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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 69 из 209Oded, who was monitoring the bug from a van parked around the corner, suffered from a chronic headache. He asked Gabriel if he could borrow a Beretta to shoot the dog and be done with it. And when Müller took the dog for a walk along the river, Oded begged for authorization to toss the beast over the embankment.
The monotony was broken Saturday evening by the arrival of a high-priced whore called Veronique. She slapped him. He cried and called her “Mama.” The barking of the dog reached a feverish pitch. After two hours Oded, who considered himself something of a man of the world, had to leave the surveillance van for a bit of fresh air and a drink at the brasserie on the opposite side of the street. “A fuck for the ages,” he told Gabriel afterward. “A clinic of depravity. It will be required listening for the boys in Psych Ops at King Saul Boulevard.”
No one was more pleased than Oded when a gray and wet Monday dawned over Paris. Müller had one final quarrel with the dog before slamming the door of his apartment and heading into the street. Oded watched him through the blacked-out glass of the surveillance van, an expression of pure loathing on his face. Then he raised the radio to his lips to check in with Gabriel at the Hôtel Laurens. “Looks like Romeo’s heading to the gallery. He’s your problem now.”
And then the dog started up again, a few intermittent barks, like the crack of sniper fire, then an all-out artillery barrage. Oded removed his headphones and cradled his head in his hands.
16
PARIS
THE ENGLISHMAN, like Gabriel Allon, came to Paris by way of the Côte d’Azur, having made the night passage from Corsica to the mainland on the Calvi-to-Nice ferry. Coincidentally, he also rented a car in Nice-not at the airport but on the boulevard Victor-Hugo, a few blocks from the water. It was a Ford Fiesta that pulled badly to the right, and it made his drive more challenging than he would have preferred.
One hour from Paris, he pulled into a roadside café and gas station and entered the men’s room. There he changed his clothing, trading his cotton trousers and woolen sweater for a sleek black suit. He used stage makeup to turn his sand-colored hair to platinum and slipped on a pair of rose-tinted eyeglasses. When he was finished, even he did not recognize the man in the mirror. He removed a Canadian passport from his bag and looked at the photograph: Claude Devereaux, two years until expiration. He slipped the passport into his jacket pocket and walked to the car.
It was late afternoon by the time he reached the outskirts of the city, the sky low and heavy, a half-hearted rain.
The monotony was broken Saturday evening by the arrival of a high-priced whore called Veronique. She slapped him. He cried and called her “Mama.” The barking of the dog reached a feverish pitch. After two hours Oded, who considered himself something of a man of the world, had to leave the surveillance van for a bit of fresh air and a drink at the brasserie on the opposite side of the street. “A fuck for the ages,” he told Gabriel afterward. “A clinic of depravity. It will be required listening for the boys in Psych Ops at King Saul Boulevard.”
No one was more pleased than Oded when a gray and wet Monday dawned over Paris. Müller had one final quarrel with the dog before slamming the door of his apartment and heading into the street. Oded watched him through the blacked-out glass of the surveillance van, an expression of pure loathing on his face. Then he raised the radio to his lips to check in with Gabriel at the Hôtel Laurens. “Looks like Romeo’s heading to the gallery. He’s your problem now.”
And then the dog started up again, a few intermittent barks, like the crack of sniper fire, then an all-out artillery barrage. Oded removed his headphones and cradled his head in his hands.
16
PARIS
THE ENGLISHMAN, like Gabriel Allon, came to Paris by way of the Côte d’Azur, having made the night passage from Corsica to the mainland on the Calvi-to-Nice ferry. Coincidentally, he also rented a car in Nice-not at the airport but on the boulevard Victor-Hugo, a few blocks from the water. It was a Ford Fiesta that pulled badly to the right, and it made his drive more challenging than he would have preferred.
One hour from Paris, he pulled into a roadside café and gas station and entered the men’s room. There he changed his clothing, trading his cotton trousers and woolen sweater for a sleek black suit. He used stage makeup to turn his sand-colored hair to platinum and slipped on a pair of rose-tinted eyeglasses. When he was finished, even he did not recognize the man in the mirror. He removed a Canadian passport from his bag and looked at the photograph: Claude Devereaux, two years until expiration. He slipped the passport into his jacket pocket and walked to the car.
It was late afternoon by the time he reached the outskirts of the city, the sky low and heavy, a half-hearted rain.