Джеймс твайнинг черное солнц
Ash cash. That’s what medical students call it. Every cremation or burial release form requires a doctor’s signature, and every signature earns its donor a small fee. Death could be good business for a doctor who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.
To Dr. John Bennett, however, shouldering the icy rain as he walked briskly over to the main hospital building from the ugly hulk of the accommodation block, the prospect of a few extra quid was small compensation for being paged at three a.m. Very small. As if to emphasize the hour, Big Ben, its face suspended in the air like a small moon on the other side of the river, chose that moment to chime, each heavy, deadened strike shaking Bennett a little further awake.
He stepped out of the cold into the warm blast of the heaters positioned in the entrance vestibule, the sudden change in temperature making his glasses fog. He took them off and wiped them clean on his shirt, the moisture streaking across the lens.
A red LED display glowed into life overhead as the elevator made its way down to him, the declining numbers scrolling rhythmically across the panel. Eventually, there was a muffled sound of machinery as it slowed and the door opened. He stepped inside, noting as the elevator lurched upward that the bronzed mirrors made him look healthier than he felt.
A few moments later, he walked out onto the ward, the wet soles of his shoes faintly marking the scarlet linoleum. The corridor ahead of him was dark, the lights dimmed apart from the emergency exit signs that glared green above the doors at either end.
«Doctor?» A woman’s voice rang out through the gloom. He slipped his glasses back on to identify the approaching figure.
«Morning, Laura,» Bennett greeted her with a warm smile. «Don’t tell me you’ve killed another one of my patients?» She shrugged helplessly. «I’ve had a bad week.»
«Who was it this time?»
«Hammon? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. He was in a pretty bad way.»
«He was fine when I came on duty. But when I looked in…»
«People get old,» Bennett said gently, sensing she was upset. «There’s nothing you could have done.» She smiled at him gratefully. «Anyway, I’d better take a look. Have you got the paperwork ready?»
«It’s in the office.»
The windowless room was positioned about halfway down the ward, the only light coming from the glow of two surveillance monitors and the LED display of the video recorder beneath them. One monitor showed the corridor where they had just been standing; the other flicked between the patients’ rooms, pausing a few seconds in each. The rooms were identical, a single narrow bed dominating the space with a few chairs drawn up under the window and a TV set fixed high up on the facing wall. The only variation was in the quantity of flowers and get-well cards on one side of the bed and monitoring and resuscitation equipment on the other. Unsurprisingly, there seemed to be a direct correlation between the two.
Laura rummaged around on the desk for the file, the blue glow from the monitors staining her red nails purple.
«Do you want the light on?»
«Please,» she replied, without looking up.
Bennett reached for the switch, when suddenly something caught his eye. The roving camera had settled momentarily in one of the patients’ rooms. Two dark figures were silhouetted against the open doorway, one slight, the other improbably tall.
«Who’s that?» Bennett said with a frown. The picture jumped to the next room. «Quick, get it back.»
Laura switched the system to manual and scanned the rooms one by one until she found the men.
«It’s Mr. Weissman’s room,» she said in a low, uncertain voice.
The two figures were now standing on either side of the bed looking down at the sleeping patient. Even on the monitor he looked thin and frail, his skin pinched, his cheeks hollowed by age. Various wires and tubes emerged from under the bedclothes and led to a heart-rate monitor and some sort of drip.
«What the hell are they playing at?» Bennett’s surprise had given way to irritation. «You can’t just come in here whenever you feel like it. What do people think we have visiting hours for? I’m calling security.»
As Bennett reached for the phone, the tall man on the left snatched a pillow out from under the sleeping man’s head. He awoke immediately, his eyes wide with surprise and then, as he blinked at the two men looming above him, fear. His mouth moved to speak, but whatever sound he might have been trying to make was smothered as the pillow was roughly pushed down onto his face. Helplessly, his arms and legs flapped, like a goldfish that had leapt out if its bowl.
«Jesus Christ!» Bennett gasped, his voice now a whisper. He jammed the phone to his ear, the white plastic slippery against his sweaty skin. Hearing nothing, he tapped the hook switch a few times before locking eyes with Laura. «It’s dead.»
Источник
Джеймс твайнинг черное солнц
Из всего написанного интереснее было читать про общение внутри компании друзей, а вот линия «из друга в любовники» показалась скучной.
Укушенная королём (ЛП)
Невозможно читать. Отвратный перевод.
Иллюзия бессмертия [СИ]
Фанаты сериала Чужестранка мимо обложки однозначно не пройдут )) Очень неплохо . Стройный достаточно динамичный сюжет. Можно почитать .
