"Kyle, Duncan - Terror's Cradle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kyle Duncan)

'Would you like to meet him, sir?' They maintain certain standards, these girls; people must be properly introduced. When there's time, anyway.

'What's his name?' I asked cautiously.

'Mr Elliot, sir. He's American.'

I said, 'I'm sorry to be finicky, but does he look the reminiscent type? I don't want ten hours of past triumphs.'

She smiled. A nice smile. 'He seems rather quiet, sir. He works for the National Geographic.'

She nodded towards the back of a head six rows nearer the nose. Another girl was talking to him. Presumably sounding him out about me.

'Well . . .' I hesitated.

She giggled. 'We're picking up a hundred and thirty war brides' mothers in Montreal. Not one much under seventy-five.'

'That settles it. I'll join him. Will you bring a pair of Bells, please.'

We were properly introduced, hand-shaking, smiling politely and sizing one another up in the usual kind of way. He was pleasant enough, a tall, rangy, bespectacled man, fortyish, lantern-jawed, with dark thinning hair and a worry line or two on his forehead. We didn't talk a great deal, just the usual mild arguments about who'd pay as glasses were replenished; the kind of argument that amounts really to keeping score.

We had dinner after take-off from Dorval, Montreal, not talking much because it would have been difficult to make ourselves heard above all the grandmotherly pride and the negotiations about exchanging seats and who was to look at whose snapshots first. Then, smiling at the noise and each other, we tilted the seats back and slept until we flew out of darkness into brilliant dawn sunlight above the clouds. When we woke up, we looked at each other sympathetically, both dry-mouthed from the whisky and I persuaded the shiny-haired girl to bring orange juice.

'Where are you going?' I asked after a while. The long day stretched ahead and he must be going somewhere.

'Lapland.'

'If I recall,' I said, 'National Geographic has done Lapland before.'

He grinned. 'Three hundred and eighty-two times. But it's a lot of territory. You?'

'Back to base.'

'Where've you been?'

I hesitated, then told him about Las Vegas. Not all of it; just that I'd been threatened and decided safety lay in flight.

He raised his eyebrows. 'You must have crossed somebody. The Mob's pretty sensitive.'

'But you're not surprised?'

'Not any more. Times have changed. You know, we've got a thing called Trick or Treat. The kids play jokes on people, knock on doors and run away. Kind of a sacred custom, right? People hand out candy and apples. Well, a little girl I know got an apple with a razor blade inside. Nothing surprises me any more. You were right to leave. Tell your boss I said so.'

'Hope he'll believe it.'

He laughed. 'Yeah. They never do. Who d'you work for?'

So we talked shop, gently and companionably, as the VC10 started its slow run in from somewhere over Northern Ireland, then shared a cab into London from Heathrow.

I went direct to the News building and up to Scown's office. Neither of his secretaries was there, but their coats were and voices could be heard faintly through the teak door. I put my suitcase down and sat down to wait. About ten minutes later the editor, Rowlands, came out looking worried, with the shreds of that day's paper in mournful hands. Not that that was in any way remarkable. Three hundred people sweated sixteen hours to put it together; Scown tore it apart in ten minutes of choice phraseology. Then the operation began again, six days a week. Rowlands glanced at me, shrugged, and gave a thin grin as he went by. But Scown must have seen me through the doorway, because a moment later Secretary Two appeared. 'Mr Scown would like to see you now, Mr Sellers.'