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

For a moment he couldnТt find her in the dust. He saw movement to his left, and she gasped, startled, when he came up silently beside her and grasped her arm. She had the submachine gun, and she motioned ahead. УThe woods are that way. Are you ready to run?Ф
УAlways,Ф he answered. They started sprinting toward the line of trees about thirty yards away. Michael restrained his pace so he wouldnТt get ahead of her.
They made the woods with no difficulty. Standing amid the trees, Michael and Gaby watched two of the scout cars pass, following the tank at a respectful distance. The tank would lead them several miles, at least.
УWelcome to France,Ф Gaby said. УYou believe in grand entrances, donТt you?Ф
УAny entrance I survive is grand.Ф
УDonТt congratulate yourself just yet. WeТve got a long way to go.Ф She put the SchmeisserТs strap around her shoulder and cinched it. УI hope youТve got a good strong heart; I travel fast.Ф
УIТll try to keep up,Ф he promised.
She turned away, all business and deadly purpose, and began to move quietly through the underbrush. Michael stayed about twelve feet behind, listening for the sounds of anyone or anything coming after them. They werenТt being followed; with Harzer dead, all initiative had broken down and no soldiers were combing the woods. He thought of the man with the polished, cleated boots. Killing an old man was easy; he wondered how Boots might do against a ferocious opponent.
Well, life was full of possibilities.
Michael followed the French girl, and the forest sheltered them.


2

After more than an hour of fast walking in a southwesterly direction, crossing a few fields and roads with GabyТs Schmeisser cocked and ready and MichaelТs ears pricked for sounds, she said, УWe wait here.Ф
They were in a stand of trees at the edge of a clearing, and Michael could see a single stone farmhouse ahead. The house was a ruin, its roof collapsed; destroyed, perhaps, by an errant Allied bomb, a mortar shell, or German SS troopers hunting partisans. Even the earth around the house had been charred by fire, and a few blackened stubs of trees were all that remained of an orchard.
УYou sure you have the right place?Ф Michael asked her; a pointless question, and her chilly gaze told him so.
УWeТre ahead of schedule,Ф she explained, kneeling down with the Schmeisser across her lap. УWe wonТt be able to go in forЕФ She paused while she checked the luminous hands on her wristwatch. УTwelve minutes.Ф
Michael knelt beside her, impressed by her directional skills. How had she navigated? By the stars, of course, or else she simply knew the route by heart. But though they were apparently where they were supposed to be by a given time, there was nothing in the area but the single destroyed farmhouse. УYou mustТve had some experience with tanks,Ф he said.
УNot really. I had a German lover who was the commander of a tank crew. I learned everything from him.Ф
Michael lifted his brows. УEverything?Ф
She glanced quickly at him, then away again; his eyes seemed to glow like the hands of her watch, and they held steady. УIt was necessary that IЕ do my duty for the benefit of my country,Ф she said, a little shakily. УThe man had information about a truck convoy.Ф She felt him watching her. УI did what I was supposed to do. ThatТs all.Ф
He nodded. The man, sheТd said. No name, no emotion. This war was as clean as a slashed throat. УIТm sorry about what happened at the village. IЧФ
УForget it,Ф she interrupted. УYouТre not to blame.Ф
УI watched the old man die,Ф he went on. HeТd seen death before, of course. Many times. But the cold precision of BootsТs kicks and stomps still made his insides writhe. УWho was the man who killed him? Harzer called him Boots.Ф
УBoots isЧwasЧHarzerТs bodyguard. An SS-trained killer. Now that HarzerТs dead, theyТll probably assign Boots to some other officer, perhaps on the Eastern Front.Ф Gaby paused, staring at a fragile glint of moonlight on the SchmeisserТs barrel. УThe old manЧGervaiseЧwas my uncle. He was my last blood relative. My mother, father, and two brothers were killed by the Nazis in 1940.Ф It was stated as hard fact, without any hint of emotion. The emotion, Michael thought, had been burned out of her as surely as the life in that orchard.
