rl.thebourneultimatum-第68部分

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　Two　hours　later；　with　four　bottles　of　rough　vin　ordinaire　consumed　by　Maurice　and　Ralph；　along　with　suspicious　fish；　Le　Coeur　du　Soldat　settled　in　for　its　nightly　endurance　ritual。　Fights　occurred　episodically；　broken　up　by　muscular　waiters。　The　blaring　music　marshaled　memories　of　battles　won　and　lost；　engendering　arguments　between　old　soldiers　who　had　basically　been　the　assault　troops；　cannon　fodder；　at　once　resentful　and　filled　with　the　pride　of　survival　because　they　had　survived　the　blood　and　horror　their　gold…braided　superiors　knew　nothing　about。　It　was　the　collective　roar　of　the　underprivileged　foot　soldiers　heard　from　the　time　of　the　Pharaoh's　legions　to　the　grunts　of　Korea　and　Vietnam。　The　properly　uniformed　officers　decreed　from　far　behind　the　lines；　and　the　foot　soldiers　died　to　preserve　their　superiors'　wisdom。　Bourne　remembered　Saigon　and　could　not　fault　the　existence　of　Le　Coeur　du　Soldat。
　The　head　bartender；　a　massive　bald　man　with　steel…rimmed　glasses；　picked　up　a　telephone　concealed　below　the　far　end　of　the　bar　and　brought　it　to　his　ear。　Jason　watched　him　between　the　roving　figures。　The　man's　eyes　spun　around　the　crowded　room…what　he　heard　appeared　to　be　important；　what　he　saw；　dismissible。　He　spoke　briefly；　plunged　his　hand　below　the　bar　and　kept　it　there　for　several　moments；　he　had　dialed。　Again；　he　spoke　quickly；　then　calmly　replaced　the　phone　out　of　sight。　It　was　the　kind　of　sequence　described　by　old　Fontaine　on　Tranquility　Isle。　Message　received；　message　relayed。　And　at　the　end　of　that　receiving　line　was　the　Jackal。
　It　was　all　he　wanted　to　see　that　evening；　there　were　things　to　consider；　perhaps　men　to　hire；　as　he　had　hired　men　in　the　past。　Expendable　men　who　meant　nothing　to　him；　people　who　could　be　paid　or　bribed；　blackmailed　or　threatened　into　doing　what　he　wanted　them　to　do　without　explanation。
　〃I　just　spotted　the　man　I　was　to　meet　here；〃　he　said　to　the　barely　conscious　Maurice　and　Ralph。　〃He　wants　me　to　go　outside。〃
　〃You're　leaving　us？〃　whined　the　Belgian。
　〃Hey；　man；　you　shouldn't　do　thay…at；〃　added　the　young　American　from　the　South。
　〃Only　for　tonight。〃　Bourne　leaned　over　the　table。　〃I'm　working　with　another　légionnaire；　someone　who's　on　to　something　that　involves　a　lot　of　money。　I　don't　know　you；　but　you　seem　like　decent　men。〃　Bourne　pulled　out　his　roll　of　bills　and　peeled　off　a　thousand　francs；　five　hundred　for　each　of　his　panions。　〃Take　this；　both　of　you…shove　it　in　your　pockets；　quickly！〃
　〃Holy　shee…itt！〃
　〃Merde！〃
　〃It's　no　guarantee；　but　maybe　we　can　use　you。　Keep　your　mouths　shut　and　get　out　of　here　ten　or　fifteen　minutes　after　I　leave。　Also；　no　more　wine。　I　want　you　sober　tomorrow。　。。。　When　does　this　place　open；　Maurice？〃
　〃I'm　not　sure　it　closes。　I　myself　have　been　here　at　eight　o'clock　in　the　morning。　Naturally；　it　is　not　so　crowded…〃
　〃Be　here　around　noon。　But　with　clear　heads；　all　right？〃
　〃I　shall　be　le　caporal　extraordinaire　of　La　Légion。　The　man　that　I　once　was！　Should　I　wear　my　uniform？〃　Maurice　belched。
　〃Hell；　no。〃
　〃Ah'll　wear　a　suit　and　a　tie。　I　got　a　suit　and　a　tie；　honest！〃　The　American　hiccupped。
　〃No。　Both　of　you　be　like　you　are　now；　but　with　your　heads　straight。　Do　you　understand　me？〃
　〃You　sound　Très　américain；　mon　ami。〃
　〃He　sure　do。〃
　〃I'm　not；　but　then　the　truth's　not　a　modity　here；　is　it？〃
