rl.thebourneidentity-第33部分

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hores　at　the　banks　of　Bern。　Marie　glanced　over　her　shoulder　as　she　walked　through　the　gate；　he　nodded；　waited　until　she　had　disappeared；　then　turned　and　started　for　the　Swiss　Air　Lounge。　George　P。　Washburn　had　a　reservation　on　the　4。30　plane　to　Orly。
　They　would　meet　later　at　a　cafe　Marie　remembered　from　visits　during　her　Oxford　days。　It　was　called　Au　Coin　de　Cluny　on　the　boulevard　Saint…Michel；　several　blocks　from　the　Sorbonne。　If　by　any　chance　it　was　no　longer　there；　Jason　would　find　her　around　nine　o'clock　on　the　steps　of　the　Cluny　Museum。
　Bourne　would　be　late；　nearby　but　late。　The　Sorbonne　had　one　of　the　most　extensive　libraries　in　all　Europe　and　somewhere　in　that　library　were　back　issues　of　newspapers。　University　libraries　were　not　subject　to　the　working　hours　of　government　employees；　students　used　them　during　the　evenings。　So　would　he　as　soon　as　he　reached　Paris。　There　was　something　he　had　to　learn。
　Every　day　I　read　the　newspapers。　In　three　languages。　Six　months　ago　a　man　was　killed；　his　death　reported　on　the　front　page　of　each　of　those　newspapers。　So　said　a　fat　man　in　Zurich。
　He　left　his　suitcase　at　the　library　cloakroom　and　walked　to　the　first　floor；　turning　left　towards　the　arch　that　led　to　the　huge　reading　room。　The　Chambre　des　Journals　was　in　this　annexe；　the　newspapers　on　spindles　placed　in　racks；　the　issues　going　back　precisely　one　year　from　the　day's　date。
　He　walked　along　the　racks；　counting　back　six　months；　lifting　off　the　first　ten　weeks'　worth　of　papers　beyond　that　date　a　half　a　year　ago。　He　carried　them　to　the　nearest　vacant　table　and　without　sitting　down　flipped　through　from　front　page　to　front　page；　issue　to　issue。
　Great　men　had　died　in　their　beds；　while　others　had　made　pronouncements；　the　dollar　had　fallen；　gold　risen；　strikes　had　crippled；　and　governments　had　vacillated　between　action　and　paralysis。　But　no　name　had　been　killed　who　warranted　headlines；　there　was　no　such　incident　…　no　such　assassination。
　Jason　returned　to　the　racks　and　went　back　further。　Two　weeks；　twelve　weeks；　twenty　weeks。　Nearly　eight　months。　Nothing。
　Then　it　struck　him；　he　had　gone　back　in　time；　not　forward　from　that　date　six　months　ago。　An　error　could　be　made　in　either　direction；　a　few　days　or　a　week；　even　two。　He　returned　the　spindles　to　the　racks；　and　pulled　out　the　papers　from　four　and　five　months　ago。
　Airplanes　had　crashed　and　revolutions　had　erupted　bloodily；　holy　men　had　spoken　only　to　be　rebuked　by　other　holy　men；　poverty　and　disease　had　been　found　where　everyone　knew　they　could　be　found；　but　no　man　of　consequence　had　been　killed。
　He　started　on　the　last　spindle；　the　mists　of　doubt　and　guilt　clearing　with　each　turn　of　a　page。　Had　a　sweating　fat　man　in　Zurich　lied？　Was　it　all　a　lie？　All　lies？　Was　he　somehow　living　a　nightmare　that　could　vanish　with。。。
　AMBASSADEUR　LELAND　EST　MORT　A　MARSEILLES！
