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

2


He would soon be here. The countess felt as excited as a schoolgirl on a first date. It had been more than a year since sheТd seen him. Where heТd been in that time, and what heТd done, she didnТt know. Nor did she care. That was not her business. All sheТd been told was that he needed a sanctuary, and that the service had been using him for a dangerous assignment. More than that, it was not safe to know. She sat before the oval mirror in her lavender-hued dressing room, the golden lights of Cairo glittering through the French doors that led to the terrace, and carefully applied her lipstick. On the night breeze she could smell cinnamon and mace, and palm fronds whispered politely in the courtyard below. She realized she was trembling, so she put her lipstick down before she made a mess of her mouth. IТm not a dewy-eyed virgin, she told herself, with some regret. But perhaps that was part of his magic, too; he had certainly made her feel, on his last visit here, that she was a first-grader in the school of love. Perhaps, she mused, she was so excited because in all this timeЧand through a procession of so-called loversЧshe had not felt a touch such as his, and she longed for it.
She realized she was the kind of woman her mother had once told her to stay away from, back in Germany before that insane maniac had brainwashed the country. But that was part of this life, too, and the danger invigorated her. Better to live than exist, she thought. Who had told her that? Oh, yes. He had.
She ran an ivory brush through her hair, which was blond and styled like Rita HayworthТs, full and falling gently over her shoulders. She had been blessed with a fine bone structure, high cheekbones, light brown eyes, and a slim build. It wasnТt hard to keep her figure here, because she didnТt care much for the Egyptian cuisine. She was twenty-seven years old, had been thrice marriedЧeach husband more wealthy than the firstЧand she owned a major share in CairoТs daily English newspaper. Lately sheТd been reading her paper with more interest as Rommel advanced on the Nile and the British fought valiantly to stem the Nazi tide. YesterdayТs headline had been ROMMEL HELD TO A STANDSTILL. The war would go on, but it appeared that, at least this month, Hitler would not be saluted east of El Alamein.
She heard the soft purr of the Rolls-Royce Silver ShadowТs engine as the limousine pulled to the front door, and her heart jumped. SheТd sent the chauffeur to pick him up, following the instructions sheТd been given, at the ShepheardТs Hotel. He was not staying there, but had attended a meeting of some kindЧa Уdebriefing,Ф she understood it was called. The ShepheardТs Hotel, with its well-known lobby of wicker chairs and Oriental rugs, was full of war-weary British officers, drunken journalists, Muslim cutthroats, and, of course, Nazi eyes and ears. Her mansion, on the eastern outskirts of the city, was a safer place for him than a public hotel. And eminently more civilized.
The Countess Margritta stood up from her dressing table. Behind her was a screen decorated with blue and golden peacocks, and she took the pale sea-green dress that was hanging over it, stepped into it, and buttoned it up. One more look at her hair and makeup, a quick misting spray of ChanelТs new fragrance over her white throat, and she was ready to go. But no, not quite. She decided to undo a strategic button so the swell of her breasts was unconfined. Then she slid her feet into her sandals and waited for Alexander to come up to the dressing room.
He did, in about three more minutes. The butler rapped quietly on the door, and she said, УYes?Ф
УMr. Gallatin has arrived, Countess.Ф AlexanderТs voice was stiffly British.
УTell him IТll be down shortly.Ф She listened to AlexanderТs footsteps moving along the teak-floored corridor. She was not so eager to see him that she would go downstairs without making him wait; that was part of the game between ladies and gentlemen. So she gave it another three or four minutes, and then taking a deep breath, she left the dressing room at an unhurried pace.
She walked along a corridor lined with suits of armor, spears, swords, and other medieval weapons. They belonged to the former owner of the house, a Hitler sympathizer, whoТd fled the country when the Italians had been knocked around by OТConnor back in 1940. She didnТt care much for weapons, but the knights seemed to go with the teak and oak of the house, and anyway they were valuable and made her feel as if she were being guarded around the clock. She reached the wide staircase with its banisters of carved oak and descended to the first floor. The living room doors were closed; thatТs where sheТd instructed Alexander to take him. She took a few seconds to compose herself, held her palm up against her mouth to get a quick hint of her breathЧspearminty, thank GodЧand then she opened the doors with a nervous flourish.
