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

Humes-Talbot stared at him blankly with his bespectacled blue eyes. УBecause,Ф he said, УMajor Gallatin is a professional.Ф
УSo am I, sonny.Ф Shackleton was ten years the British captainТs senior. УThat doesnТt make me able to parachute into France, does it? And I havenТt been sittinТ on my tailbone for the last twenty-four months, IТll guaran-damn-tee you that.Ф
УYes sir,Ф the other man agreed, simply because he felt he should. УBut yourЕ uhЕ people asked for help in this matter, and since itТs of benefit to both of us, my superiors feltЧФ
УYeah, yeah, thatТs yesterdayТs news.Ф Shackleton waved the man quiet with an impatient hand. УIТve told my people IТm not sold on GallatinТsЧexcuse me, Major GallatinТsЧrecord. His lack of field experience, I ought to say, but IТm supposed to make a judgment based on a personal meeting. Which isnТt the way we work in the States. We go by the record over there.Ф
УWe go by the character over here,Ф Humes-Talbot said, with a bite of frost. УSir.Ф
Shackleton smiled faintly. Well, at last heТd gotten a rise out of this stiff-necked kid. УYour secret service might have recommended Gallatin, but that doesnТt swing a shovelful of shit as far as IТm concerned. Pardon my French.Ф He snorted smoke from his nostrils, his eyes catching a gleam of red. УI understand GallatinТs not his real name. It used to be Mikhail Gallatinov. HeТs a Russian. Right?Ф
УHe was born in St. Petersburg in 1910,Ф came the careful reply. УIn 1934 he became a citizen of Great Britain.Ф
УYeah, but RussiaТs in his blood. You canТt trust Russians. They drink too much vodka.Ф He tapped ashes into the ashtray on the back of the driverТs seat, but his aim was off and most of the ash fell on his spit-shined shoes. УSo whyТd he leave Russia? Maybe he was wanted for a crime over there?Ф
УMajor GallatinТs father was an army general and a friend of Czar Nicholas the Second,Ф Humes-Talbot said as he watched the road unreel in the yellow gleam of the headlights. УIn May of 1918, General Fyodor Gallatinov, his wife, and twelve-year-old daughter were executed by Soviet party extremists. The young Gallatinov escaped.Ф
УAnd?Ф Shackleton prodded. УWho brought him to England?Ф
УHe came by himself, working aboard a freighter,Ф the captain said. УIn 1932.Ф
Shackleton smoked his cigar and thought about it. УHold on,Ф he said quietly. УYouТre sayinТ he hid from the murder squads in Russia from the time he was eight to when he was twenty-two years old? HowТd he do that?Ф
УI donТt know,Ф Humes-Talbot admitted.
УYou donТt know? Hell, I thought you boys were supposed to know everything about Gallatinov. Or whatever. HavenТt you got his records verified?Ф
УThereТs a gap in his records.Ф The younger man saw the dim glow of lights ahead, through the pines. The road was curving, taking them toward the sparkle of lanterns. УThe information is classified, for the top echelon of the secret service only.Ф
УYeah? Well, thatТs enough to tell me I donТt want him on the job.Ф
УI presume Major Gallatin named those individuals who remained loyal to the memory of the royal circle and helped him survive. To expose those names would beЕ shall we say, less than prudent?Ф The small houses and clustered-together structures of a village were coming out of the drizzle. A little white sign on a post said ENDOREТS RILL. УI will pass on a bit of rumor, if I may,Ф Humes-Talbot said, wanting to throw a smoking grenade back at the ugly American. УI understand that the mad monk Rasputin was in Saint Petersburg and enjoyedЕ liaisons with several ladies of breeding in 1909 and 1910. One of those ladies, dare I say, was Elana Gallatinov.Ф He looked into ShackletonТs face. УRasputin may have been Michael GallatinТs real father.Ф
A small cough of cigar smoke came from ShackletonТs throat.
There was a tapping noise. Mallory, the driver, rapped his knuckles on the glass and put his foot to the FordТs brake. The car was slowing, the windshield wipers slapping away the sleet and rain. Humes-Talbot rolled the glass barrier down, and Mallory said with a crisp Oxford accent, УBeg your pardon, sir, but I think we should stop for directions. That might be the place.Ф He pointed at a lantern-lit tavern coming up on the right.
УIndeed it is,Ф the young man agreed, and rolled the glass back up as Mallory cruised the big car to a stop in front of the tavernТs door. УIТll be back in a minute,Ф Humes-Talbot said as he pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck and opened the door.
УWait for me,Ф Shackleton told him. УI could use a drink of whiskey to get my blood warm again.Ф
They left Mallory in the car and went up a set of stone steps. A sign creaked on chains above the doorway, and Shackleton glanced up at it to see a painted sheep and the words THE MUTTON CHOP. Inside, a cast-iron stove burned with the sweet musk of bog peat and oil lamps hung from pegs on the wooden walls. Three men who were sitting at a back table talking quietly and drinking ale looked up from their conversation at the uniformed military officers.
УWelcome, gentlemen,Ф an attractive black-haired woman behind the bar said with a heavy Welsh accent. Her eyes were bright blue, and they quickly examined the two visitors with a thoroughness that seemed casual. УWhat may I do for you?Ф
УWhiskey, babe,Ф Shackleton said, grinning around his cigar. УBest poison youТve got.Ф
She uncorked a jug and poured him a murky shot glass full. УOnly poison weТve got, if you donТt count the ale and bitters.Ф She smiled faintly, a sultry smile with a challenge in it.
