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

It was a womanТs smoky voice, asking where he was. Michael didnТt move, nor did he lay aside the knife.
УPourquoi est-ce que vous ne me parlez pas?Ф she went on, demanding that he speak to her. She lifted the lantern high, and said, again in the crisp country lilt of Normandy French, УI was told to expect you, but I didnТt know youТd drop on my head.Ф
Michael gave it a few seconds more before he leaned his face over the loftТs edge. She was dark-haired, wearing a gray woolen sweater and black slacks. УIТm here,Ф he said quietly, and she jumped back and probed the light up at him. УNot in my eyes,Ф he warned. She dropped the lantern a few inches. He glimpsed her face: a square jaw, deep-cut cheekbones, unplucked dark brows over eyes the color of sapphires. She had a wiry body and looked as if she could move fast when the situation demanded it. УHow far are we from Bazancourt?Ф he asked.
SheТd seen the hole in the roof about three feet over the manТs head. УTake a look for yourself.Ф
Michael did, pulling his head up through the hole.
Less than a hundred yards away a few lamps burned in the windows of thatch-roofed houses, clustered together around what appeared to be a large plot of rolling farmland. Michael thought heТd have to congratulate the C-47Тs pilot for his good aim when he got out of this.
УCome on!Ф the girl urged tersely. УWe have to get you to a safe place!Ф
Michael was about to ease down to the loft again when he heard the rough muttering of engines, coming from the southwest. His heart seized up. Three sets of headlights were quickly approaching, tires boiling up dust from the country road. Scout cars, he reasoned. Probably loaded with soldiers. And there was a fourth vehicle bringing up the rear, moving slower and carrying much more weight. He heard the clank of treads and realized with a cold twist of his insides that the Nazis were taking no chances; theyТd brought along a light panzerkampfwagen: a tank.
УToo late,Ф Michael said. He watched the scout cars fanning out, surrounding Bazancourt to the west, north, and south. He heard a commander yelling УDismount!Ф in German, and dark figures leaped from the cars even before the wheels had stopped turning. The tank came clanking toward the barn, guarding the villageТs eastern side. HeТd seen enough to know he was trapped. He lowered himself to the loft. УWhatТs your name?Ф he asked the French girl.
УGabrielle,Ф she said. УGaby.Ф
УAll right, Gaby. I donТt know how much experience you have at this, but youТre going to need it all. Are any of the people here pro-Nazi?Ф
УNo. They hate the swine.Ф
Michael heard a grinding noise: the tankТs turret was swiveling as the machine neared the rear of the barn. УIТll hide as best I can up here. IfЧwhenЧthe fireworks start, stay out of the way.Ф He unholstered his .45 and popped a clip of bullets into it. УGood luck,Ф he told herЧbut the lamplight was gone, and so was she. The barn-door latch scraped shut. Michael peered through a crack in the boards, saw soldiers with flashlights kicking open the doors of houses. One of the soldiers threw down an incandescent flare, which lit up the entire village with dazzling white light. Then the Nazis began to herd the villagers at gunpoint out of their houses, lining them together around the flare. A tall, lean figure in an officerТs cap walked back and forth before them, and at his side was a second figure, this one huge, with thick shoulders and treetrunk legs.
The tank treads halted. Michael looked out a knothole toward the rear of the barn. The tank had stopped less than fifteen feet away, and its crew of three men had emerged and lit up cigarettes. One of the men had a submachine gun strapped around his shoulder.
УAttention!Ф Michael heard the German officer shout, in French, at the villagers. He returned to the crack, moving silently, so he could see what was happening. The officer was standing before them, the large figure a few steps behind. The flare light illuminated uplifted pistols, rifles, and submachine guns, ringing the villagers. УWe knew a kite flier fell down in this arena!Ф the officer went on, mangling the French language as he spoke. УWe shall now wish to grasp that intruder in our gloves! I ask you, humans of Bazancourt, where is the man we wish to cage?Ф
Like hell you will, Michael thought, and cocked the .45.
He went back to the knothole. The tank crew was lounging around their machine, talking and laughing boisterously: a boysТ night out. Could he take them? Michael wondered. He could shoot the ones with the submachine guns first, then the one nearest the hatch so the bastard wouldnТt jump down it and slamЧ
He heard the low growl of another engine and more clanking treads. The tank crew shouted and waved, and Michael watched as a second tank stopped on the dusty road. Two men came out of the hatch and started a conversation about the parachutist that had been reported on the radio. УWeТll make a quick sausage out of him,Ф promised one of the men on the first tank, waving his cigarette like a saber.
The barn-door latch scraped. Michael crouched where he was, against the hayloftТs rear wall, as the door swung open and the beams of two or three flashlights probed around. УYou go first!Ф he heard one of the soldiers say. Another voice: УQuiet, you ass!Ф The men came into the barn, following their lights. Michael stayed still, a dark form in shadow, his finger resting lightly on the automaticТs trigger.
