"Dann,_Jack_-_The_Diamond_Pit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)
Ignoring him, Phoebe asked me if I was ready.
I nodded and picked up a grenade. Robert did the same, and attached it to the launcher; indeed, he knew what he was doing. He then picked up a gas mask from the pull cart and pulled it over his face to be at the ready. The others followed in turn. Before Phoebe could pull her gas mask over her face, I said, "Phoebe, why don't you stay -- "
"Don't even suggest it," she said.
* * * *
Moving quickly, we made our way under cover toward the landing strip north of the chateau. I deployed the men along the way with orders to fire if they saw the enemy, even if there were other slaves nearby who might inhale the gas -- after all, the grenades _should_ not kill.
However, there was no time to wait and ponder.
By the time we reached the rocky outcrops near the landing strip, we were in the thick of it. Half a dozen pilots were already making their way toward the chateau, and they were armed and at the ready. They saw us at the same time we saw them, and we both took cover. They began firing, and Isaac calmly launched a grenade at them, which exploded with a low thumping sound. I watched through smeary goggles and heard my breath wheezing through the mask, which smelled of rubber and formaldehyde. After a few moments, the aviators stopped firing. We waited and then moved forward cautiously. I feared the worst, but when we examined them, they were indeed still breathing; one pilot was snoring, as if happily tucked into his bed. We wasted no time pulling the sleepers under cover so they could not be seen. Then we moved forward to keep an eye on the planes as they landed. They kept a tight formation. Impressive. As each plane taxied down the turf of the golf-course runway, the pilots who had just landed stayed close to provide possible covering fire. We waited behind copses of weeping willows. It was too easy to gas the aviators, take their weapons, and drag them under cover -- we were shooting the proverbial ducks in a barrel -- and like everything that seems too easy, there was a snag. We miscalculated.
One of the aviators had somehow managed to get past us and circle around to our rear. He was wearing one of our gas masks, which he must have taken from one of the servants on the way; and he shot three of our servants with his automatic rifle before we could retaliate. To my surprise, Phoebe shot him squarely through the forehead with a handgun.
Robert sprayed the area with machine-gun fire and ordered his squad of servants to move forward.
More gunfire and the chuff chuffing of canister.
Then silence, a heavy awkward silence, as though some sort of geologic time or consensual dream had been replaced by a darker, more sinister reality.
As we moved forward, I could see faint wisps of gas roiling in the fetid air. Above me was a clear blue sky, as innocent as day. I looked around for Phoebe, but she had suddenly disappeared. "Robert, where's Phoebe?" I asked, and then I heard a series of shots from the trees behind us. Each shot seemed to be timed.
Robert just looked at me.
Of course, he knew --
And a moment later, so did I.
* * * *
I found Phoebe beyond the landing strip near the cover of trees and brush. Facemask and goggles hid most of her perfect face -- it was as if someone else was committing the terrible deed.
"Stop!" I shouted, my voice muffled by my own gas mask.
Phoebe looked up at me blankly, raised her rifle reflexively toward my chest -- and I felt strong arms lift me into the air as my own rifle clattered to the ground.
Isaac -- the slave who had been my "bodyguard" -- didn't relax his hold on me, even while Phoebe calmly continued to execute the sleeping pilots.
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*Ten*
"I can't believe that she has received any of my messages," I said.
Robert lowered his great wrinkled head and said, "All you have sent has been received by Miss Jefferson." He stood before my makeshift bed in the guest library where I'd been imprisoned -- upon Miss Jefferson's orders.
The north wing had survived intact, and I wondered why I was being kept here. Perhaps the other rooms, the bedrooms, had secret exits. Or perhaps Robert was right and Phoebe thought I'd keep myself occupied with her father's books and the Steinway grand piano that sat like a great white gold-crested bird in the center of the library. I'd practiced most of the days and nights; the suppleness had returned to my fingers, and I indulged myself with Berg's atonalities and the cloying wretchedness of Mahler's _lieder_. Jefferson's collection of leather-bound volumes and first editions were, indeed, glorious, and it had taken me two weeks to replace the books back on the shelves in alphabetical order. It was as if an earthquake had struck the chateau, or what remained of it.
"Will there be anything else you wish this morning, Mr. Orsatti?" Robert asked. "A bath, perhaps -- ? I've laid out your clothes, just in case." He bowed and smiled condescendingly.
"Just in case of what?" I asked.
"Why, in case you might wish to change, sir."
I waved him away. The door clicked shut, the key turned in the lock, and I was alone. I had not shaved, nor bathed. My hair needed trimming, my pajamas smelled as sour as my breath, and I was wallowing in self-pity. I didn't feel like reading, studying, or even playing, which was most unusual. Instead I mused on the possibilities of escape. I had tried everything I could think of, from picking the door lock (impossible!), to working the bars loose on the high windows, to holding Robert hostage -- but somehow the old servant had managed to break two of my ribs before Isaac overpowered me -- and all I had accomplished trying to get past the bars was to break the window glass.
So Robert had won, and I had lost.
We both knew that he was not my servant. But I was certainly his prisoner.
To add insult to injury, it was yet another magnificent morning. Golden sunlight poured in from the gardens, and the grounds were alive with hammering and shouting and the grinding and creaking and groaning of heavy machinery. The chateau was being repaired -- rebuilt, and I had been imprisoned in this room for almost two months.
At least when I was in the Pit I had had company --
I padded back and forth barefoot on the Persian carpets. I examined Jefferson's astonishing collection of Greek vases that were secured to the hand-carved bookcases in case there might be an earthquake. Well, there _was_ an earthquake, and it originated in the skies! I plonked my fingers over the keys as I passed the piano. I took a bit of toast and bacon from the silver tray Isaac had laid on an overly ornate gilt bronze table designed by Pelagio Palagi. I picked up my rose porcelain coffee cup and paced.
I had ruined everything --
No, _Phoebe_ had ruined everything.
I wolfed down breakfast and swore once again that if Phoebe ever had the gall to come anywhere near me, I would --
There was a light tapping on the door.
I knew who it was. I _knew_ --
"Go away."
A key turned in the lock, the doorknob turned, and the door groaned open. Phoebe stood in the doorway, looking small, uncertain, and breathtakingly lovely. She wore a simple pleated blue skirt with a white pullover. Her blond hair was pulled back, rolled, and tied with a golden ribbon that was the same color as the gilded trefoil arches over my prison bar windows. She stepped into the room, leaving the door ajar. Her face colored as she looked at me. She lowered her eyes, then, as if catching herself, looked directly at me.
"Where are your bodyguards?" I asked, more harshly than I'd anticipated. "Surely they're waiting in the hall in case I try something funny."
"What could you try that would be funny?" she asked in a low voice, and for only an instant, there was merriment in her eyes, which were bright, as though she'd been crying.
"What do you want?"
"What do you think -- ?"
"Don't answer my question with a question. You at least owe me an explanation. I've been in here for -- months."
"I don't owe anybody an explanation, and you've only been here for five weeks and a day," she said, then looked down at the carpet again. "I'm sorry, Paul. I'm getting this all wrong -- "
"What are you talking about?" I asked, sitting down on the end of the long gold brocade couch. My eggs were glassy-looking in the plate on the table before me. My coffee was cold, but I drank it anyway; I felt awkward, as I always did around her, and I needed something to do with my hands. After the coffee, I lit a cigarette, and Phoebe asked if she could have one, too. She bent over me while I lit her cigarette, and I could smell her perfume, see the light in her hair, and I caught my breath.
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