"Higgins, Jack - Violent Enemy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Higgins Jack)

Mulvaney grinned, took a battered silver case from his breast pocket and offered him a cigarette. Ts it likely at

all, Sean Rogan, that I might be seeing the back:of you?'

Rogan's face was illuminated briefly by a smile of great natural charm. 'All things are possible, even in this worst' of all possible worlds. You should know that, Patrick.'

Mulvaney touched him briefly on the shoulder. 'Go with God, Sean,' he said softly in Irish.

Rogan turned and walked quickly towards the Land-Rover and Drake found himself trailing a step or two behind. As they passed the group of convicts loading the truck, someone shouted, 'Good luck, Irish!' Rogan raised a hand in reply and climbed into the passenger seat.

Drake got behind the wheel and drove away rapidly, feeling uncertain and ill-at-ease. It was as if Rogan had taken charge, as if at any moment he might order him to take the next turning on the right instead of keeping straight on to the prison.

The Irishman smoked his cigarette slowly from long habit, gazing out over the moor. Drake glanced sideways at him a couple of times and tried to make conversation.

'They tell me you're hoping to get out soon?'

'One can always hope.'

'How long have you been here?'

'Seven years.'

The shock of it was like a blow in the face and Drake winced, thinking of the long years, the wind across the moor blowing rain, grey mornings, a brief summer passing quickly into autumn and the iron hand of winter.

He forced a smile. 'I've only been here a couple of days myself.'

'Your first posting?'

'No, I was at Wakefield for a while. Came out of the Guards last year. Didn't fancy another hitch and then I saw this advert for prison officers. It looked a good number so I thought I'd try it.'

'Is that a fact now?'

For some unaccountable reason Drake felt himself flushing. 'Somebody has to do it,' he said defensively. 'The pay could be worse and quarters and a pension at

the end of it. You can't grumble at that, can you?'

'I'd rather be the devil/ Sean Rogan said with deep conviction. He half-turned, folding his arms deliberately, and stared out across the moor, cutting off all further attempts at conversation.

'It's certainly one hell of a record,' the Governor said, looking down at the file on his desk, 'but then I don't need to tell you that, Superintendent. I was hoping we'd see the back of him this time.'

'So was I, sir,' Vanbrugh said.

'There are days when I distinctly welcome the fact that I retire in another ten months.' The Governor pushed back his chair and stood up. 'He'll be here in about fifteen minutes. In the meantime, I've one or two things to do. You make yourselves comfortable in here and I'll have them send you in some tea.'

The door closed behind him and Dwyer moved from the window to the desk. 'I don't know a great deal about Rogan, sir. A bit before my time. Wasn't he a big man in the I.R.A.?'

'That's right. Sentenced to twelve years in '56 for organizing escapes from several prisons in England and Ulster. Remember the famous invasion of Peterhead in '55? They went over the wall under cover of darkness like blasted commandos and brought out three men. Got clean away.'

'He was behind that?'