Night Probe! - Cussler Clive (онлайн книги бесплатно полные txt) 📗

Pitt stood for a long minute, staring up at the hill as if challenging it. He picked up a rock and threw it into the darkness of the slope. Then he turned and climbed back behind the steering wheel. The engine came to life and the car made a U-turn. Only when the taillights became dim red specks did Shaw and Macklin stand up.

"I thought for a moment that you were going to order me to snuff the beggar," said Macklin.

"The thought crossed my mind," reed Shaw. "No sense in prodding a hornet's nest. Things should get warm enough come daylight. "Who do you suppose he was?"

"That," said Shaw slowly, "was the enemy."

It was good to capture a moment of togetherness. Danielle looked radiant in a bareback dinner dress of green shadow-print silk chiffon. Her hair was center-parted and swept back with a comb of gilded flowers decorating one side. A gold spiral choker adorned her throat. The candlelight glinted in her eyes when she glanced across the table.

As the maid cleared the dishes, Sarveux leaned over and kissed her softly on one hand.

"Must you go?"

"I'm afraid so," she said, pouring him a brandy. "My new fall wardrobe is ready at Vivonnes, and I made an early appointment for tomorrow morning to have my final fittings."

"Why must you always fly to Quebec? Why can't you find a dressmaker in Ottawa?" Danielle gave a little laugh and stroked his hair.

"Because I prefer the fashion designers in Quebec to the dressmakers of Ottawa."

"We never seem to have a moment alone."

"You're always busy running the country."

"I can't argue the point. However, when I do make time for you, you're always committed elsewhere."

"I'm the wife of the Prime Minister," she smiled. "I can't close my eyes and turn my back on the duties expected of me."

"Don't go," he said tonelessly.

"Surely you want me to look nice for our social engagements," she pouted.

"Where will you be staying?"

"Where I always stay when I spend the night in Quebec City at Nanci Soult's townhouse."

"I'd feel better if you returned home in the evening."

"Nothing will happen, Charles." She bent down and kissed him lukewarmly on the cheek. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. We'll talk then."

"I love you, Danielle," he said quietly. "My dearest wish is to grow old with you by my side. I want you to know that." Her only reply was the sound of a door shutting.

The townhouse was in Nanci Soult's name, a fact that was unknown to Nanci herself.

A best- selling novelist and a native Canadian, she lived in Ireland to beat the staggering taxes brought on by inflation. Her visits to family and friends in Vancouver were infrequent, and she had not set foot in Quebec in over twenty years.

The routine never varied.

As soon as the official car dropped Danielle at the townhouse and a Mountie was stationed outside the entrance gate, she went from room to room slamming doors, flushing the toilet and setting the FM radio dial on a station that broadcast soothing music.

When her presence was secure, she walked into a closet and parted the clothes, revealing a door that led into a seldom used stairwell in the adjoining building.

She hurried down the steps to a single-car, interior garage that opened on a back alley. Henri Villon waited punctually in his Mercedes-Benz. He reached over and embraced her as she leaned across the front seat.

Danielle relaxed for the automatic response of his kiss. But the show of affection was fleeting. He pushed her back and his expression turned businesslike.

"I hope this is important," he said. "It's becoming more difficult to break away."

"Can this be the same man who recklessly made love to me in the Prime Minister's mansion?"

"I wasn't about to be elected President of Quebec then."

She withdrew to her side of the car and sighed. She could sense that the excitement and passion of their clandestine meetings was fading. There was no illusion to be shattered. She had never kidded herself into believing their special relationship could go on forever. All that was left now was to bury the hurt and remain cordial, if not intimate friends. "Shall we go somewhere?" he saidlbreaking her reverie. "No, just drive around."

He pressed the button to the electric garage door opener and backed into the alley. The traffic was light as he drove down to the riverfront and joined a short line of cars waiting to board the ferry to the east shore.

Nothing more was said between them until Villon steered the Mercedes up the ramp and parked near the bow, where they had a view of the lights dancing on the St. Lawrence. "We have a crisis on our hands," she said finally. "Does it concern you and me or Quebec?"

"All three." "You sound grim."

"I mean to be," she paused. "Charles is going to resign as Prime Minister of Canada and run for President of Quebec."

He turned and stared at her. "Repeat that."

"My husband is going to announce his candidacy for President of Quebec."

Villon shook his head in exasperation. "I can't believe he'd do it. That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Why? There's no rhyme or reason for such a stupid decision."

"I think it stems from anger."

"He hates me that much?"

She lowered her eyes. "I think he suspects something between us. Perhaps even knows. He may be out for revenge."

"Not Charles. He's not given to childish reactions."

"I was always so careful. He must have had me followed. How else could he have caught on?"

Villon tilted his head back and laughed. "Because I as good as told him."

"You didn't!" she gasped.

"To hell with that fastidious little toad. Let him stew in righteous self-pity for all I care. There's no way the sniffling bastard can win the election. Charles Sarveux has few friends in the Parti quebecois. The mainstream of support belongs to me."

The ferry dock was only a hundred meters away when a man got out of the fifth car behind Villon's Mercedes sedan and joined the passengers returning to the parking deck after lining the railings to enjoy the view.

Through the rear window he could see two profiles in conversation, muffled voices seeping from the rolled-up windows.

Casually he moved alongside the Mercedes, pulled open the rear door as if he owned the car, and slipped into the back seat.

"Madame Sarveux, Monsieur Villon, good evening."

Confusion swept Danielle's and Villon's faces, replaced with disbelieving shock, then fear when they saw the.44 magnum revolver held in a rocklike hand, slowly wavering from one head to the other and back again.

Villon had genuine reason for his astonishment.

He felt as though he was staring in a mirror.

The man in the rear seat was his exact double, a twin, a clone. He could see every detail of the face from the spotlights on the landing dock that shone through the windshield.

Danielle let out a low moan that would have worked its way into a hysterical scream if the gun barrel hadn't whipped across her cheek.

The blood sprang from the gash in her otherwise flawless skin and she sucked in her breath at the instant agony.

"I have no qualms about striking a woman, so please spare yourself any senseless resistance." The voice was a precise imitation of Villon's.

"Who are you?" Villon demanded. "What do you want?"