"Энди Макнаб. Огненная стена (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Japanese confusion at reception to my half right, with the hallway to the
right of that, and the brass-effect elevator doors in view. Like me,
Nightmare and Carpenter had placed themselves out of sight of the video
cameras that were covering the reception desk. I sat, spread out the Trib on
the coffee table, unbuttoned my overcoat and waited for the convoy of Meres
to arrive.
It was pointless worrying about anything now. There is only so much
training and planning that can be done. I used to get worried when this
feeling came over me, but now I understood it. Basically, I accepted that I
was going to die, and anything beyond that was a bonus.


2


The Japanese weren't at all happy, and they didn't care who knew it.
There must have been about twenty of them, all with video cameras round
their necks.
Three minutes later the headlights of the three Meres raked the
ground-floor windows. Jesse and Frank should have pulled up just short of
the semicircular driveway where they'd be standing by. Sergei would be
waiting to block their front.
I waited for the inside set of sliding doors to open, keeping my head
down, concentrating hard on my newspaper.
In came the BGs. Two pairs of shiny Italian shoes and expensive black
cashmere overcoats over black pants.
You always avoid eye contact, because they'll be looking for it. If
your eyes lock you're fucked; they'll know you aren't there to talk about
the beef ban.
I watched the two sets of heels make their way over to the far right of
the foyer. They paused by the brass elevator doors, now and again shielded
by the Japanese as they went in pursuit of one very hassled hotel rep.
The middle door slid open with a gentle ping. The shoes went in, and
two more sets of shoes were refused entry. The doors closed and the
indicator light stopped at the Ambassador Suite. They were going to meet up
with the other two BGs who were already with Valentin, their principal, my
target. My money.
I got up, folding the Trib into my coat pocket, and started to walk
toward the main doors. As I moved past them, toward the
leather-boothed, dark-wood Baltic Bar, I could see three very clean
black Meres on the other side of the glass, exhaust fumes condensing in the
cold air, each with a driver waiting patiently at the wheel.
The bar was half full and not very smoky, considering the number of
cigarettes I could see on the go. There were quite a few laptops open, and
there was a general hubbub as suits talked shop over a beer or into their
cell phones.
Unbuttoning my suit jacket as I walked, but keeping my overcoat on to
conceal the body armor, I made my way around tables and leather
chesterfields toward the far door.
I seated myself where I could see down the corridor to the three