"Trevor, Elleston as Hall, Adam - Quiller 17 - Quiller Meridian 1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hall Adam)

An agent lies dead in a Bucharest freight yard, the headless victim of a blown rendezvous with a Russian. Quiller is ordered in to clear up the mess -- and to take over the mission. From Moscow he boards the Siberian Express in search of Zimyanin, the Russian. On board is his elusive quarry, three conspiring Russian generals -- and Tanya, a beautiful and mysterious Muscovite.

Amidst the snows of Siberia, subject of a militia manhunt and the machinations of a rogue agent, Quiller must avert a terrible threat to world peace that is rising from the ruins of the smashed Soviet Empire...





Adam Hall.

Quiller Meridian.




1 BUCHAREST


They found me in Rome and the embassy phoned my hotel and I went along there and talked to London, and Signals said something had come unstuck in Bucharest and 'Mr Croder would be grateful' if l could get on a plane and see if I could pull anyone out alive. They hadn't actually put it like that -- they'd said 'if I could be of assistance in any way -- but when Mr Croder can find it in his rat -- infested soul to tell you he'd be grateful for something it can only mean that some kind of hell has got loose and he wants you to get it back in the cage.

That was soon after six and I caught the last night flight out of Rome and got into Bucharest at 9:34 and put my watch forward an hour and found someone waiting for me with a battered -- looking Volvo. We exchanged paroles and he asked me if I wanted to drive and I said no because I didn't know this city and there was obviously a rush on and he could take short cuts.

His name was Baker and he was small and wrapped up in a bomber jacket against the cold and smelt of garlic and looked rather pale, but that was possibly his normal winter complexion.

'What happened?' I asked him.

'I don't know. The DIF just sent me to pick you up.'

'What's his name?'

'Turner.' He got past a meat truck and caught a wing, just slightly, because the streets were iced over in places. He was driving just this side of smashing us up but I didn't say anything because he knew what he was doing.

I hadn't heard of a director in the field called Turner. He must be new. New and inexperienced and at this moment sitting at his base with a dry mouth and a telephone jammed against his head listening to his control in London and trying to tell him it hadn't been his fault, and the best of luck, because when a mission hits the wall it must be the fault of the DIF because he's running the executive in the field and it's his job to keep him out of trouble.

'Where are we going?' I asked Baker.

'The railway station. Freight yard.'

We lost the back end and he touched the wheel and used the kerb to kick us straight and when he'd settled down again I asked him the question I'd been trying not to ask him ever since we'd left the airport.

'Who's the executive?'

He gave me a glance and stared through the windscreen again and tucked his chin in. 'Hornby.' He said it quietly.

I hadn't heard of Hornby either, and it didn't sound as if I ever would again. He must have been new, too -- they were cutting down the training time at Norfolk these days and sending neophytes into the field without a chance of getting them home again if anything awkward happened. I'd told Croder how I felt about it and he'd said he'd pass it on to the proper quarters, but it wouldn't do any good: he felt the same way as I did, and those pontifical bastards in the Bureau hierarchy obviously hadn't listened even to him. Say this much at least for Croder: he's a total professional and one of the three really brilliant controls in London, and he doesn't get any kick out of going into the signals room and listening to those calls coming in from the field -- I don't know if I can make it. They've cut me off and I haven't got long. Can you do anything, send anyone in?

There'd been a call like that reaching London this evening, some time before six, and Hornby's control had said yes, he'd find the nearest executive and send him into the field, and that was why I was sitting in this dog -- eared Volvo skating through the streets of Bucharest a little bit too late -- it's nearly always a little bit too late, because things happen so fast when a mission starts running hot that there just isn't time to pull people out.

'Was there a rendezvous?'