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

second, abduction; third, detention; fourth, negotiation; fifth, ransom
payment; and finally, release-though sometimes that doesn't happen. My job
was to plan and implement the first three phases; the rest of the task was
out of my hands.
Three members of the loud-tie-and-suspenders brigade from a private
bank had approached me in London. They'd been given my name by an
ex-Regiment SAS) mate who now worked for one of the big security companies,
and who'd been nice enough to recommend me when this particular commission
had been declined.
"Britain," they said to me as we sat at a window table in the roof bar
of the Hilton, looking down on to the gardens of Buckingham Palace, "is
facing an explosion in Russian mafia-organized crime. London is a
money-laundering haven. The ROC are moving as much as 20 billion through the
City each year, and up to two hundred of their senior players either live in
Britain or visit regularly."
The executives went on to say they'd discovered that millions had been
channeled through Valentin Lebed's accounts at their bank in just three
years. They didn't like that, and were none too keen on the thought of the
boys with the blue flashing lights paying him a visit and seeing the name on
all his paying-in slips. Their solution was to have Val lifted and taken to
St. Petersburg, where, I presumed, they had either made arrangements to
persuade him to move his account to a different bank, or to channel even
more through them to make the risk more acceptable. Whichever, I didn't give
a fuck so long as I got paid.
I looked over at Sergei. His eyes glinted as he stared at the traffic
below us and his Adam's apple moved as he swallowed. There wasn't anything
left to say; we'd done enough talking during the two-week buildup. It was
now time to do.
The conference of European Council members was due to start in Helsinki
in two days. Blue EU flags already lined the main roads, and large black
convoys of Eurocrats drove around with motorcycle outriders, heading from
premeeting to premeeting. The police had set up diversions to control the
flow of traffic around the city, and orange reflective cones and barriers
were springing up everywhere. I'd already had to change our escape route
twice because of it.
Like all the high-class hotels, the Intercontinental was housing the
exodus from Brussels. All the suits had been in the city since last
week, wheeling and dealing so that when the heads of state hit town,
all they'd have to do was politely refuse Tony Blair's invitation to eat
British beef at some dinner for the media, then leave. All very good, but
for me security around here was tighter than a duck's ass-everything from
sealed manholes to prevent bombs being planted to a heavy police presence on
the streets. They would certainly have contingency plans for every possible
event, especially armed attack.
Sergei had a folding-stock AK-a Russian automatic, 7.62mm short assault
rifle-under his feet. His cropped, thinning brown hair was covered by a
dark-blue woolen hat, and the old Soviet Army body armor he wore under his
down jacket made him look like the Michelin man. If Hollywood was looking
for a Russian hardhead, Sergei would win the screen test every time. Late
forties, square jaw, high cheekbones, and blue eyes that didn't just pierce,