rl.thebourneidentity-第45部分

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sles　curved　graciously　in　semicircles；　giving　an　illusion　of　space　that　was　not　there；　for　Les　Classiques；　though　hardly　small；　was　not　a　large　emporium。　It　was；　however；　a　beautifully　appointed　shop　on　one　of　the　most　costly　strips　of　real　estate　in　Paris。　Fitting　rooms　with　doors　of　tinted　glass　were　at　the　rear；　beneath　a　balcony　where　the　offices　of　management　were　located。　A　carpeted　staircase　rose　on　the　right　beside　an　elevated　switchboard　in　front　of　which　sat　an　oddly　out…of…place　middle…aged　man　dressed　in　a　conservative　business　suit；　operating　the　console；　speaking　into　a　mouthpiece　that　was　an　extension　of　his　single　earphone。
　The　staff　were　mostly　women；　tall；　slender；　gaunt　of　face　and　body；　living　postmortems　of　former　fashion　models　whose　tastes　and　intelligence　carried　them　beyond　their　sisters　in　the　trade；　other　practices　no　longer　feasible。　The　few　men　in　evidence　were　also　slender；　reedlike　figures　emphasized　by　form…fitting　clothes；　gestures　rapid；　stances　balletically　defiant。
　Light　romantic　music　floated　out　of　the　dark　ceiling；　quiet　crescendos　abstractly　punctuated　by　the　beams　of　the　miniature　spotlights。　Jason　wandered　through　the　aisles；　studying　mannequins；　touching　the　fabric；　making　his　own　appraisals。　They　covered　his　essential　bewilderment　Where　was　the　confusion；　the　anxiety　he　expected　…to　find　at　the　core　of　Carlos's　message　centre？　He　glanced　up　at　the　open　office　doors　and　the　single　corridor　that　bisected　the　small　plex。　Men　and　women　walked　casually　about　as　they　did　on　the　main　floor；　every　now　and　then　stopping　one　another；　exchanging　pleasantries　or　scraps　of　relevantly　irrelevant　information。　Gossip。　Nowhere　was　there　the　slightest　sense　of　urgency；　no　sign　at　all　that　a　vital　trap　had　exploded　in　their　faces；　an　imported　killer　…　the　only　man　in　Paris　who　worked　for　Carlos　and　could　identify　the　target　…　shot　in　the　head；　dead　in　the　back　of　an　armoured　van　on　the　Quai　de　la　Rapee。
　It　was　incredible；　if　only　because　the　whole　atmosphere　was　the　opposite　of　what　he　had　anticipated。　Not　that　he　expected　to　find　chaos；　far　from　it；　the　soldiers　of　Carlos　were　too　controlled　for　that。　Still　he　had　expected　something。　And　here　there　were　no　strained　faces；　or　darting　eyes；　no　abrupt　movements　that　signified　alarm。　Nothing　whatsoever　was　unusual；　the　elegant　world　of　haute　couture　continued　to　spin　in　its　elegant　orbit；　unmindful　of　events　that　should　have　thrown　its　axis　off　balance。
　Still；　there　was　a　private　telephone　somewhere　and　someone　who　not　only　spoke　for　Carlos　but　was　also　empowered　to　set　in　motion　three　killers　on　the　hunt。　A　woman。。。
