"Alistair MacLean - Time Of The Assassins" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Alistair)

'For his sake, I hope you're right,' Graham said

softly then followed Laidlaw down the hallway and out into the night.

Barak waited until Laidlaw and Graham had driven off then got into his own car and drove straight to a white, Spanish-styled mansion on the outskirts of the city, overlooking the sea. He drew up in front of a pair of wrought-iron gates where he was immediately challenged by a bearded man wearing jeans and a faded black T-shirt. A kalashnikov AK-47 was slung over his shoulder.

'I must see Mr Devereux right away,' Barak announced through the open driver's window.

The guard eyed him contemptuously. 'Is Mr Devereux expecting you?'

'No, but it's urgent.'

The guard glanced in the direction of the house. 'Mr Devereux gave specific instructions not to be disturbed.'

Tell him it's Barak - '

'I know who you are,' the guard said with obvious disdain. 'Come back in the morning. Maybe then Mr Devereux will see you.'

'I must see him now!' Barak retorted.

The guard unslung the kalashnikov. 'I told you, Mr Devereux isn't to be disturbed tonight.'

Barak glared at the guard. 'Mr Devereux's life is in danger. If anything happens to him then I'll see to it that you're held personally responsible.'

The guard wavered. 'What danger?'

Til tell that to Mr Devereux, when I get to see him.'

The guard turned away from the car and spoke

softly into a two-way radio. A minute later the gates were activated from somewhere inside the grounds.

The guard peered through the window at Barak. 'Follow the road to the courtyard. Someone will be waiting there to meet you.'

Barak put the Peugeot into gear and drove the hundred yards to the courtyard. He pulled up in front of the stone steps and got out of the car. Another guard frisked him expertly then led him up the steps into the house. Barak looked around the spacious hallway in awe. The three-tier Czech-oslovakian crystal chandelier was the only reminder of its once resplendent grandeur. He could imagine that the walls had once been lined with an array of expensive paintings or tapestries and the wooden floorboards covered with elegant, sculpted carpeting.

'The house once belonged to a Turkish prince when the Lebanon was still a part of the Ottoman Empire,' a man said, tying the belt of his white dressing-gown as he descended the stairs. He was a tall, handsome man in his late thirties with short black hair, which was already beginning to grey at the temples, and a neatly trimmed black moustache. A faint scar ran the length of his left cheek. He reached the foot of the stairs and looked around him slowly. 'Some would call it beautiful,' he said, still speaking Arabic. 'All I see is decadence.'

'I'm sorry to disturb you like this, Mr Devereux - '

The man held up a hand to silence Barak then turned to the guard beside him and dismissed him with a curt nod of the head. He waited until he had left then

ushered Barak into a small study. 'I told you never to come here!'

'I had no choice,' Barak replied defensively. 'I had to speak to you in person.'

'What is it?'

Barak shifted uneasily on his feet. 'You've been recognized, Mr Bernard.'