Read Online The Brotherhood of the Rose by David Morrell - Free Book Online
Authors: David Morrell
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Crime, Espionage, Adventure stories, Assassins, Special Forces (Military Science)
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lose it due to me now. Get out of here. I beg you."
The rain fell harder.
Something wakened Chris. He lay in his room in the dark, squinting at the luminous dial on his watch. Three-thirty. Puzzled, he kept still and concentrated. The storm had passed. Occasional drops of water trickled off the eaves. As moonlight glimmered through his open window, he smelled the sordid odor of the river and the fertilized soil of the garden below.He listened to the songs of the birds beginning to stir.
For a moment, he thought he'd wakened from habit and nothing more. His six years in the monastery had trained him to use the hours before dawn for meditation. Normally he would have wakened shortly anyhow.
But then he glanced toward the hall light filtering through the crack below his door. A shadow passed. Whoever it was, he thought, the person knew how to walk like an animal, carrying the weight of his body along the outsides of his feet. He imagined a cat stalking silently toward its prey.
It might have been a servant patrolling the hall. Or Chan. Or someone after Chan. Or after me, Chris thought, because of my friendship with Chan.
He grabbed the Mauser by his side and threw off his sheet, lunging naked in the dark toward the protection of a chair. His testicles shrank. He held his breath and waited, cautious, aiming toward the door.
Beyond it, he heard a noise like a fist slamming into a pillow. Muffled, it nonetheless carried a great deal of force, As someone groaned, an object thudded to the floor out there.
Chris left the cover of the chair, creeping toward the wall beside his door. With his ear to the wall, he listened to the rattle of a latch as a door came open in the hall.
Someone spoke, alarmed, in Russian. "What have you done?"
Chris heard the old priest answer, also in Russian. "He was going in your room. You see his garotte. He meant to strangle you. I had no choice. I had to kill him."
Chris opened the door. If he didn't, if he stayed in his room, the.priest might wonder why the noise hadn't wakened him. Suspicious, the priest might decide Chris was somehow involved in this.
Chris squinted from his open door toward the light in the hall.
The priest swung toward the sound he'd made, aiming a Russian Tokarev automatic pistol with a silencer.
Chris froze. He raised his hands, the Mauser high above his head. "Your voices woke me." He shrugged. "I can see this is none of my business."
Waiting for a nod of dismissal from the priest, Chris stepped back in his room and closed the door.
He stared at the dark. He'd seen a man in another doorway. Middle sixties. Shrunken, pale. Dark circles under his eyes. Rumpled hair. Nervous twitches. Wearing sweat-stained silk pajamas. Joseph Malenov, Chris thought. He'd never met the man, but he'd seen photographs of him and knew that Malenov was addicted to the opium he smuggled.
On the floor, between the priest and Malenov, Chris had seen Char's body, the base of his skull shattered by the Russian pistol's 7.62-mm bullet. The floor had been dark with blood and urine. There'd been no point in checking to see if Chan was alive.
Chris seethed. Other shadows blocked the light at the base of the door. He recognized the sound of someone unfolding a blanket. He heard men, more than two, quietly, but not as quiet as Chan had been, lift the body, wrap it, and carry it away. He smelled acrid sandalwood, then the resin odor of pine.
Someone must have lit a pot of incense and thrown sawdust on the floor to absorb the body's fluids.
Chris stepped toward the window, careful not to show himself. The birds erupted from the trees, alarmed by intruders. Silhouetted by the moonlight, two Oriental servants left the rectory's porch, hunched over, carrying a heavy object wrapped in a blanket between them. A third servant led the way, flashing a light toward the path through the crosses in the graveyard and the pepper plants in the garden.
They went down the slope toward the river-to feed Chan to the
The rain fell harder.
Something wakened Chris. He lay in his room in the dark, squinting at the luminous dial on his watch. Three-thirty. Puzzled, he kept still and concentrated. The storm had passed. Occasional drops of water trickled off the eaves. As moonlight glimmered through his open window, he smelled the sordid odor of the river and the fertilized soil of the garden below.He listened to the songs of the birds beginning to stir.
For a moment, he thought he'd wakened from habit and nothing more. His six years in the monastery had trained him to use the hours before dawn for meditation. Normally he would have wakened shortly anyhow.
But then he glanced toward the hall light filtering through the crack below his door. A shadow passed. Whoever it was, he thought, the person knew how to walk like an animal, carrying the weight of his body along the outsides of his feet. He imagined a cat stalking silently toward its prey.
It might have been a servant patrolling the hall. Or Chan. Or someone after Chan. Or after me, Chris thought, because of my friendship with Chan.
He grabbed the Mauser by his side and threw off his sheet, lunging naked in the dark toward the protection of a chair. His testicles shrank. He held his breath and waited, cautious, aiming toward the door.
Beyond it, he heard a noise like a fist slamming into a pillow. Muffled, it nonetheless carried a great deal of force, As someone groaned, an object thudded to the floor out there.
Chris left the cover of the chair, creeping toward the wall beside his door. With his ear to the wall, he listened to the rattle of a latch as a door came open in the hall.
Someone spoke, alarmed, in Russian. "What have you done?"
Chris heard the old priest answer, also in Russian. "He was going in your room. You see his garotte. He meant to strangle you. I had no choice. I had to kill him."
Chris opened the door. If he didn't, if he stayed in his room, the.priest might wonder why the noise hadn't wakened him. Suspicious, the priest might decide Chris was somehow involved in this.
Chris squinted from his open door toward the light in the hall.
The priest swung toward the sound he'd made, aiming a Russian Tokarev automatic pistol with a silencer.
Chris froze. He raised his hands, the Mauser high above his head. "Your voices woke me." He shrugged. "I can see this is none of my business."
Waiting for a nod of dismissal from the priest, Chris stepped back in his room and closed the door.
He stared at the dark. He'd seen a man in another doorway. Middle sixties. Shrunken, pale. Dark circles under his eyes. Rumpled hair. Nervous twitches. Wearing sweat-stained silk pajamas. Joseph Malenov, Chris thought. He'd never met the man, but he'd seen photographs of him and knew that Malenov was addicted to the opium he smuggled.
On the floor, between the priest and Malenov, Chris had seen Char's body, the base of his skull shattered by the Russian pistol's 7.62-mm bullet. The floor had been dark with blood and urine. There'd been no point in checking to see if Chan was alive.
Chris seethed. Other shadows blocked the light at the base of the door. He recognized the sound of someone unfolding a blanket. He heard men, more than two, quietly, but not as quiet as Chan had been, lift the body, wrap it, and carry it away. He smelled acrid sandalwood, then the resin odor of pine.
Someone must have lit a pot of incense and thrown sawdust on the floor to absorb the body's fluids.
Chris stepped toward the window, careful not to show himself. The birds erupted from the trees, alarmed by intruders. Silhouetted by the moonlight, two Oriental servants left the rectory's porch, hunched over, carrying a heavy object wrapped in a blanket between them. A third servant led the way, flashing a light toward the path through the crosses in the graveyard and the pepper plants in the garden.
They went down the slope toward the river-to feed Chan to the
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