rl.thebourneultimatum-第76部分

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　〃Naturally。　No　white　man　would　go　up　there。〃
　
　25
　It　was　shortly　past　midnight　when　Bourne　got　off　the　métro　in　Argenteuil。　He　had　divided　the　day　into　segments；　splitting　the　hours　between　the　arrangements　he　had　to　make　and　looking　for　Marie；　going　from　one　arrondissement　to　another；　scouting　every　café；　every　shop；　every　large　and　small　hotel　he　could　recall　having　been　a　part　of　their　fugitive　nightmare　thirteen　years　ago。　More　than　once　he　had　gasped；　seeing　a　woman　in　the　distance　or　across　a　café…the　back　of　a　head；　a　quick　profile；　and　twice　a　crown　of　dark　red　hair；　any　of　which　from　a　distance　or　in　a　café's　dim　light　might　have　belonged　to　his　wife。　None　of　these　had　turned　out　to　be　Marie；　but　he　began　to　understand　his　own　anxiety　and；　by　understanding　it；　was　better　able　to　control　it。　These　were　the　most　impossible　parts　of　the　day；　the　rest　was　merely　filled　with　difficulty　and　frustration。
　Alex！　Where　the　hell　was　Conklin？　He　could　not　reach　him　in　Virginia！　Because　of　the　time　difference；　he　had　counted　on　Alex　to　take　care　of　the　details；　swiftly　expediting　the　transfer　of　funds；　primarily。　The　business　day　on　the　eastern　seaboard　of　the　United　States　began　at　four　o'clock；　Paris　time；　and　the　business　day　in　Paris　stopped　at　five　o'clock　or　before；　Paris　time。　That　left　barely　an　hour　to　release　and　transfer　over　a　million　American　dollars　to　one　Mr。　Simon　at　his　chosen　bank　in　Paris；　and　that　meant　said　Mr。　Simon　had　to　make　himself　known　to　the　aforementioned；　as　yet　unchosen；　Paris　bank。　Bernardine　had　been　helpful。　Helpful；　hell！　He　had　made　it　possible。
　〃There's　a　bank　on　the　rue　de　Grenelle　that　the　Deuxième　frequently　uses。　They　can　be　acmodating　in　terms　of　hours　and　the　absence　of　an　authentic　signature　or　two；　but　they　give　nothing　for　nothing；　and　they　trust　no　one；　especially　anyone　associated　with　our　benevolent　socialist　government。〃
　〃You　mean　regardless　of　the　teletypes；　if　the　money's　not　there　you　don't　get　it。〃
　〃Not　a　sou。　The　president；　himself；　could　call　and　he　would　be　told　to　pick　it　up　in　Moscow；　where　they　firmly　believe　he　belongs。〃
　〃Since　I　can't　reach　Alex；　I've　bypassed　the　bank　in　Boston　and　called　our　man　in　the　Cayman　Islands；　where　Marie　put　the　bulk　of　the　money。　He's　Canadian　and　so's　the　bank。　He's　waiting　for　instructions。〃
　〃I'll　make　a　phone　call。　Are　you　at　the　Pont…Royal？〃
　〃No。　I'll　call　you　back。〃
　〃Where　are　you？〃
　〃I　suppose　you　could　say　I'm　an　anxious　and　confused　butterfly　going　from　one　vaguely　remembered　place　to　another。〃
　〃You　are　looking　for　her。〃
　〃Yes。　But　then　that　wasn't　a　question；　was　it？〃
　〃Forgive　me；　but　in　some　ways　I　hope　you　do　not　find　her。〃
　〃Thanks。　I'll　call　you　back　in　twenty　minutes。〃
　He　had　gone　to　yet　another　point　of　recall；　the　Trocadéro；　and　the　Palais　de　Chaillot。　He　had　been　shot　at　in　the　past　on　one　of　the　terraces；　there　had　been　gunfire　and　men　running　down　the　endless　stone　steps；　intermittently　obscured　by　the　huge　gilded　statues　and　the　great　sprays　of　the　fountains；　disappearing　into　the　formal　gardens；　finally　out　of　sight；　out　of　range。　What　had　happened？　Why　did　he　remember　the　Trocadéro？　。。。　But　Marie　had　been　there…somewhere。　Where　had　she　been　in　that　enormous　plex？　Where？　。。。　A　terrace！　She　had　been　on　a　terrace。　Near　a　statue…what　statue？　。。。　Descartes？　Racine？　Talleyrand？　The　statue　of　Descartes　came　to　his　mind　first。　He　would　find　it。