Кафе «Золотая чешуйка» или Окрошка для дракоши (СИ)
Во-первых, героиня из разряда везучих персонажей: и магию сильную получила, и родителя нашла, и её всегда спасут в критический момент. Только вот с глупостью она. Во-вторых, в начале очень бесит поведение
The Black Sun
Рейтинг: 0.0/5 (Всего голосов: 0)
Аннотация
It is a secret that has been hidden for more than a half century… The clues have been scattered across the globe. Now someone has begun to piece them together — and the future of the world depends on his being stopped in time.
In Maryland, a vicious gang breaks into the National Cryptologic Museum and steals a Nazi Enigma machine. In a London hospital, an Auschwitz survivor is murdered in his bed, his killers making off with a macabre trophy — his severed left arm. In Prague, a seemingly worthless painting is stolen from a synagogue. Three cities. Three puzzling thefts. Could there possibly be a connection?
When former art thief Tom Kirk is first asked to investigate, the Prague theft certainly seems unremarkable enough — until the stolen painting turns up alongside the amputated human arm. As Tom digs deeper into the past, both items appear to be elements in an elaborate trail of clues laid down in the dying days of the Third Reich by a secret order of SS knights — clues that stretch from the remote mountains of Idaho to the snowy streets of St. Petersburg and ultimately lead to a fabled treasure lost in the ashes of war.
Spurred on by the sinister light of the Black Sun emblem, ghosts from his past, and the poisonous manipulations of a deadly enemy, Tom finds himself trapped in a situation where the greatest prize of all is life itself — and not just his own…
Источник
Джеймс твайнинг черное солнц
Из всего написанного интереснее было читать про общение внутри компании друзей, а вот линия «из друга в любовники» показалась скучной.
Укушенная королём (ЛП)
Невозможно читать. Отвратный перевод.
Иллюзия бессмертия [СИ]
Фанаты сериала Чужестранка мимо обложки однозначно не пройдут )) Очень неплохо . Стройный достаточно динамичный сюжет. Можно почитать .
Кафе «Золотая чешуйка» или Окрошка для дракоши (СИ)
Во-первых, героиня из разряда везучих персонажей: и магию сильную получила, и родителя нашла, и её всегда спасут в критический момент. Только вот с глупостью она. Во-вторых, в начале очень бесит поведение
Черното слънце
Рейтинг: 5.0/5 (Всего голосов: 1)
Аннотация
Оцелял затворник от Аушвиц е убит в болничното си легло в Лондон. Убийците му изчезват със зловещ трофей — отрязаната му лява ръка.
От другата страна на Атлантическия океан жестока банда нахлува с взлом в музея на АНС и отмъква машина „Енигма“ от Втората световна война.
От синагога в Прага е открадната картина без никаква стойност.
Минава една година, откакто Том Кърк, най-добрият крадец в света на произведения на изкуството, решава да загърби престъпното си минало. След това са извършени три големи обира и Том неочаквано се изправя пред смъртоносна загадка и злокобно лице от миналото.
Три града, три големи престъпления. Възможно ли е да има връзка?
Бързо развиващ се приключенски трилър на прекрасни места по света и неразкрита загадка.
Интриги, убийства и легендарно съкровище — всичките съставни части на увлекателно четиво.
Источник
Джеймс твайнинг черное солнц
She gave a short, sharp scream.
Tom was across the room in an instant. She pointed into the freezer, the cold air swirling inside it like fog on a wet winter’s morning. Tom could just about make out what she was pointing at.
An arm. A human arm. And it was holding a rolled-up canvas.
The large H-shaped farmhouse and its rambling assortment of outbuildings nestled in a wide clearing in the middle of the forest. A single dirt track, wide enough for one car, snaked its way over three miles back to the nearest blacktop. Here and there animal tracks materialized and then faded away again, hinting at life without ever fully confirming it, the forest’s muffled silence broken only by the call of an occasional eagle knifing through the air far overhead before vanishing into the sun.
Bailey lay in the snow, hidden among the trees, the crisp blue vault of the sky just about visible through their dark, oily branches. He was already cold, and now he could feel the moisture seeping in through the knees of his supposedly waterproof trousers. Viggiano was lying on one side of him, a pair of binoculars glued to his face, with Sheriff Hennessy on the other.
«How many people did you say were in there?» asked Viggiano.
«Twenty to twenty-five,» Bailey replied, shifting position to relieve the stiffness in his arms. «Each family’s got their own bedroom in the side extensions. They all eat and hang out together in the main building.»
«Goddamned cousin-fuckers,» Viggiano muttered. Bailey sensed Hennessy shifting uneasily beside him.
Viggiano picked up his radio. «Okay, Vasquez — move in.»
Two teams of seven men rose from their hiding places along Phase Line Yellow, their final position for cover and concealment, and emerged running in single file from the trees at opposite ends of the outer perimeter. Still in formation, they vaulted over the low wooden fence and passed Phase Line Green, the point of no return, rapidly moving in on the front and rear entrances to the main building. Once there, they crouched along the side walls to the left of each door.
