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

And he clawed again, and kicked again ... until he felt it. A thick, oily object that moved only with the movements of the sea. He could not tell what it was, but it was there and he could feel it, hold it.

Hold it! It will ride you to peace. To the silence of darkness ... and peace.

The rays of the early sun broke through the mists of the eastern sky, lending glitter to the calm waters of the Mediterranean. The skipper of the small fishing boat, his eyes bloodshot, his hands marked with rope burns, sat on the stern gunwale smoking a Gauloise, grateful for the sight of the smooth sea. He glanced over at the open wheelhouse; his younger brother was easing the throttle forward to make better time, the single other crewman checking a net several feet away. They were laughing at something and that was good; there had been nothing to laugh about last night. Where had the storm come from? The weather reports from Marseilles had indicated nothing; if they had he would have stayed in the shelter of the coastline. He wanted to reach the fishing grounds eighty kilometres south of La Seyne-sur-mer by daybreak, but not at the expense of costly repairs, and what repairs were not costly these days?

Or at the expense of his life, and there were moments last night when that was a distinct consideration.

'Tu es fatigue, monfrere? his brother shouted, grinning at him. 'Vas te coucher! Je suis tres capable!'

'Yes, you are,' he answered, throwing his cigarette over the side and sliding down to the deck on top of a net. 'A little sleep won't hurt.!

It was good to have a brother at the wheel. A member of the family should always be the pilot on a family boat; the eyes were sharper. Even a brother who spoke with the smooth tongue of a literate man as opposed to his own coarse words. Crazy! One year at the university and his brother wished to start a compagnie. With a single boat that had seen better days many years ago. Crazy. What good did his books do last night? When his compagnie was about to capsize.

He closed his eyes, letting his hands soak in the rolling water on the deck. The salt of the sea would be good for the rope burns. Burns received while lashing equipment that did not care to stay put in the storm.

'Look. 'Over there'

It was his brother; apparently sleep was to be denied by sharp family eyes.

'What is it?' he yelled.

'Port bow! There's a man in the water! He's holding on to something! A piece of debris, a plank of some sort.'

The skipper took the wheel, angling the boat to the right of the figure in the water, cutting the engines to reduce the wake. The man looked as though the slightest motion would send him sliding off the fragment of wood he clung to, his hands were white, gripped around the edge like claws, but the rest of his body was limp - as limp as a man fully drowned, passed from this world.

'Loop the ropes!' yelled the skipper to his brother and the crewman. 'Submerge them around his legs. Easy now move them up to his waist. Pull gently.'

'His hands won't let go of the plank!'

'Reach down! Pry them up! It may be the death lock.'

'No. He's alive ... but barely, I think. His lips move, but there's no sound. His eyes also, though I doubt he sees us.'

'The hands are free!'

'Lift him up. Grab his shoulders and pull him over. Easy, now!'

'Mother of God, look at his head!' yelled the crewman. 'It's split open.'

'He must have crashed it against the plank In the storm,' said the brother.

'No,' disagreed the skipper, staring at the wound. 'It's a clean slice, razorlike. Caused by a bullet; he was shot.'

'You can't be suite of that.'

'In more than one place,' added the skipper, his eyes roving over the body. 'We'll head for lie de Port Noir; it's the nearest island. There's a doctor on the waterfront.'

The Englishman?'