"McCammon, Robert R. - The Wolf's Hour" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)
The scalp was gone, the skull crushed and the brains scooped out, but BelyiТs face remained. Minus the lower jaw, which had been torn away. The tongue, too, had been wrenched from its roots. BelyiТs eyes were open, and the red hairs covered his cheeks and forehead. The eyes were directed for a few seconds right at Mikhail, until Nikita moved the head again, and in them Mikhail saw a glassy shine of pure terror. He looked away, shivering but not with the cold this time, and retreated a few paces. Franco picked up a leg bone that still held a few fragments of frozen red muscle, and examined the boneТs splintered edges. УGreat strength in the bite,Ф Franco said quietly. УThe leg was broken with a single crunch.Ф
УSo were both the arms,Ф Nikita said. He sat on his haunches, looking at the bones arranged around him in the snow. A patchwork of shadows and sunlight lay on BelyiТs face, and the ice in the single remaining eyelid was beginning to melt. Mikhail watched with dreadful fascination as a drop of water trickled down BelyiТs blue cheek like a tear.
Wiktor stood up, his eyes blazing, and slowly turned his gaze through all points of the compass. His fists clenched at his sides. Mikhail knew what he must be thinking: they were no longer the only killers in the forest. Something had been watching them, and knew where their den was. It had crushed BelyiТs bones, torn out his tongue, and scooped the brains from his skull. Then it had brought the broken skeleton back here like a taunt. Or a challenge.
УWrap him in this.Ф Wiktor removed his deerskin cloak and gave it to Franco. УDonТt let Pauli see him.Ф He began to walk, naked and with a purposeful stride, away from the white palace.
УWhereТre you going?Ф Nikita asked him.
УTracking,Ф Wiktor answered, his feet crunching in the snow. Then he began to run, casting a long shadow. Mikhail watched him weave through the tangle of surrounding trees and spiky undergrowth; he saw gray hair ripple across WiktorТs broad white back, saw his spine start to contort, and then Wiktor vanished into the forest.
Nikita and Franco put BelyiТs bones in the robe. The head, with its silent jawless shriek, was the last to go in. Franco stood up, the folded robe clutched in his arms and his face gaunt and gray. He looked at Mikhail, and his lip curled. УYou carry them, rabbit,Ф he said in a tone of derision, and he put the sack of remains in MikhailТs arms. Their weight instantly dropped the boy to his knees.
Nikita started to help him, but Franco caught the MongolТs arm. УLet the rabbit do it alone, if he wants to be one of us so much!Ф
Mikhail stared into FrancoТs eyes; they laughed at him, and wanted him to fail. He felt a spark leap inside him. It exploded into incandescent fire, and the heat of anger made Mikhail strain to stand with the sack of bones in his arms. He got halfway up before his feet slipped out from under him. Franco walked on a few paces. УCome on!Ф he said impatiently, and Nikita reluctantly followed. Mikhail struggled, his teeth gritted and his arms aching. But he had known pain before, and this was nothing. He would not let Franco see him beaten; he would let no one see him beaten, not ever. He got all the way up, and then walked with unsteady steps, his arms full of what used to be Belyi.
УA good rabbit always does as heТs told,Ф Franco said. Nikita reached out to carry the bones the rest of the way, but Mikhail said, УNo,Ф and carried his burden toward the white palace. He smelled the coppery aroma of icy blood from BelyiТs remains. The deerskin had its own smellЧhigher, sweeterЧand WiktorТs sweat smelled of salt and musk. But there was another odor in the chill air, and it drifted past MikhailТs nostrils as he reached the doorway. This odor was wild and rank, a smell of brutality and cunning. The smell of an animal, and as different from the odors of MikhailТs pack as black differs from red. It was wafting, he realized, from BelyiТs bones: the spoor of the beast that had slaughtered him. The same odor that Wiktor was now tracking across the smooth, blizzard-sculpted snow.
