"Jeffrey Lord - Blade 30 - Dimension Of Horror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lord Jeffery)

He strode to his closet, opened the door, and peered within. There hung his white shirt, his blue-
striped Cambridge school tie, his waistcoat, his dark-gray suitcoat, his pinstriped gray and white
trousers. His rolled umbrella leaned against the wall, gray suede gloves draped over the handle,
next to his dark brown attache case. All in all, the uniform of a successful stockbroker, if you
added the black bowler that rested on the shelf above eye level; but he was not a stockbroker.

A stockbroker would not have had in his closet, hanging casually from a peg, a shoulder holster
containing an old Webley service revolver. He kept the weapon cleaned, oiled and loaded at all
times, though he had not worn it, except at the practice range, for over twenty years. He did not
wear it now.

Instead he shaved, then dressed quickly.

The stockbroker image was almost too perfect. Surely this was one of Britain's captains of
industry: vigorous, aggressive, yet imperturbable and urbane! He not only looked his part, he felt
it too. Setting his derby on his head at a jaunty angle, he grinned defiance at his reflection.
Nothing to worry about. What are a few bad dreams, eh?

As he left his office he locked the door behind him, then, as always, tried it to make sure it was
locked.

Outside the Lothbury Street exit a black four-door Rolls Royce awaited him at the curb, polished
chrome gleaming. A gray-uniformed chauffeur sprang to attention and, opening the car's rear
door, said crisply, "Your car, sir."

"Not so military, Watkins."

"Sorry, sir."

The seeming stockbroker glanced at the building behind him, a towering Victorian monstrosity
that had survived two world wars. It had never been damaged or, it would appear, cleaned. On the
grimy brick wall a well-burnished plaque identified the New East India Copra and Processing Co.
Ltd. There was indeed such a company within, but there was also the headquarters of MI6A, a
very special branch of the Special Branch of the SIS, or Secret Intelligence Services.

Once this seeming stockbroker had had a name, but he had all but forgotten it. Now he was
known only as "J," head of MI6A, answerable only to the Prime Minister. To even be informed
that J existed, it was necessary to demonstrate what the intelligence community called a "need to
know," yet J had more than once bent the course of history in Britain's favor, always working
quietly, behind the scenes.

J climbed into the Rolls and settled himself into the seat with a grunt of satisfaction.

Watkins slammed the door, then bent over to ask, "Where to, sir?"

"The London Tower, Watkins."

J closed his eyes as the powerful vehicle nosed out into the stream of traffic. He thought,
Everything seems fine, but something's wrong. I can feel it!