　He　had　found　it　and　there　was　no　Marie。　He　had　looked　at　his　watch；　it　had　been　nearly　forty…five　minutes　since　he　had　talked　to　Bernardine。　Like　the　men　in　his　inner　screen；　he　had　raced　down　the　steps。　To　a　telephone。
　〃Go　to　the　Banque　Normandie　and　ask　for　Monsieur　Tabouri。　He　understands　that　a　Monsieur　Simon　intends　to　transfer　over　seven　million　francs　from　the　Caymans　by　way　of　voice　authorization　through　his　private　banker　in　the　islands。　He　is　most　happy　to　let　you　use　his　phone；　but　believe　me；　he'll　charge　you　for　the　call。〃
　〃Thanks；　Fran？ois。〃
　〃Where　are　you　now？〃
　〃The　Trocadéro。　It's　crazy。　I　have　the　damnedest　feelings；　like　vibrations；　but　she's　not　there。　It's　probably　the　things　I　can't　remember。　Hell；　I　may　have　taken　a　bullet　here；　I　simply　don't　know。〃
　〃Go　to　the　bank。〃
　He　had　done　so；　and　within　thirty…five　minutes　after　his　call　to　the　Caymans；　the　olive…skinned；　perpetually　smiling　Monsieur　Tabouri　confirmed　that　his　funds　were　in　place。　He　re　quested　750；000　francs　in　the　largest　notes　possible。　They　were　delivered　to　him；　and　the　grinning　obsequious　banker　took　him　confidentially　aside；　away　from　the　desk…which　was　rather　foolish；　as　there　was　no　one　else　in　the　office…and　spoke　quietly　by　a　window。
　〃There　are　some　marvelous　real　estate　opportunities　in　Beirut；　believe　me；　I　know。　I　am　the　expert　on　the　Middle　East　and　these　stupid　conflagrations　cannot　last　much　longer。　Mon　Dieu；　no　one　will　be　left　alive！　It　will　once　again　rise　as　the　Paris　of　the　Mediterranean。　Estates　for　a　fraction　of　their　value；　hotels　for　a　ridiculous　price！〃
　〃It　sounds　interesting。　I'll　be　in　touch。〃
　He　had　fled　the　Banque　Normandie　as　if　its　confines　held　the　germs　of　a　lethal　disease。　He　had　returned　to　the　Pont…Royal；　and　again　tried　to　reach　Alex　Conklin　in　the　United　States。　It　was　then　close　to　one　o'clock　in　the　afternoon　in　Vienna；　Virginia；　and　still　all　he　had　heard　was　an　answering　machine　with　Alex's　disembodied　voice　instructing　the　caller　to　leave　a　message。　For　any　number　of　reasons；　Jason　had　chosen　not　to　do　so。
　And　now　he　was　in　Argenteuil；　walking　up　the　steps　of　the　métro　to　the　pavement；　where　he　would　slowly；　cautiously　make　his　way　into　the　uglier　streets　and　the　vicinity　of　Le　Coeur　du　Soldat。　His　instructions　were　clear。　He　was　not　to　be　the　man　he　was　last　night；　no　limp；　no　ragged　cast…off　army　clothing；　no　image　that　anyone　might　recognize。　He　was　to　be　a　simple　laborer　and　reach　the　gates　of　the　old　closed…down　refinery　and　smoke　cigarettes　while　leaning　against　the　wall。　This　was　to　take　place　between　12：30　and　one　o'clock　in　the　morning。　No　sooner　and　no　later。
　When　he　had　asked　Santos's　messengers…after　giving　them　several　hundred　francs　for　their　inconvenience…the　reason　for　these　late…night　precautions；　the　less　inhibited　man　had　replied；　〃Santos　never　leaves　Le　Coeur　du　Soldat。〃
　〃He　left　last　evening。〃
　〃For　minutes　only；〃　rejoined　the　more　voluble　messenger。
　〃I　understand。〃　Bourne　nodded；　but　he　had　not　understood；　he　could　only　speculate。　Was　Santos　in　some　way　the　Jackal's　prisoner；　confined　to　the　sleazy　café　night　and　day？　It　was　a　fascinating　query　in　light　of　the　manager's　size　and　sheer　raw　power；　both　bined　with　a　far…above…average　intellect。
