"Brian Lumley - Psychomech 01 - Psychomech" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

from the moment he and his master had been met by these two alleged members of the IRA, sweated and crouched
down into himself and made himself small when in reality he was a large man. By comparison, the tallest of the two
seated opposite was only of medium height; but no one watching Koenig sweat and twitch would ever guess his real
stature and massive strength.
Schroeder seemed as nervous as his aide, but he at least was cool and appeared to be keeping a grip on himself.
Small, balding and in his late fifties, he could be said to be a typically dapper German, but leaner and paler than might
be expected. An additional twenty or thirty pounds of flesh and a cigar in the middle of his face might have turned him
into the popular misconception of a successful German businessman, but he neither smoked nor ate to excess.
This was part of a determined effort to live to the fullest extent of his years, of which the best were already flown. He
knew this, - and also that the rest of his time would not be completely satisfactory; therefore it must be as good as he
could make it. Which is one reason why the people he faced should have been more careful. They knew him for what
he was now, not for what he had once been. But then, only Schroeder himself knew that. Schroeder and Willy Koenig.
For if the Germans were really the timid, badly frightened men they appeared to be, why had they come? This was a
question the Irish terrorists had failed to ask themselves, or had not asked searchingly enough. Was it really to save
Schroeder’s wife? She was young and beautiful, true, but he was no longer a young man. Could he really love her?
They should have seen that this was doubtful, these Irishmen. More likely she was a decoration, icing on Schroeder’s
cake. And indeed he had come for a different reason. There are some men you can threaten, and there are others you
must never threaten . . .
Somewhere in a shady corner of the room an old clock ticked the time away monotonously; beyond the locked door,
in a passage with leaded lights of red glass, whose outer door opened on the street, two more men talked in lowered
tones that filtered into the barroom as mere murmurs.,
‘You said you wanted to talk to me,’ said Schroeder. ‘Well, we have talked. You said that my wife would be released,
unharmed, if I came to you without informing the police. I have done all you asked. I came to you, we talked.’
His words were precise, perhaps too precise, and sharp with his German accent. ‘Has my wife been released?’
Their beards were all that the Irishmen shared in common. Where one was dark-skinned, as if he had spent a lot of
time in the sun, the other was pale as a mineshaft cricket. The first was thinner than Schroeder, narrow-hipped,
tight-lipped. The second was small and round and smiled a lot, without sincerity, and his teeth were bad. The thin one
was pimply, scarred with what might be acid bums across his nose and under his eyes. The scars were white against
his tan. He looked into Schroeder’s eyes, his gaze seeming to penetrate right through the thick lenses of the
industrialist’s spectacles. His thin lips opened a fraction.
‘That’s right, Mr Schroeder,’ he softly said. ‘Sure enough it is. Indeed it’s been done. Your dear wife is free. We’re
men of our word, you see? She’s back at your hotel this very minute, safe and sound. We only wanted to see you, talk
to you. Not to harm your pretty Fraulein. Actually, we’d have let her go anyway, for she’s nothing to us. But you must
admit, she made a fair bit of cheese to bait our trap, eh?’
Schroeder said nothing but Koenig sat up straighter, his small eyes staring into the faces before him. ‘Trap? Of what
do you speak?’
‘Just a manner of speaking,’ said the fat man, smiling through his rotten teeth. ‘Now calm down, calm down, Mr
Koehig. Stay cool, like your boss here. If we’d wanted you dead you’d be dead now. And so would the Fraulein.’
‘Frau,’ corrected Koenig. ‘Fraulein means girl. Frau is a wife.’
‘Oh?’ said the fat one. ‘Is that right, now? And that lovely young German slut’s actually married to our Mr
Schroeder, is she? Not just a piece of buck-she cunt?’
Koenig looked as if he might respond but Schroeder silenced him with a glance, then turned his eyes back to the two
terrorists. ‘Men of your word,’ he nodded, blinking rapidly. ‘I see. Men of... of honour. Very well, if that is so will you
let me speak to my wife?’
‘

‘Of course you can speak to her, sir, of course you can,’ the small round one said, grinning. ‘For we are men of our
word, as you’ll see. Sure we are." The grin slipped from his face. ‘A pity the same can’t be said of you!’
‘Herr Schroeder is completely honourable!’ snapped Koenig, his blond eyebrows lowering in a frown, sweat rivering
his red bull neck.