"Дон Пендлтон. Renegade Agent ("Палач" #47) " - читать интересную книгу автора

"You not get away with..."
"Of course, if you like you are free to break the case open," Drummond
interrupted smoothly.
"However, you should do so with a great deal of care. Do I make myself
clear, old chap?" The radio-another product of Gadgets Schwarz's fertile
imagination and electronic wizardry went silent for a moment; it was tuned
to the frequency of a transmitting body-mike installed on Drummond.
"If I were you, Captain Rouballin," the Brit went on, "I would consider
my mission here accomplished. I suggest you get back in your craft and fly
away home."
The KGB pilot muttered something in Russian that quickly faded to
silent as he moved out of the microphone's range. Time passed, and then
Bolan heard the sound of a PT6 engine turning over.
The bullet wound in his shoulder was a pulsing dull ache now. When
Bolan peered under the improvised bandage, he found the redness looking
angrier. But at least the bleeding was almost stopped. As he was recovering
it, Drummond came into the office.
There was a thin sheen of sweat across the double agent's forehead, but
he had lost none of his composure. In a way, it was easier to deal with a
professional like Drummond, who had enough years of tradecraft behind him to
realize that his fate was dictated by his obedience now. From outside they
heard the Beechcraft taxi by the hangar, the sound drifting into the
distance, then coming back again, passing more quickly this time as the
plane accelerated into takeoff.
Drummond listened to Bolan's instructions wordlessly.
Five minutes later Bolan had shed his bloody coat and the remnants of
his turtleneck for the shirt and jacket of Lemon. It was a tight fit, but it
would pass. The MI5 agent had regained consciousness, but some electrical
wire and a rag from the hangar's maintenance shop insured his immobility and
silence for now.
What was less sure, at least to the man who was engineering the play,
was if he would last until the finale. The wound was a pounding presence
now, and Bolan knew that without treatment he would descend into shock
within minutes.
But there was still one more loose end to clean up before the mission
would be history.
Shock would have to wait until then.
The control tower chief was a brisk efficient man in starched uniform
shirtsleeves and forest-green slacks. He wore a mustache and full beard,
both neatly trimmed, and a nameplate that identified him as "V. Vaughn." The
tower rose from the midpoint of the three terminals, and through the
panoramic windows Bolan could see 270 degrees worth of aprons and runways.
The tower chief glared at the camera case slung over Bolan's good shoulder
and said, "No pictures," rather sharply. Then he frowned at the
identification card in his hand for longer than necessary before handing it
back to Sir Philip Drummond.
"What do you want?" Vaughn said, his tone barely civil.
"About twelve minutes ago," Drummond told the chief, "a Beechcraft
manifested as belonging to Transworld I/E took off, bound for Leningrad. The
aircraft ID number is SKBLEDHGD. I would like to know that aircraft's