"Ludlum, Robert - The Parcifal Mosaic" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ludlum Robert)

the knowledge of his own legitimacy, perhaps several days thereafter to
come to grips with it. For in the legitimacy was the possibility of
commitment; there was no real beginning without it.
He walked out onto the Damrak, breathing the cold air of
 THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC15

Amsterdam, feeling the damp chill floating up from the canal. The sun was
setting; briefly blocked by a low-flying cloud, it reemerged, an orange
globe hurling its rays through the intercepting vapors. It reminded Havelock
of an ocean dawn on the coast of Spain-on the Costa Brava. He had stayed
there all night that night, until the sun had forced itself up over the
horizon, firing the mists above the water. He had gone down to the shoulder
of the road, to the sand and the dirt....
Stopf Don't think about it. That was another life.
Two months and five days ago by sheer chance Harry Lewis had stepped out of
a taid and started to change the world for an old friend. Now, two months
and five days later, that change was there to be taken. He would take it,
Michael knew, but something was missing: change should be shared, and there
was no one to share it with, no one to say, What will you teach?

The tuxedoed waiter at the Dikker en Thijs ground the lip of the flaming
brandy glass into the silver receptacle of sugar; the ingredients would
follow for caf6 jamique. It was a ridiculous indulgence, and probably a
waste of very good liqueur, but Harry Lewis had insisted they each have one
that night in Washington. He would tell. Harry that he bad repeated the
ritual in Amsterdam, although he probably wouldn7t have if he had realized
bow bright the damn flames were and the degree of attention they would draw
to his table.
'Mank you, Harry," he said silently once the waiter had left, raising his
glass inches off the table to his invisible companion. It was better, after
all, not to be completely alone.
He could both feel the approaching presence of a man and see an enlarging
darkness in the comer of his eye. A figure dressed in a conservative
pinstriped suit was threading his way through the shadows and the
candlelight toward the booth. Havelock angled the glass and raised his eyes
to the face. The man's name was George; he was the CIA station chief in
Amsterdam. They had worked together before, not always pleasantly but
professionally.
'Mat's one way to announce your arrival here," said the intelligence
officer, glancing at the waiter's tray table, the silver sugar bowl still
on It. "May I sit downr
"My pleasure. How are you, Georger
 16ROBERT LUDLUM

"I've been better," said the CIA man, sliding across the seat opposite
Michael.
"Sorry to bear that. Care for a drink?-
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Whether I'll stay long enough."