Читать книгу Carnage Code - Don Pendleton - Страница 5

Khartoum. For Ron Cassetti, the very word had always held adventure. And a lust for adventure had been in his blood for as long as he could remember.

Cassetti, a Washington Post reporter, walked along the cobbled stones toward the White Nile Bridge, where the White and Blue Niles met and the colored waters meshed with the clarity of bright blue and white paint being splashed together.

The young man on the bridge thought back over his twenty-one years of life. For most of those years, he had concentrated on his schoolwork and martial arts, with only an occasional date, here and there. But within a week of the day he’d left Oklahoma for Georgetown University, he had met Margerete. And they had dated ever since.

He had finally graduated with a double major in journalism and English literature and acquired his third-degree black belt in karate at roughly the same time. Rather than open his own dojo in the D.C. area, he had instead accepted a job in Khartoum where he would report on both Sudan’s rumored nuclear-weapons program and the civil war raging in Ethiopia, next door. There, in this ancient country bordering the Red Sea, the violence between the Ethiopian government and the Coalition for Unity and Democracy continued to spill over into Sudan.

The problem, as it pertained to Sudan, was that both CUD and out-of-control Ethiopian regulars” had begun attacking installations and villages in Ethiopia, then fleeing to safety across the Sudanese border. Both sides wore unmarked green fatigues to avoid being recognized and, for that reason, they had all come to be called “greenies.” Certain elements within the Sudanese government wanted to declare war on Ethiopia and wipe out the invaders entirely.

Cassetti’s mind drifted away from Sudan and Ethiopia and back to his own problem, and he felt as if his heart was being ripped from his chest. For a brief moment, he thought again about Margerete. Then the picture in his mind turned quickly to Fran.

He had never been true to Margerete, he realized, and the guilt increased even more. He had almost always had someone “on the side” during their four years at Georgetown. But in the three months he and Fran had been together, he had never even considered cheating on her. After Fran had entered Cassetti’s life, he had lost all desire for other women.

Cassetti wiped his face with his hand, telling himself it was water that had blown up from under the bridge rather than tears. Margerete would have returned to Washington by the time he returned from Sudan. And a decision would have to be made. A decision, he knew, that would affect the rest of his life.

The bottom line, as Ronnie Cassetti saw it, was that he owed Margerete. But he wanted Fran.

Cassetti’s tormented thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sounds of running footsteps and huffs and puffs approaching from his right. Turning back toward the direction from which he’d come, he saw an elderly man wearing a striped robe and matching headdress shoving people to the side as he ran and limped toward the top of the bridge. A second commotion of some kind was occurring farther down the bridge, past the old man, with other people sprawling on the ground.

Cassetti squinted but was unable to make out the source of the problem.

As the elderly man reached the top of the bridge, Cassetti could see that he held a white envelope in his left hand. With his right, he clutched his chest, as if he might be about to have a heart attack. Cassetti was surprised further when the old man stopped next to him against the railing.

“I have…seen you,” the old man gasped out. “American?”

Cassetti nodded.

“Writer?” came another gasp. “American writer?”

Cassetti nodded again.

The old man grabbed Cassetti’s hands and pushed the envelope between them. “You take,” he said in heavily accented English. “Go—” He never finished the sentence.

Two shots rang out almost simultaneously, and the old man in the robe folded at the waist. A second later, he was on the ground, his open eyes staring sightlessly up at the clear blue North African sky.

Ronnie Cassetti stared down at him, confused, but another shot brought him out of his trance.

Now Cassetti could see what had caused the second disturbance behind the old man. Two equally dark complected figures—both dressed in lightweight tropical suits—were pushing their way along the crowded footpath toward him. Both held pistols in their hands, and more shots exploded as the men raced toward him.

Ronnie Cassetti was no fool. These shots were meant for him.

The envelope still clamped in his hand, Cassetti turned and sprinted down the other side of the White Nile Bridge. He didn’t have the slightest idea what the envelope contained or why men were willing to kill for it. But he had no doubt that the envelope was what this was all about.

Cassetti held the advantage, running downhill while his pursuers still climbed to the crest of the bridge. So he put as much distance between him and the gunmen as he could, while he could. In a matter of seconds his downhill advantage would be lost, and when that happened, if he hadn’t made full use of it, he had no doubt he’d be as dead as the old man.

Cassetti continued to run, pushing men, women and children unashamedly out of his way as he reached the bottom of the bridge. Loud shrieks of terror and what he suspected were curses in Arabic shot out at him with as much venom as the bullets. He didn’t care. He wanted out of this. Now.

Not far from bridge, Cassetti saw the beginning of a large shopping area. If he could make it to the first shop door, then race through it and get out the back, he had a chance of losing his pursuers in the maze of streets behind it. A final gunshot whizzed past Cassetti’s head as he ducked inside the first door to which he came.

To the proprietor’s dismay and anger, Cassetti knocked over a shelf containing religious statuettes as he lumbered through the shop. Another misstep sent a case of colorful glass bottles and vases shattering to the floor, and brought on more unintelligible curses. Finally, he burst blindly through a violet-colored curtain and out the back door.

Behind the shop, Ronnie Cassetti saw the confusing, winding streets he’d hoped for. Picking one at random, he raced past the wrinkled faces of old men and women and groups of playing children. He didn’t stop running for five more minutes.

When Cassetti finally slowed to a walk he was breathing hard. It took another five minutes to find his way out of the labyrinth of small streets and emerge onto one of Khartoum’s main streets. A second later, he flagged a cab and rode it back to his hotel. With his Swiss Army knife, he slit open the envelope. He was surprised to find that the single page inside was written in English. But what shocked him even more was that it was a poem. Not just a poem, but a limerick.

Cassetti closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. Something valuable had to be hidden within these rhyming words. The old man had made sure he was an American before giving him the envelope, so it was his duty as an American to find out what the limerick actually meant. Which meant he’d have to get into bed with men most journalists considered the enemy.

The United States Central Intelligence Agency.