rl.thebourneidentity-第59部分

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holster；　got　out　of　the　car　and　walked　across　the　street　towards　the　limousine。　The　mirrors　had　been　angled　so　that；　by　staying　in　the　blind　spot；　there　was　no　way　either　man　inside　could　see　him　approach。　The　European　paused　briefly　beside　the　boot；　then　swiftly；　hand　extended；　lunged　for　the　right　front　door；　opened　it　and　spun　inside；　levelling　his　weapon　over　the　seat。
　Alfred　Gillette　gasped；　his　left　hand　surging　for　the　door　handle；　the　European　snapped　the　four…way　lock。　David　Abbott　remained　immobile；　staring　at　the　invader。
　'Good　evening；　Monk；'　said　the　European。　'Another；　whom　I'm　told　often　assumes　a　religious　habit；　sends　you　his　congratulations。　Not　only　for　Cain；　but　for　your　household　personnel　at　Treadstone。　The　Yachtsman；　for　instance。　Once　a　superior　agent。'
　Gillette　found　his　voice；　it　was　a　mixture　of　a　scream　and　a　whisper。　'What　is　this？　Who　are　you？'　he　cried；　feigning　ignorance。
　'Oh　e　now；　old　friend。　That's　not　necessary；'　said　the　man　with　the　gun。　'I　can　see　by　the　expression　on　Mr。　Abbott's　face　that　he　realizes　his　initial　doubts　about　you　were　accurate。　One　should　always　trust　one's　first　instincts；　shouldn't　one；　Monk。。。？　You　were　right；　of　course。　We　found　another　discontented　man；　your　system　reproduces　them　with　alarming　rapidity。　He；　indeed；　gave　us　the　Medusa　files；　and　they　did；　indeed；　lead　us　to　Bourne。'
　'What　are　you　doing？！'　screamed　Gillette。　'What　are　you　saying？'
　'You're　a　bore；　Alfred。　But　you　were　always　part　of　a　damn　fine　staff。　It's　too　bad　you　didn't　know　which　staff　to　stay　with；　your　kind　never　do。〃
　'You！。。。'　Gillette　rose　bodily　off　the　seat；　his　face　contorted。
　The　European　fired　his　weapon；　the　spit　echoing　briefly　in　the　soft　interior　of　the　limousine。　The　bureaucrat　slumped　over；　his　body　crumbling　to　the　floor　against　the　door；　owl…eyes　wide　in　death。
　'I　don't　think　you　mourn　him；'　said　the　European。
　'I　don't；'　said　the　Monk。
　'It　is　Bourne　out　there；　you　know。　Cain　turned；　he　broke。　The　long　period　of　silence　is　over。　The　snake　from　Medusa's　head　decided　to　strike　out　on　his　own。　Or　perhaps　he　was　bought　That's　possible　too；　isn't　it？　Carlos　buys　many　men；　the　one　at　your　feet　now；　for　example。'
　'You'll　learn　nothing　from　me。　Don't　try。'　There's　nothing　to　learn。　We　know　it　all。　Delta；　Carlos。。。　Cain。　But　the　names　aren't　important　any　longer；　they　never　were；　really。　All　that　remains　is　the　final　isolation　…　removing　the　man…monk　who　makes　the　decisions。　You。　Bourne　is　trapped。　He's　finished。'
　There　are　others　who　make　decisions。　He'll　reach　them。'　'If　he　does；　they'll　kill　him　on　sight　There's　nothing　more　despicable　than　a　man　who's　turned；　but　in　order　for　a　man　to　turn　there　has　to　be　irrefutable　proof　that　he　was　yours　to　begin　with。　Carlos　has　the　proof；　he　…was　yours；　his　origins　as　sensitive　as　anything　in　the　Medusa　files。'
　The　old　man　frowned；　he　was　frightened；　not　for　his　life；　but　for　something　infinitely　more　indispensable。　'You're　out　of　your　mind；'　he　said。　There　is　no　proof。'
　That　was　the　flaw；　your　flaw。　Carlos　is　thorough；　his　tentacles　reach　into　all　manner　of　hidden　recesses。　You　needed　a　man　from　Medusa；　someone　who　had　lived　and　disappeared。　You　chose　a　man　named　Bourne　because　the　circumstances　of　his　disappearance　had　been　obliterated；　eliminated　from　every　existing　record　…　or　so　you　believed。　But　you　didn't　consider　Hanoi's　own　field；　personnel　who　had　infiltrated　Medusa；　those　records　exist。　On　25　March　1968；　Jason　Bourne　was　executed　by　an　American　Intelligence　officer　in　the　jungles　of　Tarn　Quan。'
