"000008-parryspr" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yngve A R - Parry's Protocol)_______________________ A.R.Yngve PARRY'S PROTOCOL _______________________ Chapter 8 CENTRAL WESTMOREHAM SEPTEMBER 11 A motel-room. "He's got his own rationalizations, Joyce. In the old days, miners used to bring birds with them, to check if the air was getting bad... so buy him a canary and a cat, then! Look up a garage sale, you'll surely find a cheap cage there. There couldn't happen anything worse than him eating the animals, n'est-ce pas? I'll take full responsibility. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Bye, Joyce." Abram flung down the phone receiver. "Bureaucratic connasse," he muttered, lapsing into his old French-Canadian dialect. Dressed in shirt, slacks, and socks, he reached for the opened suitcase on the bed and dug among his underwear, until he found his agency phone. He punched in a long number and pressed a scrambling button. A short delay, and Ned Wilson's relaxed voice was heard: "Hello?" Abram's brow wrinkled habitually, but he assumed a hearty tone: "Hi, Ned! It's Abram. How's things in Virginia?" "Ahґ didn't expect to hear from you so soon, Abram! Just fine, thank you. The National Security Council has just received copies of the first part of your report, and they were eager to read the rest. How far have you come?" Abram tried to suppress a proud grin, which resulted in a grimace. "It's too early to give a definite deadline right now, but the work is going forward. As you know I'm also busy with a particularly difficult patient... and I owe you one for opening a few doors for me in that work." "You know the Company always stands by its employees. Now don't take it as me tryin' to stress you, Abram. But ah'm really full of expectations." "Thanks. I promise I won't disappoint you and the Security Council." "That's fine. And remember: Should there be anything, don't hesitate t'call me. Good luck with Parry!" "Thanks, Ned. Catch you later." He put the phone back into his suitcase, reached for the phone on the bedside table -- and froze, confused. The next instant he shook his head, so that his long neck hair was ruffled. "I did let Ned have a brief look at the file on Patrick," he warned himself. "He must've seen it then. This is no time for getting suspicious." He picked up the receiver, and a note from the nearby desk, and punched the number written there. After three signals, one 'please wait' message, and half a minute's elevator music, a shrill male voice answered. "Trudeberry here, who am I speaking to?" "No... no, I don't think so. What... what can I do for you?" Abram made a polite cough. "Er, the thing is that I'm investigating a patient who used to be a teacher at your university, about five years ago." "That was during the previous principal's period, I'm afraid." "Yes, but perhaps you've heard of my patient anyway? His name's Patrick Rymowicz, he used to teach logic and philosophy..." For a few moments Trudeberry was silent; when his voice returned, it was upset and frightened. "I have no idea who you're talking about, and I want to ask you not to disturb me again -- I'm a very busy man. Goodbye." Trudeberry disconnected the call. Abram gave a resigned sigh and hung up the phone. He picked up the Yellow Pages from the bedside table, put it in his lap, and flipped through it until he found what he was looking for. He dialed the number and got through immediately. "Tourist Information Bureau, Southeast Washington, can I help you?" Abram put on a formal tone: "Yes. Could you please tell me where to find small civilian airfields in the vicinity of Westmoreham County, Miss?" "Just a moment, please." _______________________ A.R.Yngve PARRY'S PROTOCOL _______________________ Chapter 8 CENTRAL WESTMOREHAM SEPTEMBER 11 A motel-room. "He's got his own rationalizations, Joyce. In the old days, miners used to bring birds with them, to check if the air was getting bad... so buy him a canary and a cat, then! Look up a garage sale, you'll surely find a cheap cage there. There couldn't happen anything worse than him eating the animals, n'est-ce pas? I'll take full responsibility. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Bye, Joyce." Abram flung down the phone receiver. "Bureaucratic connasse," he muttered, lapsing into his old French-Canadian dialect. Dressed in shirt, slacks, and socks, he reached for the opened suitcase on the bed and dug among his underwear, until he found his agency phone. He punched in a long number and pressed a scrambling button. A short delay, and Ned Wilson's relaxed voice was heard: "Hello?" Abram's brow wrinkled habitually, but he assumed a hearty tone: "Hi, Ned! It's Abram. How's things in Virginia?" "Ahґ didn't expect to hear from you so soon, Abram! Just fine, thank you. The National Security Council has just received copies of the first part of your report, and they were eager to read the rest. How far have you come?" Abram tried to suppress a proud grin, which resulted in a grimace. "It's too early to give a definite deadline right now, but the work is going forward. As you know I'm also busy with a particularly difficult patient... and I owe you one for opening a few doors for me in that work." "You know the Company always stands by its employees. Now don't take it as me tryin' to stress you, Abram. But ah'm really full of expectations." "Thanks. I promise I won't disappoint you and the Security Council." "That's fine. And remember: Should there be anything, don't hesitate t'call me. Good luck with Parry!" "Thanks, Ned. Catch you later." He put the phone back into his suitcase, reached for the phone on the bedside table -- and froze, confused. The next instant he shook his head, so that his long neck hair was ruffled. "I did let Ned have a brief look at the file on Patrick," he warned himself. "He must've seen it then. This is no time for getting suspicious." He picked up the receiver, and a note from the nearby desk, and punched the number written there. After three signals, one 'please wait' message, and half a minute's elevator music, a shrill male voice answered. "Trudeberry here, who am I speaking to?" "Principal Trudeberry? How do you do, this is Dr. Abram Lemercier. I hold psychology lectures at schools and universities in Virginia. Have we met, by any chance?" "No... no, I don't think so. What... what can I do for you?" Abram made a polite cough. "Er, the thing is that I'm investigating a patient who used to be a teacher at your university, about five years ago." "That was during the previous principal's period, I'm afraid." "Yes, but perhaps you've heard of my patient anyway? His name's Patrick Rymowicz, he used to teach logic and philosophy..." For a few moments Trudeberry was silent; when his voice returned, it was upset and frightened. "I have no idea who you're talking about, and I want to ask you not to disturb me again -- I'm a very busy man. Goodbye." Trudeberry disconnected the call. Abram gave a resigned sigh and hung up the phone. He picked up the Yellow Pages from the bedside table, put it in his lap, and flipped through it until he found what he was looking for. He dialed the number and got through immediately. "Tourist Information Bureau, Southeast Washington, can I help you?" Abram put on a formal tone: "Yes. Could you please tell me where to find small civilian airfields in the vicinity of Westmoreham County, Miss?" "Just a moment, please." |
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