"O'Donnell, Peter - Modesty Blaise 02 - Sabre-Tooth" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Peter)

'A long shot?' The Afrikaner grinned contemptuously. 'And you've seen this seven times. I'm not a bloody fool, man. But suppose the bloke did make it?'
Carter drew a finger across his throat and hawked.
The Afrikaner nodded, then frowned. 'How do they make him fight if he's going to be croaked anyway?'
'He needn't fight,' said Carter. 'If he jibs, they just put him on the next plane out.'
'Where to?'
Carter waved a vague arm in a half-circle to north and east. 'To where the backing is. Where the big wheels are. I wouldn't know about thatЧand it's a bad question, that is. I wouldn't ask it again.'
'Okay. Never mind where to. They put him on the next plane off the air-strip. What for?'
'Guinea-pig,' said Carter, and picked a shred of tobacco from his tongue. 'You know what these bloody doctors are. Same everywhere. Always got things they want to try out.'
'Like what?'
'Like anything. A bit of nerve-gas, maybe. Or see how long you stay alive when they've switched your liver for a dog's. Research, like. Only one bloke chose the guinea-pig plane. The word came round from Liebmann later that they'd taken the top of his head off and stuck electric needles in different bits of his brain.'
'What for?'
'Just to find out,' Carter said irritably. 'Something to do with ... you know, brain stuff. Like they give him a jolt through one needle and he's laughing, another and he's crying, or maybe hungry. Or raving for a bint, with a beat up to his chin.'
'Man, I don't need bloody needles for that.' The Afrikaner grinned. 'It's a good thing they've got the women laid on in that harem thing. What do they call it?'
'The seraglio.' Carter's eyes narrowed lustfully. 'Listen, I'll lay a green ticket to a whiteЧan all-night to a shorttime. Against Vallmanya. You on?'
'Don't lean on me too hard, you crafty bastard,' the other said without heat. 'I don't bet without knowing the form.'
Sarrat came up the slope. He carried a bayonet in a sheath, an old French army sword-bayonet with a blade just under sixteen inches long. He tossed it to Vallmanya in passing. The Spaniard caught it deftly, drew out the bayonet and threw the sheath aside. He felt the edge and the point, gave a little nod of satisfaction, then took a careful grip on the hilt and stood waiting.
He had shed the slight air of bravado that hinted at concealed tension. Now he was a cold, nerveless fighter, survivor of a hundred brawls and a dozen battles, experienced and dangerous.
The murmur of talk among the spectators faded to silence. Karz looked at The Twins and nodded. Lok and Chu moved slowly, each taking a pair of black gloves from the pocket of his tunic. The gloves were of mail, interlaced chain of blued steel, so finely wrought that the gloves were limp as heavy velvet.
Liebmann watched The Twins. They moved as one now, with perfect co-ordination. This moment always fascinated him, the moment when Lok and Chu ceased to be separate, hate-filled enemies and became one creature of four arms and four legs, with one mind controlling the whole.
Lightly, walking in such precise unison that the strange artificial link joining them at the shoulder took no strain, The Twins moved into the arena. At four paces from Vallmanya they halted, their yellow faces calm and watchful, gloved hands open and held at chest height a little away from their bodies.
Bayonet poised, Vallmanya began to circle them, sidestepping with a quick, dancing movement. Lok moved with him, turning slowly and easily until he was back to back with his brother. Then he stood still. The steel-cored leather joint at the shoulder would allow no further movement. Chu did not turn his head.
Vallmanya took another long side-step, as if to come in on the flank, then swerved back and lunged like a fencer for Lok's throat. A mailed hand clashed against the blade, sweeping it easily aside, and there came a rasp of steel on steel as Vallmanya wrenched the bayonet fiercely from the closing hand.
On the stepped slopes the Afrikaner murmured an awed oath. 'They're quick... quick as a bloody whip, man.'
'Pick flies out of the air, they can,' said Carter.
The Spaniard moved to the right and came in fast on the flank. The Twins stood with their heads turned to watch him. As he lunged, two gloved hands flickered dartingly like great black dragon-flies. Lok's hand deflected the thrust, Chu's hand caught the turned blade a fraction of a second later. This time Vallmanya lunged again with the held blade, twisting it, trying to drive the point into Chu's forearm.
Chu jerked as the lunge came in, and Lok's hand slashed down edgewise on Vallmanya's exposed wrist. There came a choking grunt of pain, then Vallmanya sprang back, empty-handed. Chu held the bayonet.
Lok turned, wheeling quickly so that The Twins stood shoulder to shoulder again, both facing Vallmanya. At once he circled rapidly so that his back was no longer to the brink of the rocky platform, and together The Twins wheeled smoothly to face him.