　The　thick　block　letters　of　the　headline　exploded　off　the　page　hurting　his　eyes。　It　was　not　imagined　pain；　not　invented　pain；　but　a　sharp　ache　that　penetrated　his　sockets　and　seared　through　his　head。　His　breathing　stopped；　his　eyes　rigid　on　the　name；　LELAND。　He　knew　it；　he　could　picture　the　face；　actually　picture　it。　Thick　brows　beneath　a　wide　forehead；　a　blunt　nose　centred　between　high　cheekbones　and　above　curiously　thin　lips　topped　by　a　perfectly　groomed　grey　moustache。　He　knew　the　face；　he　knew　the　man。　And　the　man　had　been　killed　by　a　single　shot　from　a　high…powered　rifle　fired　from　a　waterfront　window。　Ambassador　Howard　Leland　had　walked　down　a　Marseilles　pier　at　five　o'clock　in　the　afternoon。　His　head　had　been　blown　off。
　Bourne　did　not　have　to　read　the　second　paragraph　to　know　that　Howard　Leland　had　been　Admiral　H。　R。　Leland；　United　States　Navy；　until　an　interim　appointment　as　Director　of　Naval　Intelligence　preceded　his　ambassadorship　to　the　Quai　d'Orsay　in　Paris。　Nor　did　he　have　to　reach　the　body　of　the　article　where　motives　for　the　assassination　were　speculated　upon　to　know　them；　he　knew　them。　Leland's　primary　function　in　Paris　was　to　dissuade　the　French　government　from　authorizing　massive　arms　sales　…　in　particular　fleets　of　Mirage　jets　…　to　Africa　and　the　Middle　East。　To　an　astonishing　degree　he　had　succeeded；　angering　interested　parties　at　all　points　in　the　Mediterranean。　It　was　presumed　that　he　had　been　killed　for　his　interference；　a　punishment　which　served　as　a　warning　to　others。　Buyers　and　sellers　of　death　were　not　to　be　hindered。
　And　the　seller　of　death　who　had　killed　him　would　have　been　paid　a　great　deal　of　money；　far　from　the　scene；　all　traces　buried。
　Zurich。　A　messenger　to　a　legless　man；　another　to　a　fat　man　in　a　crowded　restaurant　off　the　Falkenstrasse。
　Zurich。
　Marseilles。
　Jason　closed　his　eyes；　the　pain　now　intolerable。　He　had　been　picked　up　at　sea　five　months　ago；　his　port…of…origin　assumed　to　have　been　Marseilles。　And　if　Marseilles；　the　waterfront　had　been　his　escape　route；　a　boat　hired　to　take　him　into　the　vast　expanse　of　Mediterranean。　Everything　fitted　too　well；　each　piece　of　the　puzzle　sculpted　into　the　next。　How　could　he　know　the　things　he　knew　if　he　were　not　that　seller　of　death　from　a　window　on　the　Marseilles　waterfront？
　He　opened　his　eyes；　pain　inhibiting　thought；　but　not　all　thought；　one　decision　as　clear　as　anything　in　his　limited　memory。　There　would　be　no　rendezvous　in　Paris　with　Marie　St　Jacques。
　Perhaps　one　day　he　would　write　her　a　letter；　saying　the　things　he　could　not　say　now。　If　he　was　alive　and　could　write　a　letter；　he　could　not　write　one　now。　There　could　be　no　written　words　of　thanks　or　love；　no　explanations　at　all；　she　would　wait　for　him　and　he　would　not　e　to　her。　He　had　to　put　distance　between　them；　she　could　not　be　involved　with　a　seller　of　death。　She　had　been　wrong；　his　worst　fears　accurate。
　Oh；　God。　He　could　picture　Howard　Leland's　face；　and　there　was　no　photograph　on　the　page　in　front　of　him！　The　front　page　with　the　terrible　headline　that　triggered　so　much；　confirmed　so　many　things。　The　date。　Thursday；　26　August。　Marseilles。　It　was　a　day　he　would　remember　as　long　as　he　could　remember　for　the　rest　of　his　convoluted　life。
　Thursday；　26　August。。。
