"Dibdin, Michael - Aurelio Zen 02 - Vendetta UC - part 08" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dibdin Michael)

the deck of a Tirrenia Line ferry at five o'clock in the
morning, they seemed utterly unreal and irrelevant.
When he looked again, it was over. The wall of darkness
ahead had divided in two: a high mountain range below,
dappled with a suggestion of contours, and the sky above,
hollow with the coming dawn. Harbour lights emerged
from behind the spit of land which had concealed them
earlier, now differentiated from the open sea and the small
bay beyond. Reading them like constellations, Zen map-
ped out quays and jetties, cranes and roads in the half-
light. Things were beginning to put on shape and form, to
wake up, get dressed and make themselves presentable.
The moment had passed. Soon it would be just another
day.
Down beiow in the bar, the process was already well
advanced. A predominantly male crowd, more or less
dishevelled and bad-tempered, clustered around a sleepy
cashier to buy a printed receipt which they then took to the
gar and traded in for a plastic thimble filled with strong
black coffee. On the bench seats all around young people
were awakening from a rough night, rubbing their eyes,
scratching their backs, exchanging little jokes and
caresses. Zen had just succeeded in ordering his coffee
When a robotic voice from the tannoy directed all drivers to
ake their way to the car deck to disembark. He downed
the coffee hurriedly, scalding his mouth and throat, before
heading down into the bowels of the ship.
The vehicles bound for this small port of call on the way
to Cagliari, the ship's destination, were almost exclusively
commercial and military. Neither category took the slight-
est notice of the signs asking drivers not to switch on their
engines until the bow doors had been opened. Zen made
' his way through clouds of diesel fumes to his car, sand-
' wiched between a large lorry and a coach filled with mili-
tary conscripts looking considerably less lively than they
had the night before, when they had made the harbour at
Civitavecchia ring with the forced gaiety of desperate men.
He unlocked the door and climbed in. Fausto Arcuto had
done him well, there was no question about that. Return-
ing to the Rally Bar the previous afternoon, Zen had collec-
ted an envelope containing a set of keys and a piece of
paper reading 'Outside Via Florio, 6g'. He turned the
paper over and wrote, 'Many thanks for prompt delivery.
The Parrucci affair has nothing, repeat nothing, to do with
you. Regards.' He handed this to the barman and walked
round the corner to Via Florio.
There was no need to check the house number. The car,
a white Mercedes saloon with cream leather upholstery,
stood out a mile among the battered utility compacts of the
Testaccio residents. It had been fitted with Zurich number