In another few seconds Michael realized that they didnТt know if he was hiding here or not. Out in the village square the officer was shouting, УThere will be severe penetrations for all those cohabitating with the enemy!Ф The three soldiers were looking around beneath the hayloft, kicking cans and equipment over to prove they were really doing a thorough job. Then one of them stopped and lifted his flashlight toward the loft.
Michael felt his shoulder prickle as the light grazed it and swung to the right. Toward the hole in the roof.
He smelled scared sweat, and didnТt know if it was the GermansТ or his own.
The beam hit the roof, began to move steadily toward the hole.
Closer. Closer.
УMy God!Ф one of the others said. УLook at this, Rudy!Ф
The flashlight stopped, less than three feet from the holeТs edge.
УWhat is it?Ф
УHere.Ф There was the noise of bottles clinking. УCalvados! SomebodyТs stocked the stuff away in here!Ф
УProbably some damned officer. The pigs!Ф The flashlight beam moved, this time away from the hole; it grazed MichaelТs knees, but Rudy was already walking toward the bottles of apple brandy the other man had uncovered from their hiding place. УDonТt let Harzer see you taking them!Ф warned the third soldier, a frightened and boyish voice. CouldnТt be more than seventeen, Michael thought. УNo telling what that damned Boots would do to you!Ф
УRight. LetТs get out of here.Ф The second soldier speaking again. Bottles clinked. УWait. Got to finish it up before we leave.Ф
A bolt drew back; not the door this time, but the mechanism of a submachine gun.
Michael squeezed his body against the wall, cold sweat on his face.
The weapon fired, chattering holes through the wall below the hayloft. Then a second gun spoke in a surly rasp, sending slugs up through the hayloft floor. Hay and bits of wood spun into the air. The third soldier fired up into the hayloft, too, zigzagging a spray of bullets that knocked chunks out of the boards two feet to MichaelТs right.
УHey, you idiots!Ф shouted one of the tank crewmen when the noise of firing had died. УStop that target practice through the barn! WeТve got gasoline tins out here!Ф
УScrew those SS bastards,Ф Rudy said, in a quiet voice, and then he and the other two soldiers left the barn with their booty of Calvados bottles. The barn door remained ajar.
УWhoТs the mayor here?Ф the officerЧHarzer?Чwas shouting, his voice edgy and enraged. УWhoТs in charge? Step forward immediately!Ф
Michael checked the knothole once more, searching for a way out. He caught a whiff of gasoline; one of the men on the second tank, parked in the road, was pouring fuel from a can into the gasoline portal. Two more cans stood ready for use.
УNow we can converse,Ф someone said, from beneath the hayloft.
Michael silently turned, crouched down, and waited. Lamplight filled the barn.
УMy title is Captain Harzer,Ф the voice said. УThis is my companion, Boots. YouТll notice heТs well clothed to the name.Ф
УYes, sir,Ф an old man answered fearfully.
Michael brushed hay away from bullet holes in the floor and peered down.
Five Germans and an elderly, white-haired Frenchman had entered the barn. Three of the Germans were troopers, wearing field-gray uniforms and their coal-scuttle helmets; they stood near the door, and all of them carried deadly black Schmeisser submachine guns. Harzer was a lean man who held himself in that strict rigidity that Michael associated with devout Nazism: as if the man had an iron bar up his ass all the way to his shoulder blades. Near him stood the man called BootsЧthe hulking, thick-legged figure Michael had seen in the flare light. Boots was perhaps six three, and weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred sixty or seventy pounds. He wore an aideТs uniform, a gray cap on his sandy-stubbled scalp, and on his feet were polished black leather boots with soles at least two inches thick. In the ruddy glow of the lamps two of the troopers held, the broad, square face of Boots was serene and confident: the face of a killer who enjoys his work.
УNow weТre solitary, Monsieur Gervaise. You donТt have to fear any of the others. WeТll take care of them.Ф Hay crunched as Harzer paced the floor, continuing to mangle his French. УWe know the kite flier fell down near here. We believe someone in your village must be his touchЕ uhЕ agent. Monsieur Gervaise, who might that someone be?Ф
УPlease, sirЕ I donТtЕ I canТt tell you anything.Ф
УOh, donТt be so absolute. WhatТs your Christian name?Ф
УHenЕ Henri.Ф The old man was trembling; Michael could hear his teeth clicking.
УHenri,Ф Harzer repeated. УI want you to think before you answer, Henri: do you know where the kite flier fell down, and who here is helping him?Ф
УNo. Please, Captain. I swear I donТt!Ф
УOh, my.Ф Harzer sighed, and Michael saw him jerk a finger at Boots.