JК
The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 76 из 209Something familiar, a flash, nothing more.
He turned his attention to the canvas and murmured a few kind words about the quality of the brushwork and the draftsmanship. “You seem to know something about art, Herr Ulbricht,” Müller said.
“Just enough so that I spend all my money buying paintings I really can’t afford,” said Gabriel, and the two men shared a good-natured laugh.
Gabriel lifted his eyes from the Hirn and glanced out the window toward the café. There it was again, the sensation that he had seen something, or someone, before. He scanned the tables beneath the awning, and then he saw it. The man, folding his newspaper, standing up, walking away quickly. A man in a hurry, a man late for an important meeting. Gabriel had seen the man before.
The man who had just left the gallery…
Gabriel turned and glanced at the attaché. Then he looked out the window again, but the man had rounded a corner and was gone.
“Is there something wrong, Herr Ulbricht?”
Gabriel grabbed Müller’s forearm. “You have to get out of the gallery! Now!”
The art dealer twisted his arm and broke Gabriel’s grasp. He was surprisingly powerful.
“Get your hand off me, you madman!”
Gabriel grabbed Müller’s arm again, but once again he pulled away.
“Get out of here, or I’m going to call the police.”
Gabriel could have easily subdued Müller, but he guessed there wasn’t time. He turned and walked quickly toward the door. By the time he arrived, Müller had released the security locks. Gabriel stepped into the street and started walking in the direction of the hotel.
And then the bomb exploded-a deafening thunderclap that knocked Gabriel to his hands and knees. He stood and started walking again as the sound of the blast echoed along the graceful facades of the surrounding streets. Then there was something that sounded like a tropical downpour but it was only the glass, raining onto the pavement from a thousand shattered windows. He raised his hands to shield his face but after a few seconds his fingers ran red with his own blood.
The shower of glass ended, the echo of the explosion receded into the distance. Gabriel resisted the impulse to look over his shoulder at the devastation. He had seen the results of a street bomb before and could imagine the scene behind him. Burning cars, blackened buildings, a devastated café, bodies, and blood, the stunned looks on the faces of the survivors.
He turned his attention to the canvas and murmured a few kind words about the quality of the brushwork and the draftsmanship. “You seem to know something about art, Herr Ulbricht,” Müller said.
“Just enough so that I spend all my money buying paintings I really can’t afford,” said Gabriel, and the two men shared a good-natured laugh.
Gabriel lifted his eyes from the Hirn and glanced out the window toward the café. There it was again, the sensation that he had seen something, or someone, before. He scanned the tables beneath the awning, and then he saw it. The man, folding his newspaper, standing up, walking away quickly. A man in a hurry, a man late for an important meeting. Gabriel had seen the man before.
The man who had just left the gallery…
Gabriel turned and glanced at the attaché. Then he looked out the window again, but the man had rounded a corner and was gone.
“Is there something wrong, Herr Ulbricht?”
Gabriel grabbed Müller’s forearm. “You have to get out of the gallery! Now!”
The art dealer twisted his arm and broke Gabriel’s grasp. He was surprisingly powerful.
“Get your hand off me, you madman!”
Gabriel grabbed Müller’s arm again, but once again he pulled away.
“Get out of here, or I’m going to call the police.”
Gabriel could have easily subdued Müller, but he guessed there wasn’t time. He turned and walked quickly toward the door. By the time he arrived, Müller had released the security locks. Gabriel stepped into the street and started walking in the direction of the hotel.
And then the bomb exploded-a deafening thunderclap that knocked Gabriel to his hands and knees. He stood and started walking again as the sound of the blast echoed along the graceful facades of the surrounding streets. Then there was something that sounded like a tropical downpour but it was only the glass, raining onto the pavement from a thousand shattered windows. He raised his hands to shield his face but after a few seconds his fingers ran red with his own blood.
The shower of glass ended, the echo of the explosion receded into the distance. Gabriel resisted the impulse to look over his shoulder at the devastation. He had seen the results of a street bomb before and could imagine the scene behind him. Burning cars, blackened buildings, a devastated café, bodies, and blood, the stunned looks on the faces of the survivors.