"Mack Reynolds - After Utopia" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

unconsciously stroked his stiff left elbow. The elbow had
been shattered by a fluke shot from a machine pistol in
the hands of one of TitoтАЩs bullyboys, that time when
theyтАЩd smuggled Djilas across the Yugoslavian border.
Dan Whiteley had been along on that operation.
Easygoing in appearance, resembling Jimmy Stewart of
twenty years earlier, he was a good man in the clutch.
There was no doubt about the tall, rangy CanadianтАЩs
reason for being in Tangier. No doubt at all. When last
Cogswell had heard from him, heтАЩd been on an
assignment in the Argentine.
His sane self, his inner self, wanted to dash forward
and throw himself into his friendтАЩs hands. Anything was
better than this, even death. His stolen body was
betraying everything he had stood for during his adult
life. Already, he had practically disposed of the full
amount of money entrusted to him by the Executive
Committee.
But he didnтАЩt dash forward to greet Whiteley. Instead,
he shrank back into an alcove and watched the other
man narrowly. The Canadian hadnтАЩt spotted him. Tracy
Cogswell followed along behind, the quarry stalking the
hunter.
They left the medina, proceeded up the Rue de la
Liberte to the Place de France and then down
ultramodern Boulevard Pasteur to Rue Goya, and then
over to Moussa ben Maussair. It was obvious where
Whiteley was going now. Tracy Cogswell held back more
than a full block and watched the other disappear into
Paul LundтАЩs bar. He didnтАЩt know how long Dan Whiteley
had been in town, but obviously the other was hot on his
trail.
He returned to his pension room, dragged out some of
his newly arrived packages, a soldering iron and other
new tools, and set to work.
To work on what? He had no idea. Most of the tools
were strange to him, as was the other equipment he had
ordered. Tracy Cogswell had never been mechanically
inclined, but everything he did now belied that fact. He
worked almost until dawn.
Now that Whiteley was in town, Cogswell stayed off
the streets as much as possible. He transacted as much
business over the phone as he could.
For some things he had to emerge. The time, for
instance, that he rented the truck, had his metal cabinet
hoisted aboard, and transported it out to the monument
on his Cape Spartel land. The monument, also completed
by now, reminded his inner self of one of the Moslem holy
menтАЩs mausoleums that abounded in northern Morocco.
Somehow, despite his stiff elbow, he managed to