"Dibdin, Michael - Aurelio Zen 02 - Vendetta UC - part 10" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dibdin Michael)

would assume that he was a policeman, a government
spy. The farce was over. He would drive to Cagliari that
morning and book a ticket on the night ferry to the main-
land. When he returned to the village, it would be in his
official capacity. At least that way he could compel respect.
His inability to do so at present was amply demon-
strated by the length of time it took him to get breakfast in
the bar downstairs. At least half-a-dozen of the locals had
drifted in and out again, replete with cappuccinos and
pastries, before Zen was finally served a lukewarm cup of
coffee that tasted as though it had been made from second
hand grounds and watered milk.
'Goodbye for now,' he told the proprietor as he stalked
out.
The remark elicited a sharp glance that expressed
anxious defiance as well as hostility. It gladdened Zen for a
moment, until he reflected that his implied threat was the
first step on the path which had led to the Gestapo tactics
of the past.
The weather had changed. The sky was overcast, grey
and featureless, the air still and humid. Zen's hangover
felt like an octopus clinging to every cell of his being.
Although weakening, the monster had plenty of life in it
yet. Every movement involved an exhausting struggl
against its tenacious resistance. He found himself looking,
forward to sinking luxuriously into the Mercedes' leather
upholstery and driving away from this damned village,
listening to the radio broadcasts from Rome, that lovely,
civilized city where Tania was even now rising from her
bed, sipping her morning coffee, even thinking of him
perpaps. He could allow himself to dream. Given all he'd
been through, he'd surely earned the right to a little harm-
less self-indulgence.
Half-way across the piazza, beside the village war
memorial, Zen had to stop, put his suitcase down and
catch his breath. The dead of the 1915 -1918 war covered two
sides of the rectangular slab, the same surname often
repeated six or eight times, like a litany. The Sardinians
pad formed the core of the Italian army's mountain divi-
sions and half the young men of the village must have died
at Isonzo and on the Piave. The later conflicts had taken a
lesser toll. Thirty had died in 1940 -1945, four in Spain and
five in Abyssinia.
As Zen picked up the leaden suitcase again, he noticed a
tall thin man in a beige overcoat staring at him curiously.
His deception would be common knowledge by now, he
realized, and his every action a cause for suspicion. He
dumped the suitcase in the boot of the Mercedes, got
inside and turned the ignition on. Nothing happened. It
was a measure of his befuddlement that it took him several