The Windchime Legacy [antikvár]

Prologue O The rain had stopped, and the heavy night air hung chilling and damp around the solitary figure hidden in the shadows. His keen, unfeeling eyes swept the empty street, looking for signs of the courier he knew would be coming. The old street lamps bounced their gentle re- flections off the wet buildings and sidewalks; the weather was typical for England in March. Directly across the street from his concealed position was an alleyway, which ran alongside the old Maynard Pub. Well back, in the darkest shadows, was a car. It had not been there long. Its hood was still warm, and the engine made faint clicking sounds as it cooled. It was the one he was looking for. It meant that the contact was already inside, waiting for the courier. Both men had come for the information he carried—one to buy it, the other to kill for it. Through the light fog, his eyes picked up movement in the distance. Within moments it became clearer. The courier was nervously making his way up the street toward the pub. He walked steadily, clutching a worn attaché case to his chest. His eyes played anxiously back and forth for assurance that he was unobserved, but he failed to see the stranger in the shadows or to sense the murderous intent of the eyes concentrated on him.