The Rainy Day Man: Contemporary Romance (Suspense and Political Mystery Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

climbed, the slopes were already dark, but high above us the serrated peak of a cliff was still rosy.  As we rounded a bend we could discern houses.  They were ranged along the ridge of the abyss as if along the quay of a port.  Their windows looked out over the expanse with the same expectancy you see in coastal towns.  The car groaned as we rushed up the road, which was now narrowing.  Figures in dark clothing stopped to look at us.  We passed beneath an arch and hooted in front of a chain stretched across a gateway.  It dropped down and we came to a stop in the enclosed courtyard of an imposing house.  In the distance a church tower chimed.  The valleys, even further away, replied with a volley of firing.
                  I went through two glass doors, dragging my kitbag up pockmarked stairs to the top floor of the building.  A rat-faced young man wearing an undershirt was sitting behind an enormous desk.
                  "My name is Simon," I said.
                  He looked at me in surprise.  "Scheckler.  I'm the staff sergeant and the person in charge here.  Who do you belong to?"
                  "Intelligence."
                  He looked around, fixing his gaze on a row of locked cupboards.  "They did tell us something a week ago..."  His small, searching eyes lingered on my kitbag, assessing its weight.  "All right," he decided, "we'll find you somewhere to sleep."
                  We went out into the corridor and he accompanied me along the faded carpet.  Two or three dusty bulbs shone from a crystal chandelier.  I wondered what load the electricity system here could take.  Scheckler opened the door to a small room which was occupied primarily by a camp bed and a cupboard. 
                  "When this place was a hotel," he explained, "this was the linen store."
                  After he had gone I threw my kitbag onto the bed, inspected the empty cupboard and went over to the window; there was a vehicle repair shop in the back yard.  The car which had brought me had been jacked up and its engine hood was open.  Further on there was a wire fence with a garden behind it, where beds of daisies and roses had been overrun with tents and tin huts.  Banners of laundry hanging on a washing line shone in the darkness, giving me a sense of satisfaction: there were many witnesses here whom I could impress with my achievement.  Suddenly, a brick dislodged from the window ledge and landed on the floor of the courtyard.  Dust and the smell of mold rose up from the hollow left in the wall.  I closed the blind with a bang.  After a moment I opened it again.  The man who was supposed to contact me might be watching me at this very moment.  I lit a cigarette and stood in the room, until I finished it, at a slight distance from the window.  Then I went down to the entrance, where several drivers were arguing around a backgammon board, an upturned flowerpot serving as their table.  They fell silent and watched me as I went out of the door.  I peered up at the lintel over the main entrance, where 'Villa Athenaeum' was engraved.  A thick layer of military whitewash covered the inscription, as if to emphasize the difference between that improvised barracks and the beautiful building in the photograph I had seen in Tel Aviv.
                  Scheckler, still wearing only an undershirt, appeared from nowhere and circled me as if ready to strike.
                  "What exactly will your job here be?”
                  I asked about the tents in the garden.
                  "Refugees," he replied and opened his mouth to repeat his question.
                  "Why with us, of all people?"
                  "They feel protected here."
                  I escaped up the stairs.  He came after me.  His armpits smelt foul.  There was a heat rash on