Circle of Bones - Kling Christine (полная версия книги txt) 📗
The silver-haired man crushed his cigarette out and then flicked a finger in the air without glancing inside the cafe. He reached into his back pocket, withdrew a slender wallet, and by the time the waiter arrived with their bill on a saucer, he dropped a handful of colorful euro bills on the plate. Once the waiter was out of earshot, Caliban leaned close to Dig’s ear.
“As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Thor, it never happened. Keep it that way. What is down there and why it’s there, could change everything. This administration is already on rocky ground as it is. This would not only ruin their legacy. Not to be over dramatic, son, but it would change history.”
Dig drew back, the corners of his mouth pulled down in disgust. Son. Someday, he would make this man regret his choice of words. “I won’t go into this blind.”
The older man leaned back in his chair and sighed. Then, turning away and gazing across the street, he said, “You don’t have any choice, Thor.” He reached up and ran his palm over his head, smoothing hair that didn’t need smoothing. He sat forward again and said, “I can tell you this. We have managed since the beginning to stay in the shadows. That’s the only way an organization like ours can be effective. If these documents exist, they could verify the extent of our influence. That’s all I can tell you.”
Documents. At least he now knew that much. But it was crumbs, he thought. Dig nodded. When the time came, he would get a look at this, whatever it was, himself. These documents would be his.
Caliban continued. “We don’t need somebody, anybody, finding this now — or at a future date. It doesn’t exist. We need you to make sure of that.”
Dig nodded again. They needed him. “It doesn’t exist. I’ll make sure.”
The man stood, glanced at the gold watch on his wrist and placed a hand on Dig’s shoulder. Dig held his breath, calming the desire to shake off the hand.
“You’ve had years of experience dealing with this sort of thing, Thor. Yorick taught you well. I speak for all the others when I say we have every confidence in you.”
“As you should.”
Diggory watched the silver-haired man cross the Place de la Victoire and disappear into a narrow street. He stretched out the fingers of his right hand and then, starting with his pinkie, one finger at a time, he folded them into a clenched fist. He rotated the fist on his wrist. He repeated this over and over, flexing and strengthening the muscles of his right hand, as he stared unseeing at the passers-by.
It had been a while since anyone had mentioned Yorick’s name to him. Since his forced retirement, this new lot tried to pretend the old man never existed. Feared they’d never quite live up to the legend.
After presiding as Uncle Toby at Diggory’s initiation and doing his damnedest to drive off the fatherless youth, Yorick had followed Diggory’s career. The old man began to appear like a dark shadow, laughing when Dig’s waitress mother hugged him at graduation or writing effusive letters of recommendation when Diggory applied for jobs. Later favors had done little to change what Diggory felt every time he thought of his first night in the Tomb. That empty, wandering eye and the other, the one that always judged him and found him wanting. Diggory had played the role of pet mutt, sitting at the great man’s knee and soaking up the knowledge. And only he knew that one day this dog would turn on its master. That day was nearly here.
This Caliban was not up to Yorick’s standard. Though they were relatively small in numbers and decidedly elite, there were still incompetents within their circle. Not many, though. He had to grant that. He hadn’t made up his mind about this Caliban, yet. Using the barbarians was a mistake, of that he was certain. Yorick never would have tolerated it. But, for the moment, Diggory had no choice. For more than fifteen years he had worked hard in order to prove himself. In order to rise in the ranks. Biding his time until the time was right. Now, men like Caliban — and Yorick — were on their way out. Whether they knew it or not.
He stood and walked out of the cafe then paused at the street, undecided about which way to turn. Though it was only just past six, it was dusk already. Strings of colored lights had been looped across the street the full length of the Place de la Victoire giving the evening a festive air. Caribbean pop music spilled from the restaurant on the corner.
His rendezvous with the barbarians wasn’t until eight. And after that, nothing scheduled until his meeting tomorrow evening. That was the important one. Like the old adage about killing two birds with one stone. Literally.
He could take an early dinner, handle the meeting and then retire, or he could telephone that little German schoolteacher he had met out at Saint Francois in the discotheque. She had been drinking zombies like they were water and each time the bartender served her another drink, she showed him how she could tie a knot in the stem of a maraschino cherry with her tongue. He smiled at the memory. She would be delighted to hear from him after she’d nearly begged him to stay in her room last night.
Something to pass the time, to take the edge off. That was what he needed. So tomorrow, when he met her, he could play it cool.
He pulled out the small cell phone he had purchased for local use and cursed when he saw it had no signal. The damned French couldn’t even build a cell phone network that worked. He had used the phone earlier down by the waterfront, so he began to walk in that direction. When he arrived at the Rue Duplessis, the phone was working, and he scrolled through his recent calls for her number.
On the periphery of his vision, he saw movement. He scanned the area with a quick glance. There was a woman, down on the quay, waving her hands and shouting. She was wearing khaki shorts and a white polo shirt that showed off a firm, compact shape with tanned and muscular legs. Her auburn hair was cropped short, and it curled at the back of her long neck. He was thinking there was a certain resemblance, but the hair was different. Then, she threw her arms into the air and walked around in a circle. He saw her face. Diggory smiled like a boy who had just received an early Christmas gift.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Atlantic south of Bermuda
February 12, 1942
Woolsey scrambled into a crouch and peered into the dark. He’d recognized the voice. “McKay, you bastard, you scared the friggin’ daylights out of me.”
“Piss off.”
“What about Mullins?”
“Over here, sir.”
“Glad to know you’re both all right, then.”
“S’not what it sounded like to me.” Sean McKay, the telegraphist, was a career Navy man serving in his second world war. Built like a cartoon seaman with massive biceps, one of which sported an anchor tattoo, and a neck near as wide as his head, he looked more like he belonged in an old boiler room than where he was usually found — in the radio room hunched over the telegraph key with his headset on. He filled the tiny compartment, but he had one of the fastest hands in the British Navy. He had made it plain from day one that he didn’t like the young lieutenant. Woolsey had heard McKay call him “Lord Muck” and “Lieutenant La-ti-da” under his breath due to his RNVR rating from the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. Woolsey had been attending university in America only a few months earlier when he returned home to join up.
“So what happened to the two of you?”
“I was in my bunk, sir,” Mullins said. His voice was close to an octave higher than McKay’s. They made an odd couple. Mullins, a refined, self-educated lad, was born to working class parents, but his innate intelligence was getting him ahead. Already, his tastes ran to classical music and opera. Woolsey supposed the boy was a poof, but it was none of his business.
