To Hell in a Handcart. Richard Littlejohn

To Hell in a Handcart - Richard  Littlejohn


Скачать книгу
Thirty-four

       Chapter Thirty-five

       Chapter Thirty-six

       Chapter Thirty-seven

       Chapter Thirty-eight

       Chapter Thirty-nine

       Chapter Forty

       Chapter Forty-one

       Chapter Forty-two

       Chapter Forty-three

       Chapter Forty-four

       Chapter Forty-five

       Chapter Forty-six

       Chapter Forty-seven

       Chapter Forty-eight

       Chapter Forty-nine

       Chapter Fifty

       Chapter Fifty-one

       Chapter Fifty-two

       Chapter Fifty-three

       Chapter Fifty-four

       Chapter Fifty-five

       Chapter Fifty-six

       Chapter Fifty-seven

       Chapter Fifty-eight

       Chapter Fifty-nine

       Chapter Sixty

       Chapter Sixty-one

       Chapter Sixty-two

       Chapter Sixty-three

       Chapter Sixty-four

       Chapter Sixty-five

       Chapter Sixty-six

       Chapter Sixty-seven

       Chapter Sixty-eight

       Chapter Sixty-nine

       Chapter Seventy

       Chapter Seventy-one

       Chapter Seventy-two

       Chapter Seventy-three

       Chapter Seventy-four

       Chapter Seventy-five

       Chapter Seventy-six

       Chapter Seventy-seven

       Chapter Seventy-eight

       Chapter Seventy-nine

       Chapter Eighty

       Chapter Eighty-one

       Chapter Eighty-two

       Chapter Eighty-three

       Chapter Eighty-four

       Chapter Eighty-five

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       About the Publisher

       One

       The Tigani, Romania

      The Tigani doesn’t feature on many maps. It isn’t sign–posted. The Tigani doesn’t advertise. Strangers are rare in these parts.

      The Tigani – Gypsyland. Bandit country, home to six hundred close-knit families.

      The police never ventured here. There had been no official law enforcement since the fall of Communism and the death of the dictator Ceausüescu. When the men in the black Mercedes S500 had stopped en route to ask directions, the non-gypsy locals questioned their sanity.

      Their $100,000 limousine passed silently along the dust road, its computer-assisted air suspension soaking up the potholes like a sponge absorbing spilt milk. The trademark double-glazed smoked glass of the Daimler-Benz company concealed the faces of the driver and his three passengers.

      It had cost the men in the Merc $100 and a carton of Marlboro to persuade a taxi driver from a town thirty miles away to lead them to the turning for Gypsyland. They followed his rotting Romanian-built Renault saloon for over an hour before he pulled off the single carriageway, pointed them towards their destination and wished them good luck. Then he was off in the opposite direction in a cloud of dust.

      It had taken them just over three hours to cover the ninety miles from the Romanian capital of Bucharest, the final leg of a journey begun in Moscow.

      As the car made its stately progress along the unmetalled lane, it was surrounded by raggedy, bare-footed, snot-nosed children and their semi-feral pets. Further back stood a gaggle of women aged from


Скачать книгу