JК
The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 17 из 209He didn’t know anyone called Castillo-it was just the first name that popped into his head. Where had he seen it? The bakery? Yes, that was it. The bakery across the street.
She asked, “Who’s Castillo?”
“The man I work for.”
“Does Castillo work for Aragón?”
“How should I know? Why don’t you call Aragón? He’ll call Castillo, and we’ll straighten this mess out.”
“Fine.”
“Call him on that telephone over there.”
“I will, you fucking idiot!”
“Just do it quietly, before you alert every tenant in the building that we’ve just killed a man.”
She folded her arms across her breasts, as if she was aware of her nakedness for the first time. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not telling you my name.”
“Why not?”
“How do I know you really work for Aragón? Maybe you work with lover boy here. Maybe you’re a member of his cell. Maybe you’re going to call some of his friends, and they’ll come here and kill me.”
He raised the bloody knife and ran his thumb across the blade. The girl scowled. “Don’t even think about trying it! Fucking idiot!”
“Get Aragón on the line. Then I’ll tell you my name.”
“You’re going to be in big trouble.”
“Just get Aragón on the phone, and I’ll explain everything.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed, snatched up the receiver, and violently punched in the number. The Englishman moved a step closer and placed his finger on the cradle, severing the connection.
“What do you think you’re doing? What’s your name?”
The assassin brought the blade across her throat in a slashing movement. He stepped back to avoid the initial geyserlike burst of blood; then he knelt before her and watched the life draining out of her eyes. As she slipped away he leaned forward and whispered his name into her ear.
THE Englishman spent the rest of the day driving: the fast road from Vitoria to Barcelona, then the coast highway from Barcelona across the border to Marseilles. Late that evening he boarded a passenger ferry for the night crossing to Corsica.
He was dressed like a typical Corsican man: loose-fitting cotton trousers, dusty leather sandals, a heavy sweater against the autumn chill. His dark brown hair was cropped short. The poplin suit and brimmed hat he’d worn in Vitoria were resting in the rubbish bin of a roadside café in Bordeaux. The silver wig had been tossed out the car window into a mountain gorge.
She asked, “Who’s Castillo?”
“The man I work for.”
“Does Castillo work for Aragón?”
“How should I know? Why don’t you call Aragón? He’ll call Castillo, and we’ll straighten this mess out.”
“Fine.”
“Call him on that telephone over there.”
“I will, you fucking idiot!”
“Just do it quietly, before you alert every tenant in the building that we’ve just killed a man.”
She folded her arms across her breasts, as if she was aware of her nakedness for the first time. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not telling you my name.”
“Why not?”
“How do I know you really work for Aragón? Maybe you work with lover boy here. Maybe you’re a member of his cell. Maybe you’re going to call some of his friends, and they’ll come here and kill me.”
He raised the bloody knife and ran his thumb across the blade. The girl scowled. “Don’t even think about trying it! Fucking idiot!”
“Get Aragón on the line. Then I’ll tell you my name.”
“You’re going to be in big trouble.”
“Just get Aragón on the phone, and I’ll explain everything.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed, snatched up the receiver, and violently punched in the number. The Englishman moved a step closer and placed his finger on the cradle, severing the connection.
“What do you think you’re doing? What’s your name?”
The assassin brought the blade across her throat in a slashing movement. He stepped back to avoid the initial geyserlike burst of blood; then he knelt before her and watched the life draining out of her eyes. As she slipped away he leaned forward and whispered his name into her ear.
THE Englishman spent the rest of the day driving: the fast road from Vitoria to Barcelona, then the coast highway from Barcelona across the border to Marseilles. Late that evening he boarded a passenger ferry for the night crossing to Corsica.
He was dressed like a typical Corsican man: loose-fitting cotton trousers, dusty leather sandals, a heavy sweater against the autumn chill. His dark brown hair was cropped short. The poplin suit and brimmed hat he’d worn in Vitoria were resting in the rubbish bin of a roadside café in Bordeaux. The silver wig had been tossed out the car window into a mountain gorge.