With a casual movement Chu tossed the bayonet up over his shoulder and Lok caught it as it dropped behind his back. The weapon passed across the front of The Twins, spinning from hand to hand in a bewildering juggle, as if a single mind controlled each nerve and sinew in both bodies. Abruptly Lok threw the bayonet hard, taking Vallmanya by surprise.
The heavy hilt thudded against his breastbone in a glancing blow as he twisted to dodge the throw. For a moment he staggered off-balance, then bent and snatched up the fallen bayonet, darting back out of distance. The Twins grinned.
'They're making the most of it,' Carter said with approval. He had given up hope of a bet with the Afrikaner now. The other moved his shoulders. 'I wouldn't keep a fight going just for kicks. Not against a man with nothing to lose.'
'It's their medicine,' Carter said, and watched with appraising eyes as Vallmanya crouched in a defensive posture, forcing The Twins to take up the attack. They moved in, the four legs co-ordinated as surely as the legs of a cat, steel hands poised.
Vallmanya lunged low for Chu's groin, and again there came the clash of the blade against mail. At the same instant Lok rested a hand on his brother's shoulder and jumped, both feet lashing out. One boot took Vallmanya on the side of the head, the other thudded against his ribs. He went down, dazed, rolling over and over to escape the follow-up, empty-handed again.
Chu held the bayonet now. Together the linked brothers moved forward. As Vallmanya came to his feet they were upon him, three mailed hands chopping with controlled force.
'Softening him up,' said Carter, stubbing out his cigarette. 'They could break his neck with one chop if they fancied it that way.'
Vallmanya was reeling backwards round the arena like a punch-drunk boxer, trying blindly to duck or side-step the sharp, punishing blows which were methodically numbing his arms and shoulders, draining breath from his heaving lungs and strength from his powerful body.
Suddenly all was still and the three men stood frozen as if in a tableau, Vallmanya swaying a little as he faced The Twins. He might have fallen had he not been held. The outer hand of each twin gripped one of his wrists, twisting hard to lock the arm rigidly. The inner leg of each twin was advanced, so that the legs crossed at the shins, with the feet turned to lock behind Vallmanya's ankles. He stood utterly helpless now.
The inner hands of The Twins gripped the bayonet-hilt together. Slowly the blade came up until the point rested against Vallmanya's heart. A quavering scream issued from the dry cavern of his mouth. The Twins turned their heads, smiled at each other, looked back at Vallmanya, then thrust steadily.
For a moment the scream grew shrill, then it ceased abruptly. Vallmanya sank to his knees, sightless eyes staring down at the bayonet driven through his body. The hilt rasped harshly on rock as he toppled forward.
Slowly, contentedly, The Twins drew off their gloves. With an arm about each other's shoulders they moved towards Karz and his commanders. A long sigh rippled through the watching men, followed by a buzz of talk.
Karz looked at Liebmann and said: 'Normal training this afternoon. Sections on parade at fourteen-thirty hours. Commanders' meeting in H.Q. Control Room at fourteen hundred.'
He turned and moved down the rocky slope towards the jeeps, followed by his driver.

Under Liebmann as Chief of Staff there were two other commanders besides Sarrat, Hamid, and The Twins. One was a dark, stolid Georgian called Thamar. He was the only man, Liebmann believed, who felt no hint of fear in the presence of Karz. This was not a matter of courage but of chemistry. Somewhere in Thamar there was a malfunction of glands or nerves or brain-cells which made him immune to the emotion of fear. This created no problem, since he revered Karz as a dog reveres its master.
The other commander was Brett, a sleek-haired Englishman of medium height, seemingly made of whipcord, with bitter grey eyes and a caustic tongue.
Karz took the head of the table in the main H.Q. Control Room, which lay on the ground floor of the great palace. The others seated themselves, and Liebmann remained standing by the bank of filing cabinets.
'The question of commanders,' Karz said, his enormous hands resting on the table in front of him. 'As you know, we require two more. They must be established here within four weeks.' His eyes roved the faces of his commanders. 'Do you make any recommendations from the ranks?'
There was silence for a while. At last Sarrat said : 'Toksvig, in my section, is good. Excellent with all weapons. Reliable. Plenty of stomach and stamina------'
Karz's hand flapped the table once, and Sarrat was silent.
'These qualities mean nothing in themselves,' Karz said. 'Can he lead? Can he drive? Can he command, Sarrat? I would give fifty good followers for one good leader.'
Sarrat shook his head doubtfully. 'I say Toksvig is the best prospect. No more than that.'