Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell» — ознакомительный отрывок электронной книги совершенно бесплатно, а после прочтения отрывка купить полную версию. В некоторых случаях можно слушать аудио, скачать через торрент в формате fb2 и присутствует краткое содержание. Жанр: Триллер, на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале библиотеки ЛибКат.

Maps of Hell: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Maps of Hell»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

Maps of Hell — читать онлайн ознакомительный отрывок

Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «Maps of Hell», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.

Тёмная тема
Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

I had done what I could to prepare my stash of weapons when Lister called.

“Anacostia Marina, 7:30 a.m.,” he said. “If you look at a map, it’s northeast of the John Philip Sousa Bridge-a couple of miles before the Anacostia River meets the Potomac. He’s got this big black-and-silver motherfucker of a cabin cruiser. It’s called the Isolde. Oh, and he’s coming alone.”

“Yeah, right.” I grabbed my D.C. map and spotted the place.

“That’s what he told me, man.”

“All right, Gordy. Did you tell him about his sister?”

“Yeah.”

“How did he take it?”

“He didn’t start yelling and screaming, if that’s what you mean.”

“Cool as a cucumber, eh?”

“More like icy as the berg that gutted the Titanic. I gotta go, man.”

“You’re tainted goods with your employer, Gordy,” I said, unwilling to let him off the hook. “New Mexico might just be far enough.”

“Bullshit. Larry knows I’m okay.”

“Or maybe South America,” I continued. “There’s no shortage of Nazis there.”

“Hey, haven’t you noticed? There are Nazis everywhere. Get over it.”

He cut the connection. He’d said that Thomson knew he was okay. I would remember that. I still wasn’t convinced that Gordy Lister was in the clear over Joe’s death.

I looked at my watch. I had just over two hours. That should be enough time to reconnoiter the location and make the kind of preparations that I’d learned from Dave Cummings. I had the feeling Thomson might screw up-unless his trap was already in place. I put my weapons into a handyman’s bag and went down to reception. The guy wasn’t impressed when I asked him for some resealable plastic food bags from the kitchen, but a couple of twenties cheered him up. I put the bags in my pocket and went out onto the street. Round the corner, I picked up a cab.

The driver dropped me on the Anacostia side of the bridge. It was still dark and there weren’t many lights in the strip of parkland below. I went down and walked along the bank until I was opposite the marina. I couldn’t see any sign of a large cabin cruiser, which suited me fine. Squatting by a bush, I put a loaded Glock 17 into a plastic bag, sealed it and then slipped it into another bag. Then I took off my shirt and, using the roll of insulating tape that had been part of my tool kit, I strapped the bagged pistol onto my chest. After removing a long strip, I put the insulating tape into another bag and sealed it. That bag, I also lashed to my chest. Then I stripped to my boxer shorts and attached the sheathed combat knife to my belt, before putting the latter round my waist. I could have walked across the bridge and taken my chances with whatever kind of security there was at the marina, but I wasn’t going to risk being caught-at least, not before I’d given myself a fighting chance. I took a deep breath and lowered myself into the water. I wasn’t the greatest of swimmers, but I was in reasonable shape. The problem was going to be the water temperature.

And, I realized after I’d taken a few strokes, the current. I’d not considered that. Fortunately the river wasn’t much more than a hundred and fifty yards wide, though I must have swum a lot more than that and my feet and hands were tingling in the cold. I made it to one of the wooden piers and looked around. There were enough lights for me to see that the pier I was at was the only one with clear space at the end. That was where Thomson would have to moor his cruiser. I clambered up the stanchions, breathing heavily and stood on the one beneath the end of the pier, the wind chilling me even more. With fumbling fingers, I managed to cut strips of tape and attach the bagged pistol to the underside so it was within reach if I lay on the decking above. Now all I had to do was swim back.

Because I was tired and cold, that proved to be a much harder job. At one point I thought I was going to be swept down to the Potomac, but somehow I kept going, flailing my arms and legs. I heaved myself out and used hotel towels to dry myself. Then I got back into my clothes and put on my watch. I had plenty of time to get dressed, making sure there was no dampness in my hair. I put Clem’s service revolver in my pocket-Thomson would no doubt expect me to be armed. I would hand it over with fake reluctance when he searched me.

I started walking around to get myself fully warmed up. During that time, I considered the name chosen for the boat, presumably by Larry Thomson-maybe his sister had her say, too. Tristan and Isolde were mythical doomed lovers and the Nazis’ favorite composer, Richard Wagner, had written an opera about them. It struck me that Thomson was taking a chance using a name that pointed so directly to his German roots. Maybe he was so arrogant that he thought he could get away with anything because he’d taken on a new identity. Then again, it was a fact that all sorts of people who maybe should have known better attended performances of Wagner’s work and openly proclaimed their admiration for it.

The lovers Tristan and Isolde: I wondered if there was some incestuous bond between the twins. I thought about Thomson’s sister. I hadn’t meant to kill Irma Rothmann, but my mind had been all over the place and I’d had a rush of blood when I acted. Although it wasn’t the first time I’d killed, the death of the Soul Collector’s sister had been an accident and I still regretted it. With the woman whose father had worked at Auschwitz, I seemed to be curiously unmoved. Thomson’s twin was a Nazi whose activities had probably led to many deaths and plenty of suffering at the camp, but I would still have expected some kind of emotional backlash.

Instead, I started thinking about the trigger that turned Gwen and Randy into vicious aggressors. All it had taken was the single word Barbarossa. I seemed to have a lot of information at my fingertips about it. My memory was still behaving very unpredictably-had this stuff been planted? Barbarossa, or Redbeard, was the nickname of Fredrick I of the Hohenstaufen dynasty, Holy Roman Emperor from 1155 until his death in 1190. He was a great general and natural leader, and an inspiration to future generations of Germans, particularly those driven by dreams of conquest-whence the use of his nickname for the Nazi operation to attack the Soviet Union.

I twitched my head and came back to the real world. The point was that hearing Barbarossa had made Gwen and Randy act in a way that was obviously preconditioned. Their escape from the camp was just a story. They were playing parts in some devious plan, pretending to be junkies, perhaps unaware or only partly aware of what was happening. Which led to another thought. Exactly why had they been hanging out in a disused warehouse in D.C.? Gordy Lister knew, I was sure of that. Letting him go was looking even more like a cardinal error. Had the twins been stashed there because of the proximity to the Capitol or the White House?

A siren on the other side of the river caught my attention. I waited till it faded, then hid the bag with my remaining gear under a bush and walked across the bridge. As I got to the other side, I saw a bulky shadow pass quietly underneath. It was a dark boat with silver trim and was showing only running lights. I reckoned that was the Isolde. It slowed as it approached the pier. I focused on my plan of action. It was only a few minutes’ walk to the marina. The gate had already been opened for early morning business. I went in and walked toward the piers. It was a relief to see the cruiser was heading where I had anticipated. As I approached that pier, two men stepped out of the shadows. So much for Thomson coming alone. I was patted down and relieved of my cell phone and revolver, and an electronic scanner was run over me to check for surveillance devices. Eventually I was pushed toward the boat. Looking round, I saw that the gorillas weren’t following me.

Читать дальше
Тёмная тема
Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Похожие книги на «Maps of Hell»

Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «Maps of Hell» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё непрочитанные произведения.


Отзывы о книге «Maps of Hell»

Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «Maps of Hell» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.

x