"Brian Lumley - E-Branch 1 - Defilers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

Of course, Herr Bruchmeister had been persuaded to apologise, with the result that Gustav Turchin
was now in the German Embassy building in Calcutta. But:
Oh sure! thought Trask, reading between the lines, understanding the real meaning of the report.
Bearding the lion in his den, bollocks! Turchin engineered the whole thing in order to get a few
minutes on a secure line and speak to me!
Paul Garvey was waiting patiently, and Trask said, "Patch him through to my office, will you?"
"Just pick up your telephone," Garvey answered. "I've put him on scrambled, so there may be some
static."
The intercom quit blinking, and one of Trask's telephones took over the job. He picked it up and
said, "Trask?"
And an edgy voice on the other end said, "Ben? You appear to be busy. I told your man this was
urgent."
"It's only been a minute," Trask answered.
"It felt like an hour!" the other grunted, and continued: "Look, I'm in the German embassy, and
this is supposed to be a secure line-"
"And scrambled at my end," Trask told him.
"-But it's still risky. I like to keep my conversations as private as possible. So I'll be brief
and probably a little cryptic."
"Wait!" said Trask, and tripped his intercom switch to the Duty Officer. "Paul, is John Grieve in?
Good. Find him and tell him he's needed in my office right now." Then back to Turchin:

"Okay, go ahead, and I'll try to follow you."
"You . . . and your Mr. Grieve?" said the other.
"That's right," Trask answered. "You could say he's my interpreter." And to himself: When the
gadgets can't get it done, then it's time for the ghosts!
"Your E-Branch always did have the pick of the crop," Turchin said knowingly, a touch of jealousy
coming through.
And Trask told him, "Yes, but all natural-grown. It's well known that when you force a crop, the
produce is usually inferior."
"We're blunt today," said the other, as a knock sounded on Trask's door.
in
"Blunt and highly pissed off!" Trask told him. And then to the door: "Come
"Ahl" said Turchin. "Mr. Grieve. And now we can get on. But tell me: what's pissing you off, Ben?"
"Admin," Trask told him. "Frustration. All the duties that won't let me get to my real duty. Too
many small things getting in the way of the big things." And then he sighed. "I'm sorry I was
rude. But still, this isn't a good day to try, er, bearding me in my den, I assure you!"
"And I am sorry I was so impatient," said Turchin. "Nerves are showing on both sides, it seems. As
for bearding you,"-his voice lightened up a little- "you've obviously read this morning's papers.
The Times, perhaps?"
Trask switched the phone to his desk speaker and said, "Yes. Your little tiff at the conference?
You're getting good at that sort of subterfuge. But very well, now you can be as cryptic as you
like." John Grieve had come in and was standing by the desk with a notepad.
Grieve was in his mid- to late fifties and had been with E-Branch for half that time at least.
Despite being extraordinarily talented, he had never been a field operative,- Trask and previous
Heads of Branch had found him too useful in the HQ, as duty officer or on standby, to send him
into the far more dangerous world outside. In any case, he wasn't a particularly physical sort of
person.
A little pudgy now, a lifetime smoker and short of breath, he was balding, grey, and prematurely
aged. But he was also upright, smart as his physical condition would permit, polite and very
British. With his head held high and stomach pulled in to the best of his ability, he might be an