Drago #3. Art Spinella
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Название: Drago #3
Автор: Art Spinella
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Документальная литература
isbn: 9781456604981
isbn:
Counting the bills, he said, “Fifteen hundred-dollar bills, a fifty and two twenties. Exactly right.”
“Should we go inside?” Forte asked.
Curiosity was overwhelming. It’s not every day a Hatteras pulls into town.
Through the double doors into the main salon, the furnishings were as good as in a high-end home. Light blue fabrics covered an L-shaped couch and a pair of barrel chairs surrounded a teak coffee table. On the table, a remote with a dozen buttons. I lifted it and pressed the top left. From a cherry cabinet against the port wall the sound of an electric motor and a 52 inch flat screen LCD television rose from its innards.
“Quite the place,” Sal whistled.
Forte turned to Clarence. “And they left you no idea of who they are or when they’ll be back or anything?”
The Port Manager shook his head.
“Well, as much as I’d like to take the grand tour, and as odd as it might seem, we have no cause to do a search. We should go.”
From the dining area, Sal called out, “Uh, I wouldn’t leave just yet.”
Sal was standing next to the china cabinet, one door open. Inside some plates, saucers, cups and an assortment of other dinnerware. Sal pulled on one of the cups and the shelves swung out.
“Seems we have a few interesting accoutrements hidden away,” he said.
In the false cabinet were rifles. Some familiar, two totally unfamiliar.
“I recognize the Remington XM2010. That’s pure U.S. military. But what the heck are those?” I asked, pointing to a pair of black long-barrel weapons that looked both functional and highly lethal.
Sal was about to pull it out of the case when Forte told him to stop. “They all look like military hardware. We don’t know who we’re dealing with here. Could be your friends at Langley or your buddy Artemus or Tatiana’s employer, whoever the hell that is. Could be a terrorist cell for all we know. So for the time being, let’s just leave it all alone and get the Feds in on this.”
Sal pulled his hand back, removed his cell phone from his pocket and quickly took a half-dozen photos of the rifles. He leaned close to the unidentifiable pair and glared at the markings.
“Looks Cyrillic to me,” he said.
I moved close and could clearly see Russian letters on the trigger guard. “What time is it in Moscow?”
Sal looked at his watch. “8:45 a.m. here makes it 7:45 p.m. there.” The light bulb went off. “Of course.” He tapped out an email, attached one of the photos of the Russian rifle and sent it to Tatiana.
“While we’re waiting, should we continue looking around?” I asked.
Forte still hesitated. “I’m not about to blow a case, if there is a case, on a technicality. Listen guys, the Feds are going to want to do this by the book. Assuming there’s a reason to read the book. Let’s just back out of here and pretend we’ve never been. Call in ATF and dump it on their doorstep.”
I’d never seen the chief unwilling to jump into a puzzle. A willingness to cross jurisdictional boundaries is one of the reasons I like the former L.A. cop. This attitude was not only odd and uncharacteristic, he truly appeared on the edge of a frantic worry. The lines in his face seemed to deepen with every passing minute. He clearly knew more than he was letting on.
To Clarence, “Why don’t you give me the cash and envelope, just in case the Feds want to trace the bills or check them for fingerprints or whatever. I’ll give you a receipt.”
The Port Manager reluctantly handed the packet of bills to Forte who in turn wrote out a simple receipt on a piece of paper from his cop notebook which Clarence folded and carefully pushed into his shirt pocket.
Sal’s cell phone buzzed.
“Yo,” he said. “Hi love... Wait, let me put you on speaker.”
Tatiana’s voice came through loud and clear. She was both excited and worried. “What are you into, Salinska? Is Nickolas with you?”
“Hi Tats,” I said.
“You are in quite a cucumber…”
“Pickle,” Sal corrected.
“Pickle. Da. Where did you find that rifle?”
“Hidden in a cupboard,” Sal explained. “Why?”
“Is experimental. Russian sniper model. Is called SVN 98. Rumor is can hit an apple at two miles. Very precise. Very deadly.” She paused, “How did you find it? Not supposed to be any except in Russian military and Secret Service.”
“I’ll let you know, Tatiana,” Sal said. “Let me call you back later today.”
“I miss you, Salinska.”
She clicked off.
“Russian sniper rifles along with four U.S. sniper rifles,” I said. “We expecting any dignitaries soon?”
“Just that putz of a congressman,” Forte snorted. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Sal had caught the shift in Forte’s demeanor and cut me a glance. “Breakfast anyone?”
“I’m in,” right on cue, my belly provided a rumble. “Eggs, hash browns and sausage. How ‘bout you two?”
Forte shook his head. “Going back to the cop shop. See you later.”
Clarence also declined the invite.
“Chief, you gonna call the Feds?” I asked.
“First I’ll put Billy and Mark over here to see who comes back to the boat. You want me to wait, don’t you?”
“Something’s bothering you, Chief. Should we talk this out before you call in the cavalry?”
He sighed. “Yeah, okay. When you’re done eating, come by the office.” He spun on his heels and strode away in a rush. Clarence right behind him.
“Eatin’ Station?”
“Sure.”
“Nick, you would have made a great German U-Boat commander.”
“Huh?”
“No matter where you go there are torpedoes buzzing here and there and everywhere. Sight unseen until they punch a hole in your hull. Ghost paddle wheelers, Russian sniper rifles, abandoned yachts, gold balls, missing cars, and on and on and on.” He shook his СКАЧАТЬ