"Innes, Hammond - Air Bridge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Innes Hammond)

Inside was a trestle table, the sort we'd had in forward bases. Two plates heaped with bacon and eggs and fried bread steamed slowly and there was a pot of tea. 'By the way, my name's Saeton. Bill Saeton.'

'I gather - you know my name.' My voice trembled slightly. He was standing just inside the door, solid and immovable like a rock, his eyes fixed on my face. The personality of the man seemed to grow in silence, dominating me and filling the room.

'Yes, I think I know all about you,' he said slowly. 'Sit down.'

His voice was remote, impersonal. I didn't want to sit down. I wanted my shoes and my wallet. I wanted to get out of there. But I sat down all the same. There was something compelling about the way he stood there, staring at me. 'Can I have my wallet, please?'

'Later,' was all he said. He sat down opposite me, his back to the window, and poured the tea. I drank thirstily and then lit a cigarette.

'I thought you said you could manage two eggs.'

'I'm not hungry,' I answered, drawing the smoke deep down into my lungs. It soothed me, easing the tension of my nerves. 'When are they coming for me?' I asked. I had control of my voice now.

He frowned. 'Who?' he asked, his mouth crammed full.

'The police,' I said impatiently. 'You've phoned them, haven't you?'

'Not yet.' He pointed his fork at my plate. 'For God's sake relax and get some breakfast inside you.'

I stared at him. 'You mean they don't know I'm here?' I didn't believe him. Nobody would calmly sit down to eat his breakfast with a man who'd tried to throttle him the night before unless he knew the authorities were on their way. Then I remembered the car and the way he'd advised me not to wander about outside. 'The police were here about half an hour ago, weren't they?' I asked him.

For an answer he reached over to a side table and tossed me the morning paper. I glanced down at it. The story was there in bold headlines that ran half-across the front page: PALESTINE FLIGHT FOILED - Police Prevent Another Plane Leaving Country Illegally -Mystery of 'Mr Callahan'. It was all there in the opening paragraph of leaded type - the whole wretched story.

I pushed the paper away and said, 'Why didn't you hand me over?' I spoke without looking up. I had a peculiar sense of being trapped.

'We'll talk about that later,' he said again.

He spoke as though he were talking to a child and suddenly anger came to bolster my courage. What was he doing living alone up here on this deserted aerodrome tinkering about with a Tudor in the dead of night? Why hadn't he rung the police? He was playing some sort of cat-and-mouse game with me and I wanted to get it over. If it had to come, let it come now, right away. 'I want you to call the police,' I said.

'Don't be a fool! Get some breakfast inside you. You'll feel better then.'

But I'd got to my feet. 'I want to give myself up.' My voice trembled. It was part anger, part fear. There was something wrong with this place. I didn't like it. I didn't like the uncertainty of it. I wanted to get it over.

'Sit down!' He, too, had risen and his hand was on my shoulder, pressing me down. 'Nervous reaction, that's all.'

'There's nothing wrong with my nerves.' I shook his hand off and then I was looking into his eyes and somehow I found myself back in my seat, staring at my plate.

'That's better.'

'What are you keeping me here for?' I murmured. "What are you doing up here?'

'We'll talk about it after breakfast.'

'I want to talk about it now.'

'After breakfast,' he repeated.

I started to insist, but he had picked up the paper and ignored me. A feeling of impotence swept over me. Almost automatically I picked up the knife and fork. And as soon as I'd started to eat I realised I was hungry - damnably hungry. I hadn't had anything since midday yesterday. A silence stretched over the table. I thought of the trial and the prison sentence that must inevitably follow. I might get a year, possibly more after resisting arrest, hitting a police officer and stealing a car. The memory of those eighteen months in Stalag Luft 1 came flooding back into my mind. Surely to God I'd had enough of prison life! Anything rather than be shut up again. I looked across at Saeton. The sunlight was very bright and though I screwed up my eyes, I couldn't see his expression. His head was bent over the newspaper. The quiet impassive way he sat there, right opposite me, gave me a momentary sense of confidence in him and as I ate a little flicker of hope slowly grew inside me.