"The Charlemagne Pursuit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Berry Steve)

EIGHT

THE HOUSE WAS DESERTED, THE SURROUNDING WOODS BARREN OF people, yet the wind continued to whisper his name.

Ramsey.

He stopped walking.

It wasn't quite a voice, more a murmur that drifted on the winter wind. He'd entered the house through an open rear doorway and now stood in a spacious parlor dotted with furniture draped in filthy brown cloths. Windows in the farthest wall framed a view of a broad meadow. His legs remained frozen, ears attuned. He told himself that his name had not been spoken.

Langford Ramsey.

Was that indeed a voice, or just his imagination soaking in the spooky surroundings?

He'd driven alone from his Kiwanian appearance into the Maryland countryside. He was out of uniform. His job as head of naval intelligence required a more inconspicuous appearance, which was why he routinely shunned both official dress and a government driver. Outside, nothing in the cold earth suggested that anyone had recently visited, and a barbed-wire fence had long rusted away. The house was a rambling structure of obvious additions, many of the windows shattered, a gaping hole in the roof showing no signs of repair. Nineteenth century, he guessed, the structure surely once an elegant country estate, now fast becoming a ruin.

The wind continued to blow. Weather reports indicated that snow was finally headed east. He glanced at the wood floor, trying to see if the grime had been disturbed, but saw only his footprints.

Something shattered far off in the house. Glass breaking? Metal clanking? Hard to say.

Enough of this nonsense.

He unbuttoned his overcoat and removed a Walther automatic. He crept left. The corridor ahead was cast in deep shadows, and an involuntary chill swept over him. He inched forward to the end of the passageway.

A sound came again. Scraping. From his right. Then another sound. Metal on metal. From the rear of the house.

Apparently, there were two inside.

He crept down the hall and decided a rushing advance might give him an advantage, particularly after whoever it was continued to announce their presence with a steady tat-tat-tat.

He sucked a breath, readied the gun, then bolted into the kitchen.

On one of the counters, ten feet away, a dog stared back. It was a large mixed breed, its head topped with rounded ears, the coat a tawny color, lighter underneath, with a white chin and throat.

A snarl seeped from the animal's mouth. Sharp canines came into view, and hind legs tensed.

A bark came from the front of the house.

Two dogs?

The one on the counter leaped down and bolted outside through the kitchen doorway.

He rushed back to the front of the house just as the other animal fled through an open window frame.

He exhaled.

Ramsey.

It seemed as if the breeze had formed itself into vowels and consonants, then spoke. Not clear, or loud. Just there.

Or was it?

He forced his brain to ignore the ridiculous and left the front parlor, following a hallway, passing more rooms dotted with sheathed furniture and wallpaper bubbled from the elements. An old piano stood uncovered. Paintings cast a ghostly nothingness from their cloth coverings. He wondered about the artworks and stopped to examine a few-sepia prints of the Civil War. One depicted Monticello, another Mount Vernon.

At the dining room he hesitated and imagined groups of white men two centuries ago gorging themselves on beefsteaks and warm crumb cake. Perhaps whiskey sodas served in the parlor after. A game of bridge might have been played while a brazier warmed the air with an aroma of eucalyptus. Of course, Ramsey's ancestors had been outside, freezing in the slaves' quarters.

He gazed down a long corridor. A room at the end of the passageway drew him forward. He checked the floor, but only dust covered the planks.

He stopped at the end of the hall, in the doorway.

Another view of the barren meadow loomed through a dingy window. The furniture, like the other rooms, was sheathed, except for a desk. Ebony wood, aged and distressed, its inlaid top coated with blue-gray dust. Deer antlers clung to taupe-colored walls and brown sheets shielded what appeared to be bookcases. Dust mites swirled in the air.

Ramsey.

But not from the wind.

He targeted the source, rushed toward a draped chair, and ripped off the sheet, generating another fog-like cloud. A tape recorder lay on the decaying upholstery, its cassette about halfway spun.

His grip on the gun stiffened.

"I see you found my ghost," a voice said.

He turned to see a man standing in the doorway. Short, midforties, round face, skin as pale as the coming snow. His thin black hair, brushed straight, gleamed with flecks of silver.

And he was smiling. As always.

"Any need for the theatrics, Charlie?" Ramsey asked, as he replaced his gun.

"Much more fun than just saying hello, and I loved the dogs. They seem to like it here."

Fifteen years they'd worked together and he didn't even know the man's real name. He knew him only as Charles C. Smith Jr., with an emphasis on the Junior. He'd asked once about Smith Sr. and had received a thirty-minute family history, all of which was surely bullshit.

"Who owns this place?" Ramsey asked.

"I do now. Bought it a month ago. Thought a retreat in the country would be a wise investment. Thinking about fixing it up and renting it out. Going to call it Bailey Mill."

"Don't I pay you enough?"

"A man has to diversify, Admiral. Can't be reliant on just a paycheck to live. Stock market, real estate, that's the way to be ready for old age."

"It'll take a fortune to repair all this."

"Which brings me to an informational note. Because of unanticipated fuel cost increases, higher-than-expected travel fares, and an overall increase in overhead and expenses, we will be experiencing a slight rate increase. Though we strive to keep costs down while providing excellent customer service, our stockholders demand that we maintain an acceptable profit margin."

"You're full of shit, Charlie."

"And besides, this place cost me a fortune and I need more money."

On paper Smith was a paid asset who performed specialized surveillance services overseas, where wiretapping laws were loose, particularly in central Asia and the Middle East. So he didn't give a damn what Smith charged. "Send me a bill. Now listen. It's time to act."

He was glad that preparatory work had all been done over the past year. Files readied. Plans determined. He'd known an opportunity would eventually arrive-not when or how, just that it would.

And so it had.

"Start with the prime target, as we discussed. Then move south for the other two in order."

Smith gave him a mock salute. "Aye, aye, Captain Sparrow. We shall make sail and find the fairest wind."

He ignored the idiot. "No contact between us until they're all done. Nice and clean, Charlie. Really clean."

"Satisfaction is guaranteed or your money back. Customer satisfaction is our greatest concern."

Some people could write songs, pen novels, paint, sculpt, or draw. Smith killed, and with an unmatched talent. And but for the fact that Charlie Smith was the best murderer he'd ever known, he would have shot the irritating idiot long ago.

Still, he decided to make the gravity of the situation perfectly clear.

So he cocked the Walther and rammed the barrel into Smith's face. Ramsey was a good six inches taller, so he glared down and said, "Don't screw this up. I listen to your mouth and let you rant, but don't. Screw. This. Up."

Smith raised his hands in mock surrender. "Please, Miss Scarlett, don't beat me. Please don't beat me…" The voice was high-pitched and colloquial, a crude imitation of Butterfly McQueen.

He didn't appreciate racial humor, so he kept the gun pointed.

Smith started to laugh. "Oh, Admiral, lighten up."

He wondered what it took to rattle this man. He replaced the weapon beneath his coat.

"I do have one question," Smith said. "It's important. Something I really need to know."

He waited.

"Boxers or briefs?"

Enough. He turned and left the room.

Smith started laughing again. "Come on, Admiral. Boxers or briefs? Or are you one of those who are free to the wind. CNN says ten percent of us don't wear any underwear. That's me-free to the wind."

Ramsey kept marching toward the door.

"May the Force be with you, Admiral," Smith hollered. "A Jedi Knight never fails. And not to worry, they'll all be dead before you know it."