iam fleming.for your eyes only-第1部分

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　The　eyes　behind　the　wide　black　rubber　goggles　were　cold　as　flint。　In　the　howling　speed…turmoil　of　a　BSA　M20　doing　seventy；　they　were　the　only　quiet　things　in　the　hurtling　flesh　and　metal。　Protected　by　the　glass　of　the　goggles；　they　stared　fixedly　ahead　from　just　above　the　centre　of　the　handlebars；　and　their　dark　unwavering　focus　was　that　of　gun　muzzles。　Below　the　goggles；　the　wind　had　got　into　the　face　through　the　mouth　and　had　wrenched　the　lips　back　into　a　square　grin　that　showed　big　tombstone　teeth　and　strips　of　whitish　gum。　On　both　sides　of　the　grin　the　cheeks　had　been　blown　out　by　the　wind　into　pouches　that　fluttered　slightly。　To　right　and　left　of　the　hurtling　face　under　the　crash　helmet；　the　black　gauntlets；　broken…wristed　at　the　controls；　looked　like　the　attacking　paws　of　a　big　animal。
　The　man　was　dressed　in　the　uniform　of　a　dispatch…rider　in　the　Royal　Corps　of　Signals；　and　his　machine；　painted　olive　green；　was；　with　certain　modifications　to　the　valves　and　the　carburettor　and　the　removal　of　some　of　the　silencer　baffles　to　give　more　speed；　identical　with　a　standard　British　Army　machine。　There　was　nothing　in　the　man　or　his　equipment　to　suggest　that　he　was　not　what　he　appeared　to　be；　except　a　fully　loaded　Luger　held　by　a　clip　to　the　top　of　the　petrol　tank。
　It　was　seven　o'clock　on　a　May　morning　and　the　dead　straight　road　through　the　forest　glittered　with　the　tiny　luminous　mist　of　spring。　On　both　sides　of　the　road　the　moss…　and　flower…carpeted　depths　between　the　great　oak　trees　held　the　theatrical　enchantment　of　the　royal　forests　of　Versailles　and　St　Germain。　The　road　was　D98；　a　secondary　road　serving　local　traffic　in　the　St　Germain　area；　and　the　motor…cyclist　had　just　passed　beneath　the　Paris…Mantes　autoroute　already　thundering　with　muter　traffic　for　Paris。　He　was　heading　north　towards　St　Germain　and　there　was　no　one　else　in　sight　in　either　direction；　except；　perhaps　half　a　mile　ahead；　an　almost　identical　figure　…　another　Royal　Corps　dispatch…rider。　He　was　a　younger；　slimmer　man　and　he　sat　fortably　back　on　his　machine；　enjoying　the　morning　and　keeping　his　speed　to　around　forty。　He　was　well　on　time　and　it　was　a　beautiful　day。　He　wondered　whether　to　have　his　eggs　fried　or　scrambled　when　he　got　back　to　HQ　around　eight。
　Five　hundred　yards；　four　hundred；　three；　two；　one。　The　man　ing　up　from　behind　slowed　to　fifty。　He　put　his　right　gauntlet　up　to　his　teeth　and　pulled　it　off。　He　stuffed　the　gauntlet　between　the　buttons　of　his　tunic　and　reached　down　and　unclipped　the　gun。
　By　now　he　must　have　been　big　in　the　driving…mirror　of　the　young　man　ahead；　for　suddenly　the　young　man　jerked　his　head　round；　surprised　to　find　another　dispatch…rider　on　his　run　at　that　time　of　the　morning。　He　expected　that　it　would　be　an　American　or　perhaps　French　military　police。　It　might　be　anyone　from　the　eight　NATO　nations　that　made　up　the　staff　of　SHAPE；　but　when　he　recognized　the　uniform　of　the　Corps　he　was　astonished　and　delighted。　Who　the　hell　could　it　be？　