"A. R. Yngve - Parry's Protocol" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yngve A. R)

"Ehxcellent, ehxcellent. No outbreaks of middle-age crah-sis, ah hope?"

His tone was joking, disarming. Abram replied in the same tone, obviously used to
chatting with Ned Wilson.

"I'm an educated psychologist, Ned. I've been into self-analysis since I had my
first pimples, so don't worry. How about you, Ned? Do you still hit your wife in
the face very often?"

Ned's voice choked a laugh.

"But seriously, Abram, I'm sure you feel fine, and I'm sure that if there'd be
anything, you wouldn't think twihce about telling me. See ya!"

"Yeah. Bye."

Abram put the phone back into his inside pocket, still looking straight ahead of
him. He was now driving into the outskirts of the southern edge of the small town,
a broad street lined with low buildings and a few people on the sidewalks. The
mist had cleared somewhat -- or he had left it behind -- and the sharp blue sky was
starting to appear above.

He saw the sign saying WESTMOREHAM INSTITUTE 1.5 MILES and made a
right turn. He took off from the short, uninteresting main street and drove into the
soft, undulating farm landscape which abruptly succeeded the low, flat houses.
Tractors were plowing up the earth on both sides of the road; a few farmhouses
lay half-hidden between the dune-like hills. The mist was now reduced to
steaming pools in the shadows between the dunes, and far ahead Abram was able
to see the distant blue mountains rise above the landscape.

From a distance, the Westmoreham Institute stood out from the horizon, sharply
outlined against the clear, late morning sky: a dark-brown brick building with
whitewashed cornerstones, a pointed tile roof, and chimneys like steeplechases.
The rounded chapel and the arched front portal with the fan-shaped steps
increased its vague church-like appearance. But in contrast, metal bars blocked
each of the two-story building's tall windows - and a high barbed-wire fence
surrounded the spacious lawn of the estate.

Abram made a left turn into the parking-lot before the fence, and slid in next to
the sentry-booth at the steel-bar gates. A security guard's head popped out through
the glass booth, condensed air steaming from his mouth. He was heavily muffled
up, with earmuffs outside his uniform cap.

"Good morning, sir," he called out with a clenched smile. "Do you have an
appointment?"

Abram lowered the power-window and squinted at the raw, cold air. Keeping his
head inside the car, he handed over a bundle of papers. A sudden gust almost tore
them from his grip, but the guard quickly snatched them with his hand. Abram
gave the guard a sheepish smile. He grinned back.