"Robert McCammon - The Wolfs Hour" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

all things Margritta missed. Michael said he’d enjoyed Hemingway’s latest work, and that the man had a
clear eye. And as they spoke, Margritta studied Michael’s face and realized, here under the brighter light
of the chandelier, that he’d changed in the year and five weeks since their last meeting. The changes were
subtle, but there nonetheless: there were more lines around his eyes, and perhaps more flecks of gray in
the sleek, close-trimmed black hair as well. His age was another mystery; he might be anywhere from
thirty to thirty-four. Still, his movements had the sinuosity of youth, and there was impressive strength in
his shoulders and arms. His hands were an enigma; they were sinewy, long-fingered, and artistic—the
hands of a pianist—but the backs of them were dappled with fine dark hairs. They were a workman’s
hands, too, used to rough labor, but they managed the sterling knife and fork with surprising grace.
Michael Gallatin was a large man, maybe six-feet-two, with a broad chest, narrow hips, and long,
lean legs. Margritta had wondered at their first meeting if he’d ever been a track-and-field athlete, but his
response had been that he “sometimes ran for pleasure.”
She sipped at her Chablis and glanced at him over the rim. Who was he, really? What did he do for
the service? Where had he come from and where was he bound? He had a sharp nose, and Margritta
had noticed that he smelled all food and drink before he consumed it. His face was darkly handsome,
clean-shaven and rugged, and when he smiled it was like a flare of light—but he didn’t let her see that
smile very often. In repose his face seemed to become darker still, and as the wattage of those green
eyes fell their somber hue made Margritta think of the color in the deep shadow of a primeval forest, a
place of secrets best left unexplored. And, perhaps, a place also of great dangers.
He reached for his goblet of water, disregarding the Chablis, and Margritta said, “I’ve sent the
servants away for the evening.”
He sipped at the water and put the goblet aside. Pressed his fork into another piece of meat. “How
long has Alexander worked for you?” he asked.
The question was totally unexpected. “Almost eight months. The consulate recommended him. Why?”
“He has…” Michael paused, considering his words. An untrustworty smell, he’d almost said. “A
German accent,” he finished.
Margritta didn’t know which one of them was crazy, because if Alexander was anymore British he’d
be wearing a Union Jack for underdrawers.
“He hides it well,” Michael continued. He sniffed at the mutton before he ate it, and chewed before he
spoke. “But not well enough. The British accent is a masquerade.”
“Alexander cleared the security checks. You know how stringent those are. I can tell you his life
history, if you want to hear it. He was born in Stratford-on-Avon.”
Michael nodded. “An actor’s town, if there ever was one. That’s got the Abwehr’s fingerprints all
over it.” The Abwehr, as Margritta knew, was Hitler’s intelligence bureau. “A car will be coming for me
at oh-seven-hundred. I think you should go, too.”
“Go? Go where?”
 “Away. Out of Egypt, if possible. Maybe to London. I don’t think it’s safe for you here anymore.”
“Impossible. I’ve got too many obligations. My God, I own the newspaper! I can’t just clear out on a
moment’s notice!”
“All right, stay at the consulate. But I think you should leave North Africa as soon as you can.”
“My ship hasn’t sprung a leak,” Margritta insisted. “You’re wrong about Alexander.”
Michael said nothing. He ate another piece of mutton and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
“Are we winning?” she asked him after another moment.
“We’re holding,” he answered. “By our teeth and fingernails. Rommel’s supply network has broken
down, and his panzers are running out of petrol. Hitler’s attention is fixed on the Soviet Union. Stalin’s
calling for an Allied attack from the west. No country, even one as strong as Germany, can wage war on
two fronts. So, if we can hold Rommel until his ammunition and petrol dries up, we can force him back to
Tobruk. And past that, if we’re lucky.”
“I didn’t know you believed in luck.” She arched a pale blond eyebrow.
“It’s a subjective term. Where I come from, ‘luck’ and ‘brute strength’ are one and the same.”