"Alistair MacLean - Time Of The Assassins" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Alistair)

'I'm just amazed he's still around. I thought someone would have put a bullet in his back by now.'

'He knows too much. And it's all written down and stored away in some bank vault in the city.'

'You're joking,' Graham muttered.

'That's the story he's put around. I doubt it's true but it's certainly worked. Nobody's called his bluff.'

'Yet,' Graham added.

Laidlaw smiled wryly then drank the remainder of the beer. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth then stood up. 'If we get to the house early we can grab him when he arrives. It's the only way we'll get to talk to him tonight.'

Graham gave Jenkins a wave then followed Laidlaw out into the street.

Barak's house turned out to be a small bungalow in West Beirut, less than a mile away from the Mar Elias Camp. It was in darkness. Laidlaw drove past it and pulled up at the end of the dirt road. He switched off the engine then reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lit the third one since leaving the Windorah. Graham climbed from the car and instinctively ducked as a mortar exploded in the distance. When he straightened up he saw Laidlaw looking at him across the roof of the car, a faint smile on his lips.

'You get used to it,' Laidlaw said, closing the door behind him.

'I don't know how you can live here,' Graham said then winced as another explosion rocked the night.

'It's become a part of me. I could never leave. You only see the negative side of Beirut on the news back home. There's a lot more to it than that...' Laidlaw trailed off when a car suddenly came into view at the other end of the dimly lit street.

Graham looked towards Laidlaw for confirmation that it was Barak. Laidlaw shielded his eyes against the glare of the headlights, trying to distinguish the make and colour of the car. A green Peugeot. He nodded then dropped his cigarette and ground it underfoot.

Barak parked in front of the house and climbed out of the car, locking the door behind him. He was a short, fat man in his early fifties with greasy black hair and thick pebble glasses. The passenger door opened and an ageing prostitute got out.

'Having a party, Barak?'

Barak swung round then let out a deep sigh when Laidlaw emerged from the shadows of an oak tree on the other side of the road. 'You startled me, Mr Laidlaw,' he said breathlessly in English and clamped his hand over his heart as if to emphasize the point. 'What are you doing here?'

'We need to talk.'

'We can talk tomorrow,' Barak replied then glanced lasciviously at the prostitute. 'I am busy tonight.'

'You were busy tonight,' Laidlaw corrected him. 'Get rid of her.'

A look of concern crossed Barak's face. 'I have already paid her for tonight.'

'You'll be reimbursed.'

The prostitute, who didn't speak English, demanded to know what was happening.

Barak managed to pacify her then turned back to Laidlaw. 'She will need money for a taxi back to the city.'

'Then give it to her,' Laidlaw said.

'Me?' Barak replied in horror. 'Why should I pay her?'

'I've told you, you'll be reimbursed,' Laidlaw snapped angrily. 'Now pay her and get her out of here.'