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Herbert, James - The Survivor UC FR
As he approached it, he became aware of other presences in the room, pressing
down on him, trying to reach him. But his mind could only concentrate on one
thing: whoever or whatever waited for him inside that huge, wooden lair. The
key of the wardrobe protruded from the lock and he was sorely tempted to turn
it and trap this person - this lurking thing - inside. He didn't, though, for
he wanted to confront him, wanted answers. The fingers of his left hand softly
touched the wardrobe's curved metal handle, slipping over and round it, his
grip tightening, poised to twist and pull the door outwards. His muscles
stiffened and seemed to lose their strength; his legs felt weak, almost unable
to support him. Without giving himself any more time to think, he turned his
wrist and pulled the door open.
He found himself looking into the twin black holes of a double-barrelled
shotgun.
The two close-set apertures pointing up at his face had an hypnotic effect on
him.
It was only with some effort of will that he forced his eyes down the length
of the double-barrels, past the finger that trembled around the two triggers,
and into the dilated pupils of the madman.
The man rose slowly as Keller carefully moved backwards, away from the
wardrobe, and the co-pilot took in his bizarre and unkempt appearance. He was
muffled up in a heavy overcoat and short woollen scarf; one arm hung stiffly
by his side and he emerged from his hiding-place with difficulty. There was a
stench about him that increased the pungency of the room noticeably, he had
obviously not cleaned himself for weeks. His hollowed, drawn cheeks and jaw
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were unshaven, and his grey hair hung in greasy streaks over his forehead. And
his eyelids were kept open by grubby strips of sticking-plaster.
He stumbled from the wardrobe, but the shotgun hardly wavered away from a
position just below Keller's chin.
'So they've sent you now, have they?' The words were slurred, as if the man
had been drinking. But among the many smells, there was none of alcohol, nor
were there any liquor bottles in evidence.
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Herbert, James - The Survivor UC FR
Keller didn't reply. He continued to back away, the knife still thrust out
before him.
They think you're enough, eh?' Tears had left paler streaks down the man's
face.
'Like the other one. You'll go like the other one.' His snarling lips revealed
yellow-
stained teeth. The gun shook in his hand.
Keller only wanted to run now, answers meant nothing if you were dead. He
forced himself to speak, just to gain time. 'You killed Tewson.' He said it as
a fact, not a question.
Tewson? Who the hell's Tewson? Is it the dead man downstairs?' He seemed to be
gaining an aggressive confidence now, almost relieved that he had only been
confronted by flesh and blood. What else had he been expecting? Why had he
locked himself away like this?
'Answer me!' the man snapped. "Who was he? Did they send him?'
Keller deliberately kept his voice low and steady, not wanting to excite the
man unnecessarily. 'He was with the AIB, investigating the Eton air crash. But
you know about that don't you?'
'Oh yes, I know about that.' A sly look came into his eyes. 'And who are you?
'Keller. I was the-'
The co-pilot! The one who escaped. Yes, you're the one they sent. They said
they would.'
 Who said? Who sent me?'
The dead, of course. They said they'd preserved someone to find me. They'd
saved someone.' He laughed at the co-pilot 'Well, you've found me. Now what?'
'But who are you? Why should I want to find you?' Keller had backed towards
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Herbert, James - The Survivor UC FR
door and he risked a quick glance to see how far he was from it. Another six
feet at least.
"You know who I am, liar! I did it! I killed them all!' Keller stopped moving.
Despite the levelled gun, his anger began to rise again.
'Yes, me!' The man laughed aloud. 'Barrett had to be stopped somehow. He was
trying to ruin me!' Tears began to well up in his eyes now, tears that could
not be blinked away because of the retaining sticking plaster on his eyelids.
'The man was wicked. He tried to destroy me, crush the business I've worked so
hard for!
Don't you know who I am? Pendleton. Pendleton Jets!'
Yes, Keller had heard of him. He was a pioneer of the jet engine, had joined
Frank
Whittle way back in the 1930s when Whittle had formed Britain's first
turbo-jet company. He must have been a boy then, or early teens at least, and
he'd worked his way up until he'd gained enough knowledge and expertise to
form his own company. He was almost a legend in the aircraft manufacturing
industry.
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'That's right, Keller. As a pilot you'd have heard of me. Now do you see why I
had to kill him?' Keller shook his head numbly.
Pendleton spat in disgust. 'Barrett! I had to let him buy into my company
years ago, when problems with carbon fibre fan blades almost wiped me out. It
nearly caused the collapse of Rolls Royce and my company was nowhere as big as
that!
But dear Sir James came forward, offering money, offering sustenance. In
exchange for two-thirds of the company!' His voice had risen to a scream of
rage.
'What choice did I have? I had to have the new titanium blades. It was either
that or nothing at all. Well, I agreed, agreed to that slimy bastard's
proposals. Do you still wonder why I killed him?"
Keller began to move back again, cautiously, inch by inch, his eyes never
leaving
Pendleton's, waiting for the finger to squeeze one or both of the twin
triggers, waiting for the fiery blast. 'No. I don't understand. He saved your
company, didn't he?' 'Oh yes, he saved it. He saved it for himself, so he
could steal it once it got
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back on its feet. My company! The company I'd built myself! All those years -
wasted! All my people - sacked! That's what he intended. The Americans were
going to move in, take over lock, stock and barrel, bring in their own people,
their own ideas. We would have been a small sub-company, owned by a major
concern.
It was just a cheaper way for them to get my engines! Do you think I would
have allowed that?'
His face was drained white now, and the whole of his body shook with his rage.
Keller prayed the gun wouldn't go off by accident. He stole another inch.
'He laughed at me, said I was finished. Do you know that? I've been ill, all
right -
but it was caused by him. He said I couldn't hold on to anything - even my
wife and daughter had left me! Sneered at me. Said I was so obsessed by my own
engines I didn't understand what was going on around me. Well, I understood [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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