Dragon - Cussler Clive (книги хорошем качестве бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗
“Goodbye, sucker,” he muttered.
Kamatori had only a moment to act, but he raised the sword, gripping the long hilt with both hands, and cut a wide arc with every ounce of his strength. The shock of disbelief flashed in Hanamura’s eyes a brief instant before it was replaced with the glaze of death.
Kamatori had the final satisfaction of seeing his sword win the race with the poison as the blade sliced Hanamura’s head from his shoulders as cleanly as a guillotine.
34
THE FERTILIZER-BROWN MURMOTOS were parked in a loose line behind the ramp leading up to the cavernlike interior of the big semitrailer. George Furukawa was greatly relieved these four cars were the last shipment. The release documents he’d found as usual under the front seat of his sports car included a short memo notifying him that his part of the project was finished.
He also received new instructions to examine the cars for homing devices. No explanation was given, but he concluded that Hideki Suma had become belatedly worried his last shipment might be followed by some unspecified group. The thought that they might be federal investigators made Furukawa extremely uneasy. He walked quickly around each car while studying the digital readout of an electronic unit that detected transmitted radio signals.
Satisfied the sport sedans with their ugly brown paint schemes were clean, he gestured to the truck driver and his helper. They bowed slightly without an acknowledging word and took turns driving the cars up the ramps into the trailer.
Furukawa turned and walked toward his car, happy to be rid of an assignment he felt was beneath his position as vice president of Samuel J. Vincent Laboratories. The handsome fee Suma had already paid him for his effort and loyalty would be wisely invested in Japanese corporations that were opening offices in California.
He drove to the gate and handed the guard copies of the release documents. Then he aimed the sloped nose of his Murmoto sports car into the busy truck traffic around the dock terminal and drove toward his office. There was no curiosity this time, no looking back. His interest in the auto transport’s secret destination had died.
Stacy zipped up her windbreaker, snapping it tight across her throat. The side door of the helicopter had been removed, and the cool air from the ocean whistled inside the control cabin. Her long blond hair whipped in front of her face, and she tied it back with a short leather band. A video camera sat in her lap, and she lifted it and set the controls. Then she turned sideways as far as her seat belt would allow and focused the telephoto lens on the tail of the Murmoto sports car exiting the dock area.
“You get the license number?” asked the blond-haired pilot as he held the copter on a level course.
“Yes, a good sharp shot. Thank you.”
“I can come in a little closer if you like.”
“Stay well clear,” ordered Stacy, speaking into her headset microphone while peering through the eyepiece. She released the trigger and laid the compact camera in her lap again. “They must be alerted to the fact somebody’s onto them, or they wouldn’t have swept the cars for homing devices.”
“Lucky for old Weatherhill he wasn’t transmitting.”
Bill McCurry made Stacy cold just looking at him. He only wore cutoff denim shorts, a T-shirt advertising a Mexican beer, and sandals on his feet. When they were introduced earlier that same morning, Stacy saw him more as a lifeguard than as one of the National Security Agency’s top investigators.
Long sun-bleached hair, skin dark-tanned by the Southern California sun, and his light blue eyes wide open behind red plastic rimmed sunglasses, McCurry’s mind was half on tailing the auto transport truck and half on a volleyball game he’d promised to play later that evening on the beach at Marina del Rey.
“The truck is turning onto the Harbor Freeway,” said Stacy. “Drop back out of the driver’s sight and we’ll follow on Timothy’s beam.”
“We should have better backup,” McCurry said seriously. “With no team following in vehicles on the ground, and no copter to replace us in case we have engine problems, we could lose the chase and endanger Weatherhill.”
Stacy shook her head. “Timothy knows the score. You don’t. Take my word for it, we can’t risk using ground vehicles or a flight of helicopters milling about. Those guys in the truck have been alerted and are watching for a surveillance operation.”
Suddenly Weatherhill’s Texas drawl came through their earphones. “You up there, Buick Team?”
“We read you, Tim,” answered McCurry.
“Safe to transmit?”
“The bad guys did a bug sweep,” replied Stacy, “but you’re okay to send.”
“Do you have visual contact?”
“Temporarily, but we’re dropping a few kilometers back so we won’t be spotted from the driver’s cab.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t forget to keep transmitting on the fixed frequency.”
“Yes, mamma,” said Weatherhill jovially. “I’m leaving this sweat box now and going to work.”
“Keep in touch.”
“Will do. I wouldn’t think of running out on you.”
Removing the false panel from behind and below the rear seat and unraveling his body from its contorted position, Weatherhill crawled into the enclosed luggage area of the third Murmoto loaded in the trailer. He sprung the lock from the inside and swung the rear hatch up and open. Then he climbed out, stood up, and stretched his aching joints.
Weatherhill had suffered in his cramped position for nearly four hours after a special team of customs agents helped conceal him in the car before Furukawa and the truck arrived. The sun beating on the roof and the lack of ventilation—the windows could not even be cracked for fear of arousing suspicion by the truck drivers—soon had him drenched in sweat. He never thought he would find himself sick of a new car smell.
The interior of the trailer was dark. He took a flashlight from a pouch he carried on the belt of a nondescript auto mechanic’s uniform and beamed it around the cars tied down inside the trailer. Two were on ramps above the two on the floor below.
Since the truck was traveling over a level California freeway and the ride in the trailer was smooth, Weatherhill decided to examine the Murmotos on the upper ramp first. He climbed up and quietly opened the hood of the one nearest the driver’s cab. Then he removed a small radiation analyzer from the pouch and studied the readout as he circled it around the auto’s airconditioning compressor unit.
He wrote the readings on the back of his hand. Next he laid out a set of compact tools on the fender. He paused and spoke into the radio.
“Hello, Team Buick.”
“Come in,” Stacy answered.
“Beginning exploratory operation.”
“Don’t slip and cut an artery.”
“Never fear.”
“Standing by.”
Within fifteen minutes, Weatherhill had disassembled the compressor case and examined the bomb. He was mildly disappointed. The design was not as advanced as he predicted. Clever, yes, but he could have devised and built a more efficient and destructive unit by himself.
He froze as he heard the sound of the air brakes and felt the truck slow. But it was only taking an off-ramp to another freeway and soon speeded up again. He reassembled the compressor and signaled Stacy.
“Still with me’?” he asked briefly.
“Still here,” answered Stacy.
“Where am I?”
“Passing through West Covina. Heading east toward San Bernardino.”
“I’ve withdrawn the account and have no more business at the bank,” he radioed. “What stop should I depart the bus?”
