"000010-parryspr" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yngve A R - Parry's Protocol)______________________ A.R.Yngve PARRY'S PROTOCOL ______________________ Chapter 10 CORTEZ STATE UNIVERSITY SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA SEPTEMBER 12 The federally funded and run university had recently had its name changed to "Cortez" after protests from student organizations, who claimed the old name was "Anglo-centric and discriminated the large mass of Latin-American students." The new name sign at the campus entrance was decorated with an image of Aztec priests and helmeted Conquistadors shaking hands. Abram stepped out of the taxicab and paid the driver, who immediately drove away from the university's main entrance. He was perspiring heavily in the hot midday sun and wore his jacket, coat, and hat under one arm, briefcase under the other. A swift stream of young students, tanned and thinly dressed, passed by the pale middle-aged traveler; some stared after him in amusement when he went up the wide, low stairs and into the shadow of the main building. It took Abram fifteen minutes and some questions to find the principal's office. It was on the second floor, equipped with a steel door and opaque bullet-proof windows. In the surrounding corridor several bullet-holes had recently been filled with mortar -- grey spots in the pastel yellow paint. On the steel door hung a sign reading: VISITORS ARE REQUESTED TO LOOK INTO THE CAMERA FOR IDENTIFICATION -- barely intelligible under the graffiti. Abram looked up at the camera; the door clicked and slid open automatically. He went inside, and a security officer in a beige shirt got up from the desk by the entrance; two secretaries peeked at Abram behind desks crammed with paperwork and computer equipment. He gave them a friendly nod. "He's expecting me," Abram told the guard. "Tell him that Patrick will be in the papers by tomorrow," he explained casually. The guard spoke into his small cell-phone, turned his swarthy, searching face to him and nodded approval: "You can come in now, sir." Abram went over to the heavy door marked G. TRUDEBERRY, UNIVERSITY PRINCIPAL. Before he had reached the brass door-knob, the door opened with a buzz and a click. The principal's private office was clearly designed to appear old, despite the fact that the rest of the university didn't seem to have aged more than ten years. Dark panels of imitation oak covered those walls that were not occupied by well-filled bookcases; two principals' portraits hung on the walls; a wide panorama window overlooking central San Diego was fitted with false windowbars. In front of the window, principal Trudeberry sat behind a massive dark wooden desk. He grabbed the armrests of his wide leather chair and looked anxiously at Abram's grave, tired face. "What do you want?" Trudeberry asked, his voice almost a falsetto. He was a middle-aged, thin-lipped man with watery eyes and a deep tan; his hair was blond and sunbleached. Though the air-conditioner was whispering by the window, he was beginning to sweat in his light blue linen suit. Abram decisively walked over to the desk and looked down at the sitting man. "I'm Dr. Abram Lemercier," he said calmly. "I'm not a journalist who can tarnish the unversity's reputation, but I know a couple of those -- real oldtime muckrakers. Should I or they ask a few questions about Patrick Rymowicz?" "Excuse me for my rude behavior, Dr. Lemercier," Trudeberry whined. "You see, that was a terribly tragic and embarrassing affair, and we've had one hell of a problem with the media since then. You do understand?" Abram did not change his grave expression, but nodded slowly. The principal looked more hopeful. "The police made a thorough investigation, so I can't see what further information I could bring you..." "With due respect to the police," Abram said, "there are personal aspects of Parr... Patrick's case, that might have been lost during the official investigation. Did he have any friends among his colleagues or students?" Trudeberry pulled back a strand of hair from his sweaty brow, and started to work the computer on his desk. Abram walked over to his side and studied the text lines passing by on the big monitor. Trudeberry brightened up and pointed at a name list on the screen. "There we have it! Rymowicz was a loner, quite impopular with the other teachers; but several of his students almost worshipped him like a guru! I'll give you a printout of this list --" -- he activated the printer -- " -- of everyone who went to his lectures the same year as..." "Thank you very much," Abram said, folding the list and putting it inside his jacket, "you've been of great help. I assure you that my study is not intended for the media." Trudeberry shook his hand with obvious relief, and Abram picked up his briefcase. In the doorway he halted and turned his head towards the principal, who was standing by an open bookcase, pouring himself a drink. "By the way... have you ever met Patrick yourself?" Trudeberry stopped his arm with the glass to his lips, looking away from Abram: "Yes... yes, but I never got to know him. There was something intimidating about him, even before his breakdown... he had a way of staring at you, you know? As if he knew something really bad about you." Abram nodded. "Yes," he half mumbled, "I've seen it myself. He's still staring, Trudeberry. Could you tell me what he's seeing, that we can't see?" When the confused principal turned about to speak, Abram had already left. He hurried down the stairs, past scores of busy students returning from the lunch break. Most of them did appear Latin-American; many of the male students wore a hat or buttoned shirts, as did some of the girls. Abram was halfway to the main entrance, when he slowed his steps and got a puckish glint in his eyes. He lifted his hat over his graying head, pulled it down over his forehead, and put on an indifferent face. His coat and jacket slung over one shoulder, one hand in his pocket, and swinging his briefcase in the other hand, he strolled through the stream of young students and out into the sun. A few youngsters shouted cheerfully after him, but he ignored them. ______________________ A.R.Yngve PARRY'S PROTOCOL ______________________ Chapter 10 CORTEZ STATE UNIVERSITY SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA SEPTEMBER 12 The federally funded and run university had recently had its name changed to "Cortez" after protests from student organizations, who claimed the old name was "Anglo-centric and discriminated the large mass of Latin-American students." The new name sign at the campus entrance was decorated with an image of Aztec priests and helmeted Conquistadors shaking hands. Abram stepped out of the taxicab and paid the driver, who immediately drove away from the university's main entrance. He was perspiring heavily in the hot midday sun and wore his jacket, coat, and hat under one arm, briefcase under the other. A swift stream of young students, tanned and thinly dressed, passed by the pale middle-aged traveler; some stared after him in amusement when he went up the wide, low stairs and into the shadow of the main building. It took Abram fifteen minutes and some questions to find the principal's office. It was on the second floor, equipped with a steel door and opaque bullet-proof windows. In the surrounding corridor several bullet-holes had recently been filled with mortar -- grey spots in the pastel yellow paint. On the steel door hung a sign reading: VISITORS ARE REQUESTED TO LOOK INTO THE CAMERA FOR IDENTIFICATION -- barely intelligible under the graffiti. Abram looked up at the camera; the door clicked and slid open automatically. He went inside, and a security officer in a beige shirt got up from the desk by the entrance; two secretaries peeked at Abram behind desks crammed with paperwork and computer equipment. He gave them a friendly nod. "He's expecting me," Abram told the guard. "Tell him that Patrick will be in the papers by tomorrow," he explained casually. The guard spoke into his small cell-phone, turned his swarthy, searching face to him and nodded approval: "You can come in now, sir." Abram went over to the heavy door marked G. TRUDEBERRY, UNIVERSITY PRINCIPAL. Before he had reached the brass door-knob, the door opened with a buzz and a click. The principal's private office was clearly designed to appear old, despite the fact that the rest of the university didn't seem to have aged more than ten years. Dark panels of imitation oak covered those walls that were not occupied by well-filled bookcases; two principals' portraits hung on the walls; a wide panorama window overlooking central San Diego was fitted with false windowbars. In front of the window, principal Trudeberry sat behind a massive dark wooden desk. He grabbed the armrests of his wide leather chair and looked anxiously at Abram's grave, tired face. "What do you want?" Trudeberry asked, his voice almost a falsetto. He was a middle-aged, thin-lipped man with watery eyes and a deep tan; his hair was blond and sunbleached. Though the air-conditioner was whispering by the window, he was beginning to sweat in his light blue linen suit. Abram decisively walked over to the desk and looked down at the sitting man. "I'm Dr. Abram Lemercier," he said calmly. "I'm not a journalist who can tarnish the unversity's reputation, but I know a couple of those -- real oldtime muckrakers. Should I or they ask a few questions about Patrick Rymowicz?" "Excuse me for my rude behavior, Dr. Lemercier," Trudeberry whined. "You see, that was a terribly tragic and embarrassing affair, and we've had one hell of a problem with the media since then. You do understand?" Abram did not change his grave expression, but nodded slowly. The principal looked more hopeful. "The police made a thorough investigation, so I can't see what further information I could bring you..." "With due respect to the police," Abram said, "there are personal aspects of Parr... Patrick's case, that might have been lost during the official investigation. Did he have any friends among his colleagues or students?" Trudeberry pulled back a strand of hair from his sweaty brow, and started to work the computer on his desk. Abram walked over to his side and studied the text lines passing by on the big monitor. Trudeberry brightened up and pointed at a name list on the screen. "There we have it! Rymowicz was a loner, quite impopular with the other teachers; but several of his students almost worshipped him like a guru! I'll give you a printout of this list --" -- he activated the printer -- " -- of everyone who went to his lectures the same year as..." He fell silent and gave Abram a frightened glance. The printer in the corner stopped buzzing, and Trudeberry hurried to pull out the sheet and hand it to Abram. "Thank you very much," Abram said, folding the list and putting it inside his jacket, "you've been of great help. I assure you that my study is not intended for the media." Trudeberry shook his hand with obvious relief, and Abram picked up his briefcase. In the doorway he halted and turned his head towards the principal, who was standing by an open bookcase, pouring himself a drink. "By the way... have you ever met Patrick yourself?" Trudeberry stopped his arm with the glass to his lips, looking away from Abram: "Yes... yes, but I never got to know him. There was something intimidating about him, even before his breakdown... he had a way of staring at you, you know? As if he knew something really bad about you." Abram nodded. "Yes," he half mumbled, "I've seen it myself. He's still staring, Trudeberry. Could you tell me what he's seeing, that we can't see?" When the confused principal turned about to speak, Abram had already left. He hurried down the stairs, past scores of busy students returning from the lunch break. Most of them did appear Latin-American; many of the male students wore a hat or buttoned shirts, as did some of the girls. Abram was halfway to the main entrance, when he slowed his steps and got a puckish glint in his eyes. He lifted his hat over his graying head, pulled it down over his forehead, and put on an indifferent face. His coat and jacket slung over one shoulder, one hand in his pocket, and swinging his briefcase in the other hand, he strolled through the stream of young students and out into the sun. A few youngsters shouted cheerfully after him, but he ignored them. |
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