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

black woolen scarf and thin leather gloves, and the stress to match.
Nightmare and Carpenter were dressed in the same style. All three of us were
clean shaven, hair washed, and well groomed. Detail counts; we had to move
about the hotel without anyone giving us a second glance, looking as if we
were part of the all-expenses-paid, outrageously salaried Brussels
freeloaders. Across my lap I even had today's edition of the Herald Tribune.
My overcoat was doing a good job of concealing the body armor under my
shirt. Sergei's might be as thick as the paving slabs outside the Kremlin,
but mine consisted of just twelve paper-thin sheets of Kevlar not enough to
stop one of Sergei's AP rounds, but enough to see off the mini-Uzis that
might soon be trying to hose me down. There was a pocket in the body armor
for a ceramic plate to cover my chest area, but unlike Sergei I couldn't
wear one as it was far too bulky. Carpenter had refused to wear any at all
because it wasn't manly, and Nightmare had followed suit. Fucking mad; if I
could have, I'd have covered myself from head to toe in the stuff. My feet
were in all sorts of shit; with nothing on but thin socks and a pair of
lace-up shoes, they were as cold as bags of frozen peas. I could no
longer feel anything below my ankles, and had given up moving them
around to generate heat.
I was carrying a South African Z88, which looked like a 9mm Berreta,
the sort of pistol Mel Gibson uses in the Lethal Weapon films. When the
world banned weapons exports to South Africa during apartheid, the boys just
set about making their own gear and were now exporting more assault weapons
and helicopters than the


U.K.


I had three twenty-round extended mags, which meant an extra two inches
hanging out of the pistol grip, looking as if it had partially fallen out.
The two spares went into my left-hand overcoat pocket. If things went to
plan I wouldn't even be drawing down. The lift should be-would be-silent and
take less than a minute.
The body armor was the lightest I dared wear, but even so it made it
impossible to draw or sit down with a pistol placed where I would normally
have had it: center front, tucked down the front of my jeans or pants in an
internal holster. I wasn't feeling happy about my new weapon position. Now
it had to be on the right-hand side on my pants belt. I'd had to spend the
last two weeks practicing and consciously reminding myself that the position
had changed, otherwise I might go to draw down on someone and find my hand
hitting Kevlar instead of a pistol grip. That was if I could get to it
through all the layers of clothing. To be able to flick back the top layers
quickly, I'd taped together some outlets from the set in the car and carried
them in the right-hand pockets of both my coat and jacket. It was just one
more thing making me feel uneasy. My only consolation was that this time
tomorrow it would all be over: I'd get my money and never see these lunatics
again.
There was rustling as Sergei unwrapped a chocolate bar and started to
throw it down his throat without offering me any. Not that I wanted it; I