rl.thebourneultimatum-第6部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


ng　Kong；　too…for　reasons　not　much　different　from　mine。　Years　ago　I　tried　to　kill　my　closest　friend　in　Paris　because　I'd　made　a　terrible　mistake　believing　my　friend　had　turned　when　the　truth　was　that　he　had　lost　his　memory。　Only　days　later；　Morris　Panov；　one　of　the　leading　psychiatrists　in　the　country；　a　doctor　who　can't　stand　the　chicken…shit　psychobabble　so　popular　these　days；　was　presented　with　a　'hypothetical'　psychiatric　profile　that　required　his　immediate　reaction。　It　described　a　rogue　deep…cover　agent；　a　walking　time　bomb　with　a　thousand　secrets　in　his　head；　who　had　gone　over　the　edge。　。。。　On　the　basis　of　Mo's　on…the…spot　evaluation　of　that　hypothetical　profile…which　he　hours　later　suspected　was　no　more　hypothetical　than　Campbell's　soup…an　innocent　amnesiac　was　nearly　blown　away　in　a　government　ambush　on　New　York's　Seventy…first　Street。　When　what　was　left　of　that　man　survived；　Panov　demanded　to　be　assigned　as　his　only　head　doctor。　He's　never　forgiven　himself。　If　any　of　you　were　he；　what　would　you　do　if　I　didn't　talk　to　you　about　what　we're　talking　about　right　now？〃
　〃Tell　you　it's　a　flu　shot　and　pump　you　full　of　strychnine；　old　boy；〃　concluded　DeSole；　nodding。
　〃Where　is　Panov　now？〃　asked　Casset。
　〃At　the　Brookshire　Hotel　in　Baltimore　under　the　name　of　Morris；　Phillip　Morris。　He　called　off　his　appointments　today…he　has　the　flu。〃
　〃Then　let's　go　to　work；〃　said　the　DCI；　pulling　a　yellow　legal　pad　in　front　of　him。　〃Incidentally；　Alex；　a　petent　field　man　doesn't　concern　himself　with　rank　and　won't　trust　a　man　who　can't　convincingly　call　him　by　his　first　name。　As　you　well　know；　my　name　is　Holland　and　my　first　name　is　Peter。　From　here　on　we're　Alex　and　Peter；　got　it？〃
　〃I've　got　it…Peter。　You　must　have　been　one　son　of　a　bitch　in　the　SEALs。〃
　〃Insofar　as　I'm　here…geographically；　not　in　this　chair…it　can　be　assumed　I　was　petent。〃
　〃A　field　man；〃　mumbled　Conklin　in　approval。
　〃Also；　since　we've　dropped　the　diplomatic　drivel　expected　of　someone　in　this　job；　you　should　understand　that　I　was　a　hardnosed　son　of　a　bitch。　I　want　pro　input　here；　Alex；　not　emotional　output。　Is　that　clear？〃
　〃I　don't　operate　any　other　way；　Peter。　A　mitment　may　be　based　on　emotions　and　there's　nothing　wrong　with　that；　but　the　execution　of　a　strategy　is　ice…cold。　。。。　I　was　never　in　the　SEALs；　you　hard…nosed　son　of　a　bitch；　but　I'm　also　geographically　here；　limp　and　all；　and　that　presumes　I'm　also　petent。〃
　Holland　grinned；　it　was　a　smile　of　youth　belied　by　streaked　gray　hair；　the　grin　of　a　professional　momentarily　freed　of　executive　concerns　so　as　to　return　to　the　world　he　knew　best。　〃We　may　even　get　along；〃　said　the　DCI。　And　then；　as　if　to　drop　the　last　vestige　of　his　directorial　image；　he　placed　his　pipe　on　the　table；　reached　into　his　pocket　for　a　pack　of　cigarettes；　popped　one　up　to　his　mouth　and　snapped　his　lighter　as　he　began　to　write　on　the　legal　pad。　〃To　hell　with　the　Bureau；〃　he　continued。　〃We'll　use　only　our　men　and　we'll　check　every　one　out　under　a　fast　microscope。〃
　Charles　Casset；　the　lean；　bright　heir　apparent　of　the　CIA's　directorship；　sat　back　in　his　chair　and　sighed。　〃Why　do　I　have　the　idea　that　I'm　going　to　have　to　ride　herd　on　both　you　gentlemen？〃
　〃Because　you're　an　analyst　at　heart；　Charlie；〃　answered　Holland。
