rl.thebourneidentity-第89章

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　'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　but　there　was　nothing　else。　'Five　or　six　minutes　ago　I　got　out　of　a　taxi　on　Seventy…first　Street　I　was　spotted　and　someone　tried　to　take　me　out。'
　'Take。。。　you　out？'
　'Yes。　The　driver　spoke　to　me　and　I　bent　down　to　listen。　That　movement　saved　my　life；　but　the　driver's　dead；　a　bullet　in　his　skull。　That's　the　truth　and　I　know　you　have　ways　of　checking。　There　are　probably　half　a　dozen　police　cars　on　the　scene　by　now。　Check　it　out。　That's　the　strongest　advice　I　can　give　you。'
　There　was　a　brief　silence　from　Washington。　'Since　you　asked　for　Mr。。　Conklin　…　at　least　used　his　name　…　I'll　follow　this　up。　Where　can　I　reach　you？'
　'I'll　stay　on。　This　call's　on　an　international　credit　card。　French　issue；　name　of　Chambord。'
　'Chambord？　You　said。。。'
　'Please。'
　'I'll　be　back。'
　The　waiting　was　intolerable；　made　worse　by　a　stem　Hassidim　glaring　at　him；　fingering　coins　in　one　hand；　a　roll　in　another；　and　crumbs　in　his　stringy；　unkempt　beard。　A　minute　later　the　man　in　Langley　was　on　the　line；　anger　replacing　promise。
　'I　think　this　conversation　has　e　to　an　end；　Mr。　Bourne　or　Chambord；　or　whatever　you　call　yourself。　The　New　York　police　were　reached；　there's　no　such　incident　as　you　described　on　Seventy…first　Street。　And　you　were　right。　We　do　have　ways　of　checking。　I　advise　you　that　there　are　laws　about　such　calls　as　this；　strict　penalties　involved。　Good　day；　sir。'
　There　was　a　click；　the　line　went　dead。　Bourne　stared　at　the　dial　in　disbelief。　For　six　months　the　men　in　Washington　had　searched　for　him；　wanted　to　kill　him　for　the　silence　they　could　not　understand。　Now；　when　he　presented　himself　…　presented　them　with　the　sole　objective　of　his　three…year　agreement　…　he　was　dismissed。　They　still　would　not　listen！。。。　But　that　man　had　listened。　And　he　had　e　back　on　the　line　denying　a　death　that　had　taken　place　only　minutes　ago。　It　could　not　be。。。　it　was　insane。　It　had　happened！
　Jason　put　the　phone　back　on　the　hook；　tempted　to　bolt　from　the　crowded　delicatessen。　Instead；　he　walked　calmly　towards　the　door　excusing　himself　through　the　rows　of　people　lined　up　at　the　counter；　his　eyes　on　the　glass　front；　scanning　the　crowds　on　the　pavement。　Outside　he　removed　his　overcoat；　carrying　it　over　his　arm；　and　replaced　the　sunglasses　with　his　tortoise…shells。　Minor　alterations；　but　he　would　not　be　where　he　was　going　long　enough　for　them　to　be　a　major　mistake。　He　hurried　across　the　intersection　towards　Seventy…first　Street。
　At　the　far　corner　he　fell　in　with　a　group　of　pedestrians　waiting　for　the　light。　He　turned　his；　head　to　the　left；　his　chin　pressed　down　into　his　collar　bone。　The　traffic　was　moving　but　the　taxi　was　gone。　It　had　been　removed　from　the　scene　with　surgical　precision；　a　diseased；　ugly　organ　cut　from　the　body；　the　vital　functions　in　normal　process。　It　showed　the　precision　of　a　master　assassin；　who　knew　precisely　when　to　go　in　swiftly　with　a　knife。
　Bourne　turned　quickly；　reversing　his　direction；　and　began　walking　south。　He　had　to　find　a　shop；　he　had　to　change　his　outer　skin。　The　chameleon　could　not　wait
　Marie　St　Jacques　was　angry　as　she　held　her　place　across　the　room　from　Brigadier…General　Irwin　Arthur　Crawford　in　the　suite　at　the　Pierre　Hotel。　'You　wouldn't　listen！'　she　accused。　'None　of　you　would　listen。　Have　you　any　idea　what　you've　done　to　him？〃
　'All　too　well；'　replied　the　officer；　the　apology　in　his　acknowledgment　not　his　voice。　'I　can　only　repeat　what　I've　told　you。　We　didn't　know　what　to　listen　for。　The　difference　between　the　appearance　and　the　reality　were　beyond　our　understanding；　obviously　beyond　his　own。　And　if　beyond　his；　why　not　ours？'