УIf IТd known that,Ф Michael said, УI would haveЧФ
УNo, you wouldnТt have,Ф she told him sharply. УYou would have done just as you did, or your mission would be over and youТd be dead. My village would be burned to the ground anyway, and all the people there executed. My uncle knew the risks. He was the man who brought me into the underground.Ф Her gaze met his. УYour mission is the important thing. One life, ten lives, a village lostЧit doesnТt matter. We have a greater purpose.Ф She looked away from his gleaming, penetrating eyes. If she could tell herself that over and over, it might make death more than senseless, she thought. But deep down in her charred soul, she doubted it.
УItТs time to go in,Ф Gaby said when she checked her watch again.
They crossed the clearing, Gaby ready with the Schmeisser and Michael sniffing the air. He smelled hay, burned grass, the apple-wine fragrance of GabyТs hair, but no odor of sweating skin that mightТve meant soldiers hiding in ambush. As Michael followed Gaby into the ruined farmhouse, he caught just a hint of a strange oily smell; a metallic odor, he thought. Oil on metal? She led him through the tangle of broken timbers and stones to a heap of ashes. He found the oily metal smell again, around this ash pile. Gaby knelt down and inserted her hand into the ashes; Michael heard the hinges of a little compartment open. The ashes were not all entirely ashes, but a cleverly painted and arranged mass of camouflaged rubber. GabyТs fingers found an oiled flywheel, which she turned to the right several revolutions. Then she drew her hand out, and Michael heard the noise of latches being unbolted under the farmhouse floor. Gaby stood up. A hatch smoothly lifted, the rubber ashes piled on top of it. Oil gleamed on metal hinges and gears, and there were wooden steps descending into the earth.
УEntrez,Ф a dark-haired, sallow young Frenchman said, and motioned Michael down the stairs into, literally, the underground.
Michael entered the hatch, with Gaby following right behind him. Another man, this one older, with a grizzled gray beard, was standing in the passageway ahead, holding a lantern. The first man closed the hatch and spun the flywheel shut from the inside, then threw three latches. The corridor was narrow and low-ceilinged, and Michael had to crouch as he followed the man with the lantern.
Then they came to another descending stairway, this one made of stone. The earthen walls were chunks of rough, ancient rock. At the bottom of the steps was a large chamber and a series of corridors snaking off in different directions. Some kind of medieval fortress, Michael assumed. Light bulbs hung from cables overhead and gave off a dim glow. From somewhere else came whirring noises, like sewing machines at work. On a large table in the chamber, laid out under the light bulbs, was a map; Michael approached it, and saw the streets of Paris. Voices swelled, people talking in another room. A typewriter or coding machine clacked. An attractive older woman came into the chamber with a file folder, which she deposited in one of several filing cabinets. She glanced quickly at Michael, nodded at Gaby, and went back to her business.
УWell, laddie,Ф someone said in English, a voice like the rasp of a handsaw, Уyou ainТt a Scotsman, but youТll have to do.Ф
Michael had heard heavy footsteps a few seconds before the voice, so he wasnТt startled. He turned, and faced a red-bearded giant in a kilt.
УPearly McCarren, at your service,Ф the man said, with a rolling Scots burr that made spittle and steam fly out of his mouth into the chilly underground air. УKing of Scottish France. Which is from that wall to the one yonder,Ф he added, and brayed with laughter. УHey, Andrщ!Ф he said to the man whoТd carried the lantern. УHow about breakinТ out a good glass oТ wine for me and me guest, eh?Ф The man left the room through one of the corridors. УThatТs not really his name,Ф McCarren told Michael, holding his hand to his mouth as if he were confiding a secret, Уbut I canna pronounce most of their monickers, so I call Тem all Andrщ, eh?Ф
УI see,Ф Michael said, and had to smile.
