"Дон Пендлтон. The Libya Connection ("Палач" #48) " - читать интересную книгу автора

It gave him a creepier feeling even than the knowledge of General
Pornov's damnably correct Intelligence.
Only thoughts of Jericho's flesh gift could relieve his queasiness.
Yes, having his way with her would be of supreme interest. How thoughtful of
Jericho to feed his tireless appetite for the unusual...
Thoughtful enough to earn him Shahkhia's alliance. So a curse on this
nefarious attack on the other side of the globe. What foul surprise would
beset them all next?

7

The temporary command post for the mission was an office barrack at the
north end of the courtyard of Jericho's villa.
The low building was equipped to function as base headquarters for
Lenny Jericho's far-flung operation whenever the big man stayed there.
The building was deserted now except for the quarters that were
Kennedy's office and orderly room.
The topkick merc stood at the window that faced north from the villa.
He watched the sky fade from deep purple into night as the sun disappeared
behind the rocky silhouette of the Jebel el Akdar mountain range.
The hot Sahara winds of daytime had already died down. The temperature
would now drop abruptly into the mid-fifties.
Kennedy understood the desert very well. The love of his life was
soldiering, and this was his seventh assignment in North Africa. Yes, he
knew the desert. He knew it and he hated it.
After tonight, he thought, I'll never walk on sand again.
He glanced at his watch. He wondered when he would be hearing from
Leonard Jericho. He was tired of waiting.
Doyle was in the office with Kennedy. Doyle was second in the chain of
command on this mission. Right now he appeared to read Kennedy's mind.
"The call should have come by now, don'cha think, Top? The men are
starting to get restless."
Kennedy turned impatiently from the window.
"They're paid to hurry up and wait, and they know that. Tell 'em to
stow it. We'll be lifting off soon enough. I got other things on my mind."
"Such as?"
"That new guy."
"Rideout?"
"What'd you think of him, Doyle?"
The second-in-command lit a cigarette thoughtfully. "Funny you should
mention the guy. I've been thinking about him too."
"Like, what?" asked Kennedy. "You drove him out here from Benghazi. Did
he talk much?"
"Like a clam. So what's with this job anyway?"
"Knock off the questions," growled the topkick. "The headshed screwed
it up, as usual. I don't like it either. But we work with what we got.''
Doyle got thoughtful again.
"If we're talking about Rideout, I don't know what we got, exactly. I
couldn't read the guy worth a damn. There's something about him. It's in the
eyes. Cold eyes, Top, like chips of blue ice. The guy looks like he can