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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 145 из 209The next morning, the Englishman presented Casabianca with a large ham and apologized for frightening his goat. After that his driving was noticeably slower.
Still, something was clearly wrong. A few of the men from the square were so concerned that they paid a visit to the signadora. “He hasn’t been here in some time. But when he does come, you can be sure I won’t reveal his secrets to you jackasses. This house is like a confessional. Go, now!” And she chased them away with the business end of a stick broom.
Only Don Orsati knew the source of the Englishman’s black mood. It was the assignment in Lyons; the Swiss professor called Emil Jacobi. Something about the killing had left a tear in the Englishman’s conscience. Don Orsati offered to get the Englishman a girl-a lovely Italian girl he had met in San Remo -but the Englishman refused.
Three days after the Englishman’s return from Lyons, Don Orsati invited him to dinner. They ate in a restaurant near the square and afterward walked arm in arm through the narrow streets of the dark town. Twice, villagers appeared out of the gloom, and twice they quickly turned in the opposite direction. Everyone knew that when Don Orsati was speaking privately with the Englishman it was best to walk away. It was then that Don Orsati told him about the assignment in Venice.
“If you want me to send one of the other boys-”
“No,” the Englishman said quickly. “I’ll do it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“I hoped you’d say that. None of the others are truly capable of a job like this. Besides, I think you’ll enjoy the assignment. There’s a long tradition of our work in Venice. I’m sure you’ll find the setting rather inspiring.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“There’s a friend of mine there called Rossetti. He’ll give you all the help you require.”
“You have the dossiers?”
Only a man as powerful as Anton Orsati could leave the dossiers for two people he planned to murder on the front seat of a car, but such was the nature of life in the Corsican village. The Englishman read them by lamplight in the square. When he opened the second file, a look of recognition flashed through his eyes that even Orsati was able to detect.
“Is there something wrong?”
“I know this man-from another life.”
“Is that a problem?”
He closed the file. “Not at all.”
THE Englishman stayed up late, listening to the audiotape he had taken from the professor’s apartment in Lyons.
Still, something was clearly wrong. A few of the men from the square were so concerned that they paid a visit to the signadora. “He hasn’t been here in some time. But when he does come, you can be sure I won’t reveal his secrets to you jackasses. This house is like a confessional. Go, now!” And she chased them away with the business end of a stick broom.
Only Don Orsati knew the source of the Englishman’s black mood. It was the assignment in Lyons; the Swiss professor called Emil Jacobi. Something about the killing had left a tear in the Englishman’s conscience. Don Orsati offered to get the Englishman a girl-a lovely Italian girl he had met in San Remo -but the Englishman refused.
Three days after the Englishman’s return from Lyons, Don Orsati invited him to dinner. They ate in a restaurant near the square and afterward walked arm in arm through the narrow streets of the dark town. Twice, villagers appeared out of the gloom, and twice they quickly turned in the opposite direction. Everyone knew that when Don Orsati was speaking privately with the Englishman it was best to walk away. It was then that Don Orsati told him about the assignment in Venice.
“If you want me to send one of the other boys-”
“No,” the Englishman said quickly. “I’ll do it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“I hoped you’d say that. None of the others are truly capable of a job like this. Besides, I think you’ll enjoy the assignment. There’s a long tradition of our work in Venice. I’m sure you’ll find the setting rather inspiring.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“There’s a friend of mine there called Rossetti. He’ll give you all the help you require.”
“You have the dossiers?”
Only a man as powerful as Anton Orsati could leave the dossiers for two people he planned to murder on the front seat of a car, but such was the nature of life in the Corsican village. The Englishman read them by lamplight in the square. When he opened the second file, a look of recognition flashed through his eyes that even Orsati was able to detect.
“Is there something wrong?”
“I know this man-from another life.”
“Is that a problem?”
He closed the file. “Not at all.”
THE Englishman stayed up late, listening to the audiotape he had taken from the professor’s apartment in Lyons.