rl.thebourneidentity-第41部分

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　The　next　few　minutes　astonished　Jason；　which　was　to　say　he　astonished　himself。　The　term　was　'role…playing'；　he　understood　that；　but　what　shocked　him　was　the　ease　with　which　he　slid　into　a　character　far　from　himself　…　as　he　knew　himself。　Where　minutes　before　he　had　made　appraisals；　he　now　made　inspections；　pulling　garments　from　their　individual　racks；　holding　the　fabrics　up　to　the　light。　He　peered　closely　at　stitchings；　examined　buttons　and　button　holes；　brushed　his　fingers　across　collars；　fluffing　them　up；　then　letting　them　fall。　He　was　a　judge　of　fine　clothes；　a　schooled　buyer　who　knew　what　he　wanted　and　rapidly　disregarded　that　which　did　not　suit　his　tastes。　The　only　items　he　did　not　examine　were　the　price　tags；　obviously　they　held　no　interest　for　him。
　The　fact　that　they　did　not　prodded　the　interest　of　the　imperious　woman　who　kept　glancing　over　in　his　direction。　A　sales　clerk；　her　concave　body　floating　upright　on　the　carpet；　approached　him；　he　smiled　courteously；　but　said　he　preferred　to　browse　by　himself。　Less　than　thirty　seconds　later　he　was　behind　three　mannequins；　each　dressed　in　the　most　expensive　designs　to　be　found　in　Les　Classiques。　He　raised　his　eyebrows；　his　mouth　set　in　silent　approval　as　he　squinted　between　the　plastic　figures　at　the　woman　beyond　at　the　counter。　She　whispered　to　the　clerk　who　had　spoken　to　him；　the　former　model　shook　her　head；　shrugging。
　Bourne　stood　arms　akimbo；　billowing　his　cheeks；　his　breath　escaping　slowly　as　his　eyes　shifted　from　one　mannequin　to　another；　he　was　an　uncertain　man　about　to　make　up　his　mind。　And　a　potential　client　in　that　situation；　especially　one　who　did　not　look　at　prices；　needed　assistance　from　the　most　knowledgeable　person　in　the　vicinity；　he　was　irresistible。　The　regal　woman　touched　her　hair；　and　gracefully　negotiated　the　aisles　towards　him。　The　pavane　had　e　to　its　first　conclusion；　the　dancers　bowed；　preparing　for　the　gavotte。
　'I　see　you've　gravitated　to　our　better　items；　Monsieur；'　said
　the　woman　in　English；　a　presumption　obviously　based　on　the　judgment　of　a　practised　eye。
　'I　trust　I　have；'　replied　Jason。　'You　have　an　interesting　collection　here；　but　one　does　have　to　ferret；　doesn't　one？'
　〃The　ever…present　and　inevitable　scale　of　values；　Monsieur。　However；　all　our　designs　are　exclusive。'　'D'accord；　madame。'　'Ah；　vous　parlet　francais？'　'Un　peu。　Passably。'　'You　are　American？'
　'I'm　rarely　there；'　said　Bourne。　'You　say　these　are　made　for　you　alone？'
　'Oh；　yes。　Our　designer　is　under　exclusive　contract；　I'm　sure　you've　heard　of　him。　Rene　Bergeron。'
　Jason　frowned。　'Yes。　I　have。　Very　respected；　but　he's　never　made　a　breakthrough；　has　he？'
　'He　will；　Monsieur。　It's　inevitable；　his　reputation　grows　each　season。　A　number　of　years　ago　he　worked　for　St　Laurent；　then　Givenchy。　Some　say　he　did　far　more　than　cut　the　patterns　if　you　know　what　I　mean。'　'It's　not　hard　to　follow。'
　'And　how　those　cats　try　to　push　him　in　the　background！　It's　disgraceful！　Because　he　adores　women；　he　flatters　them　and　does　not　make　them　into　little　boys；　vous　prenez？'　'Facilement。'
　'Hell　emerge　worldwide　one　day　soon　and　they'll　not　be　able　to　touch　the　hems　of　his　creations。　Think　of　these　as　the　works　of　an　emerging　master；　Monsieur。'
　'You're　very　convincing。　I'll　take　these　three。　I　assume　they're　in　the　size　twelve　range。'
