rl.thebourneidentity-第88章
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lashes of purple and blue。 Antique glass； perhaps； ornamental glass。。。 bullet…proof glass。 A brown stone residence with a set of thick outside steps。 They were odd steps； unusual steps； each level criss…crossed with black ridges that protruded above the surface； protecting the descender from the elements。 Shoes going down would not slip on ice or snow。。。 and the weight of anyone climbing up would trigger electronic devices inside。
Jason knew that house； knew they were ing closer to it The echo in his chest accelerated and became louder as they entered the block。 He would see it any moment； and as he held his wrist he knew why Pare Monceau had struck such chords in his mind's eye。 That small part of Paris was so much like this short stretch of the upper east side。 Except for an isolated intrusion of an unkempt stoop or an ill…conceived white…washed facade； they could be identical blocks。
He thought of Andrel Villiers。 He had written down everything he could remember since a memory had been given him in the pages of a notebook hastily purchased at Orly Airport。 From the first moment when a living； bullet…ridden man had opened his eyes in a humid； dingy room on lie de Port Noir through the frightening revelations of Marseilles； Zurich and Paris … especially Paris； where the spectre of an assassin's mantle had fallen over his shoulders； the expertise of a killer proven to be his。 By any standards； it was a confession； as damning in what it could not explain as in what it described。 But it was the truth as he knew the truth； infinitely more exculpatory after his death than before。 In the hands of Andrel Villiers it would be used well； the right decisions would be made for Marie St Jacques。 That knowledge gave him the freedom he needed now。 He had sealed the pages in an envelope and mailed it to Pare Monceau from Kennedy Airport。 By the time it reached Paris he would be alive or he would be dead； he would kill Carlos or Carlos would kill him。 Somewhere on that street … so like a street thousands of miles away … a man whose shoulders floated rigidly above a tapered waist would e after him。 It was the only thing he was absolutely sure of； he would do the same。 Somewhere on that street。。。
There it was！ It was there； the morning sun bouncing off the black enamelled door and the shiny brass； penetrating the thick； lead…paned windows that rose like a wide column of glistening； purplish blue； emphasizing the ornamental splendour of the glass； but not its resistance to the impacts of high…powered rifles and heavy calibred automatic weapons。 He was here； and for reasons … emotions he could not define； his eyes began to tear and there was a swelling in his throat。 He had the incredible feeling that he had e back to a place that was as much a part of him as his body or what was left of his mind。 Not a home； there was no fort； no serenity in looking at that elegant east…side residence。 But there was something else …an overpowering sensation of … return。 He was back at the beginning； the beginning； at both departure and creation； black night and bursting dawn。 Something was happening to him； he gripped his wrist harder； desperately trying to control the almost uncontrollable impulse to jump out of the taxi and race across the street to that monstrous； silent structure of jagged stone and deep blue glass。 He wanted to leap up the steps and hammer his fist against the heavy black door。
Let me in！ I am here！ You must let me in！ Can't you understand？
I AM INSIDE！
Images welled up in front of his eyes； jarring sounds assaulted his ears。 A jolting； throbbing pain kept exploding at his temples。 He was inside a dark room … that room … staring at a screen； at other； inner images that kept flashing on and off in rapid； blinding succession。
Who is he？ Quickly。 You're too late！ You're a dead man。 Where is this street？ What does it mean to you？ Who did you meet there？ What？ Good。 Keep it simple； say as little as possible。 Hare's a list： eight names。 Which are contacts？ Quickly！ Here's another。 Methods of matching kills。 Which are yours？。。。 No； no； no！ Delta might do that； not Cain！ You are not Delta； you are not you！ You are Cain。 You are a man named Bourne。 Jason Bourne！ You slipped back。 Try again。 Concentrate！ Obliterate everything else。 Wipe away the past。 It does not exist for you。 You are only what you are here； became here！
Oh； God。 Marie had said it。
Maybe you just know what you've been told。。。 Over and over and over again。 Until there was nothing else。。。 Things you've been told。。。 but you can't re…live。。。 because they're not you。
The sweat rolled down his face； stinging his eyes； as he dug his fingers into his wrist； trying to push the pain and the sounds and the flashes of light out of his mind。 He had written to Carlos that he was ing back for hidden documents that were his。。。' final protection'。 At that time； the phrase had struck him as weak； he had nearly crossed it out； wanting a stronger reason for flying to New York。 Yet instinct had told him to let it stand； it was a part of his past。。。 somehow。 Now he understood。 His identity was inside that house。 His identity。 And whether Carlos came after him or not； he had to find it He had to！
It was suddenly insane！ He shook his head violently back and forth； trying to suppress the pulsion； to still the screams that were all around him … screams that were his screams； his voice。 Forget Carlos。 Forget the trap。 Get inside that house！ It was there； it was the beginning！
Stop it！
