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- Ричард Морган
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"
All
right
,
"
she
said
amiably
.
"
Want
to
come
with
me
?
You
finished
here
?
"
Clive
nodded
at
me
.
"
I
’
ll
take
this
stuff
out
to
Chip
,
and
he
’
ll
package
it
up
for
you
.
You
want
it
for
delivery
or
carry
out
?
"
"
Carry
out
.
"
"
Thought
so
.
"
Sheila
’
s
end
of
the
business
turned
out
to
be
a
small
rectangular
room
with
a
couple
of
silhouette
cork
targets
on
one
wall
and
an
array
of
weapons
ranging
from
stilettos
to
machetes
hung
on
the
other
three
.
She
selected
a
flat
black
knife
with
a
grey
metal
blade
about
fifteen
centimetres
long
and
took
it
down
.
"
Tebbit
knife
,
"
she
said
inconsequentially
.
"
Very
nasty
.
"
And
with
every
appearance
of
casualness
she
turned
and
unleashed
the
weapon
at
the
left
-
hand
target
.
It
skipped
through
the
air
like
something
alive
and
buried
itself
in
the
silhouette
’
s
head
.
"
Tantalum
steel
alloy
blade
,
webbed
carbon
hilt
.
There
’
s
a
flint
set
in
the
pommel
for
weighting
and
of
course
you
can
bash
them
over
the
head
with
that
if
you
don
’
t
get
them
with
the
sharp
end
.
"
I
stepped
across
to
the
target
and
freed
the
knife
.
The
blade
was
narrow
and
honed
to
a
razor
’
s
edge
on
each
side
.
A
shallow
gutter
ran
down
the
centre
,
delineated
with
a
thin
red
line
that
had
tiny
,
intricate
characters
etched
into
it
.
I
tilted
the
weapon
in
an
attempt
to
read
the
engraving
,
but
it
was
in
a
code
I
didn
’
t
recognise
.
Light
glinted
dully
off
the
grey
metal
.
"
What
’
s
this
?
"
