"Энди Макнаб. Последний свет (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

I put my thumb on the send press el and, after a nanosecond to check I
wasn't about to blow up London in my excitement, I depressed it three times
in exactly the same rhythm, to say that I had received the signal, checking
each time that the white circuit-test bulb inside the box lit up.
I got three flashes back immediately from the middle bulb. Good news.
Sniper Two was in position, ready to fire, and we had com ms All I needed
now was One and Three, and I'd be cooking with gas.
I'd put everything these snipers needed to know where to be, how to get
there, what to do once in position, and, more importantly for them, how to
get away afterwards with the weapons and equipment in their individual DLBs
(dead letter boxes). All they had to do was read the orders, check the kit,
and get on with the shoot. The three had different fire positions, each
unknown to the others. None of them had met or even seen each other, and
they hadn't met me. That's how these things are done: OP SEC (operational
security). You only know what you need to.
I'd had an extremely busy ten nights of CTRs (close target recces) to
find suitable fire positions in the hospital grounds this side of the river
and directly opposite the killing ground. Then, by day, I'd made the keys
for the snipers to gain access to their positions, prepared the equipment
they would need, then loaded the DLBs. Tandy, B&Q and a remote-control model
shop in Camden Town had made a fortune out of me once I'd hit ATMs with my
new Royal Bank of Scotland Visa card under my new cover for this job, Nick
Somerhurst.
The only aspect of the business I was totally happy about was OP SEC It
was so tight that the Yes Man had briefed me personally.
Tucked in a very smart leather attache case, he had a buff folder with
black boxes stamped on the outside for people to sign and date as they
authorized its contents. No one had signed any of them, and there was no
yellow card attached to signify it was an accountable document. Things like
that always worried me: I knew it meant a shitload of trouble.
As we drove along Chelsea Embankment towards Parliament in the back of
a Previa MPV with darkened windows, the Yes Man had pulled two pages of
printed A4 from the folder and started to brief me. Annoyingly, I couldn't
quite read his notes from where I was sitting.
I didn't like the condescending wanker one bit as he put on his best
I-have been-to-university-but-F m-still-working-class voice to tell me I was
'special' and 'the only one capable'. Things didn't improve when he stressed
that no one in government knew of this job, and only two in the Firm: "C',
the boss of SIS, and the Director of Security and Public Affairs,
effectively his number two.
"And, of course," he said, with a smile, 'the three of us."
The driver, whose thick blond side-parted hair made him look like
Robert Redford when he was young enough to be the
Sundance Kid, glanced in the rearview mirror and I caught his eye for a
second before he concentrated once more on the traffic, fighting for
position around Parliament Square. Both of them must have sensed I wasn't
the happiest teddy in town. The nicer people were to me, the more suspicious
of their motives became.
But, the Yes Man said, I wasn't to worry. SIS could carry out
assassinations at the express request of the Foreign Secretary.