rl.thebourneidentity-第8部分

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something　less　than　five　hundred　American　dollars　according　to　the　daily　rate　of　exchange　posted　in　the　hotel　lobby。　Now　he　was　outfitted　with　several　sets　of　acceptable　clothing　and　lying　on　a　bed　in　a　reasonably　expensive　hotel　with　something　over　twenty…three　thousands　francs　in　a　Louis　Vuitton　wallet　belonging　to　the　Marquis　de　Chambord。　Twenty…three　thousand　francs。。。　nearly　six　thousand　American　dollars。
　Where　had　he　e　from　that　he　was　able　to　do　the　things　he　did？
　Stop　it！
　The　rue　Sarasin　was　so　ancient　that　in　another　city　it　might　have　been　considered　a　landmark；　a　wide　brick　alley　connecting　streets　built　centuries　later。　But　this　was　Marseilles；　ancient　coexisted　with　old；　both　unfortable　with　the　new。　The　rue　Sarasin　was　no　more　than　two　hundred　yards　long；　frozen　in　time　between　the　stone　walls　of　waterfront　buildings；　devoid　of　streetlights；　trapping　the　mists　that　rolled　off　the　harbour。　It　was　a　back　street　conducive　to　brief　meetings　between　men　who　did　not　care　for　their　conferences　to　be　observed。
　The　only　light　and　sound　came　from　Le　Bouc　de　Mer。　The　cafe　was　situated　roughly　in　the　centre　of　the　alley；　its　premises　once　a　nineteenth…century　office　building。　A　number　of　cubicles　had　been　taken　down　to　allow　for　a　large　bar…room　and　tables；　an　equal　number　were　left　standing　for　less　public　appointments。　These　were　the　waterfront's　answer　to　those　private　rooms　found　at　restaurants　along　La　Cannebiere；　and；　as　befitting　their　status；　there　were　curtains；　but　no　doors。
　The　patient　made　his　way　between　the　crowded　tables；　cutting　his　way　through　the　layers　of　smoke；　excusing　himself　past　lurching　fishermen　and　drunken　soldiers　and　red…faced　whores　looking　for　beds　to　rest　in　as　well　as　a　few　francs。　He　peered　into　a　succession　of　cubicles；　a　crewman　looking　for　his　panions　until　he　found　the　captain　of　the　fishing　boat　There　was　another　man　at　the　table。　Thin；　pale…faced；　narrow　eyes　peering　up　like　a　curious　ferret's。
　'Sit　down；'　said　the　dour　skipper。　'I　thought　you'd　be　here　before　this。'
　'You　said　between　nine　and　eleven。　It's　quarter　to　eleven。'
　'You　stretch　the　time；　you　can　pay　for　the　whisky。'
　'Be　glad　to。　Order　something　decent；　if　they've　got　it。'
　The　thin；　pale…faced　man　smiled。　Things　were　going　to　be　all　right
　They　were。　The　passport　in　question　was；　naturally；　one　of　the　most　difficult　in　the　world　to　tamper　with；　but　with　great　care；　equipment　and　artistry；　it　could　be　done。
　'How　much？'
　These　skills　…　and　equipment　…　do　not　e　cheap。　Twenty…five　hundred　francs。'
　'When　can　I　have　it？'
　The　care；　the　artistry；　they　take　time。　Three　or　four　days。　And　that's　putting　the　artist　under　great　pressure；　he'll　scream　at　me。'
　There's　an　additional　one　thousand　francs　if　I　can　have　it　tomorrow。'
　'By　ten　in　the　morning；'　said　the　pale…faced　man　quickly。　'I'll　take　the　abuse。'
　'And　the　thousand；'　interrupted　the　scowling　captain。　'What　did　you　bring　out　of　Port　Noir？　Diamonds？'
　Talent；'　answered　the　patient；　meaning　it　but　not　understanding　it
　'I'll　need　a　photograph。！　said　the　connection。
　'I　stopped　at　an　arcade　and　had　this　made；'　replied　the　patient；　taking　a　small　square　photograph　out　of　his　shirt　pocket。　'With　all　that　expensive　equipment　I'm　sure　you　can　sharpen　it　up。'
　'Nice　clothes；'　said　the　captain；　passing　the　print　to　the　pale…faced　man。