He　raised　a　cheerful　right　thumb　in　recognition　and　cut　his　speed　to　thirty；　waiting　for　the　other　man　to　drift　up　alongside。　With　one　eye　on　the　road　ahead　and　the　other　on　the　approaching　silhouette　in　the　mirror；　he　ran　through　the　names　of　the　British　riders　in　the　Special　Service　Transportation　Unit　at　Headquarters　mand。　Albert；　Sid；　Wally　…　might　be　Wally；　same　thick　build。　Good　show！　He'd　be　able　to　pull　his　leg　about　that　little　frog　bit　in　the　canteen　…　Louise；　Elise；　Lise　…　what　the　hell　was　her　name。
　The　man　with　the　gun　had　slowed。　Now　he　was　fifty　yards　away。　His　face；　undistorted　by　the　wind；　had　set　into　blunt；　hard；　perhaps　Slav　lines。　A　red　spark　burned　behind　the　black；　aimed　muzzles　of　the　eyes。　Forty　yards；　thirty。　A　single　magpie　flew　out　of　the　forest　ahead　of　the　young　dispatch…rider。　It　fled　clumsily　across　the　road　into　the　bushes　behind　a　Michelin　sign　that　said　that　St　Germain　was　one　kilometre　to　go。　The　young　man　grinned　and　raised　an　ironical　finger　in　salute　and　self…protection　…　'One　magpie　is　sorrow'。
　Twenty　yards　behind　him　the　man　with　the　gun　took　both　hands　off　the　handlebars；　lifted　the　Luger；　rested　it　carefully　on　his　left　forearm　and　fired　one　shot。
　The　young　man's　hands　whipped　off　his　controls　and　met　across　the　centre　of　his　backward…arching　spine。　His　machine　veered　across　the　road；　jumped　a　narrow　ditch　and　ploughed　into　a　patch　of　grass　and　lilies　of　the　valley。　There　it　rose　up　on　its　screaming　back　wheel　and　slowly　crashed　backwards　on　top　of　its　dead　rider。　The　BSA　coughed　and　kicked　and　tore　at　the　young　man's　clothes　and　at　the　flowers；　and　then　lay　quiet。
　The　killer　executed　a　narrow　turn　and　stopped　with　his　machine　pointing　back　the　way　he　had　e。　He　stamped　down　the　wheel…rest；　pulled　his　machine　up　on　to　it　and　walked　in　among　the　wild　flowers　under　the　trees。　He　knelt　down　beside　the　dead　man　and　brusquely　pulled　back　an　eyelid。　Just　as　roughly　he　tore　the　black　leather　dispatch…case　off　the　corpse　and　ripped　open　the　buttons　of　the　tunic　and　removed　a　battered　leather　wallet。　He　wrenched　a　cheap　wrist…watch　so　sharply　off　the　left　wrist　that　the　chrome　expanding　bracelet　snapped　in　half。　He　stood　up　and　slung　the　dispatch…case　over　his　shoulder。　While　he　stowed　the　wallet　and　the　watch　away　in　his　tunic　pocket　he　listened。　There　were　only　forest　sounds　and　the　slow　tick　of　hot　metal　from　the　crashed　BSA。　The　killer　retraced　his　steps　to　the　road。　He　walked　slowly；　scuffing　leaves　over　the　tyre　marks　in　the　soft　earth　and　moss。　He　took　extra　trouble　over　the　deep　scars　in　the　ditch　and　the　grass　verge；　and　then　stood　beside　his　motor…cycle　and　looked　back　towards　the　lily　of　the　valley　patch。　Not　bad！　Probably　only　the　police　dogs　would　get　it；　and；　with　ten　miles　of　road　to　cover；　they　would　be　hours；　perhaps　days　…　plenty　long　enough。　The　main　thing　in　these　jobs　was　to　have　enough　safety　margin。　He　could　have　shot　the　man　at　forty　yards；　but　he　had　preferred　to　get　to　twenty。　And　taking　the　watch　and　the　wallet　had　been　nice　touches　…　pro　touches。
