"Dean Ing - Silent Thunder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ing Dean)

the device hit the ground its case ruptured, and after the ensuing explosion nothing
could have been left but scattered, anonymous debris. By the time Hess was interrogated
the man was an emotionally shattered wreck, lapsing into madness, speaking of strange
forces by which men could be moved.

Richard Parker's suspicions were that, during the brief alliance with Stalin, Hitler or one
of his staff had told the Soviets something about Donnersprache. Hess himself had
loathed everything Russian and had gone from internment with the Brits straight to
Nuremberg for his trial, then to Spandau Prison where American, British, French, and

Russian jailers had watched Hess when they were not watching each other.

That'll play, Ramsay mused aloud. The Sovs couldn't get anything out of Hess so they
made damned sure he'd never leave Spandau. Yeah. Yeah?'' He barked a short laugh at
himself and let the page drop onto the surface of his kitchen pass-through, as if by this
gesture he could just as easily drop the whole matter. Ignore it as the ravings of a
lunatic; several lunatics, in fact, all with the same paranoid fantasy.

He microwaved a passable Fettucine Alfredo and made himself a salad, dicing the tomato
into cubes so small that Kathleen had called them lumpy catsup, snipping green onions
over the romaine because he wouldn't be breathing on anyone this night, thinning the
Roquefort dressing with yogurt to limit its calories. He chose a Lowenbrau from the
refrigerator. From time to time he caught himself glancing toward the pass-through,
keeping a wary eye on that single page as though it might burst into flame at any
moment.

He ate at the little kitchen table, too preoccupied to select a recording of what he called
wallpaper music, the sort of music made famous by Tangerine Dream which Kathleen
had scorned but which helped Ramsay unwind. Time was when he would have talked
this out with Kathleen (never Kathy, never Kate, never ever Katie, always insisting that a
reporter named Katie or Kathy would never get the respect of a Kathleen, and asking
who would ever have unburdened himself to a Babs Walters) because Kathleen was a
better investigative reporter than she ever was a wife. Well, he still could debate it with
her, as easily as picking up the phone; but he wouldn't. Their only bond now was Laurie,
if you discounted occasional letches between ex-spouses who feared AIDS more than
they craved variety.

No, not Kathleen. Who might he bounce this against at NBN? Britt? Ynga? No, this was
too unlikely, yet so goddamn big if it had any legitimacy at all! He'd just have to research
it himself, source it to hell and gone, as the spooks liked to say, or simply brand it as a
curious hallucination and forget about it, a feat of which Ramsay was simply incapable;
and Ramsay knew it.

He reached out for the memocomp notepad at the kitchen phone and began to list items
that might be verifiable. If, and only if, everything tallied he might start checking on the
likelihood that a human voice could be massaged and enhanced enough to make it,
effectively, the voice of charismatic appeal. A George Whitefield voice; a Bryan voice.
Perhaps even a Judy Garland voice, begging only for love.

Or an Adolf Hitler voice, commanding hate.