"Nancy Holder - Highlander - Measure of a Man" - читать интересную книгу автора (Holder Nancy)

He grabbed a towel off a wooden chair, dried off, and pulled back his
hair. On light feet he crossed to a Chinese lacquer table containing a
large glass of water, a cafeall lait, a croissant slathered with
marmalade, and the certified letter he had received late yesterday
afternoon. Again he took the letter from the envelope, though he had
done so at least a dozen times already, and reread the cryptic message,
inked in a swirling hand: P-K4.

The advance of a pawn. The opening move in a chess game.

He had no idea what it signified, but there was no question who had sent
it.

"You old devil," he murmured. "I shouldn't be surprised that you're
still alive, but I am."

He turned the letter over with his left hand as he downed the water and
looked at his own name and address in a nondescript, typed font. The
postmark was Tokyo. The water gone, he sat on an ornately carved bench
beside the table, picked up his cafe all lait, smooth and pungent, and
took a small sip.

P-K4. A very standard opening for a thousand different potential games.
But not sent, he knew, by a standard opponent. How long since the two
of them had played? More than three hundred years. How long since he
had received an opening move in the mail? Perhaps sixty years. He
counted backward, and was startled to realize it had been precisely one
hundred. Was this some sort of anniversary, then? Or was the ancient
Italian merely bored?

"Or up to something," MacLeod said, and put the letter down. Like the
others, he would not answer it.

And as with the others, the memories flooded back: Italy, 1655.

Venice, to be precise.

Niccolo Machiavelli, the deceiver, the murderer, who wore a smile as
easily as a dagger, whose every gesture of friendship cloaked a
carefully planned scheme of betrayal.

One of the most dangerous Immortals MacLeod had ever crossed swords
with.

MacLeod crumpled the letter and aimed it at the trash can. He pitched
it; the shot fell short, and the letter tumbled like a head to the
wooden floor.

MacLeod grunted in disgust, reached for the croissant, closed his eyes,