　He　saw　her；　it　had　to　be　her。　Halfway　down　the　carpeted　staircase；　a　tall　imperious　woman　with　a　face　that　age　and　cosmetics　had　rendered　into　a　cold　mask　of　itself。　She　was　stopped　by　a　reedlike　male　clerk　who　held　out　a　salesbook　for　the　woman's　approval；　she　looked　at　it；　then　glanced　down　at　the　floor；　at　a　nervous；　middle…aged　man　by　a　nearby　jewelry　counter。　The　glance　was　brief；　but　pointed；　the　message　clear。　All　right；　mon　ami；　pick　up　your　bauble　but　pay　your　bill　soon。　Otherwise　you　could　be　embarrassed　next　time。　Or　worse。　I　might　call　your　wife。　In　milliseconds；　the　rebuke　was　over；　a　smile　as　false　as　it　was　broad　cracked　the　mask；　and　with　a　nod　and　a　flourish　the　woman　took　a　pencil　from　the　clerk　and　initialled　the　sales　slip。　She　continued　down　the　staircase；　the　clerk　following；　leaning　forward　in　further　conversation。　It　was　obvious　he　was　flattering　her；　she　turned　on　the　bottom　step；　touching　her　crown　of　streaked　dark　hair　and　tapped　his　wrist　in　a　gesture　of　thanks。
　There　was　little　placidity　in　the　woman's　eyes。　They　were　as　aware　as　any　pair　of　eyes　Bourne　had　ever　seen；　except　perhaps　behind　gold…rimmed　glasses　in；　Zurich。
　Instinct。　She　was　his　objective；　it　remained　how　to　reach　her。　The　first　moves　of　the　pavane　had　to　be　subtle；　neither　too　much　nor　too　little　but　warranting　attention。　She　had　to　e　to　him。
　The　next　few　minutes　astonished　Jason；　which　was　to　say　he　astonished　himself。　The　term　was　'role…playing'；　he　understood　that；　but　what　shocked　him　was　the　ease　with　which　he　slid　into　a　character　far　from　himself　…　as　he　knew　himself。　Where　minutes　before　he　had　made　appraisals；　he　now　made　inspections；　pulling　garments　from　their　individual　racks；　holding　the　fabrics　up　to　the　light。　He　peered　closely　at　stitchings；　examined　buttons　and　button　holes；　brushed　his　fingers　across　collars；　fluffing　them　up；　then　letting　them　fall。　He　was　a　judge　of　fine　clothes；　a　schooled　buyer　who　knew　what　he　wanted　and　rapidly　disregarded　that　which　did　not　suit　his　tastes。　The　only　items　he　did　not　examine　were　the　price　tags；　obviously　they　held　no　interest　for　him。
　The　fact　that　they　did　not　prodded　the　interest　of　the　imperious　woman　who　kept　glancing　over　in　his　direction。　A　sales　clerk；　her　concave　body　floating　upright　on　the　carpet；　approached　him；　he　smiled　courteously；　but　said　he　preferred　to　browse　by　himself。　Less　than　thirty　seconds　later　he　was　behind　three　mannequins；　each　dressed　in　the　most　expensive　designs　to　be　found　in　Les　Classiques。　He　raised　his　eyebrows；　his　mouth　set　in　silent　approval　as　he　squinted　between　the　plastic　figures　at　the　woman　beyond　at　the　counter。　She　whispered　to　the　clerk　who　had　spoken　to　him；　the　former　model　shook　her　head；　shrugging。
　Bourne　stood　arms　akimbo；　billowing　his　cheeks；　his　breath　escaping　slowly　as　his　eyes　shifted　from　one　mannequin　to　another；　he　was　an　uncertain　man　about　to　make　up　his　mind。　And　a　potential　client　in　that　situation；　especially　one　who　did　not　look　at　prices；　needed　assistance　from　the　most　knowledgeable　person　in　the　vicinity；　he　was　irresistible。　The　regal　woman　touched　her　hair；　and　gracefully　negotiated　the　aisles　towards　him。　The　pavane　had　e　to　its　first　conclusion；　the　dancers　bowed；　preparing　for　the　gavotte。
　'I　see　you've　gravitated　to　our　better　items；　Monsieur；'　said
　the　woman　in　English；　a　presumption　obviously　based　on　the　judgment　of　a　practised　eye。
　'I　trust　I　have；'　replied　Jason。　'You　have　an　interesting　collection　here；　but　one　does　have　to　ferret；　doesn't　one？'