　'Indeed；　Monsieur；　but　they　will　be　fitted；　of　course。〃　'I'm　afraid　not；　but　I'm　sure　there　are　decent　dressmakers　in　Cap　Ferrat。'
　'Naturettement；'　conceded　the　woman　quickly。　'Also。。。'　Bourne　hesitated；　frowning　again。　'While　I'm　here；　and　to　save　time；　select　a　few　others　for　me　along　these　lines。　Different　prints；　different　cuts；　but　related；　if　that　makes　sense。'　'Very　good　sense；　Monsieur。'
　Thanks；　I　appreciate　it　I've　had　a　long　flight　from　the　Bahamas　and　I'm　exhausted。'　'Would　Monsieur　care　to　sit　down　then？'
　〃Frankly　Monsieur　would　care　for　a　drink。'
　'It　can　be　arranged；　of　course。。。　As　to　the　method　of　payment；　Monsieur。。。？'
　'Encaisse；　I　think；'　said　Jason；　aware　that　the　exchange　of　merchandise　for　hard　currency　would　appeal　to　the　overseer　of　Les　Classiques。　'Cheques　and　accounts　are　like　spoors　in　the　forest；　aren't　they？'
　'You　are　as　wise　as　you　are　discriminating。'　The　rigid　smile　cracked　the　mask　again；　the　eyes　in　no　way　related。　'About　that　drink；　why　not　my　office？　It's　quite　private；　you　can　relax　and　I　shall　bring　you　selections　for　your'　approval。'
　'Splendid。'
　'As　to　the　price　range；　Monsieur？'
　'Les　meilleurs；　madame。'
　'Naturellement。'　A　thin　white　hand　was　extended。　'I　am　Jacqueline　Lavier；　managing　partner　of　Les　Classiques。'
　'Thank　you。'　Bourne　took　the　hand　without　offering　a　name。　One　might　follow　in　less　public　surroundings；　his　expression　said；　but　not　at　the　moment。　For　the　moment；　money　was　his　introduction。　'Your　office？　Mine's　several　thousand　miles　from　here。'
　This　way；　Monsieur。〃　The　rigid　smile　appeared　once　more；　breaking　the　facial　mask　like　a　sheet　of　progressively　cracked　ice。　Madame　Lavier　gestured　towards　the　staircase。　The　world　of　haute　couture　continued；　its　orbit　uninterrupted　by　failure　and　death　on　the　Quai　de　la　Rapee。
　That　lack　of　interruption　was　as　disturbing　to　Jason　as　it　was　bewildering。　He　was　convinced　the　woman　walking　beside　him　was　the　carrier　of　lethal　mands　that　had　been　aborted　by　gunfire　an　hour　ago；　the　orders　having　been　issued　by　a　faceless　man　who　demanded　obedience　or　death。　But　there　was　not　the　slightest　indication　that　a　strand　of　her　perfectly　groomed　hair　had　been　disturbed　by　nervous　fingers；　no　pallor　on　the　chiselled　mask　that　might　be　taken　for　fear。　Yet　there　was　no　one　higher　at　Les　Classiques；　no　one　else　who　would　have　a　private　number　in　a　very　private　office。　Part　of　an　equation　was　missing。。。　but　another　had　been　disturbingly　confirmed。
　Himself。　The　chameleon。　The　charade　had　worked；　he　was　in　the　enemy's　camp　convinced　beyond　doubt　that　he　had　not　been　recognized。　The　whole　episode　had　a　deja　vu　quality　about　it。　He　had　done　such　things　before；　experienced　the　feelings　of　similar　acplishment　before。　He　was　a　man　running　through　an　unfamiliar　jungle；　yet　somehow　instinctively　knowing　his　way；　sure　of　where　the　traps　were　and　how　to　avoid　them。　The　chameleon　was　an　expert。
　They　reached　the　staircase　and　started　up　the　steps。　Below；　on　the　right；　the　conservatively　dressed；　middle…aged　operator　was　speaking　quietly　into　the　extended　mouthpiece；　nodding　his　grey…haired　head　almost　wearily；　as　if　assuring　the　party　on　the　line　that　their　world　was　as　serene　as　it　should　be。
