"Watson-TheAmberRoom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watson Ian)

commercial spy?

I never did get to Yantarny. Back at the Baltika, to my surprise, a message was
waiting for me -- to telephone a certain number.

Did the proprietor of the amber shop have some new suggestion for my best-seller
about sunken treasure? Or, after a change of heart, was it the lady director of
the museum who wanted to speak to me?

Not in the least. It proved to be the older immigration officer, who had noted
where I was staying. Would I meet him and some friends for a meal and drinks at
a restaurant on Leninsky to discuss a matter of mutual interest? But of course.
And by the way, had I taken his young colleague's advice regarding a chaperon?
Why yes, I had. In that case my minder must remain in the car. This matter was
confidential.

The restaurant was very noisy due to the constant loud dance music. This
entertainment rendered eavesdropping virtually impossible. It wasn't merely face
to face but almost nose to nose that I met Rylov the immigration officer, and
Antonov, and a nameless gentleman, over German beer and fried chicken.

Antonov was of the hefty breed. Fifty-eight inch chest and fifty inch waist,
with a puce suit to match, crumpled though of decent tailoring. Mongol genes --
and tissue courtesy of carbohydrate. He had to be a member of the Kaliningrad
mafia. At first I thought that he was here as muscle, a bodyguard for the man
with no name. In fact Antonov spoke English well, and was as much a part of this
as Rylov or the Enigma. Mr. Mystery was in his seventies: dapper, with
close-cropped silvery hair, and of refined features. The heavy tinted
thick-lensed glasses he wore might have been due to weak eyes but they gave him
the appearance of an aristocratic interrogator- though he left the interrogating
to Antonov. He gave the appearance of understanding German and English but only
spoke, from time to time, in Russian. During our encounter he smoked a dozen of
those fragrant cigarettes consisting principally of a cardboard tube.

"So you believe that the pilot of a hang-glider can find the lost room?" Antonov
said to me.

"Somewhere in the Carpathians," I replied. Mr. Mystery sucked his cigarette then
rapped out something in Russian.

The story which I'd adopted bubbled forth. I was researching a thriller.

Antonov eyed me. "And the room shall appear nakedly out in the open? Without any
framework or corset to support it?"

My dream inundated me. "It must. It has to. How else can the flier find it?"

"Ah," said Antonov. "And you are the flier."

"I do fly, that's true."