　〃The　ever…present　and　inevitable　scale　of　values；　Monsieur。　However；　all　our　designs　are　exclusive。'　'D'accord；　madame。'　'Ah；　vous　parlet　francais？'　'Un　peu。　Passably。'　'You　are　American？'
　'I'm　rarely　there；'　said　Bourne。　'You　say　these　are　made　for　you　alone？'
　'Oh；　yes。　Our　designer　is　under　exclusive　contract；　I'm　sure　you've　heard　of　him。　Rene　Bergeron。'
　Jason　frowned。　'Yes。　I　have。　Very　respected；　but　he's　never　made　a　breakthrough；　has　he？'
　'He　will；　Monsieur。　It's　inevitable；　his　reputation　grows　each　season。　A　number　of　years　ago　he　worked　for　St　Laurent；　then　Givenchy。　Some　say　he　did　far　more　than　cut　the　patterns　if　you　know　what　I　mean。'　'It's　not　hard　to　follow。'
　'And　how　those　cats　try　to　push　him　in　the　background！　It's　disgraceful！　Because　he　adores　women；　he　flatters　them　and　does　not　make　them　into　little　boys；　vous　prenez？'　'Facilement。'
　'Hell　emerge　worldwide　one　day　soon　and　they'll　not　be　able　to　touch　the　hems　of　his　creations。　Think　of　these　as　the　works　of　an　emerging　master；　Monsieur。'
　'You're　very　convincing。　I'll　take　these　three。　I　assume　they're　in　the　size　twelve　range。'
　'Indeed；　Monsieur；　but　they　will　be　fitted；　of　course。〃　'I'm　afraid　not；　but　I'm　sure　there　are　decent　dressmakers　in　Cap　Ferrat。'
　'Naturettement；'　conceded　the　woman　quickly。　'Also。。。'　Bourne　hesitated；　frowning　again。　'While　I'm　here；　and　to　save　time；　select　a　few　others　for　me　along　these　lines。　Different　prints；　different　cuts；　but　related；　if　that　makes　sense。'　'Very　good　sense；　Monsieur。'
　Thanks；　I　appreciate　it　I've　had　a　long　flight　from　the　Bahamas　and　I'm　exhausted。'　'Would　Monsieur　care　to　sit　down　then？'
　〃Frankly　Monsieur　would　care　for　a　drink。'
　'It　can　be　arranged；　of　course。。。　As　to　the　method　of　payment；　Monsieur。。。？'
　'Encaisse；　I　think；'　said　Jason；　aware　that　the　exchange　of　merchandise　for　hard　currency　would　appeal　to　the　overseer　of　Les　Classiques。　'Cheques　and　accounts　are　like　spoors　in　the　forest；　aren't　they？'
　'You　are　as　wise　as　you　are　discriminating。'　The　rigid　smile　cracked　the　mask　again；　the　eyes　in　no　way　related。　'About　that　drink；　why　not　my　office？　It's　quite　private；　you　can　relax　and　I　shall　bring　you　selections　for　your'　approval。'
　'Splendid。'
　'As　to　the　price　range；　Monsieur？'
　'Les　meilleurs；　madame。'
　'Naturellement。'　A　thin　white　hand　was　extended。　'I　am　Jacqueline　Lavier；　managing　partner　of　Les　Classiques。'
　'Thank　you。'　Bourne　took　the　hand　without　offering　a　name。　One　might　follow　in　less　public　surroundings；　his　expression　said；　but　not　at　the　moment。　For　the　moment；　money　was　his　introduction。　'Your　office？　Mine's　several　thousand　miles　from　here。'
　This　way；　Monsieur。〃　The　rigid　smile　appeared　once　more；　breaking　the　facial　mask　like　a　sheet　of　progressively　cracked　ice。　Madame　Lavier　gestured　towards　the　staircase。　The　world　of　haute　couture　continued；　its　orbit　uninterrupted　by　failure　and　death　on　the　Quai　de　la　Rapee。
　That　lack　of　interruption　was　as　disturbing　to　Jason　as　it　was　bewildering。　He　was　convinced　the　woman　walking　beside