　Pleased　with　himself；　the　man　heaved　his　machine　off　its　rest；　vaulted　smartly　into　the　saddle　and　kicked　down　on　the　starter。　Slowly；　so　as　not　to　show　skid　marks；　he　accelerated　away　back　down　the　road　and　in　a　minute　or　so　he　was　doing　seventy　again　and　the　wind　had　redrawn　the　empty　turnip　grin　across　his　face。
　Around　the　scene　of　the　killing；　the　forest；　which　had　held　its　breath　while　it　was　done；　slowly　began　to　breathe　again。
　
　James　Bond　had　his　first　drink　of　the　evening　at　Fouquet's。　It　was　not　a　solid　drink。　One　cannot　drink　seriously　in　French　cafés。　Out　of　doors　on　a　pavement　in　the　sun　is　no　place　for　vodka　or　whisky　or　gin。　A　fine　à　I'eau　is　fairly　serious；　but　it　intoxicates　without　tasting　very　good。　A　quart　de　champagne　or　a　champagne　à　I'orange　is　all　right　before　luncheon；　but　in　the　evening　one　quart　leads　to　another　quart　and　a　bottle　of　indifferent　champagne　is　a　bad　foundation　for　the　night。　Pernod　is　possible；　but　it　should　be　drunk　in　pany；　and　anyway　Bond　had　never　liked　the　stuff　because　its　liquorice　taste　reminded　him　of　his　childhood。　No；　in　cafes　you　have　to　drink　the　least　offensive　of　the　musical　edy　drinks　that　go　with　them；　and　Bond　always　had　the　same　thing　…　an　Americano　…　Bitter　Campari；　Cinzano；　a　large　slice　of　lemon　peel　and　soda。　For　the　soda　he　always　stipulated　Perrier；　for　in　his　opinion　expensive　soda　water　was　the　cheapest　way　to　improve　a　poor　drink。
　When　Bond　was　in　Paris　he　invariably　stuck　to　the　same　addresses。　He　stayed　at　the　Terminus　Nord；　because　he　liked　station　hotels　and　because　this　was　the　least　pretentious　and　most　anonymous　of　them。　He　had　luncheon　at　the　Café　de　la　Paix；　the　Rotonde　or　the　D？me；　because　the　food　was　good　enough　and　it　amused　him　to　watch　the　people。　If　he　wanted　a　solid　drink　he　had　it　at　Harry's　Bar；　both　because　of　the　solidity　of　the　drinks　and　because；　on　his　first　ignorant　visit　to　Paris　at　the　age　of　sixteen；　he　had　done　what　Harry's　advertisement　in　the　Continental　Daily　Mail　had　told　him　to　do　and　had　said　to　his　taxi…driver　'Sank　Roo　Doe　Noo'。　That　had　started　one　of　the　memorable　evenings　of　his　life；　culminating　in　the　loss；　almost　simultaneous；　of　his　virginity　and　his　notecase。　For　dinner；　Bond　went　to　one　of　the　great　restaurants　…　Véfour；　the　Caneton；　Lucas…Carton　or　the　Cochon　d'Or。　These　he　considered；　whatever　Michelin　might　say　about　the　Tour　d'Argent；　Maxims　and　the　like；　to　have　somehow　avoided　the　tarnish　of　the　expense　account　and　the　dollar。　Anyway；　he　preferred　their　cooking。　After　dinner　he　generally　went　to　the　Place　Pigalle　to　see　what　would　happen　to　him。　When；　as　usual；　nothing　did；　he　would　walk　home　across　Paris　to　the　Gare　du　Nord　and　go　to　bed。
　Tonight　Bond　decided　to　tear　up　this　dusty　address…book　and　have　himself　an　old…fashioned　ball。　He　was　on　his　way　through　Paris　after　a　dismally　failed　assignment　on　the　Austro…Hungarian　border。　It　had　been　a　question　of　getting　a　certain　Hungarian　out。　Bond　had　been　sent　from　London　specially　to　direct　the　operation　over　the　head　of　Station　V。　This　had　been　unpopular　with　the　Vienna　Station。　There　had　been　misunderstandings　…　wilful　ones。　The　man　had　been　killed　in　the　frontier　minefield。　There　would　have　to