"James Rollins - Black Order" - читать интересную книгу автора (Romeyn Henry)

down the river. They were headed west, away from the eastern front, away from the rising sun.
He checked his watch. By now, a German Junker Ju 52 transport plane should be waiting for them in an
abandoned airfield ten kilometers away. It had been painted with a German Red Cross, camouflaging it
as a medical transport, an added bit of insurance against assault.
The boats circled out into the deeper channel, engines trebling up. The Russians could not stop them
now. It was over.
Motion drew his attention back to the far side of the boat.
Tola leaned over the baby and delivered a soft kiss atop the boy's wispy-haired pate. She lifted her face,
meeting Jakob's gaze. He saw no defiance oranger. Only determination.
Jakob knew what she was about to do. "Don't—"
Too late.
Shifting up, Tola leaned back over the low rail behind her and kicked off with her feet. With the baby
clutched to her bosom, she flipped backward into the cold water.
Her guard, startled by the sudden action, twisted and fired blindly into the water.
Jakob lunged to his side and knocked his arm up. "You could hit the child."
Jakob leaned over the boat's edge and searched the waters. The other men were on their feet. The boat
rocked. All Jakob saw in the leaden waters was his own reflection. He motioned for the pilot to circle.
Nothing.He watched for any telltale bubbles, but the laden boat's wake churned the waters to obscurity.
He pounded a fist on the rail.
Like father...like daughter...
Only a Mischlinge would take such a drastic action. He had seen it before: Judische mothers smothering
their own children to spare them greater suffering. He had thought Tola was stronger than that. But in the
end, perhaps she had no choice.
He circled long enough to make sure. His men searched the banks on each side. She was gone. The
whistling passage of a mortar overhead discouraged tarrying any longer.
Jakob waved his men back into their seats. He pointed west, toward the waiting plane. They still had the
crates and all the files. It was a setback, but one that could be overcome. Where there was one child,
there could be another.
"Go," he ordered.
The pair of boats set out again, engines winding up to a full throttle. Within moments, they had vanished
into the smoky pall as Breslau burned.
Tola heard the boats fade into the distance.
She treaded water behind one of the thick stone pylons that supported the ancient cast-iron Cathedral
Bridge. She kept one hand clenched over the baby's mouth, suffocating him to silence, praying he gained
enough air through his nose. But the child was weak.
As was she.
The bullet had pierced the side of her neck. Blood flowed thickly, staining the water crimson. Her vision
narrowed. Still she fought to hold the baby above the water.
Moments before, as she tumbled into the river, she had intended to drown herself and the baby. But as
the cold struck her and her neck burned with fire, something tore through her resolve. She remembered
the light glowing on the steeples. It was not her religion, not her heritage. But it was a reminder that there
was light beyond the current darkness. Somewhere men did not savage their brothers. Mothers did not
drown their babies.
She had kicked deeper into the channel, allowing the current to push her toward the bridge. Underwater,
she used her own air to keep the child alive, pinching his nose and exhaling her breath through his lips.
Though she had planned for death, once the fight for life had ignited, it grew more fierce, a fire in her
chest.
The boy never had a name.
No one should die without a name.
She breathed into the child, shallow breaths, in and out as she kicked with the current, blind in the water.