The Dark of the Sun - Smith Wilbur (читать книгу онлайн бесплатно полностью без регистрации .TXT) 📗
distinction of following the second oldest profession - we, the
mercenaries. "The oldest profession is better paid and much more fun,"
said Bruce and swung the truck into the driveway of a double-storeyed
residence, parked outside the front door and switched off the engine.
Not long ago the house had been the home of the chief accountant of
Union Mini&e du Haut, now it was the billet of V section, Special
Striker Force, commanded by Captain Bruce Curry.
Half a dozen of his black gendarmes were sitting on the low wall of the
verandah, and as Bruce came up the front steps they shouted the greeting
that had become traditional since the United Nations intervention.
"U. N. - Merde!"
"Ah!" Bruce grinned at them in the sense of companionship that had grown
up between them in the past months.
"The cream of the Army o Katanga I He offered his cigarettes around and
stood chatting idly for a few minutes before asking, "Where's Sergeant
Major?" One of the gendarmes jerked a thumb at the glass doors that led
into the lounge and Bruce went through with Mike behind him.
Equipment was piled haphazardly on the expensive furniture, the stone
fireplace was half filled with empty bottles, a gendarme lay snoring on
the Persian carpet, one of the oil paintings on the wall had been ripped
by a bayonet and the frame hung askew, the imbuia-wood coffee table
tilted drunkenly towards its broken leg, and the whole lounge smelled of
men and cheap tobacco.
"Hello, Ruffy, said Bruce.
"Just in time, boss." Sergeant Major Ruffararo grinned delightedly from
the armchair which he was overflowing.
"These goddam Arabs have run fresh out of folding stuff." He gestured at
the gendarmes that crowded about the table in front of him.
"Arab" was Ruffy's word of censure or contempt, and bore no relation to
a man's nationality.
Ruffy's accent was always a shock to Bruce. You never expected to hear
pure Americanese come rumbling out of that huge black frame. But three
years previously Ruffy had returned from a scholarship tour of the
United States with a command of the idiom, a diploma in land husbandry,
a prodigious thirst for bottled beer (preferably Schlitz, but any other
was acceptable) and a raving dose of the Old Joe.
The memory of this last, which had been a farewell gift from a high
yellow sophomore of U. C.L. A returned most painfully to Ruffararo when
he was in his cups; so painfully that it could be assuaged only by
throwing the nearest citizen of the United States.
Fortunately, it was only on rare occasions that an American and the
necessary five or six gallons of beer were assembled in the same
vicinity so that Ruffy's latent race antipathy could find expression.
A throwing by Ruffy was an unforgettable experience, both for the victim
and the spectators. Bruce vividly recalled that night at the
Hotel Lido when he had been a witness at one of Ruffy's most spectacular
throwings.
The victims, three of them, were journalists representing
publications of repute. As the evening wore on they talked louder; an
American accent has a carry like a well-hit golf ball and Ruffy
recognized it from across the terrace. He became silent, and in his
silence drank the last gallon which was necessary to tip the balance.
He wiped the froth from his upper lip and stood up with his eyes
fastened on the party of Americans.
"Ruffy, hold it. Hey!" - Bruce might not have spoken.
Ruffy started across the terrace. They saw him coming and fell
into an uneasy silence.
The first was in the nature of a practice throw; besides, the man was
not aero-dynamically constructed and his stomach had too much wind
resistance. A middling distance of twenty feet.
"Ruffy, leave them!" shouted Bruce.
On the next throw Ruffy was getting warmed up, but he put excessive loft
into it. Thirty feet; the journalist cleared the terrace and landed on
the lawn below with his empty glass still clutched in his hand.
"Run, you fool!" Bruce warned the third victim, but he was paralysed.
And this was Ruffy's best ever, he took a good grip neck and seat of the
pants - and put his whole weight into it. Ruffy must have known that he
had executed the perfect throw, for his shout of
"Gonorrhoea!"
as he launched his man had a ring of triumph to it.
Afterwards, when Bruce had soothed the three Americans, and they had
recovered sufficiently to appreciate the fact that they were privileged
by being party to a record throwing session, they all paced out the
distances. The three journalists developed an almost proprietary
affection for Ruffy and spent the rest of the evening buying him beers
and boasting to every newcomer in the bar. One of them, he who had been
thrown last and farthest, wanted to do an article on Ruffy - with
pictures. Towards the end of the evening he was talking wildly of
whipping up sufficient enthusiasm to have a man-throwing event included
in the Olympic Games.
Ruffy accepted both their praise and their beer with modest gratitude;
and when the third American offered to let Ruffy throw him again, he
declined the offer on the grounds that he never threw the same man
twice. All in all, it had been a memorable evening.
Apart from these occasional lapses, Ruffy had a more powerful body and
happier mind than any man Bruce had ever known, and Bruce could not
help liking him. He could not prevent himself smiling as he tried to
reject Ruffy's invitation to play cards.
"We've got work to do now, Ruffy. Some other time."
"Sit down, boss," Ruffy repeated, and Bruce grimaced resignedly and took
the chair opposite him.
"How much you going to bet?" Ruffy leaned forward.
Bruce laid a thousand-franc note on the table; "when that's gone, then
we go."
"No hurry," Ruffy soothed him. "We got all day." He dealt the three
cards face down. "The old Christian monarch is in there somewhere; all
you got to do is find him and it's the easiest mille you ever made."
"in the middle," whispered the gendarme standing beside Bruce's chair.
"That's him in the middle."
"Take no notice of that mad Arab - he's lost five mille already this
morning," Ruffy advised.
Bruce turned over the right-hand card.
"Mis-luck," crowed Ruffy. "You got yourself the queen of hearts."
He picked up the banknote and stuffed it into his breast pocket.
"She'll see you wrong every time, that sweetfaced little bitch."
Grinning, he turned over the middle card to expose the jack of spades
with his sly eyes and curly little mustache. "She's been shacked up
there with the jack right under the old king's nose." He turned the king
face up.
"Look you at that dozy old guy - he's not even facin in the right
direction." Bruce stared at the three cards and he felt that sickness in
his stomach again. The whole story was there; even the man's name
was right, but the jack should have worn a beard and driven a red Jaguar
and his queen of hearts never had such innocent eyes. Bruce spoke
abruptly. "That's it, Ruffy. I want you and ten men to come with me."
"Where we going?"
"Down to Ordinance - we're drawing special supplies."
