rl.thebourneidentity-第94部分

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lative　beginnings；　Treadstone　71　had　used；　abused；　and　manoeuvred　every　major　unit　in　the　United　States　Intelligence　munity　and　not　a　few　foreign　governments。　Very　long　poles　would　be　held　when　touching　any　survivors。
　Delta　knew　all　this；　and　because　he　himself　had　destroyed　Treadstone；　he　would　appreciate　the　precautions；　anticipate　them；　be　alarmed　if　they　were　not　there。　And　when　confronted　he　would　react　in　false　fury　and　artificial　anguish　over　the　violence　that　had　taken　place　in　Seventy…first　Street。　Alexander　Conklin　would　listen　with　all　his　concentration；　trying　to　discern　a　genuine　note；　or　even　the　outlines　of　a　reasonable　explanation；　but　he　knew　he　would　hear　neither。　Irregular　fragments　of　glass　could　not　beam　themselves　across　the　Atlantic　only　to　be　concealed　beneath　a　heavy　curtain　in　a　Manhattan　brownstone；　and　fingerprints　were　more　accurate　proof　of　a　man　having　been　at　a　scene　than　any　photograph。　There　was　no　way　they　could　be　doctored。
　Conklin　would　give　Delta　the　benefit　of　two　minutes　to　say　whatever　came　to　his　facile　tongue。　He　would　listen；　and　then　he　would　pull　the　trigger。
　'Why　are　they　doing　it？'　said　Jason；　sitting　down　next　to　Marie　in　the　packed　cafe。　He　had　made　the　fifth　telephone　call；　five　hours　after　having　reached　the　embassy。　They　want　me　to　keep　running。　They're　forcing　me　to　run；　and　I　don't　know　why。'
　'You're　forcing　yourself；'　said　Marie。　'You　could　have　made　the　calls　from　the　room。'
　'No；　I　couldn't。　For　some　reason；　they　want　me　to　know　that。　Each　time　I　call；　that　son　of　a　bitch　asks　me　where　I　am　now；　am　I　in　〃safe　territory〃？　Silly　goddamn　phrase；　〃safe　territory〃。　But　he's　saying　something　else。　He's　telling　me　that　every　contact　must　be　made　from　a　different　location；　so　that　no　one　outside　or　inside　could　trace　me　to　a　single　phone；　a　single　address。　They　don't　want　me　in　custody；　but　they　want　me　on　a　string。　They　want　me；　but　they're　afraid　of　me；　it　doesn't　make　sense！'
　'Isn't　it　possible　you're　imagining　these　things？　No　one　said　anything　remotely　like　that。'
　'They　didn't　have　to。　It's　in　what　they　didn't　say。　Why　didn't　they　just　tell　me　to　e　right　over　to　the　embassy。　Order　me。　No　one　could　touch　me　there；　it's　U。　S。　territory。　They　didn't。'
　The　streets　are　being　watched；　you　were　told　that。'
　'You　know；　I　accepted　that　…　blindly　…　until　about　thirty　seconds　ago　when　it　struck　me。　By　whom？　Who's　watching　the　streets？'
　'Carlos；　obviously。　His　men。'
　'You　know　that　and　I　know　that　…　at　least　we　can　assume　it　…　but　they　don't　know　that。　I　may　not　know　who　the　hell　I　am　or　where　I　came　from；　but　I　know　what's　happened　to　me　during　the　past　twenty…four　hours。　They　don't。'
　'They　could　assume　too；　couldn't　they？　They　might　have　spotted　strange　men　in　cars；　or　standing　around　too　long；　too　obviously。'
　'Carlos　is　brighter　than　that。　And　there　are　lots　of　ways　a　specific　vehicle　could　get　quickly　inside　an　embassy's　gates。　Marine　contingents　everywhere　are　trained　for　things　like　that。'
　'I　believe　you。〃
