Читать книгу Splinter Cell - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

A rental BMW, arranged by Barbara Price, was waiting downstairs for Bolan and Paxton when they got off the elevator. The concierge handed them the keys and gave them directions to the parking lot. For his trouble, he got yet another tip from Bolan.

“You ever think we might be in the wrong business?” Paxton asked as they left the hotel and crossed the parking lot where the vehicle waited.

“How do you mean?”

“These guys,” Paxton said, glancing back over his shoulder in the direction from which they’d come. “Every time you turn around, they’ve got their hands out and somebody’s shoving money in them.”

Bolan chuckled. “If we were after money,” he said, “we’d have chosen different paths a long time ago.”

By now they had spotted the BMW. Bolan thumbed the button on the remote control to unlock the driver’s door, opened it, then pushed the button again to give Paxton access to the passenger’s seat.

As both men slid inside the vehicle, Paxton said, “Ever wonder why we do it?”

“You’re doing it to find your brother,” Bolan said as he started the engine. “What better reason do you need than that?”

“I mean, the rest of the time,” said Paxton. “Ever wonder why we risk our lives to help people we don’t even know?”

“We help them because we can,” Bolan said. “And because not very many other men have the abilities we do.”

Slowly Brick Paxton nodded his understanding. But an introspective frown stayed on his face. And a trancelike look remained in his eyes.

Bolan pulled the BMW out of the parking lot and drove just below the posted speed limit through the city. Soon, they were on a highway leading out of Amsterdam. It was not until then that Paxton spoke again. “I didn’t like you at first,” he suddenly said.

The Executioner didn’t answer.

Paxton turned slightly toward Bolan in his seat. “I’m more used to giving orders than taking them,” he said. “Except from officers, of course. And I didn’t have you pegged as an officer.”

“Then you had me pegged right,” Bolan said as multicolored fields of flowers, windmills and other sights flashed by.

“But you served, didn’t you.” It was a statement rather than a question.

Bolan answered anyway. “I served,” he said. “NCO.”

“Rangers?” This time Paxton’s tone did invite an answer.

“Special Forces,” Bolan said.

“Ah.” Paxton nodded. “The Green Beanies.” He paused. “Okay. You guys were all right, I guess.” The last sentence was said with the feigned condescension all special squads exhibit toward one another.

Such rivalry between Rangers, Green Berets, Navy SEAL, and other such units was expected and both men chuckled now. Bolan looked up to see a sign that read Marken 10K.

“Anyway,” Paxton went on, “I thought you were just another damn bureaucrat afraid to bend the rules. You see, I don’t care what I have to do to get my brother back safely.”

“I bend the rules when I have to in order to get the job done,” Bolan replied. “Other times, I shatter them.” He saw an egg-shaped lump form in Paxton’s throat as the man swallowed.

“Well,” the Ranger said. “Just in case I get killed before I get a chance to say this, thanks. I appreciate your help in finding my brother.

“Both of our parents were killed in a car accident my senior year in high school,” Paxton went on. “I was seventeen at the time. Phil was sixteen. We didn’t have any other relatives.”

Bolan glanced quickly toward the other man, frowned, then turned back to the highway. “I’m surprised the court didn’t put you both in foster homes,” he said.

“I’m sure they would have if they’d known about our situation.” Paxton chuckled. “But we both kept quiet and slipped through the cracks. That’s probably when I first began to develop such great respect for bureaucracy.” His last sentence dripped with sarcasm. But when he went on, his voice was lighter again. “The folks had the house already paid off, and Phil and I both got jobs after school to pay the utilities and other bills. We didn’t do any high-rolling. But we got by.”

Ahead, the Executioner saw an arrow pointing out the exit to Marken. He let up slightly on the accelerator.

“Anyway, when I graduated I got a full-time job working construction,” Paxton continued. “Stayed home until Phil hit eighteen and they couldn’t take him away if they found out. He’d always shown a great interest and aptitude in all the sciences, and he wanted to go to college. I didn’t. So I went off into the Army and he headed for Yale on a scholarship.”

Bolan slowed even more as he took the exit, nodding for Paxton to continue if he chose to do so.

The Army Ranger did. “So Phil and I are closer than most brothers, I think. Sort of like the guys you go through a war with. It’s like we survived a different kind of war together, and neither of us could have pulled it off without the other one.”

Bolan knew what the man meant, and said so.

“Maybe I am too close to this whole thing to be objective.” Paxton paused again momentarily, then said, “But I’m going through with it anyway. I’ll leave it up to you to tell me if I’m letting my emotions get in the way of my thinking.”

“Don’t worry,” Bolan said. “I will.”

Paxton laughed. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” he asked rhetorically. “Anyway, that’s enough on the subject.” He closed his mouth.

Bolan took a left off the exit road and entered the small fishing village of Marken. He had seen windmills in Amsterdam and along the road during the drive, but Marken itself was like a Disneyland version of Holland. Everywhere he looked now he saw women dressed in pinafores. Most obvious of all were the Dutch clogs, the wooden shoes that had captured the imagination of the entire world. It seemed that there was a store selling them on every corner.

“Damn,” Paxton said, sitting forward in his seat. “I didn’t know people really wore those things anymore.”

“They don’t in the cities,” the Executioner said. “But out here, yeah. Particularly since it’s the town’s leading industry besides fishing.”

“I’d think they’d hurt your feet,” Paxton said.

“Well,” the Executioner came back as he drove slowly on down the street. “You can find out for yourself if you’re really interested.” He slowed the BMW, then pulled into an empty parking space under a sign which read Klompenmaart. “We’re meeting the informant inside here. It’s the shop of a custom wooden shoemaker.”

Bolan killed the engine and both men got out. The Klompenmaart was roughly halfway down a small shopping strip, and from somewhere in one of the stores classical music came piping out. On the sidewalk, men, women and children all walked expertly past in the wooden shoes, chattering happily away in Dutch.