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- Ричард Морган
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"
I
don
’
t
think
so
.
"
I
tipped
my
head
towards
the
diminished
ranks
of
parked
vehicles
in
the
lot
.
"
Straight
through
,
and
left
into
the
street
.
Keep
going
till
I
tell
you
to
stop
.
"
Sullivan
started
to
say
something
else
,
but
I
jerked
the
barrel
of
the
Philips
gun
at
him
and
he
shut
up
.
Sideways
at
first
,
he
made
his
way
down
the
steps
to
the
parking
lot
and
then
,
with
occasional
backward
glances
,
across
the
uneven
ground
towards
the
sagging
double
gate
that
had
rusted
open
on
its
runners
what
looked
like
centuries
ago
.
"
Eyes
front
,
"
I
called
across
the
widening
gap
between
us
.
"
I
’
m
still
back
here
,
you
don
’
t
need
to
worry
about
that
.
"
Out
on
the
street
,
I
let
the
gap
grow
to
about
a
dozen
metres
and
pretended
complete
dissociation
from
the
figure
ahead
of
me
.
It
wasn
’
t
a
great
neighbourhood
and
there
weren
’
t
many
people
out
walking
in
the
rain
.
Sullivan
was
an
easy
target
for
the
Philips
gun
at
double
the
distance
.
Five
blocks
on
,
I
spotted
the
steamed
-
up
windows
of
the
noodle
house
I
was
looking
for
.
I
quickened
my
pace
and
came
up
on
Sullivan
’
s
streetside
shoulder
.
"
In
here
.
Go
to
the
booths
at
the
back
and
sit
down
.
"
I
made
a
single
sweep
of
the
street
,
saw
no
one
obvious
,
and
followed
Sullivan
inside
.
The
place
was
almost
empty
,
the
daytime
diners
long
departed
and
the
evening
not
yet
cranked
up
.
Two
ancient
Chinese
women
sat
in
a
corner
with
the
withered
elegance
of
dried
bouquets
,
heads
nodding
together
.
On
the
other
side
of
the
restaurant
four
young
men
in
pale
silk
suits
lounged
dangerously
and
toyed
with
expensive
-
looking
chunks
of
hardware
.
At
a
table
near
one
of
the
windows
,
a
fat
Caucasian
was
working
his
way
through
an
enormous
bowl
of
chow
mein
and
simultaneously
flicking
over
the
pages
of
a
holoporn
comic
.
A
video
screen
set
high
on
one
wall
gave
out
coverage
of
some
incomprehensible
local
sport
.
