JК
The Third Option :: Flynn Vince
Страница: 25 из 267There was a spiral staircase in the opposite corner that led to a balcony which ran along the three interior walls. Old leather-bound books filled the shelves up top, and down below were quite a few more. Elaborately framed oil paintings, some as tall as Rapp and others no bigger than his hand, adorned every square inch of the walls that weren't occupied by the bookshelves. On the far wall a roaring fire burned in the room's ornate fireplace. Rapp was not an art expert, but the collection of paintings had to be worth millions. Rapp turned his attention to the furniture and then the rugs. Everything in the room, with the exception of a few lamps, looked to be at least a hundred years old.
That's great, Rapp thought to himself. The guy is born into the lucky sperm club, pisses away his inheritance, and then, rather than auction off some of his expensive possessions, he decides to sell highly sensitive technology to a sadistically crazed psychopath who would love nothing more than to drop a nuclear bomb on New York City. This prick deserves to die.
Rapp checked his watch. Two minutes and three seconds had elapsed since they had come through the gate. Rapp glanced out one of the room's two large windows that looked down onto the main driveway: Tom Hoffman was standing beside the Audi, the engine still running. Hoffman gave Rapp a quick wave, and Rapp returned the gesture. Rapp looked at his watch again. They had been in the den for thirty-eight seconds. Rapp had set the limit at two minutes. After that, he would go find the count. There was no sense in letting him get on the phone and try to find out what was going on. Rapp walked across the room and put one eye up to the small gap in the middle of the French doors. At first he couldn't see much, and then he realized why. The beefy bodyguard had taken up his post outside the study and was blocking his view.
Rapp stepped back and frowned, trying to think of ways to take the bodyguard out without having to kill him. To knock him out, he'd have to get close, and with a neck as thick as the bodyguard's, Rapp's best shot might serve only to enrage the man. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a wrestling match. Rapp decided he would keep his distance and play it by ear.
It was nearing the three-minute mark when the study doors opened and Heinrich Hagenmiller V entered the room. He was holding a glass of champagne in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. Obviously, no one had bothered to tell the count that smoking had become impolitic. Take away the man's hand-tailored tuxedo, his Rolex, his r slicked-back hair, and his chin tuck, and he was no different from any other terrorist.
That's great, Rapp thought to himself. The guy is born into the lucky sperm club, pisses away his inheritance, and then, rather than auction off some of his expensive possessions, he decides to sell highly sensitive technology to a sadistically crazed psychopath who would love nothing more than to drop a nuclear bomb on New York City. This prick deserves to die.
Rapp checked his watch. Two minutes and three seconds had elapsed since they had come through the gate. Rapp glanced out one of the room's two large windows that looked down onto the main driveway: Tom Hoffman was standing beside the Audi, the engine still running. Hoffman gave Rapp a quick wave, and Rapp returned the gesture. Rapp looked at his watch again. They had been in the den for thirty-eight seconds. Rapp had set the limit at two minutes. After that, he would go find the count. There was no sense in letting him get on the phone and try to find out what was going on. Rapp walked across the room and put one eye up to the small gap in the middle of the French doors. At first he couldn't see much, and then he realized why. The beefy bodyguard had taken up his post outside the study and was blocking his view.
Rapp stepped back and frowned, trying to think of ways to take the bodyguard out without having to kill him. To knock him out, he'd have to get close, and with a neck as thick as the bodyguard's, Rapp's best shot might serve only to enrage the man. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a wrestling match. Rapp decided he would keep his distance and play it by ear.
It was nearing the three-minute mark when the study doors opened and Heinrich Hagenmiller V entered the room. He was holding a glass of champagne in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. Obviously, no one had bothered to tell the count that smoking had become impolitic. Take away the man's hand-tailored tuxedo, his Rolex, his r slicked-back hair, and his chin tuck, and he was no different from any other terrorist.