"Ludlum, Robert - Bourne 01 - The Bourne Identity" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ludlum Robert)

There were moments during the next seventy-two hours when the man called Jean-Pierre thought the alternative of financial appeasement was warranted. The harassment never stopped, even at night - especially at night. It was as though eyes were trained on him as he lay on the infested deck mattress, waiting for him to reach the brinks of sleep.

'You! Take the watch I The mate is sick. You fill in.!

'Get up! Philippe is writing his memoirs! He can't be disturbed.'

'On your feet! You tore a net this afternoon. We won't pay for your stupidity. We've all agreed. Mend it now!' '

The nets.

If two men were required for one flank, his two arms took the place of four. If he worked beside one man, there were abrupt hauls and releases that left him with the full weight, a sudden blow from an adjacent shoulder sending him crashing into the gunwale and nearly over the side.

And Lamouche. A limping maniac who measured each kilometre of water by the fish he had lost. His voice was a grating, static-prone bullhorn. He addressed no one without an obscenity preceding his name, a habit the patient found increasingly maddening. But Lamouche did not touch Washburn's patient; he was merely sending the doctor a message: Don't ever do this to me again. Not where my boat and my fish are concerned.

Lamouche's schedule called for a return to Port Noir at sundown on the third day, the fish to be unloaded, the crew I given until four the next morning to sleep, fornicate, get drunk, or, with luck, all three. As they came within sight of land, it happened.

The nets were being doused and folded at midships by the neI'mair and his first assistant. The unwelcome crewman they cursed as Jean-Pierre Sangsue scrubbed down the deck with a long-handled brush. The two remaining crew heaved buckets of sea water in front of the brush, more often than not drenching the leech with truer aim than the deck.

A bucketful was thrown too high, momentarily blinding Washburn's patient, causing him to lose his balance. The heavy brush with its metal-like bristles flew out of his hands, its head up-ended, the sharp bristles making contact with the kneeling neI'man's thigh.

'Sacre diable!'

'Je regrette,' said the offender casually, shaking the water from his eyes.

'The hell you are!' shouted the neI'man.

'I said I was sorry,' replied the man called Jean-Pierre. 'Tell your friends to wet the deck, not me.'

'My friends don't make me the object of their stupidity!'

'They were the cause of mine just now.'

The neI'man grabbed the handle of the brush, got to his feet, and held it out like a bayonet. 'You want to play, leech?'

'Come on, give it to me.'

'With pleasure, leech. Here!' The neI'man shoved the brush forward, downward, the bristles scraping the patient's chest and stomach, penetrating the cloth of his shirt.

Whether it was the contact with the scars that covered his previous wounds, or the frustration and anger resulting from three days of harassment, the man would never know. He only knew he had to respond. And his response was as alarming to him as anything he could imagine.

He gripped the handle with his right hand, jamming it back into the neI'man's stomach, pulling it forward at the instant of impact; simultaneously, he shot his left foot high off the deck, ramming it into the neI'man's throat.

'Tao!' The guttural whisper came from his lips involuntarily; he did not know what it meant.

Before he could understand, he had pivoted, his right foot now surging forward like a battering ram, crashing into the neI'man's left kidney.

'Che-sah!' he whispered.

The neI'man recoiled, then lunged towards him in pain and fury, his hands outstretched like claws. 'Pig!!