　'He's　been　trying　to　reconcile　the　appearance　and　reality；　as　you　call　it；　for　six　months！　And　all　you　could　do　was　send　out　men　to　kill　him！　He　tried　to　tell　you。　What　kind　of　people　are　you？'
　'Flawed；　Miss　St　Jacques。　Flawed　but　decent；　I　think。　It's　why　I'm　here。　The　time　span's　begun　and　I　want　to　save　him　if　I　can；　if　we　can。〃
　'God；　you　make　me　sick！'　Marie　stopped；　she　shook　her　head　and　continued　softly。　'I'll　do　whatever　you　ask；　you　know　that。　Can　you　reach　this　Conklin？'
　'I'm　sure　I　can。　I'll　stand　on　the　steps　of　that　house　until　he　has　no　choice　but　to　reach　me。　He　may　not　be　our　concern；　however。'
　'Carlos？'
　'Perhaps　others。〃
　'What　do　you　mean？'
　'I'll　explain　on　the　way。　Our　main　concern　now　…　our　only　concern　now　is　to　reach　Delta。'
　'Jason？'
　'Yes。　The　man　you　call　Jason　Bourne。'
　'And　he's　been　one　of　you　from　the　beginning；'　said　Marie。　There　were　no　slates　to　clean；　no　payments　or　pardons　bargained　for？'
　'None。　You'll　be　told　everything　in　time；　but　this　is　not　the　time。　I've　made　arrangements　for　you　to　be　in　an　unmarked　government　car　diagonally　across　from　the　house。　We　have　binoculars　for　you；　you　know　him　better　than　anyone　now。　Perhaps　you'll　spot　him。　I　pray　to　God　you　do。'
　Marie　went　quickly　to　the　cupboard　and　got　her　coat。　'He　said　one　night　that　he　was　a　chameleon。。。'　'He　remembered？'　interrupted　Crawford。　〃Remembered　what？〃
　'Nothing。　He　had　a　talent　for　moving　in　and　out　of　difficult　situations　without　being　seen。　That's　all　I　meant。
　'Wait　a　minute。'　Marie　approached　the　army　man；　her　eyes　suddenly　riveted　on　his　again。　'You　say　we　have　to　reach　Jason；　but　there's　a　better　way。　Let　him　e　to　us！　To　me。　Put　me　on　the　steps　of　that　house！　He'll　see　me；　get　word　to　me！'　'Giving　whoever's　out　there　two　targets？'　'You　don't　know　your　own　man；　General。　I　said　〃get　word　to　me〃。　He'll　send　someone；　pay　a　man　or　a　woman　on　the　street　to　give　me　a　message。　I　know　him。　He'll　do　it！　It's　the　surest　way！'　'I　can't　permit　it。'
　'Why　not？　You've　done　everything　else　stupidly！　Blindly！　Do　one　thing　intelligently！'
　'I　can't　It　might　even　solve　problems　you're　not　aware　of；　but　I　can't　do　it。'　'Give　me　a　reason！'
　'If　Delta's　right；　if　Carlos　has　e　after　him　and　is　in　the　street；　the　risk　is　too　great。　Carlos　knows　you　by　sight。　He'll　kill　you。'
　'I'm　willing　to　take　that　risk。'
　'I'm　not　I'd　like　to　think　I'm　speaking　for　my　government　when　I　say　that'　'I　don't　think　you　are；　frankly。〃　'Leave　it　to　others。　May　we　go；　please？〃
　'General　Services　Administration；〃　intoned　a　disinterested　switchboard　operator。　'Mr。　J。　Petrocelli；　please；'　said　Alexander　Conklin；　his　voice　tense；　his　fingers　wiping　the　sweat　from　his　forehead　as　he　stood　by　the　window；　the　telephone　in　his　hand。　'Quickly；　please！'
　'Everybody's　in　a　hurry。。。'　The　words　were　shorted　out；　replaced　by　the　hum　of　a　ring。
　'Petrocelli；　Reclamation　Invoice　Division。'
　'What　are　you　people　doing！'　exploded　the　C。I。A。　man；　the　shock　calculated；　a　weapon。
　The　pause　was　brief。　'Right　now；　listening　to　some　nut　ask　a　stupid　question。'
　'Well；　listen　further。　My　name's　Conklin；　Central　Intelligence　Agency；　Four…Zero　clearance。　You　do　know　what　that　means？'
　'I　haven't　understood　anything　you　people've　said　in　the　past　ten　years。'
　'You'd　better　understand　this。　It　took　me　damn　near　an　hour；　but　I　just　reached　the　dispatcher　for　a　removal　pany　up　here　in　New　York；　He　said　he　had　an　invoice　signed　by　you　to　remove　all　the　furniture　from　a　brownstone　on　Seventy…first　Street。　One…Forty；　to　be　exact。
　'Yeah；　I　remember　that　one。　What　about　it？'
　'Who　gave　you　the　order？　That's　our　territory。　We　removed　our　equipment　last　week；　but　we　did　not　…　repeat；　did　not　…request　any　further　activity。'