Silver lamps burned on low, polished tables. A small fire flickered in the hearth, because after midnight the desert breeze would turn chilly. Crystal glasses and bottles of vodka and Scotch caught the light and gleamed on a decanter against the stucco wall. The carpet was a blaze of intertwined orange and gray figures, and on the mantel a clock ticked toward nine.
And there he was, sitting in a wicker chair, his legs crossed at the ankles and his body in repose, as if he owned the area he occupied and would warrant no intrusion. He was staring thoughtfully at the mounted trophy on the wall above the mantel.
But suddenly his eyes found her, and he stood from the chair with smooth grace. УMargritta,Ф he said, and offered her the red roses he held in his hands.
УOhЕ Michael, theyТre lovely!Ф Her voice was smoky, with the regal lilt of the north German plains. She walked toward himЧnot too fast! she cautioned herself. УWhere did you find roses in Cairo this time of year?Ф
He smiled slightly, and she could see his white, strong teeth. УYour neighborТs garden,Ф he answered, and she could hear a trace of the Russian accent that mystified her so much. What was a Russian-born gentleman doing working with the British Secret Service in North Africa? And why was his name not Russian?
Margritta laughed as she took the roses from him. Of course he was joking; Peter Van GyntТs garden did indeed have an immaculate rosebed, but the wall separating their properties was six feet tall. Michael Gallatin couldnТt possibly have gotten over it, and anyway his khaki suit was spotless. He wore a light blue shirt and a necktie with muted gray and brown stripes, and he had a burnished desert tan. She smelled one of the roses; they were still dewy.
УYou look beautiful,Ф he said. УYouТve done your hair differently.Ф
УYes. ItТs the new style. Do you like it?Ф
He reached out to touch a lock of her hair. His fingers caressed it, and slowly his hand moved to her cheek, a gentle touch grazing the flesh and goose bumps rose on MargrittaТs arms. УYouТre cold,Ф he said. УYou should stand closer to the fire.Ф His hand moved along the line of her chin, the fingers brushing her lips, then pulled away. He stepped closer to her and put an arm around her waist. She didnТt back away. Her breath caught. His face was right there in front of hers, and his green eyes caught a red glint from the hearth as if flames had sparked within them. His mouth descended. She felt an ache throb through her body. And then his lips stopped, less than two inches from hers, and he said, УIТm starving.Ф
She blinked, not knowing what to say.
УI havenТt eaten since breakfast,Ф he went on. УPowdered eggs and dried beef. No wonder the Eighth ArmyТs fighting so hard; they want to go home and get something edible.Ф
УFood,Ф she said. УOh. Yes. Food. IТve had the cook make dinner for you. Mutton. ThatТs your favorite, isnТt it?Ф
УIТm pleased you remembered.Ф He kissed her lightly on the lips, and then he briefly nuzzled her neck with a softness that made the chill bumps burst up along her spine. He released her, his nostrils flared with the scent of Chanel and her own pungent woman-aroma.
Margritta took his hand. The palm was as rough as if heТd been laying bricks. She led him to the door, and they were almost there when he said, УWho killed the wolf?Ф
She stopped. УPardon me?Ф
УThe wolf.Ф He motioned toward the gray-furred timber wolf mounted above the fireplace. УWho killed it?Ф
УOh. YouТve heard of Harry Sandler before, havenТt you?Ф
He shook his head.
УHarry Sandler. The American big-game hunter. He was in all the papers two years ago, when he shot a white leopard atop Mount Kilimanjaro.Ф Still there was no recognition in MichaelТs eyes. УWeТve becomeЕ good friends. He sent me the wolf from Canada. ItТs a beautiful creature, isnТt it?Ф
Michael grunted softly. He glanced at the other mounted trophies Sandler had given MargrittaЧthe heads of an African water buffalo, a magnificent stag, a spotted leopard, and a black pantherЧbut his gaze returned to the wolf. УCanada,Ф he said. УWhere in Canada?Ф
УI donТt know exactly. I think Harry said up in Saskatchewan.Ф She shrugged. УWell, a wolfТs a wolf, isnТt it?Ф
He didnТt answer. Then he looked at her, his eyes piercing, and smiled. УIТll have to meet Mr. Harry Sandler someday,Ф he said.
