"Joe Haldeman - Tool of the Trade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

to pool in his palm. I put a finger to his carotid artery. The pulse was
shallow and irregular.
It stopped. I shoved the body back into a more upright posture,
so it wouldn't be discovered right away. Like hauling on a bag of grain,
hard work for a man my age. There was some blood on the floor but I
scuffed it into amalgamation with the background dirt. A wad of paper
served to jam the stall door closed.
I went back to the bar and signaled the bartender. She came over,
and I leaned close. "What do I look like?" I asked softly.
"What?"
I stared at her. "Describe me, please."
"Tall guy. White, bushy white beard, well dressed-"
"No. I am black, short, bald, and wearing work clothes. Greasy
jeans and an Exxon shirt that says Freddy on the pocket. Right?"
 "Exxon shirt with Freddy on the pocket."
"Good." I looked down the row of booths and found a likely
prospect, a young man with a parking-lot ticket sticking out of his shirt
pocket. He was sitting next to a pretty girl who was drinking diet soda
from a can; he had a draft beer. They were talking quietly.
I sat down across from them. "Hey," he said. "What-"
I turned it up. "How much have you had to drink?"
"Just this one beer."
"Good. Come on, we're going for a drive."
He scratched his head. "Okay. Where to?" Good question. They'd
expect me to go to New York; especially the KGB. They seem to
think all the rest of the country is a suburb of Manhattan.
"North. Up to Maine."
"What part?"
"I don't know. I've never been there."
"What about me?" the girl said. "Can I come along?"
I hesitated. It might be slightly safer for me that way, if not for her.
Willing hostage. "If we left you here, could you get home all right?"
"Sure. My father's the cook."
"You go home with your father. Tell him-what's your name?"
"Richard."
"Tell him Richard had to leave early, to pick up some medicine for
a sick friend. He'll be out of town for a few days. And you never saw m
e. Never at all."
She looked vaguely through me, focusing on the TV set at the end
of the bar. "Uh-huh. Bye, Rich."
I left a couple of dollars on the table. Then we put on our coats
and walked out into the swirling night.

CHAPTER ONE
THE MAN WHO calls himself Nicholas Foley-Dr. Nicholas
Foley, a full professor in MIT's psychology department-was born
Nikola Ulinov, in Leningrad, in 1935. It was not the best time to grow
up there.
Leningrad is the most European of Soviet cities, partly from
cultural tradition and partly from simple propinquity to Europe. Finland