　Something　was　wrong。　What　was　it？　What　was　it？　Thursday？。。。　Thursday　meant　nothing　to　him。　The　twenty…sixth　of　August？。。。　The　twenty…sixth　It　could　not　be　the　twenty…sixth！　The　twenty…sixth　was　wrong！　He　had　heard　it　over　and　over　again。　Washburn's　diary　…　his　patient's　journal。　How　often　had　Washburn　gone　back　over　every　fact；　every　phrase；　every　day　and　point　of　progress？　Too　many　times　to　count　Too　many　times　not　to　remember！
　You　were　brought　to　my　door　on　the　morning　of　Tuesday；　August　twenty…fourth；　at　precisely　eight…twenty　o'clock。　Your　condition　was。。。
　Tuesday；　24　August。
　August　24。
　He　was　not　in　Marseilles　on　the　twenty…sixth！　He　could　not　have　fired　a　rifle　from　a　window　on　the　waterfront。　He　was　not　the　seller　of　death　in　Marseilles；　he　had　not　killed　Howard　Leland！
　Six　months　ago　a　man　was　killed。。。　But　it　was　not　six　months；　it　was　close　to　six　months　but　not　six　months。　And　he　had　not　killed　that　man；　he　was　half　dead　in　an　alcoholic's　house　on　lie　de　Port　Noir。
　The　mists　were　clearing；　the　pain　receding。　A　sense　of　elation　filled　him；　he　had　found　one　concrete　lie！　If　there　was　one　there　could　be　others！
　Bourne　looked　at　his　watch；　it　was　quarter　past　nine。　Marie　had　left　the　cafe；　she　was　waiting　for　him　on　the　steps　of　the　Cluny　Museum。　He　replaced　the　spindles　in　their　racks；　then　started　towards　the　large　cathedral　door　of　the　reading　room；　a　man　in　a　hurry。
　He　walked　up　the　boulevard　Saint…Michel；　his　pace　accelerating　with　each　stride。　He　had　the　distinct　feeling　that　he　knew　what　it　was　to　have　been　given　a　reprieve　from　hanging　and　he　wanted　to　share　that　rare　experience。　For　a　time　he　was　out　of　the　violent　darkness；　beyond　the　crashing　waters；　he　had　found　a　moment　of　sunlight　…　like　the　moments　and　the　sunlight　that　had　filled　a　room　in　a　village　inn　…　and　he　had　to　reach　the　one　who　had　given　them　to　him。　Reach　her　and　hold　her　and　tell　her　there　was　hope。
　He　saw　her　on　the　steps；　her　arms　folded　against　the　March　wind　that　swept　off　the　boulevard。　At　first；　she　did　not　see　him；　her　eyes　searching　the　tree…lined　street。　She　was　restless；　anxious；　an　impatient　woman　afraid　she　would　not　see　what　she　wanted　to　see；　frightened　that　it　would　not　be　there。
　Ten　minutes'　ago　he　would　not　have　been。
　She　saw　him。　Her　face　became　radiant；　the　smile　emerged　and　it　was　filled　with　life　She　rushed　to　him　as　he　raced　up　the　steps　towards　her。　They　came　together　and　for　a　moment　neither　said　anything；　warm　and　alone　on　the　Saint…Michel。
　'I　waited　and　waited；'　she　breathed　finally。　'I　was　so　afraid；　so　worried。　Did　anything　happen？　Are　you　all　right？'
　'I'm　fine。　Better　than　I've　been　in　a　long　time。'
　'What？'
　He　held　her　by　the　shoulders。'　〃Six　months　ago　a　man　was　killed。。。〃　Remember？'　The　joy　left　her　eyes。　'Yes；　I　remember。'　'I　didn't　kill　him；'　said　Bourne。　'I　couldn't　have。'
　They　found　a　small　hotel　in　the　crowded　centre　of　Montparnasse。　The　lobby　and　the　rooms　were　threadbare；　but　there　was　a　pretence　to　forgotten　elegance　that　gave　it　an　air　of　timelessness。　It　was　a　quiet　resting　place　set　down　in　the　middle　of　a　carnival；　hanging　onto　its