Palace of Treason

Начало книги

Captain Dominika Egorova of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR, pulled the hem of her little black dress down as she weaved through the crowds of pedestrians in the red neon, pranging chaos of Boulevard de Clichy in the Pigalle. Her black heels clicked on the Parisian sidewalk as she held her chin up, keeping the gray head of the rabbit in sight ahead of her — solo trailing surveillance on a moving foot target, one of the more difficult skills in offensive streetcraft. Dominika covered him loosely, alternatively paralleling on the dividing island in the center of the boulevard and drafting behind the early-evening pedestrians to screen her profile.

The man stopped to buy a charred kebab skewer — typically pork in this Christian quarter — from a vendor who fanned the charcoal of a small brazier with a folded piece of cardboard, sending an occasional spark into the passing crowd, and enveloping the street corner in clouds of smoke fragrant with coriander and chili. Dominika eased back behind a street pole: it was unlikely that the rabbit was using the snack stop as a way to check his six — for the last three days he had shown himself to be oblivious on the street — but she wanted to avoid him noticing her too soon. Plenty of other street creatures already had watched her passing through the crowd — dancer’s legs, regal bust, arc light blue eyes — cutting her scent, sniffing for strength or frailty.

Читать дальше →