The promise of violence hung in the air. Mikhail felt it like the slide of claws down his spine. Franco and Nikita felt it, too, as they gazed around through the forest, their senses questing, collecting, evaluating with a speed that was now their second nature. Belyi had not been the strongest of the pack, but heТd been very quick and smart. Whatever had torn him to pieces had been quicker and smarter. It was out there now, somewhere in the forest, waiting and watching to see what would be the response to its gift of death.
Mikhail staggered across the threshold into the palace and saw Pauli standing there with Renati and Alekza, her mouth gasping wordlessly as she stared at the folded robe in his arms. Renati quickly stepped forward and took the robe from him, carrying it away.
The sun went down. The stars emerged, shimmering against the blackness. A small fire crackled in the depths of the white palace as Mikhail and the rest of his pack huddled in the circle of its heat. They waited as the wind began to rise outside and shrill through the corridors. And waited. But Wiktor did not come home.
FIVE
The Mouse Trap
1
At six oТclock on the morning of March 29, Michael Gallatin dressed in a field-gray German uniform, with jackboots, a cap bearing a communications-company insignia, and the proper service medalsЧNorway, the Leningrad Front, and StalingradЧon his chest. He shrugged into a field-gray overcoat. On his person were papersЧan expert job had been done in acid aging the new photograph and yellowing the documentation, Michael notedЧidentifying him as an oberstЧa colonelЧin charge of coordinating the signal lines and relays between Paris and the units scattered along the coast of Normandy. He had been born in a village in southern Austria called Braugdonau. He had a wife named Lana and two sons. His politics were adamantly pro-Hitler, and he was loyal to the ReichТs service, if not necessarily in awe of Nazism. He had been wounded once, by a fragment of shrapnel from a grenade thrown by a Russian partisan in 1942, and he had the scar under his eye to prove it. Under his coat he wore a leather holster with a well-used but perfectly clean Luger in it, and two extra clips of bullets in his pocket, near his heart. He carried a silver Swiss pocket watch, engraved with figures of hunters shooting stags, and nothingЧnot even his socksЧhad a trace of British wool. The rest of what he needed to know was in his head: the roads in and out of Paris, the maze of streets around AdamТs apartment and the building where Adam worked, and AdamТs nondescript, accountantТs face. He had a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs with Pearly McCarren, washed down with strong black French coffee, and it was time to go.
McCarren, a craggy mountain in a Black Watch kilt, and a young dark-haired Frenchman Pearly referred to as Andrщ led Michael through a long, damp corridor. His jackboots, the footwear of a dead German officer, clattered on the stones. McCarren talked quietly as they went along the corridor, filling in last-minute details; the ScotsmanТs voice was nervous, and Michael listened intently but said nothing. The details were already in his head, and he was satisfied that everything was planned. From here on, it was a walk on the razorТs edge.
The silver pocket watch was an interesting invention. Two clicks on the winding stem popped open the false back, and inside was a little compartment that held a single gray capsule. The capsule was small to be so deadly, but cyanide was a potent and fast-acting poison. Michael had agreed to carry the poison capsule simply because it was one of the unwritten regulations of the secret service, but he never intended the Gestapo to take him alive. Still, his carrying it seemed to make McCarren feel better. Actually, Michael and McCarren had become good companions in the last two days; McCarren was a tough poker player, and when he wasnТt drilling Michael on the details of his new identity, he was winning hand after hand of five-card draw. Michael was disappointed in one thing, though; he hadnТt seen Gaby today, and because McCarren hadnТt mentioned her he assumed she had gone back to an assignment in the field. Au revoir, he thought. And good luck to you.
McCarren held out his hand, and Michael gripped it. УYou take care of yourself, laddie,Ф the Scotsman said. УGive Тem hell out there for the Black Watch, eh?Ф
УJawohl.Ф Michael eased into the backseat, a luxury of black leather, and the driver released the hand brake and drove through the cave entrance. As soon as the car was clear, the brush was put back into place, the green-and-brown-camouflage-painted doors were sealed, and it looked like a rugged hillside again. The Mercedes wound through a patch of dense woods, met a rutted country road, and turned left on it.
Michael sniffed the air: leather and new paint, the faint whiff of gunpowder, engine oil, and an apple-wine fragrance. Ah, yes, he thought, and smiled faintly. He looked out through a window, studying the blue sky full of lacy, billowing clouds. УDoes McCarren know?Ф he asked Gaby.
She glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Her black hair was pinned up under her German staff driverТs cap, and she wore a shapeless coat over her uniform. His gaze, that piercing glare of green, met hers. УNo,Ф she said. УHe thinks I went back to the field last night.Ф
УWhy didnТt you?Ф
She thought about it for a moment as she jockeyed the car over a rough section of road. УMy assignment was to get you where you want to go,Ф she answered.
УYour assignment ended when you got me to McCarren.Ф
УYour interpretation. Not mine.Ф
УMcCarren had a driver for me. What happened to him?Ф
Gaby shrugged. УHe decidedЕ the job was too dangerous.Ф
УDo you know Paris?Ф
УWell enough. What I didnТt know I learned from the map.Ф Another glance in the rearview mirror; his eyes were still on her. УI havenТt spent all my life in the country.Ф
УWhatТll the Germans think if we run into a roadblock?Ф he asked her. У1 imagine a beautiful girl driving a staff car isnТt a common sight.Ф
УMany of the officers have female drivers.Ф She concentrated her attention back on the road. УEither secretaries or mistresses. French girls, too. YouТll get more respect with a female driver.Ф
He wondered when sheТd decided to do this. She certainly didnТt need to; her part of the mission was over. Had it been the night of their chilly bath? Or later, as Michael and Gaby had shared a stale loaf of bread and some musky red wine? Well, she was a professional; she knew what kind of dangers lay ahead, and what would happen to her if she were captured. He looked out the window, at the greening countryside, and wondered where her cyanide capsule was hidden.
Gaby reached an intersection, where the rutted dirt road connected with a road of tarred gravel: the route to the City of Light. She turned right and passed a field where farmers stood baling hay. The Frenchmen stopped their work, leaning on their pitchforks as they watched the black German car glide past. Gaby was a good driver. She kept a constant speed, her gaze darting to the rear view mirror and then back to the road again. She was driving as if the German colonel in the backseat had somewhere to go, but was in no hurry to get there.
УIТm not beautiful,Ф she said quietly, about six or seven minutes later.
Michael smiled behind his gloved hand, and he settled back into his seat to enjoy the journey.
They went on in silence, the MercedesТs engine a polite, well-oiled purr. Gaby glanced back at him occasionally, trying to figure out what it was about him that had made her want toЧno, no, need to be with him. Yes, that ought to be admitted. Not to him, of course, but in the chapel of secrets. It was most probably, she reasoned, that the action against the Nazi tank had fired her blood and passions in a way she hadnТt been flamed in a long while. Oh, there had been other cinders, but this was a bonfire. It was just the nearness of a man who craved action, she thought. A man who was good at his job. A manЕ who was good. She hadnТt lived so long to be a poor judge of character; the man in the backseat was special. Something about him was cruel andЕ beastly, perhaps. That was part of the nature of his occupation. But sheТd seen kindness in his eyes, there in the chilly water. A sense of grace, a purpose. He was a gentleman, she thought, if there were indeed any of those left on this earth. Anyway, he needed her help. She could get him in and out of Paris, and that was the important thing. WasnТt it?
She glanced in the sideview mirror, and her heart stuttered.
Coming up behind them, very quickly, was a German BMW motorcycle and sidecar.
Her hands tightened on the wheel, and the motion made the Mercedes swerve slightly.
Michael sat upright with the jerk of the car, and caught the high whine of the motorcycleТs engine: a familiar noise, last heard in the desert of North Africa. УBehind us,Ф Gaby said tautly, but Michael had already glanced back and seen the vehicle overtaking them. His hand went to the Luger. No, not yet, he decided. Stay calm.
Gaby didnТt slow down, nor did she speed up. She kept her speed steady, an admirable accomplishment when her pulse was beating so fast. She could see the tinted goggles of the helmeted driver and the sidecarТs passenger. They seemed to be fixed on her with murderous intent. On the floorboard at her feet was a loaded Luger. She could pick it up and fire out the window in an instant, if need be.
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