Нейромант

           `RunintoyouagainandI’llkillyou,’shesaidtothewhitefacebehindthetintedwindow.TheCitroengroundawaydownthealleyandswungclumsilyintothestreet.

           NowtheMercedeswhisperedthroughIstanbulasthecitywoke.TheypassedtheBeyoglutunelterminalandspedpastmazesofdesertedbackstreets,run-downapartmenthousesthatremindedCasevaguelyofParis.

           `Whatisthisthing?’heaskedMolly,astheMercedesparkeditselfonthefringesofthegardensthatsurroundtheSeraglio.HestareddullyatthebaroqueconglomerationofstylesthatwasTopkapi.

           `ItwassortofaprivatewhorehousefortheKing,’shesaid,gettingoutstretching.`Keptalottawomenthere.Nowit’samuseum.KindalikeFinn’sshop,allthisstuffjustjumbledinthere,bigdiamonds,swords,thelefthandofJohntheBaptist...’

           `Likeinasupportvat?’

           `Nah.Dead.Gotitinsidethisbrasshandthing,littlehatchonthesidesotheChristianscouldkissitforluck.GotitofftheChristiansaboutamillionyearsago,andtheyneverdustthegoddamthing,’causeit’saninfidelrelic.’

           BlackirondeerrustedinthegardensoftheSeraglio.Casewalkedbesideher,watchingthetoesofherbootscrunchunkeptgrassmadestiffbyanearlyfrost.Theywalkedbesideapathofcoldoctagonalflagstones.Winterwaswaiting,somewhereintheBalkans.

           `ThatTerzi,he’sgrade-Ascum,’shesaid.`He’sthesecretpolice.Torturer.