　'But　they　didn't　do　that；　they　didn't　even　suggest　it。　Instead；　they're　stalling　me；　making　me　play　games。　Goddamn　it；　why？'
　'You　said　it　yourself；　Jason。　They　haven't　heard　from　you　in　six　months。　They're　being　very　careful。'
　'Why　this　way？　They　get　me　inside　those　gates；　they　can　do　whatever　they　want。　They　control　me。　They　can　throw　me　a　party　or　throw　me　into　a　cell。　Instead；　they　don't　want　to　touch　me；　but　they　don't　want　to　lose　me；　either。'
　〃They're　waiting　for　the　man　flying　over　from　Washington。'
　'What　better　place　to　wait　for　him　than　in　the　embassy？'　Bourne　pushed　back　his　chair。　'Something's　wrong。　Let's　get　out　of　here。'
　It　had　taken　Alexander　Conklin；　inheritor　of　Treadstone；　exactly　six　hours　and　twelve　minutes　to　cross　the　Atlantic。　To　go　back　he　would　take　the　first　Concorde　flight　out　of　Paris　in　the　morning；　reach　Dulles　by　7：30　Washington　time　and　be　at　Langley　at　9：00。　If　anyone　tried　to　phone　him　or　asked　where　he　had　spent　the　night；　an　acmodating　major　from　the　Pentagon　would　supply　a　false　answer。　And　a　First　Secretary　at　the　embassy　in　Paris　would　be　told　that　if　he　ever　mentioned　having　had　a　single　conversation　with　the　man　from　Langley；　he'd　be　descaled　to　the　lowest　attaché　on　the　ladder　and　shipped　to　a　new　post　in　Tierra　del　Fuego。　It　was　guaranteed。
　Conklin　went　directly　to　a　row　of　pay　phones　against　the　wall　and　called　the　embassy。　The　First　Secretary　was　filled　with　a　sense　of　acplishment。
　'Everything's　according　to　schedule；　Conklin；'　said　the　embassy　man；　the　absence　of　the　previously　employed　Mister　a　sign　of　equality。　The　pany　executive　was　in　Paris　now；　and　turf　was　turf。　'Bourne's　edgy。　During　our　last　munication；　he　repeatedly　asked　why　he　wasn't　being　told　to　e　in。'
　'He　did？'　At　first；　Conklin　was　surprised；　then　he　understood。　Delta　was　feigning　the　reactions　of　a　man　who　knew　nothing　of　the　events　on　Seventy…first　Street。　If　he　had　been　told　to　e　to　the　embassy；　he　would　have　bolted。　He　knew　better；　there　could　be　no　official　connection。　Treadstone　was　an　anathema；　a　discredited　strategy；　a　major　embarrassment。　'Did　you　reiterate　that　the　streets　were　being　watched？'
　'Naturally。　Then　he　asked　me　who　was　watching　them。　Can　you　imagine？'
　'I　can。　What　did　you　say？'
　'That　he　knew　as　well　as　I　did；　and　all　things　considered　I　thought　it　was　counter…productive　to　discuss　such　matters　over　the　telephone。'
　'Very　good。'
　'I　rather　thought　so。'
　'What　did　he　say　to　that？　Did　he　settle　for　it？'
　'In　an　odd　way；　yes。　He　said；　〃I　see；〃　that's　all。'
　'Did　he　change　his　mind　and　ask　for　protection？'
　'He's　continued　to　refuse　it。　Even　when　I　insisted。'　The　First　Secretary　paused　briefly。　'He　doesn't　want　to　be　watched；　does　he？'　he　said　confidentially。
　'No；　he　doesn't。　When　do　you　expect　his　next　call？〃
　'In　about　fifteen　minutes。'
　Tell　him　the　Treadstone　officer　has　arrived。'　Conklin　took　the　map　from　his　pocket；　it　was　folded　to　the　area；　the　route　marked　in　blue　ink。　'Say　the　rendezvous　has　been　set　for　one…thirty　on　the　road　between　Chevreuse　and　Rambouillet；　seven　miles　south　of　Versailles　at　the　Cimetiere　de　Noblesse。'
