rl.thebourneidentity-第67部分

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een　alarmed　by　the　sudden　light　ten　feet　below　the　conference。　There　were　no　guards　outside。　Protection　found　…　as　it　had　to　be　at　Villiers's　house　in　Pare　Monceau　…　within　the　building　itself。
　Another　man　appeared　in　the　doorway；　also　wearing　a　white　jacket；　but　with　the　addition　of　a　chef's　hat。　His　voice　was　angry；　his　French　laced　with　the　guttural　dialect　of　Gascony。　'While　you　piss　off；　we　sweat！　The　pastry　cart　is　half　empty。　Fill　it。　Now；　you　bastard！'
　The　pastry　man　turned　and　shrugged；　he　crushed　out　his　cigarette　and　went　back　inside；　closing　the　door　behind　him。　The　light　vanished；　only　the　wash　of　the　moon　remained；　but　it　was　enough　to　illuminate　the　terrace。　There　was　no　one　there；　no　guard　patrolling　the　wide　double　doors　that　led　to　the　inside　room。
　Carlos。　Find　Carlos。　Trap　Carlos。　Cain　is　for　Charlie；　and　Delta　is　for　Cain。
　Bourne　judged　the　distance　and　the　obstacles。　He　was　no　more　than　forty　feet　from　the　rear　of　the　building；　ten　or　twelve　below　the　railing　that　bordered　the　terrace。　There　were　two　vents　in　the　exterior　wall；　vapour　escaping　from　both　and　next　to　them　a　drainpipe　that　was　within　reach　of　the　railing。　If　he　could　scale　the　pipe　and　manage　to　get　a　toehold　in　the　lower　vent；　he　would　be　able　to　grab　a　rung　of　the　railing　and　pull　himself　up　to　the　terrace。　But　be　could　do　none　of　this　wearing　the　overcoat；　he　took　it　off；　placing　it　at　his　feet；　the　soft…brimmed　hat　on　top；　and　covered　both　with　undergrowth。　Then　he　stepped　to　the　edge　of　the　woods　and　raced　as　quietly　as　possible　across　the　gravel　to　the　drainpipe。
　In　the　shadows　he　tugged　at　the　fluted　metal；　it　was　strongly　in　place。　He　reached　as　high　as　he　could；　then　sprang　up；　gripping　the　pipe；　his　feet　pressed　into　the　wall；　pedalling　one　on　top　of　the　other　until　his　left　foot　was　parallel　to　the　first　vent。　Holding　on；　he　slipped　his　foot　into　the　recess；　and　propelled　himself　further　up　the　drain。　He　was　within　eighteen　inches　of　the　railing；　one　surge　launched　from　the　vent　and　he　could　reach　the　bottom　rung。
　The　door　crashed　open　beneath　him；　white　light　shooting　across　the　gravel　into　the　woods。　A　figure　plummeted　out；　weaving　to　maintain　its　balance；　followed　by　the　white…hatted　chef　who　was　screaming。
　'You　piss…ant！　You're　drunk；　that's　what　you　are！　You've　been　drunk　the　whole　shit…filled　night！　Pastries　all　over　the　dining…room　floor。。。　everything　a　mess。　Get　out；　you'll　not　get　a　sou！'
　The　door　was　pulled　shut；　the　sound　of　a　bolt　unmistakably　final。　Jason　held　onto　the　pipe；　arms　and　ankles　aching；　rivulets　of　sweat　breaking　out　on　his　forehead。　The　man　below　staggered　backwards；　making　obscene　gestures　repeatedly　with　his　right　hand　for　the　benefit　of　the　chef　who　was　no　longer　there。　His　glazed　eyes　wandered　up　the　wall；　settling　on　Bourne's　face。　Jason　held　his　breath　as　their　eyes　met；　the　man　stared；　then　blinked；　and　stared　again。　He　shook　his　head；　closing　his　lids；　then　opened　them　wide；　taking　in　the　sight　he　was　not　entirely　sure　was　there。　He　backed　away；　lurching　into　a　sideslip　and　a　forward　walk；　obviously　deciding　that　the　apparition　halfway　up　the　wall　was　the　result　of　his　pressured　labours。　He　weaved　around　the　corner　of　the　building；　a　man　more　at　peace　with　himself　for　having　rejected　the　foolishness　that　had　assaulted　his　eyes。
