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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 191 из 209It seemed shorterin duration, though Gabriel could not be sure, because he was in and out of consciousness.
“Where are the paintings?”
“What… paintings?”
“Where is Anna Rolfe?”
“Who?”
“Keep going.”
Another knifelike blow to his right kidney. Another iron fist to his face. Another boot to his groin.
“Where are the paintings?”
Silence…
“Where is Anna Rolfe?”
Silence…
“He’s done for now. Let him lie there.”
HE searched the rooms of his memory for a quiet place to rest. Behind too many doors he discovered blood and fire and could find no peace. He held his son, he made love to his wife. The room where he found her nude body was their bedroom in Vienna, and the encounter he relived was their last. He wandered through paintings he had restored-through oil and pigment and deserts of bare canvas-until he arrived on a terrace, a terrace above a sea of gold leaf and apricot, bathed in the sienna light of sunset and the liquid music of a violin.
TWO guards came in. Gabriel assumed it was time for another beating. Instead, they carefully unlocked the handcuffs and spent the next ten minutes cleaning and bandaging his wounds. They worked with the tenderness of morticians dressing a dead man. Through swollen eyes, Gabriel watched the water in the basin turn pink, then crimson, with his blood.
“Swallow these pills.”
“Cyanide?”
“For the pain. You’ll feel a little better. Trust us.”
Gabriel did as he was told, swallowing the tablets with some difficulty. They allowed him to sit for a few minutes. Before long the throbbing in his head and limbs began to subside. He knew it was not gone-only a short postponement.
“Ready to get on your feet?”
“That depends on where you’re taking me.”
“Come on, let us help you.”
They each grasped him gingerly by an arm and lifted.
“Can you stand up? Can you walk?”
He put his right foot forward, but the deep contusions in his thigh muscles made his leg collapse. They managed to catch him before he could hit the floor again and for some reason found great humor in this.
“Take it slowly. Little steps for a little man.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise. It won’t hurt, though. We promise.”
They led him through the door. Outside, a corridor stretched before him like a tunnel, long and white, with a marble floor and an arched ceiling. The air smelled of chlorine.
“Where are the paintings?”
“What… paintings?”
“Where is Anna Rolfe?”
“Who?”
“Keep going.”
Another knifelike blow to his right kidney. Another iron fist to his face. Another boot to his groin.
“Where are the paintings?”
Silence…
“Where is Anna Rolfe?”
Silence…
“He’s done for now. Let him lie there.”
HE searched the rooms of his memory for a quiet place to rest. Behind too many doors he discovered blood and fire and could find no peace. He held his son, he made love to his wife. The room where he found her nude body was their bedroom in Vienna, and the encounter he relived was their last. He wandered through paintings he had restored-through oil and pigment and deserts of bare canvas-until he arrived on a terrace, a terrace above a sea of gold leaf and apricot, bathed in the sienna light of sunset and the liquid music of a violin.
TWO guards came in. Gabriel assumed it was time for another beating. Instead, they carefully unlocked the handcuffs and spent the next ten minutes cleaning and bandaging his wounds. They worked with the tenderness of morticians dressing a dead man. Through swollen eyes, Gabriel watched the water in the basin turn pink, then crimson, with his blood.
“Swallow these pills.”
“Cyanide?”
“For the pain. You’ll feel a little better. Trust us.”
Gabriel did as he was told, swallowing the tablets with some difficulty. They allowed him to sit for a few minutes. Before long the throbbing in his head and limbs began to subside. He knew it was not gone-only a short postponement.
“Ready to get on your feet?”
“That depends on where you’re taking me.”
“Come on, let us help you.”
They each grasped him gingerly by an arm and lifted.
“Can you stand up? Can you walk?”
He put his right foot forward, but the deep contusions in his thigh muscles made his leg collapse. They managed to catch him before he could hit the floor again and for some reason found great humor in this.
“Take it slowly. Little steps for a little man.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise. It won’t hurt, though. We promise.”
They led him through the door. Outside, a corridor stretched before him like a tunnel, long and white, with a marble floor and an arched ceiling. The air smelled of chlorine.