rl.thebourneidentity-第6部分

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rcumstances　were　better。　You're　my　payment。'
　'I　need　papers；'　said　the　man；　sensing　a　source　of　help。　'I　need　a　passport　altered。〃
　'Why　speak　to　me？'　asked　the　captain。　'I　said　I　would　put　a　package　over　the　side　north　of　La　Ciotat。　That's　all　I　said。'
　'You　wouldn't　have　said　that　if　you　weren't　capable　of　other　things。'
　I　will　not　take　you　into　Marseilles。　I　will　not　risk　the　patrol　boats。　The　Surete'　has　squadrons　all　over　the　harbour；　the　narcotics　teams　are　maniacs。　You　pay　them　or　you　pay　twenty　years　in　a　cell！'
　'Which　means　I　can　get　papers　in　Marseilles。　And　you　can　help　me。'
　'I　did　not　say　that。'
　'Yes；　you　did。　I　need　a　service　and　that　service　can　be　found　in　a　place　where　you　won't　take　me　…　still　the　service　is　there。　You　said　it。'
　'Said　what？'
　'That　you'll　talk　to　me　in　Marseilles　…　if　I　can　get　there　without　you。　Just　tell　me　where。〃
　The　skipper　of　the　fishing　boat　studied　the　patient's　face；　the　decision　was　not　made　lightly；　but　it　was　made。　'There's　a　cafe　on　rue　Sarasin；　south　of　Old　Harbour。　Le　Bouc　de　Mer。　I'll　be　there　tonight　between　nine　and　eleven。　You'll　need　money；　some　of　it　in　advance。'
　'How　much？'
　〃That's　between　you　and　the　man　you　speak　with。'
　'I've　got　to　have　an　idea。〃
　'It's　cheaper　if　you　have　a　document　to　work　with；　otherwise　one　has　to　be　stolen。'
　'I　told　you。　I've　got　one。！
　The　captain　shrugged。　'Fifteen　hundred；　two　thousand　francs。　Are　we　wasting　time？'
　The　patient　thought　of　the　oil…cloth　packet　strapped　to　his　waist　Bankruptcy　lay　in　Marseilles；　but　so　did　an　altered　passport；　a　passport　to　Zurich。　I'll　handle　it；'　he　said；　not　knowing　why　he　sounded　so　confident。　Tonight；　then。'
　The　captain　peered　at　the　dimly　lit　shoreline。　'This　is　as　far　as　we　can　drift。　You're　on　your　own　now。　Remember；　if　we　don't　meet　in　Marseilles；　you've　never　seen　me　and　I've　never　seen　you。　None　of　my　crew　has　seen　you；　either。'
　I'll　be　there。　Le　Bouc　de　Mer；　rue　Sarasin；　south　of　Old　Harbour。！
　'In　God's　hands；'　said　the　skipper；　signalling　a　crewman　at　the　wheel；　the　engines　rumbled　beneath　the　boat。　'By　the　way；　the　clientele　at　Le　Bouc　are　not　used　to　the　Parisian　dialect。　I'd　rough　it　up　if　I　were　you。'
　Thanks　for　the　advice；'　said　the　patient　as　he　swung　his　legs　over　the　gunwale　and　lowered　himself　into　the　water。　He　held　his　knapsack　above　the　surface；　legs　scissoring　to　stay　afloat。　'See　you　tonight；'　he　added　in　a　louder　voice；　looking　up　at　the　black　hull　of　the　fishing　boat。
　There　was　no　one　there；　the　captain　had　left　the　railing。　The　only　sounds　were　the　slapping　of　the　waves　against　the　wood　and　the　muffled　acceleration　of　the　engines。
　'You're　on　your　own　now。'
　He　shivered　and　spun　in　the　cold　water；　angling　his　body　towards　the　shore；　remembering　to　sidestroke　to　his　right；　to　head　for　a　cluster　of　rocks　on　the　right。　If　the　captain　knew　what　he　was　talking　about；　the　current　would　take　him　into　the　unseen　beach。
　It　did；　he　could　feel　the　undertow　pulling　his　bare　feet　into　the　sand；　making　the　last　thirty　yards　the　most　difficult　to　cross。　But　the　canvas　knapsack　was　relatively　dry；　still　held　above　the　breaking　waves。
　Minutes　later　he　was　sitting　on　a　dune　of　wild　grass；　the　tall　reeds　bending　with　the　offshore　breezes；　the　first　rays　of　morning　intruding　on　the　night　sky。　The　sun　would　be　up　in　an　hour；　he　would　have　to　move　with　it。
