"Ludlum, Robert - THE JANSON DIRECTIVE" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ludlum Robert)

The truck came into view; two shirtless young men were in the cab. The roof was
down. One of boys was now standing up, pouring a sudsy can of beer over his
chest and cheering. The truckЧprobably loaded with some poor farmer's kurakkan,
or root cropsЧwas rounding the bend at upward of eighty miles per hour, as fast
as the groaning engine would go. American rock music, from one of the island's
powerful AM stations, blared.
The yelps and howls of merriment echoed through the night. They sounded like a
pack of drunken hyenas, Shyam thought miserably. Penniless joyriders: they were
young, wasted, didn't give a damn about anything. In the morning they would,
though. The last time this happened, several days earlier, the truck's owner got
a visit later that morning from the youths' shamefaced parents. The truck was
returned, along with many, many bushels of kurakkan to make amends for whatever
damage had been done. As for the kids, well, they couldn't sit without wincing,
not even on a cushioned car seat.
Now Shyam stepped into the road with his rifle. The truck kept barreling
forward, and he stepped back. No use being stupid about it. Those kids were
blind drunk. A beer can was lobbed into the air, hitting the ground with a
thunk. From the sound, it was a full one.
The truck veered around the first knife rest, and then the second knife rest,
and kept going.
"Let Shiva tear them limb from limb," Arjun said. He scrubbed at his bushy black
hair with his stubby fingertips. "No need to radio the backstop. You can hear
these kids for miles."
"What are we supposed to do?" Shyam said. They were not traffic cops, and the
rules did not permit them to open fire on just any vehicle that failed to stop.
"Peasant boys. Bunch of peasant boys."
"Hey," Shyam said. "I'm a peasant boy myself." He touched the patch sewn on his
khaki shirt: ARA, it read. Army of the Republic of Anura. "This isn't tattooed
on my skin, all right? When my two years are up, I'm going back to the farm."
"That's what you say now. I got an uncle who has a college degree; he's been a
civil servant for ten years. Makes half what we do."
"And you're worth every ruvee," Shyam said with heavy sarcasm.
"All I'm saying is, you got to seize what chances life gives you." Arjun flicked
a thumb at the can on the road. "Sounds like that one's still got beer in it.
Now, that's what I'm talking about. Pukka refreshment, my friend."
"Arjun," Shyam protested. "We're supposed to be on duty together, you know this?
The two of us, yes?"
"Don't worry, my friend." Arjun grinned. "I'll share."


When the truck was half a mile past the roadblock, the driver eased up on the
accelerator, and the young man riding shotgun sat down, wiping himself off with
a towel before putting on a black T-shirt and strapping himself in. The beer was
foul, noisome, and sticky in the heavy air. Both guerrillas looked grave.
An older man was seated on the flat bench behind them. Sweat made his black
curls cling to his forehead, and his mustache gleam in the moonlight. The KLF
officer had been prone and invisible when the truck crashed the checkpoint. Now
he flicked the communicate button on his walkie-talkie, an old model but a
sturdy one, and grunted some instructions.
With a metallic groan, the rear door of the trailer was cracked open so that the