"Dibdin, Michael - Aurelio Zen 02 - Vendetta UC - part 01" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dibdin Michael)

family's Venetian past. It was a face that gave nothing
away, yet seemed always to tremble on the brink of some
expression that never quite appeared. His face had made
Zen's reputation as an interrogator, for it was a perfect
screen on to which others could project their own sus-
picions, fears and apprehensions. Where other policemen
confronted criminals, using the carrot or the stick, accord-
ing to the situation, Zen's subjects found themselves shut
up with a man who barely seemed to exist, yet who
mirrored back to them the innermost secrets of their
hearts. They read their every fleeting emotion accurately
imaged on those scrupulously blank features, and knew
that they were lost.
Like all the other furniture in the apartment, the mirror
was old without being valuable, and the silvering was
wearing off in places. One particularly large worn patch
covered much of Zen's chest, reminding him of the last
terrible scenes of the video he was watching, of Oscar
Burolo reeling away from the shotgun blasts which had
come from nowhere, passing through the elaborate elec-
tronic defences of his property as though they did not exist.
With a shiver, Zen deliberately stepped to one side,
moving the stain of darkness away. There was something
about the Burolo case which was differeht from any other
he had ever been involved in. He had known cases which
obsessed him professionally, taking over his life until he
was unable to sleep properly or to think about anything
else, but this was even more disturbing. It was as though
the aura of mystery and horror surrounding the killings
had extended itself even to him, as though he too was
somehow in danger from the faceless power which had
ravaged the Villa Burolo. This was absurd, of course. The
case was closed, an arrest had been made, and Zen's
involvement with it was temporary, second-hand and
superficial. But despite that the sensation of menace
remained, and the sound of footsteps was enough to make
him rush to the window, a car parked half-way down the
street seemed to pose some threat.
The fact was that it was time to go to bed, long past
it in fact. He walked back to the sofa and picked up his
crumpled pack of Nazionali cigarettes, considered briefly
whether to have one more before turning in, decided
against it, then lit up anyway. He yawned and glanced at
his watch. A quarter past two. No wonder he was feeling
so strange. Seen through the mists of sleeplessness, every-
thing had the insubstantial, fluid quality of a dream. He
picked up the remote control, pressed the play button and
tried to concentrate on the screen again.
You had to hand it to Oscar! No doubt the camera angle
had been carefully chosen, but it was really very difficult to