rl.thebourneidentity-第29部分

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hat　man　at　the　Drei　Alpenhauser　said　Interpol　has　its　nets　out　for　me；　and　if　I　walk　into　one　I　don't　have　any　answers。　I'm　guilty　as　charged　because　I　don't　know　what　I'm　guilty　of。　Having　no　memory　isn't　much　of　a　defence；　and　it's　possible　that　I　have　no　defence；　period。'
　'I　refuse　to　believe　that；　and　so　must　you。'
　'Thanks。。。'
　'I　mean　it；　Jason。　Stop　it。'
　Stop　it。　How　many　times　do　I　say　that　to　myself？　You　are　my　love；　the　only　woman　I　have　ever　known；　and　you　believe　in　me。　Why　can't　I　believe　in　myself？
　Bourne　got　up；　as　always　testing　his　legs。　Mobility　was　ing　back　to　him；　the　wounds…less　severe　than　his　imagination　had　permitted　him　to　believe。　He　had　made　an　appointment　that　night　with　the　doctor　in　Wohlen　to　remove　the　stitches。　Tomorrow　change　would　e。
　'Paris；'　said　Jason。　〃The　answer's　in　Paris。　I　know　it　surely　as　I　saw　the　outline　of　those　triangles　in　Zurich。　I　just　don't　know　where　to　begin。　It's　crazy。　I'm　a　man　waiting　for　an　image；　for　a　word　or　a　phrase　…　or　a　book　of　matches　…　to　tell　me　something。　To　send　me　somewhere　else。'
　'Why　not　wait　until　I　hear　from　Peter？　I　can　call　him　tomorrow；　we　can　be　in　Paris　tomorrow。'
　'Because　it　wouldn't　make　any　difference；　don't　you　see？　No　matter　what　he　came　up　with；　the　one　thing　I　need　to　know　wouldn't　be　there。　For　the　same　reason　Treadstone　hasn't　gone　near　the　bank。　Me。　I　have　to　know　why　men　want　to　kill　me；　why　someone　named　Carlos　will　pay。。。　what　was　it。。。　a　fortune　for　my　corpse。'
　It　was　as　far　as　he　got；　interrupted　by　the　crash　at　the　table。　Marie　had　dropped　her　cup　and　was　staring　at　him；　her　face　white；　as　if　the　blood　had　drained　from　her　head。　'What　did　you　just　say？！　she　asked。
　'What？　I　said　I　have　to　know。。。'
　'The　name。　You　just　said　the　name　Carlos。'
　〃That's　right。'
　'In　all　the　hours　we've　talked；　the　days　we've　been　together；　you　never　mentioned　him。'
　Bourne　looked　at　her；　trying　to　remember。　It　was　true；　he　had　told　her　everything　that　had　e　to　him；　yet　somehow　he　had　omitted　Carlos。。。　almost　purposely；　as　if　blocking　it　out。
　'I　believe　I　didn't；'　he　said。　'You　seem　to　know。　Who's　Carlos？'
　'Are　you　trying　to　be　funny？　If　you　are；　the　joke's　not　very　good。〃
　'I'm　not　trying　to　be　funny。　I　don't　think　there's　anything　to　be　funny　about。　Who's　Carlos？'
　'My　God；　you　don't　know；'　she　said；　studying　his　eyes。　'It's　part　of　what　was　taken　from　you。'
　'Who　is　Carlos？
　'An　assassin。　He's　called　the　assassin　of　Europe。　A　man　hunted　for　twenty　years；　believed　to　have　killed　between　fifty　and　sixty　political　and　military　figures。　No　one　knows　what　he　looks　like。。。　but　it's　said　he　operates　out　of　Paris。'
　Bourne　felt　a　wave　of　cold　going　through　him。
　The　taxi　to　Wohlen　was　an　English　Ford　belonging　to　the　concierge's　son…in…law。　Jason　and　Marie　sat　in　the　back　seat；　the　dark　countryside　passing　swiftly　outside　the　windows。　The　stitches　had　been　removed；　replaced　by　soft　bandages　held　by　wide　strips　of　plaster。
　'Get　back　to　Canada；'　said　Jason　softly；　breaking　the　silence　between　them。
　'I　will；　I　told　you　that。　I've　a　few　more　days　left。　I　want　to　see　Paris。'
　'I　don't　want　you　in　Paris。　I'll　call　you　in　Ottawa。　You　can　make　the　Treadstone　search　yourself　and　give　me　the　information　over　the　phone。'　！　I　thought　you　said　it　wouldn't　make　any　difference。　You　had　to　know　the　why；　the　who　was　meaningless　until　you　understood。'