　Bourne　breathed　again；　letting　his　body　slump　against　the　wall　in　relief。　But　it　was　only　for　a　moment；　the　ache　in　his　ankle　had　descended　to　his　foot；　a　cramp　forming。　He　lunged；　grabbing　the　iron　bar　that　was　the　base　of　the　railing　with　his　right　hand；　whipping　his　left　up　from　the　drainpipe；　joining　it。　He　pressed　his　knees　into　the　tiles　and　pulled　himself　slowly　up　the　wall　until　his　head　was　over　the　edge　of　the　terrace。　It　was　deserted。　He　kicked　his　right　leg　up　to　the　ledge；　his　right　hand　reaching　for　the　wrought…iron　top；　balanced；　he　swung　over　the　railing。
　He　was　on　a　terrace　used　for　dining　in　the　spring　and　summer　months；　a　tiled　floor　that　could　acmodate　ten　to　fifteen　tables。　In　the　centre　of　the　wall　separating　the　enclosed　section　from　the　terrace　were　the　wide　double　doors　he　had　seen　from　the　woods。　The　figures　inside　were　now　motionless；　standing　still；　and　for　an　instant　Jason　wondered　whether　an　alarm　had　been　set　off　…　whether　they　were　waiting　for　him。　He　stood　immobile；　his　hand　on　his　gun；　nothing　happened。　He　approached　the　wall；　staying　in　the　shadows。　Once　there；　he　pressed　his　back　against　the　wood　and　edged　his　way　towards　the　first　door　until　his　ringers　touched　the　frame。　Slowly；　he　inched　his　head　up　to　the　pane　of　glass　level　with　his　eyes　and　looked　inside。　What　he　saw　was　both　mesmerising　and　not　a　little　frightening。　The　men　were　in　lines　…　three　separate　lines；　four　men　to　a　line　…　facing　Andrel　Villiers；　who　was　addressing　them。　Thirteen　men　in　all；　twelve　of　them　not　merely　standing；　but　standing　at　attention。　They　were　old　men；　but　not　merely　old　men；　they　were　old　soldiers。　None　wore　uniforms；　instead　in　each　lapel　they　wore　ribbons；　regimental　colours　above　decorations　for　valour　and　rank。　And　if　there　was　one　all…pervasive　note　about　the　scene；　it；　too；　was　unmistakable。　These　were　men　used　to　mand　…　used　to　power。　It　was　in　their　faces；　their　eyes；　in　the　way　they　listened　…　respect　rendered　but　not　blindly；　judgment　ever　present。　Their　bodies　were　old；　but　there　was　strength　in　that　room。　Immense　strength。　That　was　the　frightening　aspect。　If　these　men　belonged　to　Carlos；　the　assassin's　resources　were　not　only　far…reaching；　they　were　extraordinarily　dangerous。　For　these　were　not　ordinary　men；　they　were　seasoned　professional　soldiers。　Unless　he　was　grossly　mistaken；　thought　Bourne；　the　depth　of　experience　and　range　of　influence　in　that　room　was　staggering。
　The　mad　colonels　of　Algiers；　what　was　left　of　them？　Men　driven　by　memories　of　a　France　that　no　longer　existed；　a　world　that　was　no　more；　replaced　by　one　they　found　weak　and　ineffectual。　Such　men　could　make　a　pact　with　Carlos；　if　only　for　the　covert　power　it　gave　them。　Strike。　Attack。　Dispatch。　Decisions　of　life　and　death　that　were　once　a　part　of　their　fabric　brought　back　by　a　force　that　could　serve　causes　they　refused　to　admit　were　no　longer　viable。　Once　a　terrorist；　always　a　terrorist；　and　assassination　was　the　raw　core　of　terror。
　The　general　was　raising　his　voice；　Jason　tried　to　hear　the　words　through　the　glass。　They　became　clearer。
　'。。。　our　presence　will　be　felt；　our　purpose　understood。　We　are　together　in　our　stand；　and　that　stand　is　immovable；　we　shall　be　heard！　In　memory　of　all　those　who　have　fallen　…　our　brothers　of　the　tunic　and　the　cannon？　'Who　laid　down　their　lives　for　the　glory　of　France。　We　shall　force　our　beloved　country　to　remember；　and　in　their　names　to　remain　strong；　lackey　to　no　one　Those　who　oppose　us　will　know　our　anger。　In　this；　too；　we　are　united。　We　pray　to　Almighty　God　that　those　who　have　gone　before　us　have　found　peace；　for　we　are　still　in　conflict。。。　Gentlemen。　I　give　you　our　Lady。　Our　France。〃
