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

‘Is he now?’ said the thin one, nodding his head for a long time, his eyes unwavering where they stared at Koenig.
‘Well, it appears you’re a very loyal man, Mr Koenig. But do please remember, when we asked him to come alone he
brought you with him - you crew cut Kraut sod!’ Despite the invective, his tone remained dry and constant.
Willy Koenig half-rose, found his elbow locked in the grip of his employer’s hand, sat down again. The sweat
dripped even faster.
Schroeder said: ‘Herr Koenig goes almost everywhere with me. I do not drive. Without him I could not come. Also,
he is my secretary, occasionally my advisor. He advised me to come. That much at least you must thank him for.’
‘Oh?’ said the fat one, smiling again. ‘And can we thank him for the briefcase, too - and what’s in it?’
‘The briefcase? Ah!—’ It was Schroeder’s turn to smile, however nervously. ‘Well, you see, I thought it might be
that you wanted money. In which case—’
‘Ah!’ they said together, their eyes falling on Koenig’s briefcase. After a while they looked up.
‘So it’s full of money, is it?’ said the smiling one. ‘Well, that’s very reassuring. But it’s not just money we’re after.
See, it’s this way. This factory you plan would employ a couple of thousand lads - Protestant lads, that is. It would
create, you know - a sort of imbalance. A lot of money in Protestant pockets. Happiness in their black farting hearts.’
The thin one took it from there: ‘We only want to restore the balance, so to speak. I mean, after all’s said and done, it
is war that we’re talking about, Herr Schroeder. Perhaps that’s what you don’t understand?’
‘War?’ Schroeder repeated. ‘Oh, I understand some things about war. But still I cannot supply you with guns.’
‘So you keep saying,’ the thin one answered, his voice impatient now, the scar tissue on his cheeks and nose
seeming to show that much whiter. ‘But we could work something out. You have armaments interests in Germany. You
could always give a nod in the right direction, or turn a blind eye on certain losses ...’
‘May I phone my wife now?’ Schroeder asked.
The small fat man sighed. ‘Oh, please do, please do.’ He casually waved his hand at an antiquated pay-telephone on
the wall beside the door.
As Schroeder got up and crossed the thinly scattered sawdust floor to the telephone, Koenig gripped the handle of
his briefcase but did not pick it up. He remained seated, holding the briefcase on the table before him, the four stubby
legs of its bottom pointed towards the two terrorists. One of them, the smiling one, turned to watch Schroeder through
droopy eyes. The eyes of the taller, thinner man remained on Koenig, had narrowed slightly and seemed drawn to the
awkward position of the German’s hand where it gripped the handle of the briefcase.
Schroeder put money in the phone, dialled, waited, suddenly sighed a great sigh. His lungs might have been
gathering air for an hour, which they now expelled. His immaculately cut suit seemed to crumple in on him as he uttered
that great exhalation. ‘Urmgard? 1st alles in ordnung?’ he asked, and immediately sighed again. ‘Und Heinrich? Gut!
Nein, alles gents gut bei uns. Jah, bis spater.’ He blew a tiny, almost silent kiss into the telephone, replaced it in its
cradle and turned to face across the room. ‘Willy, horst du?’
Koenig nodded.
‘Men of our word, you see?’ said the thin, scarred terrorist, not taking his eyes from Koenig’s face, which suddenly
had stopped sweating. ‘But you - you slimy Kraut dog! - you and your bloody brief—’ His hand dipped down into his
worn and creased jacket, fastening on something which bulged there.
Koenig turned the briefcase up on its end on the table, lining its bottom up vertically with the thin man’s chest.
‘Stop!' he warned, and the tone of his voice froze the other rigid. The four stubby black legs on the bottom of the case
had added substance to Koenig’s warning, popping open on tiny hinges to show the mouths of rifle barrels, four
gaping, deadly mouths whose short throats disappeared into the body of the case. Those barrels were each at least
15mm in diameter, which might help explain Koenig’s rigid grip on the case’s handle. The recoil would be enormous.
 ‘Put your gun on the table,’ said Koenig. ‘Now? It was not a command to be denied, not in any way. The thin man
did as instructed. His eyes were wide now, his scars zombie white. ‘Yours also,’ said Koenig, swivelling the case just a
fraction to point it at the fat man. The latter was no longer smiling as he took out his gun and put it down very slowly
and deliberately.
‘Most sensible,’ said Schroeder, quietly coming back across the room. On his way he took out a handkerchief,
stooped, folded the white square of linen over the rim of the spittoon and picked it up. He took up a half-pint glass of
stale Guinness from the bar and poured it into the spittoon.
‘You’ll not get past the boys in the corridor, you know,’ said the thin one harshly. ‘Not this way.’