　'Well　tailored；'　agreed　the　patient。
　The　location　of　the　morning　rendezvous　was　agreed　upon；　the　drinks　paid　for；　and　the　captain　slipped　five　hundred　francs　under　the　table。　The　conference　was　over；　the　buyer　left　the　cubicle　and　started　across　the　crowded；　raucous；　smoke…layered　bar…room　towards　the　door。
　It　happened　so　rapidly；　so　suddenly；　so　pletely　unexpectedly；　there　was　no　time　to　think。　Only　react。
　The　collision　was　abrupt；　casual；　but　the　eyes　that　stared　at　him　were　not　casual；　they　seemed　to　burst　out　of　their　sockets；　widening　in　disbelief；　on　the　edge　of　hysteria。
　'No！　Oh　my　God；　no；　It　cannot。。。'　The　man　spun　in　the　crowd；　the　patient　lurched　forward；　clamping　his　hand　down　on　the　man's　shoulder。
　'Wait　a　minute！'
　The　man　spun　again；　thrusting　the　V　of　his　outstretched　thumb　and　fingers　up　onto　the　patient's　wrist；　forcing　the　hand　away。　'You！　You're　dead！　You　could　not　have　lived！'
　'I　lived。　What　do　you　know'
　The　face　was　now　contorted；　a　mass　of　twisted　fury；　the　eyes　squinting；　the　mouth　open；　sucking　air；　baring　yellow　teeth　that　took　on　the　appearance　of　an　animal's　teeth。　Suddenly；　the　man　pulled　out　a　knife；　the　snap　of　its　recessed　blade　heard　through　the　surrounding　din。　The　arm　shot　forward；　the　blade　an　extension　of　the　hand　that　gripped　it；　both　surging　in　towards　the　patient's　stomach。　'I　know　I'll　finish　it！'　whispered　the　man。
　The　patient　swung　his　right　forearm　down；　a　pendulum　sweeping　aside　all　objects　in　front　of　it　He　pivoted；　lashing　his　left　foot　up；　his　heel　plunging　into　his　attacker's　pelvic　bone。
　'Che…sah。'　The　echo　in　his　ears　was　deafening。
　The　man　lurched　backwards　into　a　trio　of　drinkers　as　the　knife　fell　to　the　floor。　The　weapon　was　seen；　shouts　followed；　men　converged；　fists　and　hands　separating　the　batants。
　'Get　out　of　here！'
　Take　your　argument　somewhere　else！'
　'We　don't　want　the　police　in　here；　you　drunken　bastards！
　The　angry　coarse　dialects　of　Marseilles　rose　over　the　cacophonic　sounds　of　Le　Bouc　de　Mer。　The　patient　was　hemmed　in；　he　watched　as　his　would…be　killer　threaded　his　way　through　the　crowd；　holding　his　groin；　forcing　a　path　to　the　entrance　The　heavy　door　swung　open；　the　man　raced　into　the　darkness　of　rue　Sarasin。
　Someone　who　thought　he　was　dead　…　wanted　him　dead　…knew　he　was　alive。
　The　economy　class　section　of　Air　France's　Caravelle　to　Zurich　was　filled　to　capacity；　the　narrow　seats　made　more　unfortable　by　the　turbulence　that　buffeted　the　plane。　A　baby　was　screaming　in　its　mother's　arms；　other　children　whimpered；　swallowing　cries　of　fear　as　parents　smiled　with　tentative　reassurances　they　did　not　feel。　Most　of　the　remaining　passengers　were　silent；　a　few　drinking　their　whisky　more　rapidly　than　obviously　was　normal。　Fewer　still　were　forcing　laughter　from　tight　throats；　false　bravado　that　emphasized　their　insecurity　rather　than　disguising　it。　A　terrible　flight　was　many　things　to　many　people；　but　none　escaped　the　essential　thoughts　of　terror：　encased　in　a　metal　tube　thirty　thousand　feet　above　the　ground；　he　was　vulnerable。　With　one　elongated；　screaming　dive　he　could　be　plummeting　downwards　into　the　earth。　And　there　were　fundamental　questions　that　acpanied　the　essential　terror。　What　thoughts　would　go　through　one's　mind　at　such　a　time？　How　would　one　react？
