"Hall, Adam - The Sinkiang Executive" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hall Adam)

The widow began moving towards the edge of the bench and he teased it into the jar, giving it a fly to catch.

'They'll only take living food - they don't eat carrion, like us.'

'Carlos!'

'Si?'

'Usted necesita leche?

'Por favor, Pepita!'

We could hear the woman going down the stairs.

'Voice like a foghorn, heart of gold. Does everything for me.

Lost her son in the civil war. Now she's got another one -me.' He wheeled his chair across to the other bench and took a handframe out of the drawer, holding it up to the light. 'I told you I'd show you. This thread's four days old - it's dried now, lost its stickiness. This thing's a micromanipulator. You put the lens in here - they come already grooved. All I have to do is lay the thread into the grooves and Bob's your uncle. Five dollars a go, okay? That little sweetheart spun me fifty bucks' worth just now while you were watching.'

He dropped the lens into the foam-lined box and shut the drawer gently. 'Next time you find yourself behind a longdistance rifle, you'll know what the crosshairs are made of -if it's a good one. This stuff's stronger than platinum wire and about ten times as good as the plastic hairs they've got on the market now - they're too brittle and they're not really black. Of course, I don't get much call for this kind of thread these days - they're making everything of cold crap, aren't they? No wonder civilization's falling apart. What are you doing in Barcelona anyway?' He was looking at me over the edge of his half-moon glasses. I didn't answer. 'Silly question,' he nodded.

Charlie was one of our sleeper agents in the Mediterranean theatre, originally Codes and Cyphers, then operational for two years until the El Fatah took him for a Shin Bet executive and blew a Porsche from under him when he was nosing around in Cairo.

'I got thrown out of London,' I told him. This must be the cleanest window in the whole of Barcelona : I suppose that was Pepita. A few dried brown leaves were still on the platanas down there along the Ramblas, and a wind from the harbour pulled at them Feliz Novedades! a torn banner said in red and blue letters. 'Thrown out?' He sounded concerned. 'Slung out, kicked out, what d'you want me to say?' I swung round to face him.

'What we want,' he said gently, wheeling his chair across to the living quarters, 'is a nice little drop of Carlos Primero, which by good grace they named after me.' He picked up the bottle and poured two shot glasses. 'I'm on the wagon,' I said.

'Oh, that's right. Never been off, now I come to remember.'

I knew he wouldn't say anything more about the other thing so I poured myself some Orangina and tipped his glass by way of apology and said: 'I blotted my copybook, that's all. They had to get me out of London so fast that that is what I'm doing in Barcelona - it was the first available plane to anywhere.'

'Dear, oh dear.' He stared upwards from his chair. 'I suppose that's fairly typical. You tend to leave a suitable uproar behind you when you skip town.'

'This time it's not quite as funny as that.'

'I wish I could do something,' he said in a helpless tone. 'Wouldn't you like to sit down?'

'You're doing your bit,' I told him. 'You're my contact here.'

'Be my guest.'

Then I decided to tell him.

'My neck's on the block, Charlie.'

He swung his chair round so that he was facing me.

'Spell out,' he said.

'I'm being fired.'