"Simon Hawke - Time Wars 04 - The Zenda Vendetta" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

other things to look at here, all of which called forth panoramic visions of their own.
The door slid aside into a recess as he approached it, the lock responding to his voice speaking the
code phrase, тАЬold time not forgotten,тАЭ and he took two steps inside, the door sliding shut behind him.
With a somber expression, he gazed at the many incongruous items displayed about the room which, at
first glance, gave it the aspect of a storage place for worthless junk. However, the like of this
agglomeration could not be found in any museum.
One wall was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Arranged upon the shelves were priceless first editions,
ancient tomes, yet all in absolutely mint condition as if they had just come off the presses. The rarity of the
titles was matched only by their diversity. It was the library of a scholar with quite eclectic tastes, many
titles autographedтАФHonore de Balzac, Sigmund Freud, Fyodor Dostoevski, Mickey Spillane,
Barbara Tuchman, Isaac Asimov.
Hanging upon one wall was a sword, a heavy weapon with an ornately jeweled hilt inlaid with solid
gold. It had been taken from the scabbard of a dead knight named Rodrigo Diaz, better known to history
as El Cid. Beneath this beautiful broadsword hung a far more plebian-looking weapon, an old and
somewhat rusty rapier, a gift to Forrester from one of the officers under his command. It had been
discarded by its owner when he had received a better one from George Villiers, the Duke of
Buckingham. Major Lucas Priest had known how greatly Forrester would value a blade that had
belonged to a Gascon swordsman named DтАЩArtagnan.
Next to the two swords hung a badly weathered powder horn, which had once been the property of
an American frontiersman by the name of Daniel Boone. Above it was displayed a long flintlock rifle
named тАЬOld Betsy.тАЭ It had been found near the body of Colonel David Crockett at the Battle of the
Alamo. Close by the rifle hung a wicked-looking knife that was only slightly smaller than a Roman short
sword. There were many imitations of it throughout later years, but this was the original Bowie knife,
rumored to have been forged from a piece of a star.
Displayed in a velvet-lined case was the black powder pistol that had slain Alexander Hamilton in a
duel with Aaron Burr. Encased in a small frame upon the wall was a cloth mask once worn by a famous
black-clad avenger in the days of Spanish California and, beside it, another pistol, a pearl-handled .45,
which had been stolen from the most famous tank commander of them all. On the small writing table, next
to a framed letter written to Forrester (though the name by which the author of the letter addressed him
was тАЬMurrayтАЭ), a small block of lucite stood about six inches high. Inside it was a misshapen piece of
metal, about the size of a manтАЩs thumbnail. It was a jezail bullet which had been removed from the
shoulder of an army surgeon attached to the Berkshires (66th Foot) on July 27, 1880. The letter was
from the same surgeon, whose life тАЬMurrayтАЭ had saved at the Battle of Maiwand during the Second
Afghan War. The return address was 221B Baker Street. These and other, less celebrated mementos
comprised what was referred to by the soldiers under ForresterтАЩs command as тАЬthe old manтАЩs
collectionтАЭ; to smuggle back an item that was deemed worthy of inclusion was considered a great coup.
It was all very much against regulations, but the soldiers of the First Division were given the greater
leeway in such things, and rank had its privileges. In the case of Colonel Forrester, those privileges were
considerable.
He was the only colonel in the service whom a general would salute. Those who did not know him by
sight needed only to glance at his golden division insignia to recognize him. There was only one full bird
colonel who wore the number one bisected by the symbol of infinity and that was Moses Forrester,
commander of the First Division of the U.S. Army Temporal Corps, leader of the Time Commandos. He
owned a chestful of decorations, though he never wore them, preferring the clean and uncluttered uniform
of crisp black base fatigues. This rather austere look was more than compensated for by the appearance
of the man himself. Tall, barrel-chested, broad-shouldered and completely bald, Forrester looked like
nothing less than a tank made of flesh and blood. The only evidence of his great age were his wrinkled,
craggy features. His face looked as though it had been sewn from well-worn leather. His hands were
huge and gnarled, but the power in his arms was considerable. He could curl an eighty-pound dumbbell
easily with just one hand. Everything about him, from his erect carriage to the direct gaze of his deep-set