Using his own set of binoculars, Bailey checked the farmhouse for signs of life from inside — a shadow or a twitching curtain or a hurriedly extinguished light — but detected nothing apart from a few flakes of white paint peeling from the window frames and fluttering in the wind.
Then he ran his binoculars along the two SWAT teams in their helmets, gas masks, and bulletproof vests. Against the whiteness of the snow they looked like large black beetles, the visors on their helmets winking in the afternoon sun. In addition to submachine guns and pistols, one man in each unit was also equipped with a large metal battering ram.
«Okay,» came Vasquez’s voice over the radio. «Still no sign of activity inside. Alpha team, stand by.»
A voice amplified through a bullhorn rang out. «This is the FBI. You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up.»
«I said to keep it low-key, Vasquez, you macho idiot,» Viggiano muttered under his breath.
Silence from the farmstead.
Again the amplified voice blared out. «I repeat, this is the FBI. You have ten seconds to show yourselves.» Still nothing.
Viggiano’s radio crackled. «Nothing doing, sir. It’s your call.»
«Make the breach,» Viggiano ordered. «Now.» At each entrance the man with the battering ram stepped forward and slammed it into the lock. Both doors splintered on impact and flew open. A second man then lobbed a tear-gas canister through each open doorway. A few seconds later, the canisters exploded, sending dense, choking clouds of gas billowing out of the front and rear of the building.
«GO, GO, GO!» yelled Vasquez as the men disappeared into the house.
From their vantage point, Bailey could hear muffled shouting and the regular pop and fizz of further tear-gas grenades being let off, but nothing else. No screams. No crying children. Certainly not a gunshot. The seconds ticked by, then turned into minutes. This was going better than any of them had expected.
The radio crackled into life. «Sir, this is Vasquez… There’s nobody here.»
Viggiano pulled himself up into a crouching position and grabbed the radio. «Say again?»
«I said there’s nobody here. The place is empty. We searched every room, including the attic. It’s deserted and it looks like they left in a hurry. There’s half-eaten food on the table. The whole fucking place stinks.»
Bailey swapped a confused look with Viggiano and then with Hennessy, who looked genuinely concerned.
«There must be someone there, Vasquez. I’m coming down,» Viggiano said.
«Negative, sir. Not until we’ve secured the whole area.»
«I said, I’m coming down. You and your men stay put till I arrive. I want to see this for myself.»
«I need a drink.» Tom went to the decanter on the table and poured himself a large glass of cognac. He took a mouthful, swilling it around before swallowing it, and then sat down heavily in one of the armchairs and glanced around him.
This was only the second time he’d been to Archie’s place. It was a realization that brought home to Tom how little he knew about his partner — who he was, what his passions were, where his secrets lay — although he now saw that, after the evening’s revelations, he could say the same of Dominique. Perhaps that said more about him than either of them.
Despite this, he was able to detect in the room itself some hints of Archie’s character. Immediately apparent, for example, was his love of Art Deco, as evidenced by the Emile-Jacques Ruhlmann furniture and the various pieces of Marinot glassware that adorned the mantelpiece. And a collection of Edwardian gaming chips displayed in two framed cases on either side of the door betrayed his fascination with gambling.
More intriguing was the teak coffee table, which Tom immediately identified as a late nineteenth-century Chinese opium bed. The brass fittings around its edge would once have housed bamboo poles to support a silk canopy that preserved its occupant’s anonymity.
«Sorry about your game,» Tom said, his gaze returning to Archie as he settled into the chair opposite him.
«Don’t worry.» Archie dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. «I was losing anyway. Is she all right?» He tilted his head in the direction of the closed bathroom door in the hallway.
«She’ll be fine,» Tom said. If what he had learned about Dominique’s past had confirmed anything, it was her ability to tough it out.
«What the hell happened?»
Tom handed him the rolled-up canvas.
Archie unscrolled the painting on the coffee table. He looked up in surprise. «It’s the Bellak from Prague.» Tom nodded. «Where did you find it?» Archie ran his hands gently over the painting’s cracked surface, his fingers brushing against the ridges in the oil paint, pausing over a series of small holes that punctured its surface.
«It was a gift. Somebody kindly left it in my freezer.»
«In your what?» Archie wrinkled his forehead as if he hadn’t heard properly.
«In my freezer. And it wasn’t the only thing they left.»
Archie shook his head. «I’m not sure I even want to know.»
«There was a human arm in there too. In fact, come to think of it, it’s still in there.»
For once, Archie was speechless, his eyes bulging in disbelief. When he did manage to get a word out, it was in a strangled, almost angry voice.
«It’s that two-faced bastard Turnbull.» Tom laughed. «Come on, Archie. You said he checked out.»
Источник