　The　patient　tried　to　find　out；　it　was　important　to　him。　He　sat　next　to　the　window；　his　eyes　on　the　aircraft's　wing；　watching　the　broad　expanse　of　metal　bend　and　vibrate　under　the　brutalizing　impact　of　the　winds。　The　currents　were　clashing　against　one　another；　pounding　the　man…made　tube　into　a　kind　of　submission；　warning　the　microscopic　pretenders　that　they　were　no　match　for　the　vast　infirmities　of　nature。　One　ounce　of　pressure　beyond　the　flex…tolerance　and　the　wing　would　crack；　the　lift　sustaining　limb　torn　from　its　tubular　body；　shredded　into　the　winds；　one　burst　of　rivets　and　there　would　be　an　explosion；　the　screaming　plunge　to　follow。
　What　would　he　do？　What　would　he　think？　Other　than　the　uncontrollable　fear　of　dying　and　oblivion；　would　there　be　anything　else？　That's　what　he　had　to　concentrate　on；　that　was　the　projection　Washburn　kept　emphasizing　in　Port　Noir。　The　doctor's　words　came　back　to　him。
　Whenever　you　observe　a　stress　situation　…　and　you　have　the　time　…　do　your　damnedest　to　project　yourself　into　it。　Associate　as…freely　as　you　can；　let　words　and　images　fill　your　mind。　In　them　you　may　find　clues。
　The　patient　continued　to　stare　out　of　the　window；　consciously　trying　to　raise　his　unconscious；　fixing　his　eyes　on　the　natural　violence　beyond　the　glass；　distilling　the　movement；　silently　doing　his　'damnedest'　to　let　his　reactions　give　rise　to　words　and　images。
　They　came　…　slowly。　There　was　the　darkness　again；　and　the　sound　of　rushing　wind；　ear…shattering；　continuous；　growing　in　volume　until　he　thought　his　head　would　burst。　His　head。。。　The　winds　were　lashing　the　left　side　of　his　head　and　face；　burning　his　skin；　forcing　him　to　raise　his　left　shoulder　for　protection。。。　Left　shoulder。　Left　arm。　His　arm　was　raised；　the　gloved　fingers　of　his　left　hand　gripping　a　straight　edge　of　metal；　his　right　holding　a。。。　a　strap；　he　was　holding　onto　a　strap；　waiting　for　something。　A　signal。。。　a　flashing　light　or　a　tap　on　the　shoulder；　or　both。　A　signal。　It　came。　He　plunged。　Into　the　darkness；　into　the　void；　his　body　tumbling；　twisting；　swept　away　into　the　night　sky。　He　had。。。　parachuted！
　'tes…vous　malade？'
　His　insane　reverie　was　broken；　the　nervous　passenger　next　to　him　had　touched　his　left　arm　…　which　was　raised；　the　fingers　of　his　hand　spread；　as　if　resisting；　rigid　in　their　locked　position。　Across　his　chest　his　right　forearm　was　pressed　into　the　cloth　of　his　jacket；　his　right　hand　gripping　the　lapel；　bunching　the　fabric。　And　on　his　forehead　were　rivulets　of　sweat；　it　had　happened。　The　something…else　had　e　briefly　…　insanely　…into　focus。
　'Pardon'　he　said；　lowering　his　arms；　'Un　revs；'　he　added　meaninglessly。
　There　was　a　break　in　the　weather；　the　Caravelle　stabilized。
　The　smiles　on　the　harried　stewardesses'　faces　became　genuine　again；　full　service　was　resumed　as　embarrassed　passengers　glanced　at　one　another。
　The　patient　observed　his　surroundings　but　reached　no　conclusions。　He　was　consumed　by　the　images　and　the　sounds　that　had　been　so　clearly　denned　in　his　mind's　eye　and　ear。　He　had　hurled　himself　from　a　plane。。。　at　night。。。　signals　and　metal　and　straps　intrinsic　to　his　leap。　He　had　parachuted。　Where？　Why？
　Stop　crucifying　yourself！
　If　for　no　other　reason　than　to　take　his　thoughts　away　from　the　madness；　he　reached　into　his　breast　pocket；　pulled　out　the　altered　passport　and　opened　it。　As　might　be　expected　the　name　Washburn　had　been　retained；　it　was　mon　enough　and　its　owner　had　explained　that　there　were　no　flags　out　for　it　The　Geoffrey　R。；　however；　had　been　changed　to　George　P。；　the　eliminations　and　space…line　blockage　expertly　acplished。　The　p