"Archer, Geoffrey - Sam Packer 02 - The Lucifer Network" - читать интересную книгу автора (Archer Geoffrey)

Pools of darkness surrounded the car park. He peered into them one by
one, looking for shadows that moved. A year ago Jackman had told him
the price for a contract killing in Zambia was fifty pounds. Sam
touched the pocket of his trousers to check the wallet was there, then
crunched over the gravel to the lodge, running a finger under the
sweaty collar of his shirt to free it from his neck. Lights set high
in the dark-leafed trees at one side of the building illuminated
well-watered lawns and a few hardwood easy chairs and tables. But it
was the mosquito hour and the guests were indoors. Instinctively Sam
smacked a hand against a cheek, imagining some winged malaria-carrier
braving the repellent he'd daubed on earlier.

The lodge was reed-thatched, as were the two small accommodation
chalets that stood slightly apart from it. A private venture, Jackman
had told him, a more restful haven than the hotels in town for visiting
relatives of European mining specialists. And the restaurant served
good steaks in reasonable privacy. The lodge was of timber, darkly
varnished. On its walls, paintings of elephants, baboons and exotic
birds glowed under their picture lights.

"I'm meeting Harry Jackman here," Sam announced to the shirt-sleeved
European who greeted him inside.

"May I ask your name sir?"

"Foster. Simon Foster."

Today's name. And last year's. The one Jackman had known him by when
they'd done the deal that was now causing the firm such pain. Twelve
months had passed, almost to the day, a year that had proved, if proof
were ever needed, that even the best of intentions could go sour.

"When he comes I'll tell him you're in the bar, sir."

"Thank you."

The restaurant was small, not more than a dozen tables, several set
against wide windows overlooking a small lake. Beyond it, the western
horizon glimmered deep violet, its colours mirrored in the water. The
four men he'd seen emerging from the Range Rover were already seated,
studying menus and gulping beers.

The almost empty bar was separated from the dining room by a Chinese
lacquered screen and lit by flickering oil lamps. Packer glanced
around pretending to be looking for a friend. Two couples sat at
tables, white haired and with the even-tanned complexions of the
well-heeled. He returned their smiles, then made for a cane armchair
in the shadows at the far end. The barman followed him to his seat.

"Most please," he asked, remembering the name of the local beer. The