　It　was　12：37　when　Jason；　in　blue　jeans；　cap　and　a　dark；　tattered　V…necked　sweater；　reached　the　gates　of　the　old　factory。　He　took　out　a　pack　of　Gauloise　cigarettes　and　leaned　against　the　wall；　lighting　one　with　a　match；　holding　the　flame　longer　than　necessary　before　he　blew　it　out。　His　thoughts　returned　to　the　enigmatic　Santos；　the　premier　conduit　in　Carlos's　army；　the　most　trusted　satellite　in　the　Jackal's　orbit；　a　man　whose　French　might　have　been　formed　at　the　Sorbonne；　yet　Santos　was　a　Latin　American。　A　Venezuelan；　if　Bourne's　instincts　had　merit。　Fascinating。　And　Santos　wanted　to　see　him　'with　peace　in　his　heart。'　Bravo；　amigo；　thought　Jason。　Santos　had　reached　a　terrified　ambassador　in　London　with　a　question　so　loaded　it　made　a　political　party's　private　poll　look　like　the　essence　of　nonpartisan　neutrality。　Atkinson　had　no　choice　but　to　state　emphatically；　if　not　in　panic；　that　whatever　instructions　Snake　Lady　issued　were　to　be　carried　out。　The　power　of　Snake　Lady　was　the　ambassador's　only　protection；　his　ultimate　refuge。
　So　Santos　could　bend；　that　decision　was　rooted　in　intellect；　not　loyalty；　not　obligation。　The　conduit　wanted　to　crawl　out　of　his　sewer；　and　with　three　million　francs　in　the　offing；　bined　with　a　multitude　of　faraway　places　across　the　globe　to　choose　from；　the　conduit's　mind　told　him　to　listen；　to　consider。　There　were　alternatives　in　life　if　opportunities　were　presented。　One　had　been　presented　to　Santos；　vassal　to　Carlos；　whose　fealty　to　his　lord　had　perhaps　run　its　suffocating　course。　It　was　this　instinctive　projection　that　made　Bourne　include　in　his　plea…calmly　but　firmly；　the　emphasis　in　understatement…such　phrases　as　You　could　travel；　disappear　。。。　a　wealthy　man；　free　of　care　and　unpleasant　drudgery。　The　key　words　were　〃free〃　and　〃disappear；〃　and　Santos's　eyes　had　responded。　He　was　ready　to　take　the　three…million…franc　bait；　and　Bourne　was　perfectly　happy　to　let　him　break　the　line　and　swim　with　it。
　Jason　looked　at　his　watch；　fifteen　minutes　had　passed。　No　doubt　Santos's　minions　were　checking　the　streets；　a　final　inspection　before　the　high　priest　of　conduits　appeared。　Bourne　thought　briefly　of　Marie；　of　the　sensations　he　felt　at　the　Trocadéro；　remembering　old　Fontaine's　words　when　the　two　of　them　watched　the　paths　of　Tranquility　Inn　from　the　high　storage　room；　waiting　for　Carlos。　He's　near；　I　feel　it。　Like　the　approach　of　distant　thunder。　In　a　different…far　different…way　Jason　had　like　feelings　at　the　Trocadéro。　Enough！　Santos！　The　Jackal！
　His　watch　read　one　o'clock；　and　the　two　messengers　from　the　Pont…Royal　walked　out　of　the　alley　and　across　the　street　to　the　gates　of　the　old　refinery。
　〃Santos　will　see　you　now；〃　said　the　voluble　one。
　〃I　don't　see　him。〃
　〃You　are　to　e　with　us。　He　does　not　leave　Le　Coeur　du　Soldat。〃
　〃Why　do　I　find　that　not　to　my　liking？〃
　〃There's　no　reason　for　such　feelings。　He　has　peace　in　his　heart。〃
　〃What　about　his　knife？〃
　〃He　has　no　knife；　no　weapon。　He　never　carries　either。〃
　〃That's　nice　to　hear。　Let's　go。〃
　〃He　has　no　need　for　such　weapons；〃　added　the　messenger；　disquietingly。
　He　was　escorted　down　the　alley；　past　the　neon…lit　entrance；　to　a　barely　negotiable　break　in　the　buildings。　One　by　one；　Jason　between　the　two；　men；　they　made　their　way　to　the　rear　of　the　café；　where　there　was　just　about　the　last　thing　Bourne　expected　to　see　in　this　run…down　section　of　the　city。　It　was　。。。　well；　an　English　garden。　A　plot　of　ground　perhaps　thirty　feet　in　length；　twenty　in　depth；　and　trellises　supporting　a　variety　of　flowering　vines；　a　barrage　of