　There　was　a　murmur　of　muttered　approvals；　the　old　soldiers　remaining　rigidly　at　attention。　And　then　another　voice　was　raised；　the　first　five　words　sung　singly；　joined　at　the　sixth　by　the　rest　of　the　group。
　Allans；　enfants　de　la　patrie；　Le　jour　de　gloire　est　arrive。。。
　Bourne　turned　away；　sickened　by　the　sight　and　the　sounds　inside　that　room。　Lay　waste　in　the　name　of　glory；　the　death　of　fallen　rades　perforce　demands　further　death。　It　is　required；　and　if　it　means　a　pact　with　Carlos；　so　be　it。
　What　disturbed　him　so？　Why　was　he　suddenly　swept　by　feelings　of　anger　and　futility？　What　triggered　the　revulsion　he　felt　so　strongly？　And　then　he　knew。　He　hated　a　man　like　Andrel　Villiers；　despised　the　men　in　that　room。　They　were　all　old　men　who　made　war；　stealing　life　from　the　young。。。　and　the　very　young。
　Why　were　the　mists　closing　in　again？　Why　was　the　pain　so　acute？　There　was　no　time　for　questions；　no　strength　to　tolerate　them。　He　had　to　push　them　out　of　his　mind；　and　concentrate　on　Andrel　Francois　Villiers；　warrior　and　warlord；　whose　causes　belonged　to　yesterday　but　whose　pact　with　an　assassin　called　for　death　today。
　He　would　trap　the　general。　Break　him。　Learn　everything　he　knew　and　probably　kill　him。　Men　like　Villiers　robbed　life　from　the　young　and　the　very　young。　They　did　not　deserve　to　live。　7　am　in　my　labyrinth　again；　and　the　walls　are　embedded　with　spikes。　Oh；　Cod；　they　hurt。
　Jason　climbed　over　the　railing　in　the　darkness　and　lowered　himself　to　the　drainpipe；　each　muscle　aching。　Pain；　too；　had　to　be　erased。　He　had　to　reach　a　deserted　stretch　of　road　in　the　moonlight　and　trap　a　broker　of　death。
　Bourne　waited　in　the　Renault　two　hundred　yards　east　of　the　restaurant　entrance；　the　motor　running；　prepared　to　race　ahead　the　instant　he　saw　Villiers　drive　out。　Several　others　had　already　left；　all　in　separate　cars。　Conspirators　did　not　advertise　their　association；　and　these　old　men　were　conspirators　in　the　truest　sense。　They　had　traded　whatever　honours　they　had　earned　for　the　lethal　convenience　of　an　assassin's　gun　and　an　assassin's　organization。　Age　and　bias　had　robbed　them　of　reason；　as　they　had　spent　their　lives　robbing　life。。。　from　the　young　and　the　very　young。
　What　was　it？　Why　won't　it　leave　me？　Some　terrible　thing　is　deep　inside　me；　trying　to　break　out；　trying　I　think　to　kill　me。　The　fear　and　the　guilt　sweep　through　me。。。　but　of　…what　and　for　what　I　do　not　know。　Why　should　these　withered　old　men　provoke　such　feelings　of　fear　and　guilt。。。　and　loathing？
　They　were　war。　They　were　death。　On　the　ground　and　from　the　skies。　From　the　skies。。。　from　the　skies。　Help　me；　Marie。　For　God's　sake；　help　me！
　There　it　was。　The　headlights　swung　out　of　the　drive；　the　long　black　chassis　reflecting　the　wash　of　the　floodlights。　Jason　kept　his　own　lights　off　as　he　pulled　out　of　the　shadows。　He　accelerated　down　the　road　until　he　reached　the　first　curve；　where　he　switched　on　the　headlights　and　pressed　the　pedal　to　the　floor。　The　isolated　stretch　of　countryside　was　roughly　two　miles　away；　he　had　to　get　there　quickly。
　It　was　ten　past　eleven　and；　as　three　hours　before；　the　fields　swept　into　the　hills；　both　bathed　in　the　light　of　the　March　moon；　now　in　the　centre　of　the　sky。　He　reached　the　area；　it　was　feasible。　The　shoulder　was　wide；　borderin