　The　Monk　lunged　forward；　there　was　nothing　left　but　a　final　gesture；　a　final　defiance。　The　European　fired。
　The　door　of　the　brownstone　opened。　From　the　shadows　beneath　the　staircase；　the　chauffeur　smiled。　The　White　House　aide　was　being　escorted　out　by　the　Yachtsman；　and　the　killer　knew　that　meant　the　primary　alarms　were　off。　The　three…second　span　was　eliminated。　'So　good　of　you　to　drop　by；'　said　the　Yachtsman　shaking　hands。
　Thank　you　very　much；　sir。〃
　These　were　the　last　words　either　man　spoke。　The　chauffeur　aimed　above　the　brick…walled　railing；　pulling　the　trigger　twice；　the　muffled　reports　indistinguishable　from　the　myriad　if　distant　sounds　of　the　city。　The　Yachtsman　fell　back　inside；　the　White　House　aide　clutched　his　upper　chest；　reeling　into　the　door　frame。　The　chauffeur　spun　around　the　wall　and　raced　up　the　steps；　catching　Stevens's　body　as　it　plummeted　down。　With　bullet…like　strength；　the　killer　lifted　the　White　House　man　off　his　feet；　hurling　him　back　through　the　door　into　the　foyer　beyond　the　Yachtsman。　Then　he　turned　to　the　interior　border　of　the　heavy；　steel…plated　door。　He　knew　what　to　look　for；　he　found　it。　Along　the　upper　moulding；　disappearing　into　the　wall；　was　a　thick　cable；　stained　the　colour　of　the　doorframe。　He　closed　the　door　part　way；　raised　his　gun　and　fired　into　the　cable。　The　spit　was　followed　by　an　eruption　of　static　and　sparks；　the　security　cameras　were　blown　out；　screens　everywhere　now　dark。
　He　opened　the　door　to　signal；　it　was　not　necessary。　The　European　was　walking　rapidly　across　the　quiet　street。　Within　seconds　he　had　climbed　the　steps　and　was　inside；　glancing　around　the　foyer　and　the　hallway　…　and　at　the　door　at　the　end　of　the　hall。　Together　both　men　lifted　a　rug　from　the　foyer　floor；　the　European　closing　the　door　on　its　edge；　welding　cloth　and　steel　together　so　that　a　two…inch　space　remained；　the　security　bolts　still　in　place。　No　back…up　alarms　could　be　raised。
　They　stood　erect　in　silence；　both　knew　that　if　the　discovery　was　going　to　be　made；　it　would　be　made　quickly。　It　came　with　the　sound　of　an　upstairs　door　opening；　followed　by　footsteps　and　words　that　floated　down　the　staircase　in　a　cultured　female　voice。
　'Darling！　I　just　noticed；　the　damn　camera's　on　the　fritz。　Would　you　check　it；　please？'　There　was　a　pause；　then　the　woman　spoke　again。　'On　second　thought　why　not　tell　the　Jesuit？'　Again　the　pause；　again　with　precise　timing。　'Don't　bother　then；　darling。　I'll　tell　David）'
　Two　footsteps。　Silence。　A　rustle　of　cloth。　The　European　studied　the　stairwell。　A　light　went　out。　David。　Jesuit〃。。　Monk！
　'Get　her！'　he　roared　at　the　chauffeur；　spinning　around；　his　weapon　levelled　at　the　door　at　the　end　of　the　hallway。
　The　Uniformed　man　raced　up　the　staircase；　there　was　a　gunshot；　it　came　from　a　powerful　weapon　…　unmuffled；　un…silenced。　The　European　looked　up；　the　chauffeur　was　holding　his　shoulder；　his　coat　drenched　with　blood；　his　pistol　held　out；　spitting　repeatedly　up　the　well　of　the　stairs。
　The　door　at　the　end　of　the　hallway　was　yanked　open；　the　major　standing　there　in　shock；　a　file　folder　in　his　hand。　The　European　fired　twice；　Gordon　Webb　arched　backwards；　his　throat　torn　open；　the　papers　in　the　folder　flying　out　behind　him。　The　man　in　the　raincoat　raced　up　the　steps　to　the　chauffeur；　above；　over　the　railing；　was　the　grey…haired　woman；　dead；　blood　spilling　out　of　her　head　and　neck。　'Are　you　all　right？　Can　you　move？'　asked　the　European。