　The　object　of　controlled　surveillance　is　to　expose　those　who　shadow　others　so　as　to　establish　their　identities　or　take　them　into　custody；　whichever　suits　the　strategy。　The　aim　in　the　present　case　was　to　trap　the　agents　of　the　Jackal　who　had　lured　Conklin　and　Panov　to　the　amusement　park　in　Baltimore。　Working　through　the　night　and　most　of　the　following　day；　the　men　of　the　Central　Intelligence　Agency　formed　a　detail　of　eight　experienced　field　personnel；　defined　and　redefined　the　specific　routes　that　Conklin　and　Panov　were　to　take　both　individually　and　together　for　the　next　twenty…four　hours…these　routes　covered　by　the　armed　professionals　in　swift　progressive　relays…and　finally　to　design　an　irresistible　rendezvous；　unique　in　terms　of　time　and　location。　The　early　morning　hours　at　the　Smithsonian　Institution。　It　was　the　Dionaea　muscipula；　the　Venus　flytrap。
　Conklin　stood　in　the　narrow；　dimly　lit　lobby　of　his　apartment　house　and　looked　at　his　watch；　squinting　to　read　the　dial。　It　was　precisely　2：35　in　the　morning；　he　opened　the　heavy　door　and　limped　out　into　the　dark　street；　which　was　devoid　of　any　signs　of　life。　According　to　their　plan　he　turned　left；　maintaining　the　pace　agreed　upon；　he　was　to　arrive　at　the　er　as　close　to　2：38　as　possible。　Suddenly；　he　was　alarmed；　in　a　shadowed　doorway　on　his　right　was　the　figure　of　a　man。　Unobtrusively　Alex　reached　under　his　jacket　for　his　Beretta　automatic。　There　was　nothing　in　the　strategy　that　called　for　someone　to　be　in　a　doorway　on　this　section　of　the　street！　Then；　as　suddenly　as　he　had　been　alarmed；　he　relaxed；　feeling　equal　parts　of　guilt　and　relief　at　what　he　understood。　The　figure　in　shadows　was　an　indigent；　an　old　man　in　worn…out　clothes；　one　of　the　homeless　in　a　land　of　so　much　plenty。　Alex　kept　going；　he　reached　the　corner　and　heard　the　low；　single　click　of　two　fingers　snapped　apart。　He　crossed　the　avenue　and　proceeded　down　the　pavement；　passing　an　alleyway。　The　alleyway。　Another　figure　。。。　another　old　man　in　disheveled　clothing　moving　slowly　out　into　the　street　and　then　back　into　the　alley。　Another　derelict　protecting　his　concrete　cave。　At　any　other　time　Conklin　might　have　approached　the　unfortunate　and　given　him　a　few　dollars；　but　not　now。　He　had　a　long　way　to　go　and　a　schedule　to　keep。
　Morris　Panov　approached　the　intersection　still　bothered　by　the　curious　telephone　conversation　he　had　had　ten　minutes　ago；　still　trying　to　recall　each　segment　of　the　plan　he　was　to　follow；　afraid　to　look　at　his　watch　to　see　if　he　had　reached　a　specific　place　within　a　specific　time　span…he　had　been　told　not　to　look　at　his　watch　in　the　street　。。。　and　why　couldn't　they　say　〃at　approximately　such　and　such〃　rather　than　the　somewhat　unnerving　term　〃time　span；〃　as　if　a　military　invasion　of　Washington　were　imminent。　Regardless；　he　kept　walking；　crossing　the　streets　he　was　told　to　cross；　hoping　some　unseen　clock　kept　him　relatively　in　tune　with　the　goddamned　〃time　spans〃　that　had　been　determined　by　his　striding　back　and　forth　between　two　pegs　on　some　lawn　behind　a　garden　apartment　in　Vienna；　Virginia。　。。。　He　would　do　anything　for　David　Webb…good　Christ；　anything　…　but　this　was　insane。　。。。　Yet；　of　course；　it　wasn't。　They　would　not　ask　him　to　do　what　he　was　doing　if　it　were。
