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

She realized she was the kind of woman her mother had once told her to stay away from, back in
Germany before that insane maniac had brainwashed the country. But that was part of this life, too, and
the danger invigorated her. Better to live than exist, she thought. Who had told her that? Oh, yes. He had.
She ran an ivory brush through her hair, which was blond and styled like Rita Hayworth’s, full and
falling gently over her shoulders. She had been blessed with a fine bone structure, high cheekbones, light
brown eyes, and a slim build. It wasn’t hard to keep her figure here, because she didn’t care much for
the Egyptian cuisine. She was twenty-seven years old, had been thrice married—each husband more
wealthy than the first—and she owned a major share in Cairo’s daily English newspaper. Lately she’d
been reading her paper with more interest as Rommel advanced on the Nile and the British fought
valiantly to stem the Nazi tide. Yesterday’s headline had been ROMMEL HELD TO A STANDSTILL.
The war would go on, but it appeared that, at least this month, Hitler would not be saluted east of El
Alamein.
She heard the soft purr of the Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow’s engine as the limousine pulled to the front
door, and her heart jumped. She’d sent the chauffeur to pick him up, following the instructions she’d
been given, at the Shepheard’s Hotel. He was not staying there, but had attended a meeting of some
kind—a “debriefing,” she understood it was called. The Shepheard’s Hotel, with its well-known lobby of
wicker chairs and Oriental rugs, was full of war-weary British officers, drunken journalists, Muslim
cutthroats, and, of course, Nazi eyes and ears. Her mansion, on the eastern outskirts of the city, was a
safer place for him than a public hotel. And eminently more civilized.
The Countess Margritta stood up from her dressing table. Behind her was a screen decorated with
blue and golden peacocks, and she took the pale sea-green dress that was hanging over it, stepped into
it, and buttoned it up. One more look at her hair and makeup, a quick misting spray of Chanel’s new
fragrance over her white throat, and she was ready to go. But no, not quite. She decided to undo a
strategic button so the swell of her breasts was unconfined. Then she slid her feet into her sandals and
waited for Alexander to come up to the dressing room.
He did, in about three more minutes. The butler rapped quietly on the door, and she said, “Yes?”
“Mr. Gallatin has arrived, Countess.” Alexander’s voice was stiffly British.
“Tell him I’ll be down shortly.” She listened to Alexander’s footsteps moving along the teak-floored
corridor. She was not so eager to see him that she would go downstairs without making him wait; that
was part of the game between ladies and gentlemen. So she gave it another three or four minutes, and
then taking a deep breath, she left the dressing room at an unhurried pace.
She walked along a corridor lined with suits of armor, spears, swords, and other medieval weapons.
They belonged to the former owner of the house, a Hitler sympathizer, who’d fled the country when the
Italians had been knocked around by O’Connor back in 1940. She didn’t care much for weapons, but
the knights seemed to go with the teak and oak of the house, and anyway they were valuable and made
her feel as if she were being guarded around the clock. She reached the wide staircase with its banisters
of carved oak and descended to the first floor. The living room doors were closed; that’s where she’d
instructed Alexander to take him. She took a few seconds to compose herself, held her palm up against
her mouth to get a quick hint of her breath—spearminty, thank God—and then she opened the doors
with a nervous flourish.
Silver lamps burned on low, polished tables. A small fire flickered in the hearth, because after
midnight the desert breeze would turn chilly. Crystal glasses and bottles of vodka and Scotch caught the
light and gleamed on a decanter against the stucco wall. The carpet was a blaze of intertwined orange
and gray figures, and on the mantel a clock ticked toward nine.
And there he was, sitting in a wicker chair, his legs crossed at the ankles and his body in repose, as if
he owned the area he occupied and would warrant no intrusion. He was staring thoughtfully at the
mounted trophy on the wall above the mantel.
But suddenly his eyes found her, and he stood from the chair with smooth grace. “Margritta,” he said,
and offered her the red roses he held in his hands.
“Oh… Michael, they’re lovely!” Her voice was smoky, with the regal lilt of the north German plains.