A Season in Hell. Jack Higgins
Читать онлайн.| Название | A Season in Hell |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Jack Higgins |
| Жанр | Приключения: прочее |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Приключения: прочее |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9780007384747 |
Table of Contents
Unusually for many of my books the leading character in this novel is a woman, highly educated, successful in business, and yet when her stepson is murdered she discovers, as many people do these days, that the law is unable to help. She turns to revenge, enlisting the help of a young, ex-SAS, sergeant to help her hunt down the villains concerned.
A rather interesting thing happened with this book. A disgraced British Army officer turned gun-for-hire, Jago, is employed by the mysterious Mr Smith to dog her footsteps. The astonishing thing was that Jago actually became enormously popular with the readers and I received many letters asking me to use him again.
The book is another example of twin obsessions in my writing: East End gangsters and the wonderful city of London.
‘Revenge is a season in hell’
—Sicilian proverb
Just after four, as first light started to seep through the bamboo slats above his head, it rained again, slowly at first, developing into a solid drenching downpour from which there was no escape.
Sean Egan crouched in a corner, arms folded, hands tucked into his armpits to conserve as much body heat as possible, not that there was much left after four days. The pit was four feet square so that it was impossible to lie down even if he’d have wanted to. He remembered reading somewhere that gorillas were the only animals who lay in their own ordure and didn’t mind. He hadn’t reached that stage yet although he’d long since got used to the stench.
His feet were bare, but they’d left him with his camouflage jump jacket and pants. A khaki-green sweatband was wound around his head like a turban, desert style. Beneath it, the face was gaunt, skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones. The eyes were china blue and without expression as he waited, rain drifting down through the bamboo slats twelve feet above. The clay walls were wet with it and, occasionally, clods of earth broke free from the sides and fell into the bottom water, already three or four inches deep.
He waited, indifferent to all this, and finally heard the sound of footsteps, someone whistling flatly through the rain. The man above wore a camouflage uniform similar to his own, but slightly different, the Afghanistan pattern developed by the Russian Army for use during the occupation of that country. A sergeant according to the rank badges on his collar tabs. Above the peak of his cap was the red star of the Soviet Army and the insignia of the 81st Regiment of Assault Paratroops.
Egan recognized all these things because it was his business to. He looked up and waited in silence. The sergeant carried an AK assault rifle in one hand, an army ration can in the other, a length of twine tied to it.
‘Still with us?’ he called cheerfully in English, resting the AK beside him. ‘It must be wet down there?’ Egan said nothing. He simply sat, waiting. ‘And still not talking? Ah, well, you will, my friend. They always do in the end.’ The sergeant lowered the ration can through the slats. ‘Breakfast. Only coffee this morning, but then we don’t want to build up your strength.’
Egan took the can and opened it. It was coffee, steaming in the damp air, surprisingly hot. He fought the wave of nausea – even the smell of coffee made him feel sick. To drink it was an impossibility, as his captors well knew.
The sergeant laughed. ‘But of course, you only drink tea. What a pity.’ He unbuttoned his pants and urinated down through the slats. ‘What about a change?’
There was no way to avoid it. Egan stayed there, squatting in the corner, staring up, still not speaking.
The sergeant picked up the AK. ‘Five minutes and I’ll be back and I’ll expect a nice clean can. Be a good boy and drink it up or I might have to punish you.’
He walked away and still Egan waited, an intent expression on his face. When the sound of the sergeant’s footsteps had faded, he stood up. Five minutes. His only chance. He ripped the khaki sweatband from his head and it was immediately obvious that only the section visible to the eye was still whole, the rest had been torn into strips during the night, each one carefully plaited, the whole joined together in a crude rope.
He quickly fastened it under his arms and passed a loop around his neck, placing the loose end in his teeth. He braced his back against one wall of the pit and his feet against the other,