　What　was　that？　A　face　in　shadows　peering　at　him；　just　like　the　other　two！　This　one　hunched　over　on　a　curb；　raising　wine…soaked　eyes　up　at　him。　Old　men…weather…beaten；　old；　old　men　who　could　barely　move…staring　at　him！　Now　he　was　allowing　his　imagination　to　run　away　with　him…the　cities　were　filled　with　the　homeless；　with　perfectly　harmless　people　whose　psychoses　or　poverty　drove　them　into　the　streets。　As　much　as　he　would　like　to　help　them；　there　was　nothing　he　could　do　but　professionally　badger　an　unresponsive　Washington。　。。。　There　was　another！　In　an　indented　space　between　two　storefronts　barricaded　by　iron　gates…he；　too；　was　watching　him。　Stop　it！　You're　being　irrational。　。。。　Or　was　he？　Of　course；　he　was。　Go　on；　keep　to　the　schedule；　that's　what　you're　supposed　to　do。　。。。　Good　God！　There's　another。　Across　the　street。　。。。　Keep　going！
　The　vast　moonlit　grounds　of　the　Smithsonian　dwarfed　the　two　figures　as　they　converged　from　intersecting　paths；　joining　each　other　and　proceeding　to　a　bench。　Conklin　lowered　himself　with　the　aid　of　his　cane　while　Mo　Panov　looked　around　nervously；　listening；　as　if　he　expected　the　unexpected。　It　was　3：28　in　the　predawn　morning；　the　only　noises　the　subdued　rattle　of　crickets　and　mild　summer　breezes　through　the　trees。　Guardedly　Panov　sat　down。
　〃Anything　happen　on　the　way　here？〃　asked　Conklin。
　〃I'm　not　sure；〃　replied　the　psychiatrist。　〃I'm　as　lost　as　I　was　in　Hong　Kong；　except　that　over　there　we　knew　where　we　were　going；　whom　we　expected　to　meet。　You　people　are　crazy。〃
　〃You're　contradicting　yourself；　Mo；〃　said　Alex；　smiling。　〃You　told　me　I　was　cured。〃
　〃Oh；　that？　That　was　merely　obsessive　manic…depression　bordering　on　dementia　praecox。　This　is　nuts！　It's　nearly　four　o'clock　in　the　morning。　People　who　aren't　nuts　do　not　play　games　at　four　o'clock　in　the　morning。〃
　Alex　watched　Panov　in　the　dim　wash　of　a　distant　Smithsonian　floodlight　that　illuminated　the　massive　stone　structure。　〃You　said　you　weren't　sure。　What　does　that　mean？〃
　〃I'm　almost　embarrassed　to　say…I've　told　too　many　patients　that　they　invent　unfortable　images　to　rationalize　their　panic；　justify　their　fears。〃
　〃What　the　hell　does　that　mean？〃
　〃It's　a　form　of　transference…〃
　〃e　on；　Mo！〃　interrupted　Conklin。　〃What　bothered　you？　What　did　you　see？〃
　〃Figures　。。。　some　bent　over；　walking　slowly；　awkwardly…not　like　you；　Alex；　incapacitated　not　by　injuries　but　by　age。　Worn　out　and　old　and　staying　in　the　darkness　of　storefronts　and　side　streets。　It　happened　four　or　five　times　between　my　apartment　house　and　here。　Twice　I　almost　stopped　and　called　out　for　one　of　your　men；　and　then　I　thought　to　myself；　My　God；　Doctor；　you're　overreacting；　mistaking　a　few　pathetic　homeless　people　for　what　they're　not；　seeing　things　that　aren't　there。〃
　〃Right　on！〃　Conklin　whispered　emphatically。　〃You　saw　exactly　what　was　there；　Mo。　Because　I　saw　the　same；　the　same　kind　of　old　people　you　saw；　and　they　were　pathetic；　mostly　in　beat　up　clothes　and　who　moved　slower　than　I　move。　。。。　What　does　it　mean？　What　do　they　mean？　Who　are　they？〃
　Footsteps。　Slow；　hesitant；　and　through　the　shadows　of　the　deserted　path　walked　two　short　men…old　men。　At　first　glance　they；　indeed；　appeared　to　be　part　of　the　swelling　army　of　indigent　homeless；　yet　there　was　something　different　about　them；　a　sense　of　purpose；　perhaps。　They　stopped　nearly　twenty　feet　away　from　the　bench；　their　faces　in　darkness。　The　old　man　on　the　left　spoke；　his　voice　thin；　his　accent　strange。　〃It　is　an　odd　hour　and　an　unusual　place　for　two　such　well…dressed　gentlemen　to　meet。　Is　it　fair　for　you　to　occupy　a　place　of　rest　that　should　be　for　others　not　so　well　off　as　you？〃
　〃There　are　a　number　of　unoccupied　benches；〃　said　Alex　pleasantly。　〃Is　this　one　reserved？〃
　〃There　are　no　reserved　seats　here；〃