　'One…thirty；　road　between　Chevreuse　and　Rambouillet。。。　the　cemetery。　Will　he　know　how　to　get　there？〃
　'He's　been　there　before。　If　he　says　he's　going　by　taxi；　tell　him　to　take　the　normal　precautions　and　dismiss　it。'
　'Won't　that　appear　strange？　To　the　driver；　I　mean。　It's　an　odd　hour　for　mourning。'
　'I　said　you're　to　〃tell　him〃　that。　Obviously；　he　won't　take　a　taxi。'
　'Obviously；'　said　the　First　Secretary　quickly；　recovering　by　volunteering　the　unnecessary。　'Since　I　haven't　called　your　man　here；　shall　I　call　him　now　and　tell　him　you've　arrived？'
　'I'll　take　care　of　that。　You've　still　got　his　number？'
　'Yes；　of　course。'
　'Burn　it；'　ordered　Conklin。　'Before　it　burns　you。　I'll　call　you　back　in　twenty　minutes。'
　A　train　thundered　by　in　the　lower　level　of　the　Metro；　the　vibrations　felt　throughout　the　platform。　Bourne　hung　up　the　pay　phone　on　the　concrete　wall　and　stared　for　a　moment　at　the　mouthpiece。　Another　door　had　partially　opened　somewhere　in　the　distance　of　his　mind；　the　light　too　far　away；　too　dim　to　see　inside。　Still；　there　were　images。　On　the　road　to　Rambouillet。。。　through　an　archway　of　iron　latticework。。。　a　gently　sloping　hill　with　white　marble。　Crosses　…　large；　larger；　mausoleums。。。　and　statuary　everywhere。　La　Cimetiere　de　Noblesse。　A　cemetery；　but　far　more　than　a　resting　place　for　the　dead。　A　drop；　but　even　more　than　that　A　place　where　conversations　took　place。。。　amid　burials　and　the　lowering　of　caskets。　Two　men　dressed　somberly　as　the　crowds　were　dressed　sombrely；　moving　between　the　mourners　until　they　met　among　the　mourners　and　exchanged　the　words　they　had　to　say　to　each　other。
　There　was　a　face；　but　it　was　blurred；　out　of　focus；　he　saw　only　the　eyes。　And　that　unfocused　face　and　those　eyes　had　a　name。　David。。。　Abbott。　The　Monk。　The　man　he　knew　but　did　not　know。　Creator　of　Medusa　and　Cain。　And　now　himself　dead；　part　of　a　cemetery　somewhere。
　Jason　blinked　several　times　and　shook　his　head　as　if　to　shake　the　sudden　mists　away。　He　glanced　over　at　Marie　who　was　fifteen　feet　to　his　left　against　the　wall；　supposedly　scanning　the　crowds　on　the　platform；　watching　for　someone　possibly　watching　him。　She　was　not；　she　was　looking　at　him　herself；　a　frown　of　concern　across　her　face。　He　nodded；　reassuring　her；　it　was　not　a　bad　moment　for　him。　Instead；　images　had　e　to　him。　He　had　been　to　that　cemetery；　somehow　he　would　know　it。　He　walked　towards　Marie；　she　turned　and　fell　in　step　beside　him　as　they　headed　for　the　exit。
　'He's　here；'　said　Bourne。　'Treadstone's　arrived。　I'm　to　meet　him　near　Rambouillet。　At　a　cemetery。'
　〃That's　a　ghoulish　touch。　Why　a　cemetery？'
　'It's　supposed　to　reassure　me。'
　'Good　God；　how？'
　'I've　been　there　before。　I've　met　people　there。。。　a　man　there。　By　naming　it　as　the　rendezvous　…　an　unusual　rendezvous　…　Treadstone's　telling　me　he's　genuine。'
　She　took　his　arm　as　they　climbed　the　steps　towards　the　street　'I　want　to　go　with　you。'
　'Sorry。'
　'You　can't　exclude　met！'
　'I　have　to；　because　I　don't　know　what　I'm　going　to　find　there。　And　if　it's　not　what　I　expect；　I'll　want　someone　on　my　side