УNothing for me, but I would like some information.Ф Humes-Talbot warmed his hands before the stove. УWeТre looking for a man who lives around here. His name is Michael Gallatin. Do youЧФ
УOh, yes,Ф she said, and her eyes glinted. УI do know Michael.Ф
УWhere does he live?Ф Shackleton took a whiff of the whiskey and thought his eyebrows had been singed.
УAround. He doesnТt entertain visitors.Ф She stroked a cloth across the jug. УMuch.Ф
УHeТs expectinТ us, babe. Official business.Ф
She considered that for a moment, looking at the shine of their buttons. УTake the road that runs through the Rill. It goes on for eight miles and then it turns into dirt, or mud, as the case may be. It splits into two. The road on the left is the rougher one. It goes to his gate. Whether itТll be open or not is up to him.Ф
УWeТll open it if itТs not,Ф Shackleton said. He took the cigar out of his mouth and, with a grin at the bartender, swallowed the local whiskey.
УBottoms up,Ф she told him.
His knees buckled as the whiskey seared down his throat like a trail of lava. He thought for a second that heТd swallowed crushed glass, or bits of razor blade. He felt sweat boil out of his pores, and he squeezed a cough down in his chest because the bartender was watching him, smiling knowingly, and he was damned if heТd fall on his ass in front of a woman.
УHow do you like it, babe?Ф she asked, all innocence.
He feared returning the cigar to his mouth, in case the smoke caught fire and blew his head off. Tears burned his eyes, but he clenched his teeth and slammed the shot glass down on the bar. УItЕ needsЕ aginТ,Ф he managed to croak, and his face flamed when he heard the men laugh at the back table.
УThat it does,Ф she agreed, and her soft laughter was like the rustle of a silk curtain. Shackleton started to reach for his wallet, but she said, УItТs on the house. YouТre a good sport.Ф
He smiled, more sickly than sporty, and Humes-Talbot cleared his throat and said, УWe thank you for the information and hospitality, madam. Shall we go, Major?Ф Shackle-ford made something that might have been a grunt of assent, and followed Humes-Talbot to the door on leaden legs.
УMajor, dear?Ф the bartender called before he went out. He looked back, wanting to get out of this suffocating heat. УYou can thank Michael for the drink when you see him. ThatТs his private stock. Nobody elseТll touch the stuff.Ф
Shackleton went out the door of The Mutton Chop feeling like chopped mutton.
Full dark had fallen as Mallory drove them away from EndoreТs Rill, between the wind-lashed woods and mountains carved by the fingers of time. Shackleton, his face tinged the shade of tallow, forced himself to finish the cigar and then thumped it away out the window. It blew a trail of sparks, like a falling comet.
Mallory turned off the main roadЧa mud-puddled wagon trackЧand onto the rougher one on the left. The axles groaned as the FordТs tires plowed through potholes, and the seat springs yowled like pressured steam vents as Shackle-ton was thrown and jostled. The young British captain was used to uncomfortable roadways, and he clenched the hand grip over his doorТs window and lifted his rear an inch or two off the leather.
УManЕ donТt wannaЕ be located,Ф was all Shackleton could say as the Ford shook harder than any tank heТd ever driven. Lord have mercy on my achinТ tailbone! he thought. The road went on, a path of tortures, through the dense green woods. Finally, after two or three more brutal miles, the headlights found a high iron gate. It was wide open, and the Ford continued through.
The muddy road smoothed a bit, but not by much. Every so often they hit a bump and ShackletonТs teeth cracked together with a force that he knew would cut his tongue off if he didnТt keep it rolled up in his head. The wind swirled through the forest on both sides of the road, the sleet pelted down, and suddenly Shackleton felt a long way from Arkansas.
Mallory stepped on the brake. УHere! WhatТs that!Ф Humes-Talbot said, looking along the cone of the headlights. Three large dogs were standing in the road, the wind ruffling their fur. УMy God!Ф Humes-Talbot took off his glasses, hurriedly wiped the lenses, and put them back on. УI believe those are wolves!Ф
УHell, lock the damned doors!Ф Shackleton hollered.
The Ford slowed to a crawl. As ShackletonТs fist hammered down the lock on his side, the three animals lifted their muzzles to the scent of hot metal and engine oil and vanished into the dark wall of trees on the left. The Ford picked up speed again, MalloryТs age-spotted hands steady on the wheel, and they took a long curve through the forest and emerged onto a driveway paved with fields tones.
And there stood the house of Michael Gallatin.
It looked like a church, made of dark red stones chinked together with white mortar. Shackleton realized that it must have been a church at one time, because it had a narrow tower topped with a white spire and a walkway around it. But the truly amazing thing about the structure was that it had electricity. Light streamed from the windows on the first floor, and up in the churchТs tower panes of stained glass gleamed dark blue and crimson. Off to the right was a smaller stone building, possibly a workshed or garage.
The driveway made a circle in front of the house, and Mallory stopped the Ford and pulled up the handbrake. He tapped on the window, and when Humes-Talbot had lowered it, Mallory asked, a little uneasily, УShall I wait here, sir?Ф