УYou had a little problem, didnТt ya?Ф McCarren turned his attention to Gaby. УBastards been chewinТ up the radio for the last hour. They almost clip your tails?Ф
УAlmost,Ф she answered in English. УUncle Gervaise is dead.Ф She didnТt wait for an expression of sympathy. УSo is Harzer, and quite a few other Nazis. Our associate is a good shot. We also took out a tank: a panzerkampfwagen two, bearing the organizational symbol of the Twelfth SS Panzer Division.Ф
УGood work.Ф He scribbled a note on a pad, tore off the page, and pressed a little bell beside his chair at the map table. УWeТd best let our friends know the SS Panzer boys are prowlinТ around. Those Mark Twos are old machines; they must be scrapinТ the barrelТs bottom.Ф He handed the note to the woman whoТd brought the file folder, and she hurried off again. УSorry about your uncle,Ф McCarren said. УHe did a helluva fine job. You get Boots?Ф
She shook her head. УHarzer was the important target.Ф
УRight you are. Still, it hurts my soul to know that big son of a bitch is alive and kickinТ. As the sayinТ goes.Ф His pale blue eyes, set in a moon-shaped, jowly face the color of Dover chalk, fixed on Michael. УCome over here and take a look at the noose youТre gonna be stickinТ your neck into.Ф
Michael walked around the table and stood beside McCarren, who towered at least three inches over him and seemed as broad as a barn door. McCarren wore a brown sweater with patches on the elbows, and a dark blue and green kilt: the colors of the Black Watch regiment. His hair was a few shades darker than his unruly beard, which was the orange hue of flint sparks. УOur friend Adam lives here.Ф McCarren jabbed a thick finger down on the maze of boulevards, avenues, and winding side streets. УA gray stone buildinТ on the Rue Tobas. Hell, theyТre all gray stone, ainТt they? Anyway, he lives in apartment number eight, on the corner. AdamТs a filinТ clerk, works on the staff of a minor German officer who processes supplies for the Nazis in FranceЧfood, clothes, writinТ paper, fuel, and bullets. You can learn a lot about troops from what the high commandТs supplyinТ Тem with.Ф He tapped the street maze. УAdam walks to work every day, along this route.Ф Michael watched as the finger traced the Rue Tobas, turned onto the Rue St. Fargeau and then ended on the Avenue Gambetta. УThe buildinТs here, surrounded by a high fence with barbed wire on top of it.Ф
УAdamТs still working?Ф Michael asked. УEven though the Gestapo knows heТs a spy?Ф
УRight. I doubt theyТre givinТ him anythinТ but busy work to do, though. Look here.Ф McCarren picked up a folder lying beside the map and flipped it open. Inside were grainy, blown-up black-and-white photographs, which he handed to Michael. They were pictures of two men, one wearing a suit and tie, the other in a light jacket and beret. УThese Gestapo men follow Adam everywhere. If not those in particular, then others. TheyТve got an apartment in the buildinТ across from his, and they watch his place all the time. WeТve also got to assume they have the phone lines fixed so they can listen in on his calls.Ф McCarrenТs gaze met MichaelТs. УTheyТre waitinТ, ya see.Ф
Michael nodded. УWaiting to take two birds with one stone.Ф
УRight. And maybe from those two birds they hope to find the whole nest, which would put us out of business at a crucial time. Anyway, they got wind Adam knows somethinТ, and they sure donТt want that information gettinТ out.Ф
УDo you know anything about what it might be?Ф
УNo. And neither does anybody in the underground. As soon as the Gestapo found out he knew whatever it is, they started ridinТ him like ticks on a terrier.Ф
The gray-bearded Frenchman McCarren had called Andre brought a dusty bottle of Burgundy and three glasses. He set them on the table next to the map of Paris, and then left them while McCarren poured a glass of wine for Michael, Gaby, and then himself. УTo killing Nazis,Ф McCarren said, lifting his glass. УAnd to the memory of Henri Gervaise.Ф Michael and Gaby joined him in the toast. McCarren swallowed the wine quickly. УSo you see your problem, man?Ф McCarren inquired. УThe GestapoТs got Adam in an invisible cage.Ф