City Of Swords. Alex Archer
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Название: City Of Swords
Автор: Alex Archer
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9781472085535
isbn:
Horns blared, tires squealed and someone rolled down his window to spew a stream of curses. Annja dodged the cars, taking only a little more care than her quarry had, which cost her precious seconds.
The rain made the city a blend of blue-grays that caused the buildings and people to look almost surreal—a muted watercolor painting dripping all around her. The storm had increased in intensity in the minutes since she and Rembert had slipped down the bank for the ill-fated interview. Fat drops hammered the pavement and splashed back up like ricocheting bullets.
Her quarry was easy to make out from the other pedestrians braving the weather. None of them were running and pushing people out of their way, and nearly all of them had umbrellas or hats. She was about a block and a half behind him, gaining a little.
“Hé! Que faites-vous?” a pedestrian shouted at her as she nearly tipped him over.
“Sorry,” Annja called over her shoulder.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fous là, toi?” This from a young man not quite as polite as the first.
She tromped through a puddle, sending a spray of water at a stooped woman with a large blue umbrella.
“Appellez la police!” the offended woman hollered. “Appellez les flics! Elle m’a poussé, c’te vache!”
Annja grimaced. She hadn’t pushed the woman. No doubt the police would be arriving soon, anyway, especially if Rembert had called. Lord, what would he tell the cops? Would he mention her sword?
The buildings she thundered past were dirty from age and darkened by the storm. Everything seemed ancient compared to her neighborhood in Brooklyn. Signs on the sidewalk were a blur of colors; she was going too fast to read them.
She lost sight of him when he rounded a corner. When she skidded around it after him, the Palais des Papes loomed into view, the place where she and Rembert had first met “Jacques.” There! She snarled when she spotted him dash through the entrance. It was a beautiful building, holy in its original intent, and she disliked the notion of the Romany punk hurtling through it.
Petre, that was what the other man called him.
“Petre!” she shouted. “Stop, Petre!” The sirens were growing louder. If Rembert hadn’t summoned the police, someone on the sidewalk had. “Stop, Petre! I only want to talk!”
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