"Katherine Kurtz - Adept 01 - The Adept" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

car gave a savage downward jerk, and the thief found himself staring into the muzzle of a silencer - one of the
sleek West German ones.
This alone the American had time to grasp, even as the man in the car pulled the trigger at point-blank range.
He never heard the quiet cough of the first shot, much less the second or third.
His body crumpled to the pavement with a loose-limbed thud as his hand was released. When he did not
move, his killer slipped the silenced automatic carefully under the seat and signalled his driver to go on. The
sound of the Mercedes' engine turning over was far louder than the shots had been, but neither raised any
ripple of curiosity as the car crept almost soundlessly out of the Glasgow docklands.

chapter one

IT was not until the following Monday, while waiting for his breakfast, that Sir Adam Sinclair became aware of
the incident in Glasgow. He was still in riding clothes, having just come in from a brisk, early morning canter
over the grounds of his country estate, not far from Edinburgh. Sunlight was pouring into the little parlor
always called the "honey-bee room," because of the pale gold pattern of bees and flowers on the wallpaper,
so he shrugged out of his hacking jacket and tossed it over the back of a nearby settee before pulling out the
chair set before the little table in the wide window bay.
On the table, centered on a snowy tablecloth of fine Irish linen, a crystal vase of cut chrysanthemums reigned
over a single place setting of antique silver and fine delft breakfast china. On top of his leather-bound
appointment book, the morning edition of The Scotsman lay neatly folded in its customary place to the right
of the china and cutlery. Adam unfolded it with a sharp flick of the wrist and scanned the main headlines as
he sat down, absently loosening the knot of his tie.
Nothing of major interest had happened over the weekend. The European Parliament was poised to ratify a
new set of air pollution control standards; a Japanese electronics firm had announced its intention to open up
a manufacturing plant in Dundee; members of the Scottish Nationalist Party had staged another protest
against the poll tax. He almost missed the item tucked away in the paper's lower lefthand comer: Body of
Alleged Drug Dealer to Be Returned to U.S.
Raising an eyebrow, Adam folded down the top half of the paper and continued reading. As a physician and
sometime police consultant, he tried to keep up with progress - or lack thereof - in the ongoing war against
illegal drugs, but-this seemed to be a follow-up to a story he somehow had missed, toward the end of last
week. According to the article, the body of an American serviceman had been found in a derelict area of
Glasgow's docklands - probably the victim of a drug deal gone wrong, judging by the execution-style shooting
and the amount of money found on the body.
Given only what was in the article, Adam allowed that the police theory probably was correct, for drug
trafficking, unfortunately, was becoming more and more a fixture in Scotland's largest city. Still, the thought
crossed his mind, for no rational reason he could fathom, that the case might not be as open-and-shut as the
Glasgow police seemed to think it was.
Further speculation was diverted by the arrival of Humphrey, his butler and valet of some twenty years'
service, bearing a laden silver breakfast tray.
"Good morning, Humphrey," Adam said easily, lowering the paper as the butler set down a rack of buttered
toast and a steaming porcelain teapot beside the immaculate breakfast service.
"Good morning, sir. I trust you had a pleasant ride." "Yes, Humphrey, I did. I rode up by the castle ruins. I
was appalled to discover that there are several small trees growing out of the debris on top of the first floor
vaulting. And the ivy doesn't bear thinking about."
Humphrey gave a subdued chuckle as he poured his master a cup of tea.
"I understand that even the Queen Mother wages a constant war against ivy, sir," he murmured. "Absolutely
hates the stuff. It's said that weekend guests are apt to be drafted to help pull it down. Perhaps we might
consider the same tactic, here at Strathmourne."
"Hmmm, yes," Adam replied, with a twitch of his newspaper. "Well, I didn't realize ours had gotten so bad
over the summer. I left a message for MacDonald to get a crew up there today, if possible, and start clearing