The irony was macabre。 There was no final protection in that house； only a final explanation for himself。 And it was meaningless without Carlos。 Those who hunted him knew it and disregarded it； they wanted him dead because of it。 But he was so close。。。 he had to find it。 It was there。
Bourne glanced up； the long…haired driver was watching him in the rear…view mirror。 'Migraine；' said Jason curtly。 'Drive around the block。 To this block again。 I'm early for my appointment。 I'll tell you where to let me off。'
'It's your wallet； Mister。'
The brownstone was behind them now； passed quickly in a sudden； brief break in the traffic。 Bourne swung around in the seat and looked at it through the rear window。 The seizure was receding； the sights and sounds of personal panic fading； only the pain remained； but it too would diminish； he knew that。 It had been an extraordinary few minutes。 Priorities had bee twisted； pulsion had replaced reason； the pull of the unknown had been so strong that for a moment or two he had nearly lost control。 He could not let it happen again； the trap itself was everything。 He had to see that house again； he had to study it again。 He had all day to work； to refine his strategy； his tactics for the night； but a second； calmer appraisal was in order now。 Others would e during the day； closer appraisals。 The chameleon in him would be put to work。
Sixteen minutes later it was obvious that whatever he intended to study no longer mattered。 Suddenly； everything was different； everything had changed。 The line of traffic in the block slower； another hazard added to the street A removal van had parked in front of the brownstone house； men in overalls stood smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee； putting off that moment when work was to mence。 The heavy black door was open and a man in a green jacket； the moving pany's emblem above the left pocket； stood in the foyer； a clipboard in his hand。 Treadstone was being dismantled！ In a few hours it could be gutted； a shell！ It couldn't be。 They had to stop I
Jason leaned forward； money in his hand； the pain gone from his head； all was movement now。 He had to reach Conklin in Washington。 Not later … not when the chess pieces were in place … but right now！ Conklin had to tell them to stop！ His entire strategy was based on darkness。。。 always darkness。 The beam of a torch shooting out of first one alleyway then another； then against dark walls and up at darkened windows。 Orchestrated properly； swiftly； darting from one position to another。 An assassin would be drawn to a stone building at night。 At night。 It would happen at night！ Not now！
'Hey； Mister！' yelled the driver through the open window。
Jason bent down。 'What is it？'
'I just wanted to say thanks。 This makes my。。。'
A spit。 Over his shoulder I Followed by a cough that was the start of a scream。 Bourne stared at the driver； at the stream of blood that had erupted over the man's left ear。 The man was dead； killed by a bullet meant for his fare； fired from a window somewhere in that street。
Jason dropped to the ground； then sprang to his left； spinning towards the kerb。 Two more spits came in rapid succession； the first embedded in the side of the taxi； the second exploding the asphalt。 It was unbelievable！ He was marked before the hunt had begun I Carlos was there。 In position！ He or one of his men had taken the high ground； a window or a rooftop from which the entire street could be observed。 Yet the possibility of indiscriminate death caused by a killer in a window or on a rooftop was crazy； the police would e； the street blocked off； even a reverse trap aborted。 And Carlos was not crazy！ It did not make sense。 Nor did Bourne have the time to speculate； he had to get out of the trap。。。 the reverse trap。 He had to get to that phone。 Carlos was here！ At the doors of Treadstone！ He had brought him back。 He had actually brought him back！ It was his proof！
He got to his feet and began running； weaving in and out of the groups of pedestrians。 He reached the corner and turned right； the box was twenty feet away； but it was also a target。 He could not use it。
Across the street was a delicatessen； a small rectangular sign above the door。 Telephone。 He stepped off the kerb and started running again； dodging the lurching cars。 One of them might do the job Carlos had reserved for himself。 That irony； too； was macabre。
The Central Intelligence Agency； sir； is fundamentally a fact…finding organization；' said the man on the line condescendingly。 'The sort of activities you describe are the rarest part of our work； and frankly blown out of proportion by films and misinformed writers。'
'Goddamn it； listen to me！' said Jason； cupping the mouthpiece in the crowded delicatessen。 'Just tell me where Conklin is。 It's an emergency！'
'His office already told you； sir。 Mr。。 Conklin left yesterday afternoon and is expected back at the end of the week。 Since you say you know Mr。。 Conklin； you're aware of his service…related injury。 He often goes for physical therapy。。。'
'Will you stop it！ I saw him in Paris … outside Paris … two nights ago。 He flew over from Washington to meet me。〃
'As to that；' interrupted the man in Langley； 'when you were transferred to this office； we'd already checked。 There's no record of Mr。。 Conklin having left the country in over a year。'
'Then it's buried！ He was there！
'You're looking for codes；' said Bourne desperately。 'I don't have them。 But someone working with Conklin will recognize the words。 Medusa； Delta； Cain。。。 Treadstone！ Someone has to！'
〃No one does。 You were told that。'
'By someone who doesn't。 There are those who do。 Believe me！'
'I'm sorry。 I really。。。'
'Don't hang up！' There was another way； one he did not care to use bu