　He　opened　the　knapsack　and　took　out　a　pair　of　boots　and　heavy　socks　along　with　rolled…up　trousers　and　a　coarse　denim　shirt。　Somewhere　in　his　past　he　had　learned　to　pack　with　an　economy　of　space；　the　knapsack　contained　far　more　than　an　observer　might　think。　Where　had　he　learned　that？　Why？　The　questions　never　stopped。
　He　got　up　and　took　off　the　British　walking　shorts　he　had　accepted　from　Washburn。　He　stretched　them　across　the　reeds　of　grass　to　dry；　he　could　discard　nothing。　He　removed　his　undershirt　and　did　the　same。
　Standing　there　naked　on　the　dune　he　felt　an　odd　sense　of　exhilaration　mingled　with　a　hollow　pain　in　the　middle　of　his　stomach。　The　pain　was　fear；　he　knew　that。　He　understood　the　exhilaration；　too。
　He　had　passed　his　first　test。　He　had　trusted　an　instinct　…perhaps　a　pulsion　…　and　had　known　what　to　say　and　how　to　respond。　An　hour　ago　he　was　without　an　immediate　destination；　knowing　only　that　Zurich　was　his　objective；　but　knowing；　too；　that　there　were　borders　to　cross；　official　eyes　to　satisfy。　The　eight…year…old　passport　was　so　obviously　not　his　own　that　even　the　dullest　immigration　clerk　would　spot　the　fact。　And　even　if　he　managed　to　cross　into　Switzerland　with　it；　he　had　to　get　out；　with　each　move　the　odds　of　his　being　detained　were　multiplied。　He　could　not　permit　that。　Not　now；　not　until　he　knew　more。　The　answers　were　in　Zurich；　he　had　to　travel　freely；　and　he　had　homed　in　on　a　captain　of　a　fishing　boat　to　make　that　possible。
　You　are　not　helpless。　You　will　find　your　way。
　Before　the　day　was　over　be　would　make　a　connection　to　have　Washburn's　passport　altered　by　a　professional；　transformed　into　a　licence　to　travel。　It　was　the　first　concrete　step；　but　before　it　was　taken　there　was　the　consideration　of　money。　The　two　thousand　francs　the　doctor　had　given　him　were　inadequate；　they　might　not　even　be　enough　for　the　passport　itself。　What　good　was　a　licence　to　travel　without　the　means　to　do　so？　Money。　He　had　to　get　money。　He　had　to　think　about　that。
　He　shook　out　the　clothes　he　had　taken　from　the　knapsack；　put　them　on；　and　shoved　his　feet　into　the　boots。　Then　he　lay　down　on　the　sand；　staring　at　the　sky；　which　progressively　grew　brighter。　The　day　was　being　born　and　so　was　he。
　He　walked　the　narrow　stone　streets　of　La　Ciotat；　going　into　the　shops　as　much　to　converse　with　the　clerks　as　anything　else。　It　was　an　odd　sensation　to　be　part　of　the　human　traffic；　not　an　unknown　derelict　dragged　from　the　sea。　He　remembered　the　captain's　advice　and　gutturalised　his　French；　allowing　him　to　be　accepted　as　an　unremarkable　stranger　passing　through　town。　Money。
　There　was　a　section　of　La　Ciotat　that　apparently　catered　to　a　wealthy　clientele。　The　shops　were　cleaner　and　the　merchandise　more　expensive；　the　fish　fresher　and　the　meat　several　cuts　above　that　in　the　main　shopping　area。　Even　the　vegetables　glistened；　many　exotic；　imported　from　Northern　Africa　and　the　Middle　East。　The　area　held　a　touch　of　Paris　or　Nice　set　down　on　the　fringes　of　a　routinely　middle…class　coastal　munity。　A　small　cafe；　its　entrance　at　the　end　of　a　flagstone　path；　stood　separated　from　the　shops　on　either　side　by　a　manicured　lawn。　Money。
　He　walked　into　a　butcher's　shop；　aware　that　the　owner's　appraisal　of　him　was　not　positive；　nor　the　glance　friendly。　The　man　was　waiting　on　a　middle…aged　couple；　who　from　their　speech　and　manner　were　domestic　servants　at　an　outlying　estate。　They　were　precise；　curt　and　demanding。
