The Killing Rule. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ SMOKED EEL from a roll of newspaper. Bolan had learned on the flight from Guernsey that “Lunk” was short for Lynnock ap Nock, and the Cymric superman had been a Coxswain in the Royal Marines 539 Assault Squadron. The mission was rolling too fast for the Farm to arrange a full war load of weapons to await him in Amsterdam, but Bolan had gone to the American Embassy and the CIA station chief had acquired a Beretta 92 for him from the Marine Guard armory and a snub-nosed .38 from his own personal cache. Lord William was currently making a pit stop of his own, and Bolan and Lunk stood outside the Central Bank of the Netherlands. Lord William came out ten minutes later and tossed Lunk an old-fashioned canvas courier’s pouch. “Hold on to that, Lunk, would you?”

      Lunk tucked the canvas package under his arm, and they took a water taxi to the River Ij. Huge sections of Amsterdam were considered historical landmarks, with entire neighborhoods dating back to the 1850s. It was along the River Ij that Amsterdam had some of its most modern city developments, and freed from the constraints of historical preservation, the developers had explored their artistic sides. The neighborhood was famed for its unusual and experimental architecture. They stepped onto shore, and Lord William paused by a stand of willows. “Lunk?”

      Lunk reached into the canvas bag and passed Lord William a Hi-Power pistol, and the Englishman made it disappear into his jacket. The Welshman pulled out a stainless steel .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson Model 66 and grinned at Bolan. “Traded one of your Navy SEAL lads for it, back in the day.”

      Lord William suddenly shot Bolan an embarrassed look. “Not to be insulting, old boy, but I gather you are armed?”

      “I am, your lordship.”

      “Good. Jolly good. They won’t do us much good, but at least we can lull them into a false sense of security. Oh, and for God’s sake, drop that ‘your lordship’ rubbish. Call me Bill. My friends do.”

      “Bill.” Bolan nodded. “I gather we won’t get any weapons past security?”

      “No, but we have Lunk in our back pockets, don’t we?”

      Bolan let the cryptic remark pass as they stepped out of the little stand of trees and walked a block up the canal and came to a two-story building of glass brick and pink stucco right out of an episode of Miami Vice. Lunk kept on walking as Bolan and Lord William pushed through the smoked-glass double doors into a teak-paneled lobby. A beautiful Dutch woman with platinum-blond hair sat behind a desk.

      Lord William whispered in appreciation. “Well, she’s new.”

      A twin of the life-size Aegis shield and thunderbolt logo in Lord William’s Guernsey manor took up almost the entire wall behind her. Bolan noted the security cameras above it. The receptionist turned a blazing white smile and greeted them in Dutch. “Goede ochtend!”

      “And good morning to you, too, my dear,” Lord William replied. “Is Mr. Jennings in today?”

      The receptionist switched to thick English. “Yes, but he is very busy. Do you have an appointment?”

      “Tell Mr. Jennings that Lord William Glen-Patrick and associate are here to pay him a call.”

      “Lord William!” The woman’s jaw dropped charmingly. “I will inform Mr. Jennings immediately! You may wait—”

      “What is your name, again?”

      The woman flushed. “Grietje.”

      “We’ll wait in the courtyard, Grietje, thank you.”

      Bolan followed Lord William’s lead as he walked past the desk to the hallway beyond. A chime peeped as they crossed the threshold. Grietje shot the English lord a look that was both amused and accusing. “You should know policy, Lord William.”

      “Sorry about that.” Lord William took out his Hi-Power. There were metal detectors in the door frame. “Old habits, you know. Feel naked without it.”

      Grietje pushed a panel on the wall behind her that slid back to reveal a wall safe. She pressed in a combination code as Bolan took out his Beretta and the snub-nosed Smith. Grietje locked the weapons away. “Lord William, if you—”

      “Would you be a dear and bring us some coffee?” Lord William continued on his way. Bolan followed. Grietje made a small noise of consternation. She had their weapons, but protocol was not being observed. However, William Glen-Patrick was a noted eccentric and the founder of the company.

      “I will bring you coffee.”

      Lord William grinned like a schoolboy getting away with something as they stepped out into a tiny courtyard with a fountain, two small stone benches and a flowering lemon tree. “Big brass balls, then?”

      Bolan smiled. “I can hear them clanking while you walk, Bill.”

      Lord William flushed with pleasure. He pulled out his cell phone and punched a button. “Hello, Lunk! In position, then? Right. I’m facing the north wall of the courtyard. Jolly good. Heave away, then!”

      Bolan looked up into the sky to see Lord William’s canvas pouch hurtling over the roof. The man clicked his phone shut and shook his head in wonder. “I swear that man could hurl a grappling iron over the Eiffel Tower. Be a good lad and catch that, would you?”

      Bolan caught the package and handed it to Lord William. The little canvas bag was a handgun horn of plenty. Lord William produced a pair of Walther PPK pistols and handed one to Bolan. It was underpowered by Bolan’s standards, but the pistol was reliable, a classic, and best of all, the enemy had no idea they had them. He checked the loads in the little .32 and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. Lord William gave him a spare 7-round magazine and tossed the empty pouch behind the lemon tree just as Grietje came out with a tray of coffee, brandy and cigars.

      Lord William gave his coffee a healthy watering of brandy and let Bolan light his cigar. The two men drank coffee and Glen-Patrick blew smoke up toward the sky as they waited for their host.

      “Bill!” Clive Jennings threw open the door and came out grinning. “Good to see you!”

      Bolan sized up Jennings. He was just a shade under six feet, and his French-cut suit was tailored to accentuate his trim physique. His blond hair had enough product keeping it in place that it would take a gale-force wind to move it. His personality was hyperintense. He practically bounced across the courtyard. Jennings shook Lord William’s hand hard enough to make the older man wince. “How’ve you been, man! Came out of your self-imposed exile on the island, then, did you?”

      “Something like that.” Lord William retrieved his hand and put it in the same pocket as his PPK. “This my associate, Mr. Cooper.”

      Jennings slapped his hand into Bolan’s. He grinned as he gave Bolan the bone crusher. “Nice to meet you, Coop!”

      He’d had his suspicions, but now, shaking the man’s hand and looking into his green eyes, Bolan was certain.

      Clive Jennings was a sociopath.

      Bolan squeezed back just enough to prevent his hand from being broken. He noted the golden Oxford University signet ring as they let go. “Heard a lot about you, Clive.”

      “All lies?”

      “No, worse,” Bolan replied. “The truth.”

      Jennings СКАЧАТЬ