"Newman, Kim - The McCarthy Witch Hunt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

'Your name has come up in testimony several times. Do you understand?'
Mrs Stevens nodded, face frozen.
'No accusations have been made. The Constitution entitles you to freedom
of speech, freedom of belief, freedom of worship. There has, as yet, been
no suggestion of illegal activity on your part.'
'I'm not a spy.'
'Of course not. However, we believe you are a member of a "circle"
operating in this city ...'
'Circle' was the polite term. It was out in the open now. She knew they
knew and she'd have to make a decision.
Cohn's spit-curl payesses shook slightly as he hummed to himself, almost
too low to be heard. The first time, Finlay had assumed there was a radio
left on in the room, tuned to a dead station and turned right down.
Mrs Stevens was uncomfortable. She didn't seem to sweat but she must be
breathing his ripe smell.
He could tell what Mrs Stevens was thinking. How many lists did they have?
How many names? How many of the others had already yielded the full
twelve? How many times had she been named? Which of them had named her?
Was she the second called into this room? Or the thirteenth?
Mrs Stevens chewed her lower lip, nibbling at the perfect lipstick of her
mouth.
'I think I had better talk with a lawyer.'
Cohn's eyes glowed like neons. His head was poised, expectant. Mrs Stevens
would bite the hook. 'I am a lawyer, Mrs Stevens.'
She shook her head slightly.
'Twelve names,' Finlay said, shockingly.
Mrs Stevens was startled. Cohn looked as if WeeGee had just published a
photograph of him sucking Cardinal Spellman's dick.
'Just give us twelve names and you can go home. It'll all be over for
you.'
... and all beginning for the next on the list.
'Do you want me to start for you?' he asked, looming over the desk,
getting close enough to let her see the flaws in his right eye. 'How about
Gillian and Nicky Holroyd?'
She was shaking now, asking herself questions, but not yet giving any
answers. It was such a fixed game. There were always thirteen. The only
way off the hook, the only way to qualify as a 'friendly', was to cough up
twelve names.
'Twelve names, Samantha. Or do they call you Sam?'
'This is extremely irregular,' Cohn spluttered, trying vainly to cast
himself as the nice guy cop.
'Twelve names.'
A tear, solitary and perfect, traced a line down Mrs Stevens's cheek,
cutting through mascara.
'Twelve names, witch.'

1945
While the burning city cast giant devil masks into the sky, the long-faced
warlock quoted a Hindu scripture Finlay had never heard of. 'I am become
Shiva,' he said, 'the Destroyer of Worlds.'