"James Rollins - Subterranean" - читать интересную книгу автора (Romeyn Henry)

Even now, he cringed at the memory. As a youngster, this heritage had shamed him. Aborigines, at the
time, were considered second-class citizens, only slightly above animals. Luckily, diluted by generations
of European blood, his blighted heritage was an easily kept secret. Except from himself. It was then the
nightmares had started.

For countless nights, he'd awaken with his sheets clinging to his sweating body, tears coursing down his
cheeks. Clenching handfuls of sheets, he would pray no one would learn his secret.

Over time, he had matured, even come to respect and appreciate his unique heritage, and the dreams
had eventually faded away, like old toys put in cardboard boxes. Forgotten and no longer needed.

He shook his head. So why now? Why dredge up this old childhood terror?

Must be this bloody cell, he concluded, and burrowed deeper under his ratty blanket. Well, thanks to
that timely letter, he would soon be rid of this damn place.

Thirty days later, his mysterious benefactor telegraphed Black Rock, and in twenty hours Ben found
himself upgraded from his cramped cell in Australia to a suite of rooms at the Sheraton Buenos Aires in
Argentina.

Ben tested the bathwater with his foot. He cringed at the heat, then smiled. Ahhh, perfect. After a month
in the Black Rock prison, a month of tepid showers that barely penetrated the layer of grime caked into
his pores, a full hot bath was just possibly orgasmic. He stepped into the tub and settled himself into the
steaming water. He tapped the button for the jets. Tickling sprays massaged him from all sides, creating a
gentle whirlpool. Definitely orgasmic.

He sighed, leaning back into the tub and allowing his body to relax and float in the jets.

There was a knock on the door.

Ignoring it, Ben slipped farther into the jets.

The knock came again, more persistently.

Using his elbows, he raised himself higher in the tub. "Who is it?"

A muffled voice replied, "Excuse me, sir, but Dr. Blakely requests your presence in the Pampas room on
the main floor. The other guests are arriving now as well."

Ben rubbed his red eyes. "Gimme five minutes." He pushed out of the hot tub, the chill air raising
gooseflesh on his bare legs. After dressing in an old brown tweed suit, Ben proceeded to the conference
suite.

To his relief, the antechamber to the auditorium was set up with a mobile bar. A bartender hustling
hooch paraded behind a shelf of bottles. Already a good number of men and women stood gathered in
small groups.

He glanced around. No one looked his way. So much for the warm greeting. After searching the room
one final time, he decided a whiskey would help his outlook on this "party." He stalked over to the bar.