　The　chauffeur　nodded。　〃The　bitch　blew　half　my　shoulder　off；　but　I　can　manage。'
　'You　have　to！'　manded　his　superior；　ripping　off　his　raincoat。　'Put　on　my　coat　I　want　the　Monk　in　here！　Quickly！'
　'Jesus！。。。〃
　'Carlos　wants　the　Monk　in　here！'
　Awkwardly　the　wounded　man　put　on　the　black　raincoat　and　made　his　way　down　the　staircase　around　the　bodies　of　the　Yachtsman　and　the　White　House　aide。　Carefully；　in　pain；　he　let　himself　out　of　the　door　and　down　the　front　steps。
　The　European　watched　him；　holding　the　door；　making　sure　the　man　was　sufficiently　mobile　for　the　task。　He　was；　he　was　a　bull　whose　every　appetite　was　satisfied　by　Carlos。　The　chauffeur　would　carry　David　Abbott's　corpse　back　into　the　brown…stone；　no　doubt　supporting　it　as　though　helping　an　ageing　drunk　for　the　benefit　of　anyone　in　the　street；　and　then　he　would　somehow　contain　his　bleeding　long　enough　to　drive　Alfred　Gillette's　body　across　the　river；　burying　him　in　a　swamp。　Carlos's　men　were　capable　of　such　things；　they　were　all　bulls。　Discontented　bulls　who　had　found　their　own　causes　in　a　single　man。
　The　European　turned　and　started　down　the　hall；　there　was　work　to　do。　The　final　isolation　of　the　man　called　Jason　Bourne。
　It　was　more　than　could　be　hoped　for；　the　exposed　files　a　gift　beyond　belief。　Included　were　folders　containing　every　code　and　method　of　munication　ever　used　by　the　mythical　Cain。　Now　not　so　mythical；　thought　the　European；　as　he　gathered　the　papers　together。　The　scene　was　set；　the　four　corpses　in　position　in　the　peaceful；　elegant　library。　David　Abbott　was　arched　in　a　chair；　his　dead　eyes　in　shock；　Elliot　Stevens　at　his　feet；　the　Yachtsman　was　slumped　over　the　hatch　table；　an　overturned　bottle　of　whisky　in　his　hand；　while　Gordon　Webb　sprawled　on　the　floor；　clutching　his　briefcase。　Whatever　violence　had　taken　place；　the　setting　indicated　that　it　had　been　unexpected；　conversations　interrupted　by　abrupt　gunfire。
　The　European　walked　around　in　suede　gloves；　appraising　his　artistry；　and　it　was　artistry。　He　had　dismissed　the　chauffeur；　wiped　every　door　handle；　every　knob；　every　gleaming　surface　of　wood。　It　was　time　for　the　final　touch。　He　walked　to　a　table　where　there　were　brandy　glasses　on　a　silver　tray；　picked　one　up　and　held　it　to　the　light；　as　he　expected；　it　was　spotless。　He　put　it　down；　and　took　out　a　small；　flat；　plastic　case　from　his　pocket。　He　opened　it　and　removed　a　strip　of　transparent　tape；　holding　it；　too；　up　to　the　light　There　they　were；　as　clear　as　portraits　…　for　they　were　portraits；　as　undeniable　as　any　photograph。
　They　had　been　taken　off　a　glass　of　Perrier；　removed　from　an　office　at　the　Gemeinschaft　Bank　in　Zurich。　They　were　the　fingerprints　of　Jason　Bourne's　right　hand。
　The　European　picked　up　the　brandy　glass　and；　with　the　patience　of　the　artist　he　was；　pressed　the　tape　around　the　lower　surface；　then　gently　peeled　it　off。　Again　he　held　the　glass　up；　the　prints　were　seen　in　dull　perfection　against　the　light　of　the　table　lamp。
　The　European　carried　the　glass　over　to　a　corner　of　the　parquet　floor　and　dropped　it　He　knelt　down；　studied　the　fragments；　removed　several；　and　brushed　the　rest　under　the　curtain。
　They　were　enough。
　'Later；'　said　Bourne；　throwing　their　suitcases　on　the　bed。　'We've　got　to　get　out　of　here。'
　Marie