　〃Ah　know　what　he　means。　I　learned　it　real　well。　You　kinda　fib　with　a　tie　on。〃
　〃No　tie；　Ralph。　See　you　tomorrow。〃　Bourne　slid　out　of　the　booth；　and　suddenly　a　thought　struck　him。　Instead　of　heading　for　the　door；　he　cautiously　made　his　way　to　the　far　end　of　the　bar　and　the　huge　bald　bartender。　No　seats　were　available；　so；　again　cautiously；　politely；　he　squeezed　sideways　between　two　customers；　ordered　a　Pemod　and　asked　for　a　napkin　on　which　to　write　a　message；　ostensibly　personal；　to　no　one　who　might　concern　the　establishment。　On　the　back　of　the　napkin's　crude　coat　of　arms；　he　wrote　the　following　with　his　ballpoint　pen　in　French：
　The　nest　of　a　blackbird　is　worth　a　million　francs。　Object：　confidential　business　advice。　If　interested；　be　at　the　old　factory　around　the　corner　in　thirty　minutes。　Where　is　the　harm？　An　additional　5000　F　for　being　there　alone。
　Bourne　palmed　the　napkin　along　with　a　hundred…franc　note　and　signaled　the　bartender；　who　adjusted　his　steel…rimmed　glasses　as　if　the　unknown　patron's　gesture　were　an　impertinence。　Slowly　he　moved　his　large　body　forward；　and　leaned　his　thick　tattooed　arms　on　the　bar。　〃What　is　it？〃　he　asked　gruffly。
　〃I　have　written　out　a　message　for　you；〃　replied　the　Chameleon；　his　eyes　steady；　focused　on　the　bartender's　glasses。　〃I　am　by　myself　and　hope　you　will　consider　the　request。　I　am　a　man　who　carries　wounds　but　I　am　not　a　poor　man。〃　Bourne　quickly　but　gently…very　gently…reached　for　the　bartender's　hand；　passing　the　napkin　and　the　franc　note。　With　a　final　imploring　look　at　the　astonished　man；　Jason　turned　and　headed　for　the　door；　his　limp　pronounced。
　Outside；　Bourne　hurried　up　the　cracked　pavement　toward　the　alley's　entrance。　He　judged　that　his　interlude　at　the　bar　had　taken　between　eight　and　twelve　minutes。　Knowing　the　bartender　was　watching　him；　he　had　purposely　not　tried　to　see　if　his　two　panions　were　still　at　the　table；　but　he　assumed　they　were。　Tank　Shirt　and　Field　Jacket　were　not　at　their　sharpest；　and　in　their　condition　minutes　did　not　count；　he　could　only　hope　five　hundred　francs　apiece　might　bring　about　a　degree　of　responsibility　and　that　they　would　leave　soon　as　instructed。　Oddly　enough；　he　had　more　faith　in　Maurice…René　than　in　the　young　American　who　called　himself　Ralph。　A　former　corporal　in　the　Foreign　Legion　was　imbued　with　an　automatic　reflex　where　orders　were　concerned；　he　followed　them　blind　drunk　or　blind　sober。　Jason　hoped　so；　it　was　not　mandatory；　but　he　could　use　their　assistance…if；　if；　the　bartender　at　Le　Coeur　du　Soldat　had　been　sufficiently　intrigued　by　the　excessive　sums　of　money；　as　well　as　by　a　solitary　conversation　with　a　cripple　he　could　obviously　kill　with　one　tattooed　arm。
　Bourne　waited　in　the　street；　the　wash　of　the　streetlights　diminishing　in　the　alley；　fewer　and　fewer　people　going　in　or　ing　out；　those　arriving　in　better　shape　than　those　departing；　all　passing　Jason　without　a　glance　at　the　derelict　weaving　against　the　brick。
　Instinct　prevailed。　Tank　Shirt　pulled　the　much　younger　Field　Jacket　through　the　heavy　door；　and　at　one　point　after　the　door　had　swung　shut；　slapped　the　American　across　the　face；　telling　him　in　unclear　words　to　follow　orders；　for　they　were　rich　and　could　bee　much　richer。
　〃It　is　better　than　being　shot　in　Angola！〃　cried　the　former　légionnaire；　loud　enough　for　Bourne　to　hear。　〃Why　did　they　do　that？〃
　Jason　stopped　them　at　the　entrance　to　the　alley；　pulling　both　men　around　the　edge　of　the　brick　building。　〃It's　me；〃　he　said；　his　voice　manding。