　Bourne　stopped　on　the　seventh　step；　the　pause　involuntary。　The　back　of　the　man's　head；　the　outline　of　the　cheekbone；　the　sight　of　the　thinning　grey　hair　…　the　way　it　fell　slightly　over　the　ear；　he　had　seen　that　man　before！　Somewhere。　In　the　past；　in　the　unremembered　past；　but　remembered　now　in　darkness。。。　and　with　flashes　of　light。　Explosions；　mists；　buffeting　winds　followed　by　silences　filled　with　tension。　What　was　it？　Where　was　it？　Why　did　the　pain　e　to　his　eyes　again？　The　grey…haired　man　began　to　turn　in　his　swivel　chair；　Jason　looked　away　before　they　made　contact。
　'I　see　Monsieur　is　taken　by　our　rather　unique　switchboard；'　said　Madame　Lavier。　'It's　a　distinction　we　feel　sets　Les　Classiques　apart　from　the　other　shops　on　Saint…Honore。'
　'How　so？'　asked　Bourne；　as　they　proceeded　up　the　steps；　the　pain　in　his　eyes　causing　him　to　blink。
　'When　a　client　calls　Les　Classiques；　the　telephone　is　not　answered　by　a　vacuous　female；　but　instead　by　a　cultured　gentleman　who　has　all　our　information　at　his　fingertips。'　'A　nice　touch。'
　'Other　gentlemen　think　so；'　she　added。　'Especially　when　making　telephone　purchases　they　would　prefer　to　keep　confidential。　There　are　no　spoors　in　our　forest；　Monsieur。'
　They　reached　Jacqueline　Lavier's　spacious　office。　It　was　the　lair　of　an　efficient　executive；　scores　of　papers　in　separate　piles　on　the　desk；　an　easel　against　the　wall　holding　water…colour　sketches；　some　boldly　initialled；　others　left　untouched；　obviously　unacceptable。　The　walls　were　filled　with　framed　photographs　of　the　Beautiful　People；　their　beauty　too　often　marred　by　gaping　mouths　and　smiles　as　false　as　the　one　on　the　mask　of　the　inhabitant　of　the　office。　There　was　a　bitch　quality　in　the　perfumed　air；　these　were　the　quarters　of　an　ageing；　pacing　tigress；　swift　to　attack　any　who　threatened　her　possessions　or　the　sating　of　her　appetites。　Yet　she　was　disciplined；　all　things　considered；　an　estimable　liaison　to　Carlos。
　Who　was　that　man　on　the　switchboard？　Where　had　he　seen　him？
　He　was　offered　a　drink　from　a　selection　of　bottles；　he　chose　brandy。
　'Do　sit　down；　Monsieur。　I　shall　enlist　the　help　of　Rene　himself；　if　I　can　find　him。'
　'That's　very　kind；　but　I'm　sure　whatever　you　choose　will　be　satisfactory。　I　have　an　instinct　about　taste；　yours　is　all　through　this　office。　I'm　fortable　with　it'
　'You're　too　generous。'
　'Only　when　it's　warranted；'　said　Jason；　still　standing。　'Actually；　I'd　like　to　look　at　the　photographs。　I　see　a　number　of　acquaintances；　if　not　friends。　A　lot　of　these　faces　pass　through　the　Bahamian　banks　with　considerable　frequency。'
　'I'm　sure　they　do；'　agreed　Lavier；　in　a　tone　that　bespoke　regard　for　such　avenues　of　finance。　'I　shan't　be　long；　Monsieur。'
　Nor　would　she；　thought　Bourne；　as　Les　Classiques'　partner　swept　out　of　the　office。　Mme　Lavier　was　not　about　to　allow　a　tired；　wealthy　mark　too　much　time　to　think。　She　would　return　with　the　most　expensive　designs　she　could　gather　up　as　rapidly　as　possible。　Therefore；　if　there　was　anything　in　the　room　that　could　shed　light　on　Carlos's　intermediary　…　or　on　the　assassin's　operation　…　it　had　to　be　found　quickly。　And；　if　it　was　there　it　would　be　on　or　around　the　desk。
　Jason　circled　behind　the　imperial　chair　in　front　of　the　wall；　feigning　amused　interest　in　the　photographs；　but　concentrating　on　the　desk。　There　were　invoices；　receipts　and　overdue　bills；　along　with　dunning　letters　of　reprimand　awaiting　Lavier's　signature。　An　address　book　lay　open；　four　names　on　the　page；　he　moved　closer　to　see　more　clearly。　Each　was　the　name　of　a　pany；　the　individual　contacts　bracketed；　his　or　her　positions　underlined。　He　wondered　if　he　should　memorize　each　pany；　each　contact。　He　was　about　to　do　so　when　his　eyes