The Dark of the Sun - Smith Wilbur (читать книгу онлайн бесплатно полностью без регистрации .TXT) 📗

upwards and Bruce was thrown back against the side of the cliff with

such force that for a second he lay there.

Wally was on his knees, facing Bruce, his eyes glazed and

sightless, and the strangling rattling sound spraying from his throat in

a pink cloud of blood. With both hands he was fumbling his pistol out of

its canvas holster.

Bruce drew his knees up on to his chest, then straightened his legs in a

mule kick. His feet landed together in the centre of

Hendry's stomach, throwing him backwards off the platform. Hendry made

that strangled bellow all the way to the bottom, but at the end it was

cut off abruptly, and afterwards there was only the sound of the wind in

the forest below.

For a long time, drained of strength and the power to think, Bruce sat

on the ledge with his back against the rock.

Above him the clouds had rolled aside and half the sky was blue.

He looked out across the land and the forest was lush and clean from the

rain. And I am still alive. The realization warmed Bruce's mind as

comfortably as the early sun was warming his body. He wanted to shout it

out across the forest. I am still alive!

At last he stood up, crossed to the edge of the cliff and looked down at

the tiny crumpled figure on the rocks below.

Then he turned away and dragged his beaten body down the side of the

turret.

It took him twenty minutes to find Wally Hendry in the chaos of broken

rock and scrub below the turret. He lay on his side with his legs drawn

up as though he slept. Bruce knelt beside him and drew his pistol from

the olive-green canvas holster; then he unbuttoned the flap of Hendry's

bulging breast pocket and took out the white canvas bag.

He stood up, opened the mouth of the bag and stirred the diamonds with

his forefinger. Satisfied, he jerked the drawstring closed and dropped

them into his own pocket.

In death he is even more repulsive than he was alive, thought

Bruce without regret as he looked down at the corpse.

The flies were crawling into the bloody nostrils and clustering round

the eyes.

Then he spoke aloud.

"So Mike Haig was right and I was wrong - you can destroy it."

Without looking back he walked away. The tiredness left him.

Carl Engelbrecht came through the doorway from the cockpit into the main

cabin of the Dakota.

"Are you two happy?" he asked above the deep drone of the engines, and

then grinning with his big brown face, "I can see you are!" Bruce

grinned back at him and tightened his arm around Shermaine's shoulders.

"Go away! Can't you see we're busy?"

"You've got lots of cheek for a hitch-hiker - bloody good mind to make

you get out and walk," he grumbled as he sat down beside them on the

bench that ran the full length of the fuselage. "I've brought you some

coffee and sandwiches."

"Good. Good. I'm starving." Shermaine sat up and reached for the thermos

flask and the greaseproof paper packet. The bruise on her cheek had

faded to a shadow with yellow edges - it was almost ten days old. With

his mouth full of chicken sandwich Bruce kicked one of the wooden cases

that were roped securely to the floor of the aircraft.

"What have you got in these, Carl?" "Dunno," said Carl and poured coffee

into the three plastic mugs. "In this game you don't ask questions. You

fly out, take your money, and let it go." He drained his mug and stood

up. "Well, I'll leave you two alone now. We'll be in Nairobi in a couple

of hours, so you can sleep or something!" He winked. "You'll have to

stay aboard while we refuel. But we'll be airborne again in an hour or

so, and the day after tomorrow, God and the weather permitting, we'll

set you down in Zurich."

"Thanks, old cock."

"Think nothing of it - all in the day's work." He went forward

and disappeared into the cockpit, closing the door behind him.

Shermaine turned back to Bruce, studied him for a moment and then

laughed.

"You look so different - now you look like a lawyer!"

Self-consciously Bruce tightened the knot of his Old Michaelhouse tie.

"I must admit it feels strange to wear a suit and tie again." He looked

down at the well-cut blue suit - the only one he had left - and then up

again at Shermaine.

"And in a dress I hardly recognize you either." She was wearing a

lime-green cotton frock, cool and crisp looking, white high-heel shoes

and just a little make-up to cover the bruise. A damn fine woman, Bruce

decided with pleasure.

"How does your thumb feel? she asked, and Bruce held up the stump with

its neat little turban of adhesive tape.

"I had almost forgotten about it." Suddenly Shermaine's expression

changed, and she pointed excitedly out of the perspex window behind

Bruce's shoulder.

"Look, there's the sea!" It lay far below them, shaded from blue to pale

green in the shallows, with a round of white beach and the wave

formation moving across it like ripples on a pond.

"That's Lake Tanganyika." Bruce laughed. "We've left the Congo behind."

"Forever?" she asked.

"Forever!" he assured her.

The aircraft banked slightly, throwing them closer together, as

Carl picked out his landmarks and altered cours towards the north-east.

Four thousand feet below them the dark insect that was their shadow

flitted and hopped across the surface of the water.