"Charles Stross - Red, Hot and Dark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

"As you say. Sir." They approached the milling crowd at the ticket counter together. The
queue was long and agitated, worried travellers anxious to return to their own republics;
but when Valentina produced her official pass everybody scattered. Despite the resentful
glances, some things never changed.

"Yes? What is it?" sniffed the clerk. She looked tired and irritated.

"This. Where is your manager?"

She thrust his badge under the clerk's nose. It didn't have the desired effect. The woman
snorted, as if amused: "You don't expect that to get you anywhere, do you? Chekist.
We've had enough of your kind ..."

Valentina reached out with a fluid motion and grabbed the clerk by one wrist. "You do as
I say," she said quietly. "Otherwise I break your arm. Do you understand?"

The clerk mouthed something silently, her eyes growing round with surprise and sudden
pain. "What -- what do you want?" she stuttered.

"To see whoever is in charge here," she said. "Of the air defense facilities. I have a plane
to catch, for Moscow."

"But no flights are scheduled!" protested the clerk. Valentina let go of her wrist, but
continued to stare at her unblinkingly.

"Now there is. I repeat; where is the manager? I have a plane to catch."

The clerk picked up a telephone handset and began to dial, glancing up warily at
Valentina as she did so. "I'll see what can be done, but I make no promises," she said.

Valentina caught the sergeant's eye; he nodded imperceptibly. "Tell Gromov," she
emphasized. "It is essential."

The clerk paused. "But why?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her fear. "What's
so important?"

Valentina glanced over her shoulder at her assistant. "She asks what's so important," she
said quietly, all the time conscious of the crowd watching over his shoulder, not yet nasty
but quite capable of turning if they saw something not to their liking ... "what's important?
I'll tell you what's important," she said. "If we don't get to Moscow by noon, both you
and your boss can look forward to an extended holiday in Siberia ... whoever's in charge
..."

Moscow: Three o'clock:
The ancient Kamov chopper she'd requisitioned clattered into the Moscow air defense
region. The phones were down: whether it would have made any difference was
questionable. Valentina sat in the middle of the narrow, glassed-in cockpit, beside the
pilot. Her jaw was rigid, as tense as steel; her eyes were focussed on a point a million
miles away, replaying cinema reels of memory. Glacial, slow memories. Memories of an
interview, not long after she'd come to Moscow: memories of a militiaman long forgotten,