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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 70 из 209He made his way to the fifth arrondissement, where he checked into a small hotel on the rue St-Jacques. He remained in his room throughout the early evening, had a brief nap, then went downstairs to the lobby, where he left his room key with the desk clerk and collected a stack of tourist maps and brochures. He smiled stupidly at the clerk- My first time in Paris.
Outside it was raining heavily. The Englishman dropped the maps and the brochures into a rubbish bin and made his way through the wet streets of the seventh to the Seine. And by nine o’clock he was sheltering beneath a dripping plane tree on the Quai d’Orleans, waiting for Pascal Debré.
A barge moved slowly past him, warm light glowing in the wheelhouse and the cabin. A short distance down the pier, three men were drinking wine from a bottle and night fishing by the light of a streetlamp. He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket and looked at the luminous face of his wristwatch. A few minutes past midnight. Where the hell was Debré? The rain picked up, slapping against the stone pier. He touched his hair. The platinum color was beginning to run.
Five minutes later he heard footsteps on the quay. He turned and saw a man walking toward him: polyester trousers, cheap boots, a waist-length leather jacket shiny with rain. He joined the Englishman beneath the tree and held out his hand. The last two fingers were missing.
“You picked a damned lousy spot to meet on a night like this, Pascal. What the hell took you so long?”
“I didn’t select it for the view, my friend.” He spoke patois with the accent of a southerner. With his two remaining fingers he pointed toward the three men drinking wine down the pier. “You see those boys? They work for me. And the barge that went past a moment ago? He works for me, too. We wanted to make sure you weren’t being followed.”
Debré shoved his hands into his pockets. The Englishman looked him over.
“Where’s the package?”
“At the warehouse.”
“You were supposed to bring it here.”
“The Paris police have been running spot checks all night. Something about a bomb threat. One of the Arab groups. Algerian, I think. It wasn’t safe to bring it with me now.”
The Englishman hadn’t seen any spot checks. “If there are spot checks, how am I going to get the package back into the city?”
“That’s your problem, my friend.”
“Where’s the warehouse?”
“The docks, a few miles down the river.” He cocked his head in the direction of the Latin Quarter. “I have a car.
Outside it was raining heavily. The Englishman dropped the maps and the brochures into a rubbish bin and made his way through the wet streets of the seventh to the Seine. And by nine o’clock he was sheltering beneath a dripping plane tree on the Quai d’Orleans, waiting for Pascal Debré.
A barge moved slowly past him, warm light glowing in the wheelhouse and the cabin. A short distance down the pier, three men were drinking wine from a bottle and night fishing by the light of a streetlamp. He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket and looked at the luminous face of his wristwatch. A few minutes past midnight. Where the hell was Debré? The rain picked up, slapping against the stone pier. He touched his hair. The platinum color was beginning to run.
Five minutes later he heard footsteps on the quay. He turned and saw a man walking toward him: polyester trousers, cheap boots, a waist-length leather jacket shiny with rain. He joined the Englishman beneath the tree and held out his hand. The last two fingers were missing.
“You picked a damned lousy spot to meet on a night like this, Pascal. What the hell took you so long?”
“I didn’t select it for the view, my friend.” He spoke patois with the accent of a southerner. With his two remaining fingers he pointed toward the three men drinking wine down the pier. “You see those boys? They work for me. And the barge that went past a moment ago? He works for me, too. We wanted to make sure you weren’t being followed.”
Debré shoved his hands into his pockets. The Englishman looked him over.
“Where’s the package?”
“At the warehouse.”
“You were supposed to bring it here.”
“The Paris police have been running spot checks all night. Something about a bomb threat. One of the Arab groups. Algerian, I think. It wasn’t safe to bring it with me now.”
The Englishman hadn’t seen any spot checks. “If there are spot checks, how am I going to get the package back into the city?”
“That’s your problem, my friend.”
“Where’s the warehouse?”
“The docks, a few miles down the river.” He cocked his head in the direction of the Latin Quarter. “I have a car.