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- Ричард Морган
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- Стр. 431/560
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"
Yeah
.
I
often
am
.
"
I
stepped
around
her
.
"
Excuse
me
.
"
I
walked
away
down
the
hall
without
looking
back
.
The
building
was
a
stripped
shell
,
an
entire
floor
of
warehouse
conversion
with
perfectly
identical
arched
windows
along
each
wall
and
white
painted
support
pillars
every
ten
metres
in
each
direction
.
The
ceiling
was
drab
grey
,
the
original
building
blocks
exposed
and
cross
-
laced
with
heavy
ferrocrete
load
-
bearers
.
The
floor
was
raw
concrete
,
perfectly
poured
.
Hard
light
fell
in
through
the
windows
,
unsoftened
by
any
drifting
motes
of
dust
.
The
air
was
crisp
and
cold
.
Roughly
in
the
middle
of
the
building
,
as
near
as
I
could
judge
,
stood
a
simple
steel
table
and
two
uncomfortable
-
looking
chairs
,
arranged
as
if
for
a
game
of
chess
.
On
one
of
the
chairs
sat
a
tall
man
with
a
tanned
,
salon
-
handsome
face
.
He
was
beating
a
rapid
tattoo
on
the
table
top
,
as
if
listening
to
jazz
on
an
internal
receiver
.
Incongruously
,
he
was
dressed
in
a
blue
surgeon
’
s
smock
and
surgery
slippers
.
I
stepped
out
from
behind
one
of
the
pillars
and
crossed
the
even
concrete
to
the
table
.
The
man
in
the
smock
looked
up
at
me
and
nodded
,
unsurprised
.
"
Hello
,
Miller
,
"
I
said
.
"
Mind
if
I
sit
down
?
"
"
My
lawyers
are
going
to
have
me
out
of
here
an
hour
after
you
charge
me
,
"
Miller
said
matter
-
of
-
factly
.
"
If
that
.
You
’
ve
made
a
big
mistake
here
,
pal
.
"
He
went
back
to
beating
out
the
jazz
rhythm
on
the
table
top
.
His
gaze
drifted
out
over
my
shoulder
,
as
if
he
’
d
just
seen
something
interesting
through
one
of
the
arched
windows
.
I
smiled
.
"
A
big
mistake
,
"
he
repeated
to
himself
.
Very
gently
,
I
reached
out
and
flattened
his
hand
onto
the
table
top
to
stop
the
tapping
.
His
gaze
jerked
back
in
as
if
caught
on
a
hook
.
"
The
fuck
do
you
think
—
"
