JК
The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 41 из 209”
“You should try to get some rest tonight instead of sitting up all hours with the old ones in the village.”
“Why?”
“Because I have another job for you.”
“I just finished a job. Give it to one of the others.”
“It’s too sensitive.”
“You have a dossier?”
Orsati finished his lunch and swam lazy laps in the pool while the Englishman read. When he finished, he looked up. “What has this man done to deserve to die?”
“Apparently, he stole something quite valuable.”
The Englishman closed the file. He had no compunction about killing someone who stole for a living. In the Englishman’s opinion, a thief was earth’s lowest life-form.
“So why does this job require me?”
“Because the contractors would like the target dead and his business destroyed. The men who trained you at Hereford taught you how to use explosives. My men are comfortable with more conventional weapons.”
“Where am I going to get a bomb?”
Orsati climbed out of the pool and vigorously toweled his thick silver hair. “Do you know Pascal Debré?”
Unfortunately, the Englishman did know Pascal Debré. He was an arsonist who did jobs for a Marseilles-based criminal enterprise. Debré would have to be handled carefully.
“Debré knows to expect you. He’ll give you whatever you need for the job.”
“When do I leave?”
8
COSTA DE PRATA, PORTUGAL
BY ALL APPEARANCES the woman who had settled in the refurbished old monastery on the steep hill overlooking the sea had taken a vow to live the sequestered existence of an ascetic. For a long time no one in the village knew even her name. Senhora Rosa, the scandalmonger checkout clerk at the market, decided she was a woman scorned, and she inflicted her dubious theory on anyone unfortunate enough to pass by her register. It was Rosa who christened the woman Our Lady of the Hillside. The moniker clung to her, even after her real name became known.
She came to the village each morning to do her marketing, sweeping down the hill on her bright-red motor scooter, her blond ponytail flying behind her like a banner. In wet weather she wore a hooded anorak the color of mushrooms. There was a great deal of speculation about her country of origin. Her limited Portuguese was heavily accented. Carlos, the man who cared for the villa’s grounds and small vineyard, thought she had the accent of a German and the dark soul of a Viennese Jew. María, the pious woman who cleaned her home, decided she was Dutch. José from the fish market thought Danish.
“You should try to get some rest tonight instead of sitting up all hours with the old ones in the village.”
“Why?”
“Because I have another job for you.”
“I just finished a job. Give it to one of the others.”
“It’s too sensitive.”
“You have a dossier?”
Orsati finished his lunch and swam lazy laps in the pool while the Englishman read. When he finished, he looked up. “What has this man done to deserve to die?”
“Apparently, he stole something quite valuable.”
The Englishman closed the file. He had no compunction about killing someone who stole for a living. In the Englishman’s opinion, a thief was earth’s lowest life-form.
“So why does this job require me?”
“Because the contractors would like the target dead and his business destroyed. The men who trained you at Hereford taught you how to use explosives. My men are comfortable with more conventional weapons.”
“Where am I going to get a bomb?”
Orsati climbed out of the pool and vigorously toweled his thick silver hair. “Do you know Pascal Debré?”
Unfortunately, the Englishman did know Pascal Debré. He was an arsonist who did jobs for a Marseilles-based criminal enterprise. Debré would have to be handled carefully.
“Debré knows to expect you. He’ll give you whatever you need for the job.”
“When do I leave?”
8
COSTA DE PRATA, PORTUGAL
BY ALL APPEARANCES the woman who had settled in the refurbished old monastery on the steep hill overlooking the sea had taken a vow to live the sequestered existence of an ascetic. For a long time no one in the village knew even her name. Senhora Rosa, the scandalmonger checkout clerk at the market, decided she was a woman scorned, and she inflicted her dubious theory on anyone unfortunate enough to pass by her register. It was Rosa who christened the woman Our Lady of the Hillside. The moniker clung to her, even after her real name became known.
She came to the village each morning to do her marketing, sweeping down the hill on her bright-red motor scooter, her blond ponytail flying behind her like a banner. In wet weather she wore a hooded anorak the color of mushrooms. There was a great deal of speculation about her country of origin. Her limited Portuguese was heavily accented. Carlos, the man who cared for the villa’s grounds and small vineyard, thought she had the accent of a German and the dark soul of a Viennese Jew. María, the pious woman who cleaned her home, decided she was Dutch. José from the fish market thought Danish.