"Энди Макнаб. День независимости (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

I just didn't have the bollocks to go after her.
Then the decision was made for me. The engine of the Plymouth fired up
and the car shot down the drive.
Seven.
A gang of seagulls screeched overhead and dived into the water just
forty metres away as I ran towards the front of the house.
The sea was choppy; there was a wind getting up that made the yachts in
the bay bob agitatedly at their moorings, and their rigging sound like the
rattle of a hundred cages.
I opened the insect screen and as soon as I was through the heavy
wooden front door I was hit by the overbearing heat. Her mother kept the
temperature at a solid ninety degrees, day and night.
George called out from the rear, "In the kitchen."
My Timberlands clunked on the dark hardwood floor of the hallway and I
passed the loudly ticking grandfather clock.
George was sitting, straight backed, at the old pine rectangular table.
A dozen or so photographs of boats were stuck to a cork board behind him,
and he was looking down at a picture frame in his hands. Little doilies and
smelly candles sat on every scrap of surface.
"You know what they say about New Englanders and the cold, Nick?"
I shook my head.
"When the temperature hits zero all the people in Miami die. But New
Englanders, they just close the windows. Trust my ex-wife to be different."
If he was extending a hand of friendship, I wasn't shaking.
Just like in the old picture of years ago, square-jawed and muscular,
George was still looking like something off a recruitment poster. The only
difference now was that his short back and sides was greying. His face was
cold and unyielding. This setting of New England family domesticity didn't
suit him at all.
"What the fuck are you doing here, George? We were supposed to meet
downtown Wednesday, remember?"
"Our plans have changed, Nick. We're not talking about a holiday
booking."
He pursed his lips and picked up a framed photograph from the Welsh
dresser. I could see it was of the three of them. Carrie must have been
about ten years old in her blue checked schoolgirl summer dress. He was in
his medal- and badge-festooned military uniform, holding a certificate, with
his wife standing proudly beside him. I'd told Carrie when I first saw it
that they looked the perfect family. She'd laughed.
"Then hellooo ... meet the camera that lied."
"You could have sent somebody. You didn't have to come in person. You
know I wanted to keep her out of this."
He didn't answer as I looked down at him. He was a man who had never
let power and success go to his clothes. He was dressed in his civilian
uniform, a brown corduroy sports jacket with brown suede elbow pads, white
button-down collar shirt, and a brown tie. There had been one addition since
11 September: he now had a Stars and Stripes button badge pinned to his
right lapel. But, these days, who didn't?
At last he looked up.
"She didn't even give you time to dry your hair." There was just a hint