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Warren Murphy: Dark Horse

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Dark Horse: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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An ordinary California political campaign turns into a thriller when someone begins killing off the candidates, and it is up to Remo and Chiun to stop him.

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Finally, Remo considered the counsel of his superior, Dr. Harold W. Smith.

It was easy to figure out Smith's hypothetical advice. "Just do it quietly," Smith would say.

That went without saying. Smith, who ran the supersecret government organization for which Remo worked, had a mania for secrecy. And with good reason. The agency officially did not exist. It was known only as CURE. CURE was no acronym. The letters had no individual meaning. CURE was the symbolic name for the agency's function. That is, a prescription for American society, which criminals such as Emmanuel Nogeira had made sick by twisting constitutional guarantees to serve their own criminal purposes.

Remo had dealt with a great many people who made a mockery of the Constitution, but few did so as blatantly as General Nogeira, who wasn't even a U.S. citizen. This, perhaps more than anything, Remo decided, had offended the proper Smith.

The more Remo thought about it, the more it offended him, too.

He made his decision.

"Screw the baptism," he murmured. "Let him burn forever."

Just then the sound of approaching air-boats sent birds fleeing, and brought on a spasm of splashing in the cypress roots. Remo counted eight splashes. The identical number of alligator heartbeats his sensitive ears had detected pumping in syncopation with reptilian lungs.

Maybe, Remo thought with a fierce grin, the gators will enjoy a nice Banamanian snack.

Remo parted a thicket of yellow-green leaves that felt like cardboard cutouts, and got a good look at the noisy procession.

There were six air-boats in all. The lead boat was choked with Federal marshals, and a few others in blue windbreakers emblazoned with the stenciled letters FBI. They brandished machine pistols.

The occupants of the second boat were too well dressed to be law-enforcement officials. Unless gold Rolexes and hand-tooled leather briefcases had become standard-issue. Remo decided that they were Nogeira's lawyers. He counted twenty. The rest must have had the day off.

There was no mistaking General Emmanuel Alejandro Nogeira, as the first two air-boats rounded a twisted oak dressed in Spanish moss, and the third came into view.

The general wore his fawn-colored military uniform, with its row of three bronze stars on black shoulder boards. His uniform was impeccable-no doubt drycleaned at U.S. taxpayer expense.

The general stood in the blunt bow of the air-boat, unfettered, because the ACRC insisted that it was unconstitutional to manacle an individual while he practiced his religion. The Florida Supreme Court had agreed to that-by a narrow margin.

He was, Remo saw, even uglier in person than on TV.

The general was short and squat, like a repulsive frog. Remo recalled reading that in his native country he was called El Sapo-the Toad-because of his bestial brown face and heavy-lidded serpent's eyes. He was also sometimes called Cara Pina, or "Pineapple Face." He had more acne scars than Tom Hayden.

Remo decided right then and there that the alligators probably would not touch the man. Unless alligators practiced cannibalism.

The first air-boat turned, and Remo saw that the three boats trailing in the rear were filled with reporters. There were a lot of reporters, burdened with minicams and camera equipment. They were busy interviewing a man and a woman. The man was dressed in minister's black. The woman he couldn't see clearly.

This presented Remo with a fresh dilemma. Since officially he no longer existed, he would have to figure out a way to take out Nogeira without getting his latest face on nationwide TV. Every time that happened, Upstairs insisted he go under the knife. Remo had had so much plastic surgery over the years the only change Upstairs hadn't made was to turn his face inside out.

There was a big hump of dry isle nearby, and one by one the air-boats throttled down and glided up to this. Their prows beached with gritty hissing sounds.

General Emmanuel Nogeira stepped off the air-boat like Napoleon onto Saint Helena.

He lifted his hands into the air, fists clenched-a gesture that would have been familiar to anyone who had watched television in the months before the U.S. intervention that had turned Nogeira into a prisoner of war. His thick, blubbery lips peeled back into a dazzling smile. It was the only thing about General Nogeira that was not inherently repulsive. The smile was dazzling. It belonged on someone else's face.

The baptist minister stepped forward, open prayer book in hand.

"Shall we begin?" he inquired.

A throaty female voice cut in. "Not until the speech."

This brought a glower from one of the Federal marshals, who said, "We are here to allow the prisoner to exercise his freedom of religion, not to give a speech."

"Not him," the throaty voice snapped. "Me."

"No time," the marshal said.

"If I am not allowed to exercise my constitutional right to free speech," the voice growled, "then I fully intend to sue you, your superiors, and the entire United States government."

The Federal marshal turned red. An FBI agent stepped forward. They conferred briefly.

Finally the Federal marshal said, "Make it short." He did not sound happy about the delay.

The woman came into view. Remo recognized her then. Rona Ripper. The ACRC lawyer who had singlehandedly spearheaded the legal drive to get General Nogeira baptized. She looked like Elivra, plus forty pounds.

Rona Ripper stepped up to General Nogeira and put her arm around his shoulder. The general's smile gained an inch at either side of his mouth as he placed his arm under hers. His hand came to rest at the small of her back, above the belt line.

"This man," she said loudly, "stands before you a victim of U.S. imperialism!"

Camera flashbulbs popped. Microphones rose. Pencils scribbled furiously in lined note pads.

"This man, this patriot in his country, was exercising his right to rule his nation as he saw fit, when murderous U.S. killer-soldiers descended from the skies and virtually kidnapped him out of his lawful seat of power!"

Remo wondered if Rona Ripper was talking about the same General Nogeira who had nullified an election, and had his goons stone the duly-elected president and vicepresident of Bananama in full view of television cameras.

From his vantage point, Remo had an excellent view as the general's hand slipped down over the woman's right buttock. He gave her a playful squeeze. Rona Ripper went on as if she hadn't noticed.

"They accuse this man of all kinds of barbarism!" she thundered. "None of it true!"

General Nogeira pinched experimentally.

"This man is neither a criminal nor a torturer nor a murderer. He is kind, gentle, and loving. Children write him letters, and he answers every one of them."

General Nogeira took a fistful of buttock and gave Rona Ripper a hard squeeze.

Rona Ripper turned bright red. It was impossible to tell if the coloring was the result of blushing, or the passion aroused in her by her speech. She plowed on.

"He is a great man, a man who-"

General Nogeira's straying hand went up to the top of Rona's skirt and slipped down inside it.

This produced an immediate reaction. Rona Ripper shoved him away and simultaneously slapped him in his pocked face.

Remo took this as his cue.

He withdrew into the water. It smelled. Remo drew in a deep breath and his head went under. He struck out in the general direction of the isle where the baptism was to take place.

Even though it smelled, the water conducted sound perfectly. It brought to Remo's alert ears the slither and splash of an alligator entering the water.

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