakov's thinking, they were much alike. Men of purpose, men with feeling, men who did what they must. Varakov had never liked Karamatsov who had no feeling, and when the surface was finally scratched, the insides were worse than those of a pig.

Natalia was his special child, Varakov scowled, and for hurting her, Karamatsov would simply and finally die. Varakov did not consider it revenge, and the justice of it was not something that bothered him either. It was just, but more to the point, it was something he wanted done. He sighed, not being a vindictive man, but wishing that circumstance did not preclude him pulling the trigger himself.

His desk phone rang.

"Varakov!" he snapped into the receiver. It was the radio room, his contact.

He waited, thinking about how to handle the man, waiting while the adjustments were made. This was the traitor in President Chambers's closest group of advisors.

"Hello, yes, Varakov. So, at last. You, too, are a general of sorts I hear," Varakov said, the thought slightly amusing him. He disliked traitors, and the more highly placed, however useful, the more intense the dislike.

"Yes, sir," the very American, cowboyish voice answered noncommittally.

"Randan Soames, Commander of the Paramilitary forces of Texas, one of Samuel Chambers's trusted confidants. A man who visited Russia twelve years ago, has been working for us ever since and has, before the war, handed us over numerous copies of secret files coming through your electronics components businesses. How nice to meet you," Varakov said.

"Yes, sir."

"I understand that you sexually molested a child, "

"Sir, please, I beg, "

"I, personally, would not have chosen blackmailing you into espionage. I would have shot you. You are worse than a savage, worse than an animal. I would have no compunction against leaking to your American friends who you are, what you have done for us and why. That is clear?" Varakov wanted to terminate the conversation as quickly as possible, feeling somehow dirty talking with the man even across perhaps several thousand miles. He wasn't quite certain exactly how far Texas was from Chicago.

"But, General Varakov, "

"You will do exactly as I say, I am a man of honor and you are not, therefore, you are taking advantage of me and you have nothing to lose. I need the following. I understand this American terrorist Rourke is obsessed with locating his wife and children who were living in Georgia before the war. All indications would be that he has gone there. How can he be found, immediately?"