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Warren Murphy: Missing Link

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Missing Link: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Beer for breakfast, that's how the brother-in-law of the President of the United States starts his day. Beer is his food, his fuel, and his future, if not his finale. His sudsy philosophy immersed him in a continuing controversy, embarrassing the White House, and making him a media personality. It is also giving him some very lucrative consulting jobs for foreign governments. Like the Libyans. They want his help in obtaining plutonium . . . For peaceful purposes, of course . . . a Holy War against Israel being the furthest thing from their minds. Suddenly good old Bobby Jack is missing. And the list of suspects seems endless. America's number-one beer drinker is finally muzzled. But by whom? The Bad Guys or the Good Guys? Terrorists or patriots? The Libyans or the Israelis? The Secret Service or the Mafia? The Destroyer?

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"Take your time. Just don't be untidy." Remo heard voices inside Room 27 and went back to Room 26. The door was locked but he vibrated the knob quickly in his hand, back and forth, until the metal parts slipped and the knob turned easily. He locked the door quickly behind him.

Listening at the connecting doors between the rooms, Remo heard and recognized two of the voices.

There was Janie Baby, with her well-bred nasal whine that somehow changed into a smooth liquid soprano when, she began to sing. There was the languid voice of her consort, the revolutionary lawyer-theoretician who lived with her in Malibu. Remo did not recognize any of the other voices.

Janie Baby: "Tony, run over the plan one more time so we all know what we're doing." Tony: "I've gone over it three times already." Janie Baby: "Then this time should be easy for you. Once more."

• Cheer up, Remo thought. That's the price you have to pay for being the royal stud. It could have been worse. One of the other well-known protest leaders was wanted for selling drugs; another had married a Hollywood star and joined the middle class; another one was shilling for a guru.

Tony: "We bring the guns in under the boxes of food and hand them out. Janie, at 8:30, you call the press to a meeting at the rear of the crowd. That way, they won't be able to see anything. When you get started, we'll get the crowd to surge toward the

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gates. Our people will fire a couple of shots. The cops will fire back. By the time the press gets back there, it'll be a full-scale riot. Of course, we'll have witnesses who say the cops fired first. When the mob pushes through the gate, well have the explosives stashed next to the generator station in a box that looks bice a reel of electric cable. Well be long gone 'cause there's no point in taking a chance on getting hurt. Then after they put down the riot, probably during the night well trigger the explosives by radio and blow up the whole frigging plant."

Unknown voice: "People might get hurt."

Janie Baby: "You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs."

Tony: "Right. That's not our problem. Anyway, tomorrow Janie'11 hold a press conference and blame the shooting on the cops. Well phony up some witnesses who saw them fire first."

Unknown voice: "What about the explosion?^

Janie Baby: "Leave that to me. It just proves what a shoddy unsafe operation this coal-burning monster is. Where's the radio transmitter to set off the charge?"

Tony: TVs under my mattress. Well leave it there until we want it. So there's no accident."

Unknown voice: 'I've put the guns at the bottom of the box of chicken salad sandwiches. It's marked on top."

Janie Baby: "Good. And the explosives?"

Voice: "Already in the trunk of the car."

Pause.

Janie Baby: "Okay. It's almost seven o'clock. We better get moving."

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Remo waited while people shuffled around in the next room, then heard the front door open and close. He glanced out the edge of the drape at the front window and saw the singer, her husband and two other men walking toward a white Lincoln sedan, dripping with chrome and doodads. Presumably, Remo thought, their grass-fueled Volkswagen was at the florist for repairs.

There was no knob on Remo's side of the connecting doors, just a round smooth lock plate. Remo brought his right hand back to his hip and punched with his hard fingertips into the wood next to the round brass plate. The wood splintered as Remo's fingers drove into the core of the door. His fingertips nicked the lock mechanism, turned it and the door pushed open.

The single room looked like an illegal dump. Neither bed was made. A wastepaper basket was filled with beer cans and wine bottles and when it had overflowed, the room's occupants had made do by throwing cans and bottles anywhere. Butcher paper from sandwiches littered the floor. Half-eaten heroes were dropped on the dresser.

Remo peeked into the bathroom, curious to see how the well-bred who wanted to bring America to a new and brighter tomorrow of freedom and personal responsibility lived. The sink was pocked with beard stubble, but the free motel soap had not been opened. The bath towels had not been touched and the shower and tub were dry and unused. There were four beer cans on the vanity shelf next to the sink. There was a half^empty jar of no-fluorocarbon anti-perspirant next to the sink, along

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with a dozen cylindrical plastic bottles of multicolored pills.

"Better living through chemistry," Remo said aloud. He went back into the main room and flipped the mattress from one bed onto the floor. There was no radio transmitter under it.

Remo lifted up the second mattress and saw the transmitter, a square black box with dials, a chrome button and a pull-up antenna. Behind him, he heard the front door open.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" a voice asked.

Remo looked over his shoulder and said, "Maid service. This room was due for a cleaning in 1946 and somehow we missed it."

The man standing in the doorway was a large blond with a slick brown tan. He wore white jeans. His biceps bulged from under his short-sleeved tan shirt and his lat muscles rippled as he folded his arms and looked at the radio transmitter on the bed.

"What's that?" he asked.

"A new organic mini-vacuum cleaner," Remo said. "It gets rid of all kinds of dirt Want to see how it works?"

"No, wiseass. I just want to see you in the slammer for burglary."

He came into the room and closed the door behind him. Remo picked up the radio transmitter and let the mattress collapse back onto the bed. The blond man reached for the telephone on the end table near the door.

"Can't let you do that, friend," Remo said.

"Try and stop me," the burly blond said.

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"Whatever makes you happy," Remo said.

He walked casually toward the blond who now had the phone in his hand. Remo reached out a finger and depressed the cutoff button.

The blond, with a nasty sneer on his face, tried to do two things at once. He slammed the receiver back down, hoping to smash it onto Remo's finger, and with the heel of his left hand he pushed at Remo's chest to try to shove him back into the room.

The receiver hit the phone base but missed Remo's finger. The blond felt bis right hand being re^ moved from the instrument by Remo's left hand. The heel of the big man's left hand slammed squarely against Remo's chest To the blond, it felt like butting his hand- against a brick wall. The shock wave raced back through his wrist, up his forearm and upper arm and made his shoulder shudder.

He swung wildly at Remo's head with his right hand. The punch missed.

"Isn't there any way you're going to behave yourself?" Remo asked.

"I'm gonna take your head off, sucker," the blond said.

Remo sighed. The blond threw another left hand and right hand at the slim man standing in front of him. Remo did not move, but somehow both punches missed. It was as if the smaller man had kept his feet rooted but had just swayed left and right out of the reach of the punches. The blond felt his long back muscles stretching painfully when the punches missed. He grabbed at the telephone and slapped it towards Remo's temple, but the instrument went over the top of Remo's head as

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he ducked. Then, as Remo came up, the blond felt himself lifted high into the air, and his 240 pounds were being thrown toward the back of the motel room. He wasn't spiy enough or quick-witted enough to cushion his head before he butted skull first into the wall. The crunch of his head hitting the wall punched a foot-wide soft spot into the sheetrock of the wall, beneath the cheap metallic vinyl wallcovering. The blond groaned and fell into a lump.

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