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efficient looking.
"No answer," Summerfield said, turning the knob.
Hoevermann followed him inside, making note of everything. The inner office
was paneled, and a wilted carnation sat in a glass vase on the secretary's
desk. The typewriter, computer terminals and telephone switching equipment it
all looked bafflingly efficient to him. Hoevermann tapped Summerfield on the
shoulder. "You are armed, just in case?"
"Yes, sir, I am. But I doubt it will be necessary."
"Those have been the last words of some fine late friends," Hoevermann
remarked.
Summerfield knocked on the inner office door. Hoevermann heard the faint sound
of a toilet flushing. "Open the door!" he said to the young man beside him.
"But, Inspector "
"Open the door now!" Hoevermann pushed between the red-haired FBI agent and
the door, and tried to knob. The door was locked. "Force the door, Senhor
Summerfield I'll assume full responsibility."
"But, Inspector "
"Obviously you have not been fully briefed. We are talking not about gold
ingots, but something vastly more important. Palmer Radionics think, senhor!
Nuclear material!"
Summerfield's blue eyes went wide, and he stared at Hoevermann for an instant.
Then he threw his shoulder to the door, twisting at the knob. "Mr. Dzikowski
this is the FBI! I have a search warrant for these premises. Destruction of
any material vital to our investigation could result in criminal prosecution,
sir!"
The door did not budge.
"While traveling from my country to yours, I read through various publications
and reports. I believe Scott Palmer is paying off the terrorist kidnappers
with a substantial amount of nuclear material enough for a bomb. We cannot
wait!"
Summerfield stepped back from the door and kicked at it once. "Always works in
the movies..."
The state policeman had come from the elevator to the inner office. "What's
the racket?"
"Gimme a hand here. The Inspector thinks we're talking about nuclear materials
being transferred to terrorists, and Dzikowski may be destroying evidence in
there. Come on! I'm responsible!"
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The policeman and Summerfield threw their shoulders to the door together, but
it didn't budge.
Hoevermann cleared his throat. "Have you ever shot the lock off a door?"
"No, sir."
"And you, Officer?"
"No, sir."
"I have. Would one of you kindly give me your weapon, please? Millions of
lives depend on what we are doing. There is no time to waste now!"
The FBI agent drew his weapon. Hoevermann enjoyed firearms and shooting, and
recognized the firearm. A Smith & Wesson Model 13, standard FBI issue. "I'll
do it. Should I aim for the lock plate or the doorjamb?" Summerfield asked.
"The doorjamb should do with this type of lock. Hurry!"
"Stand back!" Then Summerfield raised his voice, "Mr. Dzikowski, I warn you
again. This is the FBI. If you do not open the door I'll be forced to shoot
off the lock!"
There was no response from inside, but Hoevermann thought he smelled smoke.
"Flushing apparently didn't work. I smell something burning, I believe,"
Hoevermann said calmly.
Summerfield nodded, clutching the revolver in both fists, arms outstretched,
his body in a combat crouch. "I'll be firing at the count of five, Mr.
Dzikowski. Stand well clear of the door for your own safety, sir!"
Summerfield looked at Hoevermann, then leveled his revolver. "One. Two.
Three." He steadied the revolver. "Four Mr. Dzikowski, I'll be forced to
fire five!" The weapon discharged, Hoevermann's ears ringing with it in the
confined space, the state policeman drawing his gun.
"Kick the door and it should open," Hoevermann snapped.
The FBI men stepped to the door and kicked at the lock plate, slamming himself
against the doorframe as the door opened inward. "Please have your hands where
I can see them, Mr. Dzikowski," Summerfield shouted as he went through the
door. "Holy shit!"
Hoevermann went through the door ahead of the state policeman.
Dzikowski lay back in his leather executive chair, palms upturned on the
chair's arms, blood spurting from the left wrist like a garden hose under full
pressure that had suddenly sprung a leak.
"Get an ambulance!" The state policeman grabbed at the telephone on
Dzikowski's desk. Summerfield bent over the man, trying to staunch the blood
flow, but Hoevermann knew it was useless. He kicked over the still-flaming
metal wastebasket instead, stomping on the flames with the soles of his shoes.
Something caught his eye a piece of paper not quite consumed. He bent over
and picked it up, blowing on it because it was still smoldering. It was
apparently a memo, and across the top he read the words "Dynamic Plat." The
rest was burned. He turned to the FBI agent. "Summerfield, the man is dead or
about to be. Nothing you can do will change that. Instead of standing there,
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check through his Rolodex and see if there is mention there of a Dynamic
something."
The FBI agent looked at Hoevermann. "He just "
"Killed himself. Yes, I know. And that means my suspicions are confirmed."
The police officer who had called for the ambulance set the telephone receiver
down and began flipping through the Rolodex. "Dynamic Plating?" And he read
the address.
"Will the search warrant cover Dynamic Plating?"
"No."
"We have to go there anyway now!"
Summerfield nodded. Hoevermann could see the words "I am losing my job"
written in the young man's eyes. He hoped it wouldn't be true. Hoevermann
started for the door. "You told me this Cashman fellow drives fast?"
"Yes. A maniac."
"You memorized the address?"
"Yes."
"Let's go!"
Chapter Thirty-Three
Fred used a similar technique to kill the second Amazon guard, but lassoing
her from a position in one of the trees made the taking of the second guard
easier. Mulrooney looked down the front of her burnished golden breastplate.
They had picked the smallest of the Amazon guards they had seen that could be
gotten easily. Mulrooney still felt as flat chested as a boy. She inhaled,
trying to fill the armor more. It was hopeless.
She looked at Fred and grinned.
Fred looked the part: tall, big breasted, muscular, raven haired, the
bracelets on her wrists gleaming dully in the light.
Mulrooney looked at herself. She could not see her hair but knew it was the
wrong color, several shades too light. She had a decent tan but looked white
as a ghost compared to Fred and the real Amazons. She was also several inches
too short, and though she considered herself as strong as most women, she had
no rippling muscles. She was soft, which was the way she had been raised to
think she should be.
And her breasts...
She shrugged, and the breastplate almost became dislodged. Making a mental
note not to do that, she bent over to pick up her spear and almost fell out of
the breastplate doing it. "This isn't going to work, Fred," she told her
strapping companion. Fred's eyes looked puzzled. Mulrooney smiled at her, then
gestured across her upper body and inhaled. Fred laughed. "Thanks, you're a
real pal," Mulrooney muttered. The breastplate was so big for her that she had
secured the little revolver and Culhane's Bali-Song knife between the armor
and her upper abdomen; the really rotten part about it, she thought, was she
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could have hidden a larger gun just as easily.
Fred gestured toward the cavern entrance, and Mulrooney nodded. Even the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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