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

A ship was out there, heard but not seen, its diesel engines rumbling softly as it went by. A
moment later the waves from its wake broke against the shore with a rhythmic hiss.

This was not, J reflected, a site he would have selected for England's most secret project, had he
been given the choice. In the afternoons, when the tide was out, that narrow sandy shore became
a beach on which antlike hordes of children from Stepney and most of the East End swarmed,
laughing and shouting and wading and feeding the ill-tempered swans. Above the beach, in the
narrow strip of park between river and wall, tourists from every country in the world strolled and
gossiped and took pictures. God, how they took pictures! Once J had seen two Russian sailors
taking snapshots of each other in the very shadow of the entrance to the secret project.

"One moment, sir," said the taller of the two agents. They halted before a heavy grillwork gate
beneath the broad archway at the base of Saint Thomas's Tower. The gate was secured by a chain
and combination padlock at the center, and the taller Special Services man now busied himself
with the tumblers while his partner held the flashlight. Richard leaned forward to watch; J knew
Blade could memorize the combination of a lock by watching someone open it just once, and that
he practiced this skill whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Richard said softly, "The Tower of London frowned dreadful over Jerusalem."

"What's that supposed to mean?" J demanded.

"It's poetry," Blade explained. "William Blake wrote those lines way back in the eighteenth
century. He rather caught the spirit of this place, don't you think?" Richard had memorized an
astonishing amount of classic verse at Oxford, and had a habit of quoting it at the most unlikely
times. "Blood! Horror! Doom! That's what we think of when we hear about the Tower of London,
and small wonder. Some of the grandest rascals in English history passed through this old
Watergate on their way to torture, imprisonment or beheading. That's why it's called the Traitor's
Gate."

J thought, The Traitor's Gate! How apt. Two Russian spies have passed through here in very
recent history and penetrated to the heart of the secret project, in spite of all our fanatic security
precautions. Neither had returned alive to reveal what went on there, but next time . . .

J shuddered.

"There you are, sir," the tall man said. The gate opened with a creak. J and Richard Blade stepped
inside.

The Special Services men locked them in and vanished into the fog, returning to their posts. In
the yellow light from a bare electric bulb in the ceiling, Blade and J proceeded onward, locating
the almost invisible secret door that led into a long, dim, damp tunnel, into a maze of sub
basements, and finally to the familiar door of the elevator.

J pressed the elevator button, aware that the button was photographing his thumbprint as he did
so. Far below a computer would compare his print with that of everyone who had a security
clearance for the project and, deciding that J was "all right," would, in a few seconds, send up the
elevator.

The elevator arrived with a rush.