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

At last, the hall’s end came into sight.

Most of the galleries’ collections were only temporarily housed here, transferred from the Museum of
Mankind for the anniversary celebration. But the end gallery had always been here, for as far back as
Harry could recall. It housed the museum’s Arabian display, a priceless collection of antiquity from
across the Arabian Peninsula. The gallery had been commissioned and paid for by one family, a family
grown rich by its oil ventures in that region. The donations to keep such a gallery in permanent residence
at the British Museum was said to top five million pounds per annum.

One had to respect that sort of dedication.

Or not.

With a snort at such a foolish waste of good money, Harry splayed his torch’s spot across the engraved
brass plate above the doorway:THE KENSINGTON GALLERY . Also known as “The Bitch’s Attic.”

While Harry had never encountered Lady Kensington, from the talk among the employees, it was clear
that any slight to her gallery—dust on a cabinet, a display card with a smudge on it, a piece of antiquity
not properly positioned—was met with the severest reprimand. The gallery was her personal pet project,
and none withstood her wrath. Jobs were lost in her wake, claiming even a former director.

It was this concern that kept Harry a few moments longer at his post outside the gallery’s security gate.
He swept his torch around the entrance room with more than casual thoroughness. Yet again, all was in
order.

As he turned away, withdrawing his torch, movement drew his eye.

He froze, torch pointing at the floor.

Deep within the Kensington Gallery, in one of the farther rooms, a bluish glow wandered slowly, shifting
shadows with its passage.

Another torch…someone was in the gallery…

Harry felt his heart pounding in his throat. A break-in. He fell against the neighboring wall. His fingers
scrambled for his radio. Through the walls, thunder reverberated, sonorous and deep.

He thumbed his radio. “I have a possible intruder here in the north wing. Please advise.”
He waited for his shift leader to respond. Gene Johnson might be a wanker, but he was also a former
RAF officer. He knew his shit.

The man’s voice answered his call, but dropouts ate most of his words, interference from the electrical
storm. “…possible…are you sure?…hold until…are the gates secure?”

Harry stared back at the lowered security gates. Of course he should have checked to see if they had
been breeched. Each gallery had only one entrance into the hall. The only other way into the sealed
rooms was through one of the high windows, but they were wired against breakage or intrusion. And
though the storm had knocked out main power, the backup generators kept the security grid online. No
alarms had been raised at central command.