　'The　veal　last　week　was　barely　passable；'　said　the　woman。　'Do　better　this　time；　or　I'll　be　forced　to　order　from　Marseilles！
　'And　the　other　evening；'　added　the　man；　'the　Marquis　mentioned　to　me　that　the　lamb　chops　were　much　too　thin。　I　repeat；　a　full　three　centimetres。'
　The　owner　sighed　and　shrugged；　uttering　obsequious　phrases　of　apology　and　assurance。　The　woman　turned　to　her　escort；　her　voice　no　less　manding　than　it　was　to　the　butcher。
　'Wait　for　the　packages　and　put　them　in　the　car。　I'll　be　at　the　grocer's；　meet　me　there。'
　'Of　course；　my　dear。'
　The　woman　left；　a　pigeon　in　search　of　further　seeds　of　conflict。　The　moment　she　was　out　the　door　her　husband　turned　to　the　shopowner；　his　demeanour　entirely　different。　Gone　was　the　arrogance；　a　grin　appeared。
　'Just　your　average　day；　eh；　Marcel？'　he　said；　taking　a　packet　of　cigarettes　from　his　pocket。
　'Seen　better；　seen　worse。　Were　the　chops　really　too　thin？'
　'My　God；　no。　When　was　he　last　able　to　tell？　But　she　feels　better　if　I　plain；　you　know　that。'
　'Where　is　the　Marquis　of　the　Dungheap　now？'
　'Drunk　next　door；　waiting　for　the　whore　from　Toulon。　I'll　e　down　later　this　afternoon；　pick　him　up　and　sneak　him　past　the　Marquise　into　the　stables。　He　won't　be　able　to　drive　his　car　by　then。　He　uses　Jean…Pierre's　room　above　the　kitchen；　you　know。'
　'I've　heard。'
　At　the　mention　of　the　name　Jean…Pierre；　Washburn's　patient　turned　from　the　display　case　of　poultry。　It　was　an　automatic　reflex；　but　the　movement　only　served　to　remind　the　butcher　of　his　presence。
　'What　is　it？　What　do　you　want？'
　It　was　time　to　degutturalize　his　French。　'You　were　remended　by　friends　in　Nice；'　said　the　patient；　his　accent　more　befitting　the　Quai　dOrsay　than　Le　Bouc　de　Mer。
　'Oh？'　The　shopowner　made　an　immediate　reappraisal。　Among　his　clientele；　especially　the　younger　ones；　there　were　those　who　preferred　to　dress　in　opposition　to　their　status。　The　mon　Basque　shirt　was　even　fashionable　these　days。　'You're　new　here；　sir？'
　My　boat's　in　for　repairs；　we　won't　be　able　to　reach　Marseilles　this　afternoon。'
　'May　I　be　of　service？'
　The　patient　laughed。　'You　may　be　to　the　chef；　I　wouldn't　dare　presume。　He'll　be　around　later　and　I　do　have　some　influence。'
　The　butcher　and　his　friend　laughed。　'I　would　think　so；　sir；'　said　the　shopowner。
　I'll　need　a　dozen　ducklings　and；　say；　eighteen　chateau…briands。！
　'Of　course。'
　'Good。　I'll　send　our　master　of　the　galley　directly　to　you。'　The　patient　turned　to　the　middle…aged　man。　'By　the　way；　I　couldn't　help　overhearing。。。　no；　please　don't　be　concerned。　The　Marquis　wouldn't　be　that　jackass　d'Ambois；　would　he？　I　think　someone　told　me　he　lived　around　here。'
　'Oh　no；　sir。！　replied　the　servant。。　'I　don't　know　the　Marquis　d'Ambois。　I　was　referring　to　the　Marquis　de　Chambord。　A　fine　gentleman；　sir；　but　he　has　problems。　A　difficult　marriage；　sir。　Very　difficult；　it's　no　secret〃
　'Chambord？　Yes；　I　think　we've　met。　Rather　short　fellow；　isn't　he？'
　'No；　sir。　Quite　tall；　actually。　About　your　size；　I'd　say。〃
　'Really？'
　The　patient　learned　the　various　entrances　and　inside　staircases　of　the　two…storey　cafe　quickly　…　a　produce　delivery　man　from　Roquevaire　unsure　of　his　new　route。　There　were　two　sets　of　steps　that　led　to　the　first　floor；　one　from　the　kitchen；　the　other　just　beyond　the　front　entrance　in　the　small　foyer；　this　was　the　staircase　used　by　patrons　going　to　the　upstairs　washrooms。　There　was　also　a　window　through　which　an　in