"Alan Williams - Holy of Holies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Alan)

black leather 'bum-freezer' and carried a rolled umbrella. His shoes were
cheap and highly polished.

'Good evening. I'm Terry Mason. I talked to Mrs Rawcliff yesterday - about a
baby-sitting job.' His manner was awkward, deferential.

'Come in. Charles Rawcliff. Drink?' Flight-Lieutenant Mason followed him down
the hall and hooked his umbrella over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
'I won't, thank you. But tea or coffee would be fine.'

'Sit down, please. My wife said you're with the RAF. What do you fly?'

'Oh, anything they give us - which isn't much these days. Occasionally one
gets a crack at a Phantom, even a Harrier - but usually it's just
Buccaneers.'

'Dear God, you're not still flying those things? They won't stop the Russians
for long!'

'I know, it is rather scandalous. But that's strictly off the record. It's
still a free country, except for us blokes in uniform.' Mason grinned, gaining
self-confidence. 'We're only allowed to have opinions at election time.'

Rawcliff stood waiting for the kettle to boil. 'I used to fly myself. Civil.
Nothing flashy. In fact, distinctly downmarket. Mostly package-tours for the
Great Unwashed Masses down to the polluted Mediterranean.' He was about to add
that he'd been trained himself in the RAF - what seemed a long time ago now -
and that he'd become something rather more special than a salaried pilot
flying routine missions for NATO. But it would involve too many explanations,
many of which were best avoided, especially in front of a total stranger.

Rawcliff poured the young man a mug of Nescafe, and stiffened his own whisky.
'I've gone respectable now," he added, without irony: 'Got a wine merchants'
place across the river. We like to pretend it's Chelsea, but it's really
Fulham.'

'Very nice,' Mason said: 'being your own master, with your own business, I
mean.'

'Don't you believe it! I'd swap with you, any day of the week. Nice secure
job, all found - no worries with VAT and bum creditors and staff who fiddle
the books, and trying to unload a case of over-priced Beaujolais on some
innocent fool by pretending that it hasn't been pumped through the pipe-line
from Algeria. Besides, you can still fly.'

'Can't you? I mean, haven't you still got your licence?'

'Oh yes. I even renew it every year. But it costs money to fly for pleasure.'

They both looked up as Rawcliff's wife came in, carrying Tom. The child's