УToo bad you werenТt here a week ago. Harry passed through Cairo on his way to Nairobi.Ф She gave a playful tug at his arm to pull his attention off the trophy. УCome on, before your food gets cold.Ф
In the dining room, Michael Gallatin ate his medallions of mutton at a long table under a crystal chandelier. Margritta picked at a hearts-of-palm salad and drank a glass of Chablis, and they made small talk about what was happening in LondonЧthe current popular plays, the fashions, the novels and music: all things Margritta missed. Michael said heТd enjoyed HemingwayТs latest work, and that the man had a clear eye. And as they spoke, Margritta studied MichaelТs face and realized, here under the brighter light of the chandelier, that heТd changed in the year and five weeks since their last meeting. The changes were subtle, but there nonetheless: there were more lines around his eyes, and perhaps more flecks of gray in the sleek, close-trimmed black hair as well. His age was another mystery; he might be anywhere from thirty to thirty-four. Still, his movements had the sinuosity of youth, and there was impressive strength in his shoulders and arms. His hands were an enigma; they were sinewy, long-fingered, and artisticЧthe hands of a pianistЧbut the backs of them were dappled with fine dark hairs. They were a workmanТs hands, too, used to rough labor, but they managed the sterling knife and fork with surprising grace.
Michael Gallatin was a large man, maybe six-feet-two, with a broad chest, narrow hips, and long, lean legs. Margritta had wondered at their first meeting if heТd ever been a track-and-field athlete, but his response had been that he Уsometimes ran for pleasure.Ф
She sipped at her Chablis and glanced at him over the rim. Who was he, really? What did he do for the service? Where had he come from and where was he bound? He had a sharp nose, and Margritta had noticed that he smelled all food and drink before he consumed it. His face was darkly handsome, clean-shaven and rugged, and when he smiled it was like a flare of lightЧbut he didnТt let her see that smile very often. In repose his face seemed to become darker still, and as the wattage of those green eyes fell their somber hue made Margritta think of the color in the deep shadow of a primeval forest, a place of secrets best left unexplored. And, perhaps, a place also of great dangers.
He reached for his goblet of water, disregarding the Chablis, and Margritta said, УIТve sent the servants away for the evening.Ф
He sipped at the water and put the goblet aside. Pressed his fork into another piece of meat. УHow long has Alexander worked for you?Ф he asked.
The question was totally unexpected. УAlmost eight months. The consulate recommended him. Why?Ф
УHe hasЕФ Michael paused, considering his words. An untrustworty smell, heТd almost said. УA German accent,Ф he finished.
Margritta didnТt know which one of them was crazy, because if Alexander was anymore British heТd be wearing a Union Jack for underdrawers.
УHe hides it well,Ф Michael continued. He sniffed at the mutton before he ate it, and chewed before he spoke. УBut not well enough. The British accent is a masquerade.Ф
УAlexander cleared the security checks. You know how stringent those are. I can tell you his life history, if you want to hear it. He was born in Stratford-on-Avon.Ф
Michael nodded. УAn actorТs town, if there ever was one. ThatТs got the AbwehrТs fingerprints all over it.Ф The Abwehr, as Margritta knew, was HitlerТs intelligence bureau. УA car will be coming for me at oh-seven-hundred. I think you should go, too.Ф
УGo? Go where?Ф
УAway. Out of Egypt, if possible. Maybe to London. I donТt think itТs safe for you here anymore.Ф
УImpossible. IТve got too many obligations. My God, I own the newspaper! I canТt just clear out on a momentТs notice!Ф
УAll right, stay at the consulate. But I think you should leave North Africa as soon as you can.Ф