　'Just　hold　it；'　said　the　bureaucrat。　'I　saw　that　invoice。　I　mean　I　read　it　before　I　signed　it；　you　guys　make　me　curious。　The　order　came　directly　from　Langley　on　a　priority　sheet。'
　'Who　in　Langley？'
　'Give　me　a　moment　and　I'll　tell　you。　I've　got　a　copy　in　my　out　file；　it's　here　on　my　desk。'　The　crackling　of　paper　could　be　heard　on　the　line。　It　stopped　and　Petrocelli　returned。　'Here　it　is；　Conklin。　Take　up　your　beef　with　your　own　people　in　Administrative　Controls。〃
　〃They　didn't　know　what　they　were　doing。　Cancel　the　order。　Call　up　the　removal　pany　and　tell　them　to　clear　out！　Now！'
　'Blow　smoke；　spook。'
　'What？'
　'Get　a　written　priority　requisition　on　my　desk　before　three　o'clock　this　afternoon；　and　it　may　…　just　may　…　get　processed　tomorrow。　Then　we'll　put　everything　back。'
　'Put　everything　back？'
　That's　right　You　tell　us　to　take　it　out　we　take　it　out　You　tell　us　to　put　it　back；　we　put　it　back。　We　have　methods　and　procedures　to　follow　just　like　you。'
　'That　equipment　…　everything　…　was　on　loan！　It　wasn't；　isn't　an　agency　operation。'
　'Then　why　are　you　calling　me？　What　have　you　got　to　do　with　it？'
　'I　don't　have　time　to　explain。　lust　get　those　people　out　of　there。　Call　New　York　and　get　them　out！　Those　are　Four…Zero　orders。'
　'Make　them　a　hundred　and　four　and　you　can　still　blow　smoke。。。　Look；　Conklin；　we　both　know　you　can　get　what　you　want　if　I　get　what　I　need。　Do　it　right。　Make　it　legitimate。'
　'I　can't　involve　the　agency！'
　'You're　not　going　to　involve　me；　either。'　〃Those　people　have　got　to　get　out！　I'm　telling　you。。。'　Conklin　stopped；　his　eyes　on　the　brownstone　below　and　across　the　street；　his　thoughts　suddenly　paralysed。　A　tall　man　in　a　black　overcoat　had　walked　up　the　concrete　steps；　he　turned　and　stood　motionless　in　front　of　the　open　door。　It　was　Crawford。　What　was　he　doing？　What　was　he　doing　here？　He　had　lost　his　senses；　he　was　out　of　his　mind！　He　was　a　stationary　target；　he　could　break　the　trap！
　'Conklin？　Conklin。。。？'　The　voice　floated　up　out　of　the　phone　as　the　C。I。A。　man　hung　up。
　Conklin　turned　to　a　stocky　man　six　feet　away　at　an　adjacent　window。　In　the　man's　large　hand　was　a　rifle；　a　telescopic　sight　secured　to　the　barrel。　Alex　did　not　know　the　man's　name　and　he　did　not　want　to　know　it；　he　had　paid　enough　not　to　be　burdened。
　'Do　you　see　that　man　down　there　in　the　black　overcoat　standing　by　the　door？'　he　asked。
　'I　see　him。　He's　not　the　one　we're　looking　for。　He's　too　old。'
　'Get　over　there　and　tell　him　there's　a　cripple　across　the　street　who　wants　to　see　him；'
　Bourne　walked　out　of　the　second…hand　clothing　shop　on　Third　Avenue；　pausing　in　front　of　the　filthy　glass　window　to　appraise　what　he　saw。　It　would　do；　everything　was　co…ordinated。　The　black　woollen　hat　covered　his　head　to　the　middle　of　his　forehead；　the　wrinkled；　patched　army　field　jacket　was　several　sizes　too　large；　the　red　checked　flannel　shirt；　the　wide　bulging　khaki　trousers　and　the　heavy　work　shoes　with　thick　rubber　soles　and　huge　rounded　toes　were　all　of　a　piece。　He　only　had　to　find　a　walk　to　match　the　clothing。　The　walk　of　a　strong；　slow…witted　man　whose　body　had　begun　to　show　the　effects　of　a　lifetime　of　physical　strain；　whose　mind　accepted　the　daily　inevitability　of　hard　labour；　reward　found　in　a　pack　of　beer　at　the　end　of　the　drudgery。
　He　would　find　that　walk；　he　had　used　it　before。　Somewhere。　But　before　he　searched　his　imagination；　there　was　a　phone　call　to　make；　he　saw　a　telephone　box　up　the　block；　a　mangled　directory　hanging　from　a　chain　beneath　the　metal　shelf。　He　started　walking；　his　legs　automatically　more　rigid；　his　feet　pressing　weight　on　the　pavement；　his　arms　heavy　in　their　sockets；　the　fingers　of　his　hands　slightly　spaced；　curved　from　years　of　abuse。　A　set；　dull　expression　on　his　face　woul