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

Now that she was seated, her mind began sifting over the events of the past weeks; her old anxieties
wormed to the surface. One, especially.

Jason.

She hated leaving her son alone in the hotel room upstairs. He had seemed so quiet this evening, not his
usual boisterous self. Her fingers tightened on her purse.

And this mission. A letter with airplane tickets had arrived in the mail with instructions to be prompt.
"Everything else has been taken care of," the letter had stated. No other details.

A man sat down in the seat next to her. "Well, hi, there."

She glanced over. It was the Australian fellow again. Goddamn it. Couldn't she get a moment of peace?
The empty canyons of her New Mexico home had never seemed so appealing.

"Let me try this again . . ." He held out a hand. "Benjamin Brust."

Not wanting to insult him, she gave his hand one shake. Now go away, she thought.

He smiled at her, white teeth against a ruddy background, his cheekbones hard, sun wrinkles at the
corners of his eyes. Full lips. "So what do you know about all this?" he asked.

Ashley shrugged, trying to discourage conversation, and turned away.

"So many secrets," Ben mumbled.

She nodded. "Perhaps shortly we'll have a few answers."

He remained quiet. Still, she sensed his presence at her shoulder. His cologne was musky and rich; his
breathing, deep and even.

She shifted. The auditorium was almost full. Now it was getting warm in here. She wished they would fix
the thermostat.

"Do you trust him?" he asked in a whisper.

"No," she answered, looking straight ahead. She knew who he was talking about. "Not at all."

From a doorway, Blakely watched the auditorium fill. His team was gathered in the five front seats. He
signaled his assistant, Roland, across the room.

Roland nodded and raised a microphone to his lips. "Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats.
We're ready to begin."

After a few more moments of bustling and last-minute arrivals, the doors to the auditorium were closed
and the lights dimmed slightly. Blakely climbed the dais and stood behind the lighted podium. He dabbed
his forehead with a handkerchief. He knew his speech by heart, words carefully crafted.

Blakely tapped the microphone, testing it. His tapping also signaled the murmuring crowd to hush. "First,