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Ian Slater: Warshot

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Ian Slater Warshot
  • Название:
    Warshot
  • Автор:
  • Издательство:
    Ballantine Books
  • Жанр:
  • Год:
    1992
  • Язык:
    Английский
  • ISBN:
    0-449-14757-6
  • Рейтинг книги:
    4 / 5
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Warshot: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Warshot»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

General Cheng has studied the American strategy in the Iraqi war from top to bottom, back to front, and now he is massing his divisions on the Manchurian border. To the west, Siberia’s Marshal Yesov is readying his army. Their aim: To drive the American-led U.N. force back to the sea. The counterstrike: Unleash the brilliantly unorthodox American General Douglas Freeman. If this eagle can’t whip the bear and the dragon, no one can…

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“I don’t care about Chinese roads,” she said. “Just so long as you’re telling me the truth — that there’s no one else.” She pushed her thigh between his legs. “You promise!”

“I swear,” he said, at once impatient and gratified that she was so jealous. “I’ve been busy with Chink officials all day. Novosibirsk and Beijing don’t want any misunderstanding.”

She knew what he meant — the Chinese and Russians had fought sporadic but bitter battles for a hundred years over the Amur River, which the Chinese called the “Black Dragon.” The prize was the fertile river border areas around the northeasternmost corner of Manchuria, within the big hump formed by the river as it flowed eastward into the Sea of Okhotsk. Things had gotten so out of hand in the sixties that at one point soldiers of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army had dropped their trousers and mooned the Russians watching them across the river. Many on both sides had been killed during the resulting border clashes. But why the sudden rapprochement between ancient enemies?

“I just want you to spend more time with me,” she said, conciliatory, dropping now any suggestion that he might be fooling around with some other woman. She took his hand and placed it beneath her qipao, telling him flippantly that it was nice Novosibirsk had “kissed and made up” with the Chinese.

“We’ve not made up,” Ilya retorted angrily. “It’s convenient for Novosibirsk and Beijing to get on with one another just now.”

“Why?” she asked, giggling, putting his hand inside her panties.

“Because—” he said, gasping like a fish out of water, “if the cease-fire… if it doesn’t hold… Novosibirsk would want… Beijing… an ally.” He was babbling now.

“Here — let me do it,” she said, unzipping the qi pao herself. He was so clumsy. “You mean you’ve spent all night discussing that?” she said, laughing openly at him. “The Americans won’t break the cease-fire.”

He was angered by her laughter, but too excited to chastise her.

She reached out in the darkness, her hand unzipping him, squeezing it, tugging it toward her, smelling it. “Enough war talk,” she said softly. “I believe you. So long as you weren’t with some slut.”

He saw her shoulders visibly relax, her whole body, demeanor, softer, warmer now. Reaching frantically for his greatcoat, draped behind him over the chair, he got up, tipping over the chair in his urgency, flinging the coat onto the bed to take away the chill of the sheets. Then he lowered her to it.

“I’m sorry, Ilya,” she said plaintively. “I’m so jealous. Sometimes—”

“Ladno, golubchik,” he said. It’s all right, my sweet. “It’s all—” She turned full on to him, squeezing him harder, moving its swollen tip in a fast, gentle whipping motion up and down against the damp tightness of her panties. He groaned with pleasure. “Go on — go on,” he pleaded. “No — stop, stop. Tease me!”

She kissed the lobe of his ear, bit it. She hated him, his sour breath now reeking with nicotine and sweat.

He smelled like the OMON thugs, and she felt a rush of panic. She knew they wouldn’t give up looking for her. Of all the prisoners who had escaped Baikal, she knew she had earned the OMON’s special hatred. As well as being instrumental in helping the Americans to uncover the secret of the vast, frozen lake — the midget ship-to-surface-armed missile submarines that had almost turned the tide against the Americans, until the spectacular joint British SAS/ American Delta commando raid on Baikal — she and other Jewish saboteurs from the JAO had wrecked part of the Trans-Siberian, in trying to stop the military support trains heading east from Novosibirsk.

The commandos had completely wrecked the sub base at Baikal. If Ilya even suspected who she really was, she knew she’d be shot — and most likely he, too, for having given her shelter from the OMON bloodhounds, albeit unknowingly. She heard him grunting, his body heavy, suffocating, his belly sliding in perspiration on hers, his arms, barely able to support his weight, shaking. She was still a prisoner. In order to get the necessary travel papers she so desperately needed, the very sex she was giving him as the price might well induce him to take his own good time issuing the papers. Why should he hurry? He might even refuse, just to keep her on tap.

He was covering her in wet kisses, the cloying mixture of vodka and stale breath flooding over her, his rutting rough and hard, confident he was exciting her. She sighed and gasped to maintain his illusion, and to take her mind off the sheer horror of it, wondered how she could possibly end the liaison she’d started when she had determined to “accidentally” bump into him in Zhaolin Park. And now she had more reason to get out of Harbin — to get north with the vital information of the massive Chinese buildup that was streaming over the Yangtze across the Nanking Bridge. The American satellites wouldn’t pick it up through Harbin’s souplike pollution, even if there was a satellite passing over Harbin.

Suddenly she had the answer. “Alexsandra — Alex—” cried Ilya. “I love you — I—”

Seized by inspiration, she pulled harder, slipped her shawl between them to stop the sucking noise of his sweat-slicked paunch slithering reptile-like against her, and pulled him harder into her, kissing him, her nails digging hard into his back, his mouth now moving quickly away from hers, kissing, slobbering over her breasts. “Harder!” she told him, and she could see them raping her in the jail at Baikal, her hatred of them so intense she feared she might never again be capable of genuine sexual love. She was crying, he mistaking it for passion, his thrusting becoming more violent. Through the maelstrom, she turned her head to the rime-covered window that looked out on the blurry pink glow of Zhaolin Park.

His rutting took on a manic quality, and, snorting frantically now like a pig, he drove her back against the headboard of the bed with such force that she heard a bone click in her neck, the pain shooting down her spine — then suddenly she felt lighter as the blubber rolled off her. It was panting, trying to talk, but unable — grunting incomprehensibly. Finally, gathering his spittle, he asked, “Was it good?”

“Prekrasno,” wonderful, she said in the darkness, the room permeated now and then by the crimson light of swinging lanterns outside. The east was red. So was Ilya’s back. When Mrs. Latov got through eating her grilled bear paw or stewed moose nose — the Chinese believed that eating animal parts imparted the animal’s strength — and she returned to the consulate to find her darling Ilya’s back so badly scratched, it would all be over for him. What would he tell her — that the Chinese comrades he’d been working late with had suddenly turned passionate? Then, Alexsandra knew, he’d have to issue her travel papers — as quickly as possible. She’d have her papers within hours. Why, he’d probably have the consulate limousine drive her to the outskirts, he’d be in such a hurry to bundle her off. Even so, it’d take him months to make it up with Madame Latov. Despite her soreness, feeling as if a red-hot poker had been shoved up inside her, Alexsandra smiled deliciously at Latov’s predicament. And how could he possibly blame her? He’d probably boast for years about the woman who was driven so uncontrollable by his passion that she’d near skinned him alive.

The fat pig!

As he lit his cigarette, he saw her smiling. “It was that good, eh?”

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