　'I'll　find　a　way。　I　just　need　one　man；　I'll　find　him。'
　'But　you　don't　know　where　to　begin。　You're　a　man　waiting　for　an　image；　for　a　phrase；　or　a　book　of　matches。　They　may　not　be　there。'
　'Something　will　be　there。'
　'Something　is；　but　you　don't　see　it　I　do。　It's　why　you　need　me。　I　know　the　words；　the　methods。　You　don't。'
　Bourne　looked　at　her　in　the　rushing　shadows。　'I　think　you'd　better　be　clearer。'
　'The　banks；　Jason。　Treadstone's　connections　are　in　the　banks。　But　not　in　the　way　that　you　might　think。'
　The　stooped　old　man　in　the　threadbare　overcoat；　black　beret！　in　hand；　walked　down　the　far　left　aisle　of　the　country　church　in　the　village　of　Apajon；　ten　miles　south　of　Paris。　The　bells　of　the　evening　Angelus　echoed　throughout　the　upper　regions　of　stone　and　wood；　the　man　held　his　place　at　the　fifth　row　and　waited　for　the　ringing　to　stop。　It　was　his　signal；　he　accepted　it；　knowing　that　during　the　pealing　of　the　bells　another；　younger　man　…　as　ruthless　as　any　man　alive　…　had　circled　the　small　church　and　studied　everyone　inside　and　outside。　Had　that　man　seen　anything　he　did　not　expect　to　see；　anyone　he　considered　a　threat　to　his　person；　there　would　be　no　questions　asked；　simply　an　execution。　That　was　the　way　of　Carlos　and　only　those　who　understood　that　their　lives　could　be　snuffed　out　because　they　themselves　had　been　followed　accepted　money　to　act　as　the　assassin's　messenger。　They　were　all　like　himself；　old　men　from　the　old　days；　whose　lives　were　running　out；　months　remaining　limited　by　age；　or　disease；　or　both。
　Carlos　permitted　no　risks　whatsoever；　the　single　consolation　being　that　if　one　died　in　his　service　…　or　by　his　hand　…money　would　find　its　way　to　old　women；　or　the　children　of　old　women；　or　their　children。　It　had　to　be　said：　there　was　a　certain　dignity　to　be　found　in　working　for　Carlos。　And　there　was　no　lack　of　generosity。　This　was　what　his　small　army　of　infirm　old　men　understood；　he　gave　a　purpose　to　the　ends　of　their　lives。
　The　messenger　clutched　his　beret　and　continued　down　the　aisle　to　the　row　of　confessional　booths　against　the　left　wall。　He　walked　to　the　fifth　booth；　parted　the　curtain　and　stepped　inside；　adjusting　his　eyes　to　the　light　of　a　single　candle　that　glowed　from　the　other　side　of　the　translucent　drape　separating　priest　from　sinner。　He　sat　down　on　the　small　wooden　bench　and　looked　at　the　silhouette　in　the　holy　enclosure。　It　was　as　it　always　was；　the　hooded　figure　of　a　man　in　a　monk's　habit。　The　messenger　tried　not　to　imagine　what　that　man　looked　like；　it　was　not　his　place　to　speculate　on　such　things。
　'Angelus　Domini；'　he　said。
　'Angelus　Domini；　child　of　God；'　whispered　the　hooded　silhouette。　'Are　your　days　fortable？'
　They　draw　to　an　end；'　replied　the　old　man；　making　the　proper　response；　'but　they　are　made　fortable。'
　'Good。　It's　important　to　have　a　sense　of　security　at　your　age；'　said　Carlos。　'But　to　business。　Did　you　get　the　particulars　from　Zurich？'
　The　owl　is　dead；　so　are　two　others；　possibly　a　third。　Another's　hand　was　severely　wounded；　he　cannot　work。　Cain　disappeared。　They　think　the　woman　is　with　him。'
　'An　odd　turn　of　events；'　said　Carlos。
　'There's　more。　The　one　ordered　to　kill　her　has　not　been　heard　from。　He　was　to　take　her　to　the　Guisan　Quai；　no　one　knows　what　happened。'
　'Except　that　a　watchman　was　killed　in　her　place。　It's　possible　she　was　never　a　hostage　at　all；　but　instead；　bait　for　a　trap。　A　trap　that　snapped　back　on　Cain。　I　want　to　think　about　that。。。　In　the　meantime；　here　are　my　instructions。　Are　you　ready？'
