The Midnight House

Начало книги

To the worst place in the world.”

“The worst place in the world.”

George Fezcko and Dwayne Maggs raised their glasses and drank. The going-away party was over. One by one, the ops had said their good-byes and disappeared. Only Fezcko and Maggs were left. Fezcko, the guest of honor, leaving Pakistan after four years as deputy chief of station. And Maggs, his best friend at the agency.

The clock on the wall said 1:30, and they’d been drinking since dinner, but Fezcko felt solid. Maggs had gotten hold of a half-dozen Omaha steaks and two racks of ribs. The meat had soaked up most of the scotch in Fezcko’s belly.

Though not all. Fezcko put his head against the cool wood of the conference table and hummed tunelessly: “ ‘We few, we ragged few, we motley crew. ’ ” He trailed off. He couldn’t remember the rest of the song, or even if there was a rest of the song.

“Mötley Crüe,” Maggs said. “Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap.”

Читать дальше →