"McCammon, Robert R. - The Wolf's Hour" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

УWhat about Adam? DonТt you want him out of Paris?Ф
УIf possible.Ф
Michael mulled that over. The man who, in this instance, called himself Mallory was as infamous for what he left unsaid as for what he spelled out.
УWe want to tie up all the loose ends,Ф Mallory said after a momentТs silence. УIТm intrigued by the same thing you are, Michael: why is an artist involved in this? Von Frankewitz is a nobody, a hack who does sidewalk portraits in Berlin. How is he involved with secrets of state?Ф MalloryТs eyes found Michael. УWill you do the job?Ф
Nyet, he thought. But he felt a pressure in his veins like the power of a steam furnace building heat. In two years he had not gone one day without thinking of how his friend, the Countess Margritta, had died while he slumbered in the embrace of spent passions. Finding Harry Sandler might wipe the slate clean. Probably not, but there would be satisfaction in hunting the hunter. And the situation with Adam and the impending invasion was a vital issue on its own. How might AdamТs information affect D-Day, and the lives of the thousands of soldiers who would storm ashore on a fateful morning in June?
УYes,Ф Michael said, tension in his throat.
УI knew I could count on you at the eleventh hour,Ф Mallory said with a faint smile. УThe wolfТs hour, isnТt it?Ф
УI have one request to make. My parachute trainingТs rusty. IТd like to go over by submarine.Ф
Mallory considered it briefly, then shook his head. УIТm sorry. Too risky with German patrol boats and mines in the Channel. A small transport plane is the safest alternative. WeТll whisk you to a place where you can sharpen your skills, do a few practice jumps. Piece of cake, as the Yanks say.Ф
MichaelТs palms were wet, and he closed his fists. Only two things frightened him: confinement and heights. He couldnТt stand the roar and sputter of airplanes, and with his feet off the earth he felt diminished and weak. But there was no choice; he would have to bear it and forge ahead, though the parachute training would be sheer torture. УAll right.Ф
УSplendid.Ф MalloryТs tone of voice said heТd known all along Michael Gallatin would accept the task. УYouТre doing well, arenТt you, Michael? Getting enough sleep? Eating balanced meals? Not too much meat, I hope.Ф
УNot too much.Ф The forest was stocked with a large herd of deer and stags, plus wild boar and hares.
УI worry about you sometimes. You need a wife.Ф
Michael laughed, in spite of MalloryТs well-intentioned seriousness.
УWell,Ф Mallory amended, Уperhaps not.Ф
They talked for a while longer, about the war, of course, because that was their crossroads of interest, and as the fire gnawed quietly on oak logs and the wind keened before dawn, the lycanthrope in service to the king stood up and ascended the stairs to his bedroom. Mallory slept in his chair before the hearth, his face in repose again that of an elderly chauffeur.


5


Dawn came gray and stormy as yesterdayТs dusk. At six oТclock orchestral music roused Major Shackleton and Captain Humes-Talbot, whose backbones popped and moaned as they pried themselves out of the narrow and wholly uncomfortable dead pastorТs bed. They had slept clothed, to ward off the chill that sneaked in around the stained-glass window, and they went downstairs marked with unmilitary wrinkles.
Sleet slashed at the windows, and Shackleton thought he might scream. УGood morning,Ф Michael Gallatin said, sitting in the black leather chair before a newly built fire, a mug of hot Twinings Earl Grey tea in his hand. He wore a dark blue flannel robe and no shoes. УThereТs coffee and tea in the kitchen. Also some scrambled eggs and local sausage, if you want any breakfast.Ф
УIf that sausage is as strong as the local whiskey, I think IТll pass,Ф Shackleton said, with a frown of distaste.
УNo, itТs very mild. Help yourselves.Ф
УWhereТs Mallory?Ф Humes-Talbot asked, looking around.
УOh, he had his breakfast and went out to change the oil in the car. I let him use the garage.Ф
УWhatТs that racket?Ф Shackleton thought the music sounded like armies of demons clashing in hell. He walked to the Victrola and saw the record spinning around.
УStravinsky, isnТt it?Ф Humes-Talbot inquired.
УYes. The Rite of Spring. ItТs my favorite composition. This is the part, Major Shackleton, where the village elders stand in a circle and watch a young girl dance herself to death in a pagan ritual of sacrifice.Ф Michael closed his eyes for a few seconds, seeing the dark purple and crimson of the leaping, frenzied notes. He opened them again, and stared at the major. УSacrifice seems to be a particularly popular topic these days.Ф
УI wouldnТt know.Ф GallatinТs eyes made Shackleton nervous; they were steady and piercing, and they held a power that made the major feel as boneless as a washrag. УIТm a Benny Goodman fan.Ф
УOh yes, I know his work.Ф Michael listened to the thunderous, pounding music for another moment; in it was the image of a world at war, fighting against its own barbarity and the barbarity clearly winning. Then he stood up, lifted the needle without scratching the 78 rpm disk and let the Victrola wind down. УI accept the mission, gentlemen,Ф he said. УIТll find out what you want to know.Ф
УYou will? I meanЕФ Humes-Talbot stumbled over his words. УI thought youТd made up your mind already.Ф
УI had. I changed it.Ф
УOh, I see.Ф He didnТt really, but he wasnТt going to question the manТs motives any further. УWell, thatТs good to hear, sir. Very good. WeТll put you in a week of training, of course. Give you a few practice parachute jumps and some linguistic work, though I doubt youТll need it. And weТll put together all the information youТll need as soon as we get back to London.Ф
УYes, you do that.Ф The thought of the flight over the Channel into France made the skin crawl at the back of his neck, but that would have to be dealt with at the proper time. He drew a deep breath, glad now that his decision was final. УIf youТll excuse me, IТm going for my morning run.Ф
УI knew you were a runner!Ф Shackleton said. УI am, too. How far do you go?Ф
УFive miles, more or less.Ф
УIТve gone seven miles before. Loaded down with field gear. Listen, if youТve got an extra warm-up suit and a sweater, IТll go with you. I wouldnТt mind gettinТ the blood movinТ again.Ф Especially after trying to sleep in that torture rack, he thought.
УI donТt wear a warm-up suit,Ф Michael told him, and removed his robe. He was naked underneath. He folded the robe over the chairback. УItТs almost springtime. And thank you, Major, but I always run alone.Ф He walked past Shackleton and Humes-Talbot, who were both too shocked to move or speak, and went out the door and into the cold, sleety morning light.
Shackleton caught the door before it closed. He watched, incredulous, as the naked man began to run with long, purposeful strides down the driveway, then across the grassy field toward the woods. УHey!Ф he shouted. УWhat about the wolves?Ф Michael Gallatin didnТt look back, and in another moment he vanished into the line of trees.
УHeТs an odd chap, donТt you think?Ф Humes-Talbot asked, peering over the other manТs shoulder.
УOdd or not,Ф Shackleton said, УI believe Major Gallatin can get the job done.Ф Sleet dashed him in the face, and he shivered in spite of his uniform and shut the door against the wind.


6


УMartin? Come here and look at this!Ф
The man whose name had been called stood up from his desk immediately and walked into the inner office, his shoes clacking on the concrete floor. He was heavyset and broad-shouldered, and he wore an expensive brown suit, a spotless white shirt, and black necktie. His graying hair was combed back from his forehead. He had the soft, fleshy features of a childТs favorite uncle, a man who liked to tell bedtime stories.