　The　old　man　reached　into　his　Docket　and　took　nut　the　stub　of　a　pencil　and　a　scrap　of　paper。　〃Very　well。'
　'Telephone　Zurich。　I　want　a　man　in　Paris　by　tomorrow　who　bas　seen　Cain；　who　can　recognize　him。　Also；　Zurich　is　to　reach　Koenig　at　the　Gemeinschaft；　and　tell　him　to　send　his　tape　to　New　York。　He's　to　use　the　post　office　box　in　Village　Station。'
　'Please；'　interrupted　the　aged　messenger。　'These　old　hands　do　not　write　as　they　once　did！
　'Forgive　me；'　whispered　Carlos。　I'm　preoccupied　and　inconsiderate　I'm　sorry。'
　'Not　at　all；　not　at　all。　Go　ahead。'
　'Finally；　I　want　our　team　to　take　rooms　within　a　block　of　the　bank　on　the　rue　Madeleine。　This　time　the　bank　will　be　Cain's　undoing。　The　pretender　will　be　taken　at　the　source　of　his　misplaced　pride。　A　bargain　price；　as　despicable　as　he　is。；。　Unless　he's　something　else。'
　Bourne　watched　from　a　distance　as　Marie　passed　through　customs　and　immigration　in　Bern's　airport；　looking　for　signs　of　interest　or　recognition　from　anyone　in　the　crowd　that　stood　around　Air　France's　departure　area。　It　was　four　o'clock　in　the　afternoon；　the　busiest　hour　for　flights　to　Paris；　a　time　when　privileged　businessmen　hurried　back　to　the　City　of　Light　after　dull　pany　chores　at　the　banks　of　Bern。　Marie　glanced　over　her　shoulder　as　she　walked　through　the　gate；　he　nodded；　waited　until　she　had　disappeared；　then　turned　and　started　for　the　Swiss　Air　Lounge。　George　P。　Washburn　had　a　reservation　on　the　4。30　plane　to　Orly。
　They　would　meet　later　at　a　cafe　Marie　remembered　from　visits　during　her　Oxford　days。　It　was　called　Au　Coin　de　Cluny　on　the　boulevard　Saint…Michel；　several　blocks　from　the　Sorbonne。　If　by　any　chance　it　was　no　longer　there；　Jason　would　find　her　around　nine　o'clock　on　the　steps　of　the　Cluny　Museum。
　Bourne　would　be　late；　nearby　but　late。　The　Sorbonne　had　one　of　the　most　extensive　libraries　in　all　Europe　and　somewhere　in　that　library　were　back　issues　of　newspapers。　University　libraries　were　not　subject　to　the　working　hours　of　government　employees；　students　used　them　during　the　evenings。　So　would　he　as　soon　as　he　reached　Paris。　There　was　something　he　had　to　learn。
　Every　day　I　read　the　newspapers。　In　three　languages。　Six　months　ago　a　man　was　killed；　his　death　reported　on　the　front　page　of　each　of　those　newspapers。　So　said　a　fat　man　in　Zurich。
　He　left　his　suitcase　at　the　library　cloakroom　and　walked　to　the　first　floor；　turning　left　towards　the　arch　that　led　to　the　huge　reading　room。　The　Chambre　des　Journals　was　in　this　annexe；　the　newspapers　on　spindles　placed　in　racks；　the　issues　going　back　precisely　one　year　from　the　day's　date。
　He　walked　along　the　racks；　counting　back　six　months；　lifting　off　the　first　ten　weeks'　worth　of　papers　beyond　that　date　a　half　a　year　ago。　He　carried　them　to　the　nearest　vacant　table　and　without　sitting　down　flipped　through　from　front　page　to　front　page；　issue　to　issue。
　Great　men　had　died　in　their　beds；　while　others　had　made　pronouncements；　the　dollar　had　fallen；　gold　risen；　strikes　had　crippled；　and　governments　had　vacillated　between　action　and　paralysis。　But　no　name　had　been　killed　who　warranted　headlines；　there　was　no　such　incident　…　no　such　assassination。
　Jason　returned　to　the　racks　and　went　back　further。　Two　weeks；　twelve　weeks；　twenty　weeks。　Nearly　eight　months。　Nothing。
　Then　it　struck　him；　he　had　gone　back　in　time；　n