"Deighton, Len - Harry Palmer 06 - Catch A Falling Spy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Deighton Len)

A Russian scientist defects, believing that in the West he will more easily realize his dream of contacting planets in outer space. But British Intelligence and the CIA have more worldly plans for him and move quickly, relentlessly, leaving behind a trail of blood which stretches from the Sahara desert to Manhattan, Paris, Dublin and halfway back across Africa.



'I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.''
Epitaph on grave of unknown astronomer




Len Deighton

TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE SPY





Chapter One

'Smell that air,' said Major Mann.

I sniffed. 'I can't smell anything,' I said.

'That's what I mean,' said Mann. He scratched himself and grinned. 'Great, isn't it?'

There's not much to smell when you are one thousand miles into, the Algerian Sahara; not much to smell, not much to do, not much to eat.

For those travellers who know the swimming-pools and air conditioning of the government hotels along the northern edge of the Sahara, Adrar comes as a shock. Here the hotel has no more than tightly drawn curtains to protect the tourist from the sun, and the staff have noisy arguments about who should siesta on the cold stone floor of the entrance hall. Only Europeans stayed awake all day, notably four bearded Austrians who, night and day, played cards in the shuttered dining-room. They were waiting for a replacement petrol pump for their truck. Between games they swigged sweet, warm cola drinks. There was no alcohol on sale, and smoking was frowned upon.

Even on this winter's evening the stones and the sand radiated the heat of the desert day.

There was no moon but the stars were so bright that we could easily see our vehicles piled high with stores and sextant and a sign that said 'Dempsey's Desert Tours'. They were parked on the huge main square of Adrar. Mann walked round the vehicles just to make sure the supplies had not been plundered. It was unlikely, for they were outside the police station.

Mann stopped and leaned against the Landrover. He took out a packet of cheroots; there were only four left. 'Look at those stars,' he said.

'The Milky Way - I've never seen it so clearly. A spaceship travelling at 100,000 miles per hour would take 670 million years to cross the Milky Way,' I said. 'There's a hundred thousand million stars there.'

'How do you know?' said Mann. He put a cheroot in his mouth and chewed it.

'I read it in the Reader's Digest Atlas.' Mann nodded. 'And do you know something else... the way they're going, in another few years there will be another millon stars there - enough spy satellites to put both of us out of business.'

'Twinkle, twinkle, little spy,' I said.

Mann looked at me to see if I was being insubordinate. 'Let's go back inside,' he said finally. He decided not to light the cheroot. He put it away again. 'I'll buy you a bottle of Algerian lemonade.' He laughed. Mann was like a small, neatly dressed gorilla: the same heavy brow, deep-set eyes and long arms - and the same sense of humour.

The dining-room is large, and although the big fans no longer turned it was the coolest place for hundreds of miles. The walls are whitewashed light blue, and crudely woven striped rugs are tacked to floor and walls. Overhead, the wooden flooring rattled like jungle drums as someone moved. There was the sudden roar of the shower and the inevitable violent rapping of the ancient plumbing. We helped ourselves to soft drinks and left the money on the till.

That Limey bastard takes a shower every five minutes.'