　〃Sacrebleu　。。。　！〃
　〃What　the　Gawdamn　hell　。。。　！〃
　〃Be　quiet！　You　can　make　another　five　hundred　francs　tonight；　if　you　want　to。　If　not；　there　are　twenty　other　men　who　will。〃
　〃We　are　rades！〃　protested　Maurice…René。
　〃And　Ah　could　bust　your　ass　for　scarin'　us　like　thay…at。　。。。　But　mah　buddy's　right；　we're　rades…that　ain't　mie　stuff；　is　it；　Maurice？〃
　〃Taisez…vous！〃
　〃That　means　shut　up；〃　explained　Bourne。
　〃Ah　know　thay…at。　I　hear　it　a　lot…〃
　〃Listen　to　me。　Within　the　next　few　minutes　the　bartender　in　there　may　e　out　looking　for　me。　He　may；　he　also　may　not；　I　simply　don't　know。　He's　the　large　bald　man　wearing　glasses。　Do　either　of　you　know　him？〃
　The　American　shrugged；　but　the　Belgian　nodded　his　floating　head；　his　lips　flat　until　he　spoke。　〃His　name　is　Santos　and　he　is　espagnol。〃
　〃Spanish？〃
　〃Or　latino…américain。　No　one　knows。〃
　Ilich　Ramirez　Sanchez；　thought　Jason。　Carlos　the　Jackal；　Venezuelan　by　birth；　rejected　terrorist；　whom　even　the　Soviets　could　not　handle。　Of　course　he　would　return　to　his　own。　〃How　well　do　you　know　him？〃
　It　was　the　Belgian's　turn　to　shrug。　〃He　is　the　plete　authority　where　Le　Coeur　du　Soldat　is　concerned。　He　has　been　known　to　crush　men's　heads　if　they　behave　too　badly。　He　always　takes　off　his　glasses　first；　and　that　is　the　first　sign　that　something　will　happen　that　even　proven　soldiers　do　not　care　to　witness。　。。。　If　he　is　ing　out　here　to　see　you；　I　would　advise　you　to　leave。〃
　〃He　may　e　because　he　wants　to　see　me；　not　because　he　wants　to　harm　me。〃
　〃That　is　not　Santos…〃
　〃You　don't　have　to　know　the　particulars；　they　don't　concern　you。　But　if　he　does　e　out　that　door；　I　want　you　to　engage　him　in　conversation；　can　you　do　that？〃
　〃Mais　certainement。　On　several　occasions　I　have　slept　on　his　couch　upstairs；　personally　carried　there　by　Santos　himself　when　the　cleaning　women　came　in。〃
　〃Upstairs？〃
　〃He　lives　above　the　café　on　the　second　floor。　It　is　said　that　he　never　leaves；　never　goes　into　the　streets；　even　to　the　markets。　Other　people　purchase　all　the　supplies；　or　they　are　simply　delivered。〃
　〃I　see。〃　Jason　pulled　out　his　money　and　distributed　another　five　hundred　francs　to　each　weaving　man。　〃Go　back　into　the　alley；　and　if　Santos　es　out；　stop　him　and　behave　like　you've　had　too　much　to　drink。　Ask　him　for　money；　a　bottle；　whatever。〃
　Like　children；　Maurice…René　and　Ralph　clutched　the　franc　notes；　glancing　at　each　other　both　as　conspirators　and　as　victors。　Fran？ois；　the　crazy　légionnaire；　was　passing　out　money　as　if　he　printed　it　himself！　Their　collective　enthusiasm　grew。
　〃How　long　do　you　want　us　to　hassle　this　turkey？〃　asked　the　American　from　the　Deep　South。
　〃I　will　talk　the　ears　off　his　bald　head！〃　added　the　Belgian。　〃No；　just　long　enough　for　me　to　see　that　he's　alone；〃　said　Bourne；　〃that　no　one　else　is　with　him　or　es　out　after　him。〃
　〃Piece　a'　cake；　man。〃
　〃We　shall　earn　not　only　your　francs　but　your　respect。　You　have　the　word　of　a　Légion　corporal！〃
　〃I'm　touched。　Now；　get　back　in　there。〃　The　two　inebriated　men　lurched　down　the　alley；　Field　Jacket　slapping　Tank　Shirt　triumphantly　across　the　shoulders。　Jason　pressed　his　back　against　the　street…side　brick　inches　from　the　edge　of　the　building　and　waited。　Six　minutes　passed；　and　then　he　heard　the　words　he　so　desperately　wanted　to　hear。
　〃Santos！　My　great　and　good　friend　Santos！〃
　〃What　are　you　doing　here；　René？〃
　〃My　young　American　friend　was　sick　to　his　stomach　but　it　has