rl.thebourneultimatum-第79节

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！


　〃She's　not　a　goddamned　mademoiselle；　she's　my　wife。　。。。　She's　not　one　of　us；　Bernardine；　she's　not　an　agent　in　the　field　who　can　cross　and　double…cross　and　triple…cross。　That's　not　her。　But　she's　on　her　way　to　Paris。　I　know　it！〃
　〃The　airlines　do　not；　what　more　can　I　say？〃
　〃Just　what　you　said；〃　said　Jason；　his　lungs　seemingly　incapable　of　absorbing　the　air　he　needed；　his　eyelids　heavy。　〃Keep　trying。〃
　〃What　happened　tonight？　Tell　me。〃
　〃Tomorrow；〃　replied　David　Webb；　barely　audible。　〃Tomorrow。　。。。　I'm　so　tired　and　I　have　to　be　somebody　else。〃
　〃What　are　you　talking　about？　You　don't　even　sound　like　yourself。〃
　〃Nothing。　Tomorrow。　I　have　to　think。　。。。　Or　maybe　I　shouldn't　think。〃
　Marie　stood　in　Marseilles's　immigration　line；　mercifully　short　because　of　the　early　hour；　and　assumed　an　air　of　boredom；　the　last　thing　she　felt。　It　was　her　turn　to　go　to　the　passport　counter。
　〃Américaine；〃　said　the　half…awake　official。　〃Are　you　beer　on　bizziness　or　playseeoor；　madame？〃
　〃Je　parle　franзais；　monsieur。　Je　suis　canadienne　d'origine…Québec。　Séparatiste。〃
　〃Ah；　bien！〃　The　sleepy　clerk's　eyes　opened　somewhat　wider　as　he　proceeded　in　French。　〃You　are　in　business？〃
　〃No；　I'm　not。　This　is　a　journey　of　memories。　My　parents　came　from　Marseilles　and　both　died　recently。　I　want　to　see　where　they　came　from；　where　they　lived…perhaps　what　I　missed。〃
　〃How　extraordinarily　touching；　lovely　lady；〃　said　the　immigration　official；　appraising　the　most　appealing　traveler。　〃Perhaps　also　you　might　need　a　guide？　There　is　no　part　of　this　city　that　is　not　indelibly　printed　on　my　mind。〃
　〃You're　most　kind。　I'll　be　at　the　Sofitel　Vieux　Port。　What's　your　name？　You　have　mine。〃
　〃Lafontaine；　madame。　At　your　service！〃
　〃Lafontaine？　You　don't　say？〃
　〃I　do　indeed！〃
　〃How　interesting。〃
　〃I　am　very　interesting；〃　said　the　official；　his　eyelids　half　closed　but　not　with　sleepiness；　as　his　rubber　stamps　flew　recklessly　down　to　process　the　tourist。　〃I　am　at　your　every　service；　madame！〃
　It　must　run　in　that　very　peculiar　clan；　thought　Marie　as　she　headed　for　the　luggage　area。　From　there　she　would　board　a　domestic　flight　to　Paris　under　any　name　she　chose。
　Fran？ois　Bernardine　awoke　with　a　start；　shooting　up　on　his　elbows；　frowning；　disturbed。　She's　on　her　way　to　Paris；　I　know　it！　The　words　of　the　husband　who　knew　her　best。　She's　not　listed　on　any　flight　from　any　other　country　ing　into　Paris。　His　own　words。　Paris：　The　operative　word　was　Paris！
　But　suppose　it　was　not　Paris？
　The　Deuxième　veteran　crawled　rapidly　out　of　bed　in　the　early　morning　light　shining　through　the　tall　narrow　windows　of　his　flat。　In　fewer　minutes　than　his　face　appreciated；　he　shaved；　then　pleted　his　ablutions；　dressed；　and　walked　down　into　the　street　to　his　Peugeot；　where　there　was　the　inevitable　ticket　on　the　windshield；　alas；　it　was　no　longer　officially　dismissible　with　a　quiet　phone　call。　He　sighed；　picked　it　off　the　glass；　and　climbed　in　behind　the　wheel。
　Fifty…eight　minutes　later　he　swung　the　car　into　the　parking　lot　of　a　small　brick　building　in　the　huge　cargo　plex　of　Orly　Airport。　The　building　was　nondescript；　the　work　inside　was　not。　It　was　a　branch　of　the　Department　of　Immigration；　an　all…important　arm　known　simply　as　the　Bureau　of　Air　Entries；　where　sophisticated　puters　kept　up…to…the…minute　records　of　every　traveler　flying　into　France　at　all　the　international　airports。　It　was　vital　to　immigration　but　not　often　consulted　by　the　Deuxième；　for　there　were　far　too　many　other　points　of　entry　used　by　the　people　in　which　the　Deuxième　was　interested。　Nevertheless；　over　the　years；　Bernardine；　operating　on　the　theory　of　the　obvious　being　unnoticed；　had　sought　information　from　the　Bureau　of　Air　Entries。　Every　now　and　then　he　had　been　rewarded。　He　wondered　if　that　would　be　the　case　this　morning。
　Nineteen　minutes　later　he　had　his　answer。　It　was　the　case；　but　the　reward　was　considerably　diminished　in　value；　for　the　information　came　too　late。　There　was　a　pay　phone　in　the　bureau's　lobby；　Bernardine　inserted　a　coin　and　dialed　the　Pont…Royal。
　〃Yes？〃　coughed　the　voice　of　Jason　Bourne。
　〃I　apologize　for　waking　you。〃
　〃Fran？ois？〃
　〃Yes。〃
　〃I　was　just　getting　up。　There　are　two　men　down　in　the　street　far　more　tired　than　I　am；　unless　they're　replacements。〃
　〃Relative　to　last　night？　All　night？〃
　〃Yes。　I'll　tell　you　about　it　when　I　see　you。　Is　that　why　you　called？〃
　〃No。　I'm　out　at　Orly　and　I'm　afraid　I　have　bad　news；　information　that　proves　me　an　idiot。　I　should　have　considered　it。　。。。　Your　wife　flew　into　Marseilles　slightly　over　two　hours　ago。　Not　Paris。　Marseilles。〃
　〃Why　is　that　bad　news？〃　cried　Jason。　〃We　know　where　she　is！　We　can…　Oh；　Christ；　I　see　what　you　mean。〃　Subdued；　Bourne's　words　trailed　off。　〃She　can　take　a　train；　hire　a　car。　。。。〃
　〃She　can　even　fly　up　to　Paris　under　any　name　she　cares　to；〃　added　Bernardine。　〃Still；　I　have　an　idea。　It's　probably　as　worthless　as　my　brain　but　I　suggest　it　anyway。　。。。　Do　you　and　she　have　special…how　do　you　say　it？…nicknames　for　each　other？　Sobriquets　of　endearment　perhaps？〃
　〃We're　not　much　for　the　cute　stuff；　frankly。　。。。　Wait　a　minute。　A　couple　of　years　ago；　Jamie；　that's　our　son；　had　trouble　with　'Mommy。'　He　turned　it　around　and　called　her　'Meemom。'　We　kidded　about　it　and　I　called　her　that　for　a　few　months　off　and　on　until　he　got　it　right。〃
　〃I　know　she　speaks　French　fluently。　Does　she　read　the　papers？〃
　〃Religiously；　at　least　the　financial　pages。　I'm　not　sure　she　goes　seriously　much　beyond　them；　it's　her　morning　ritual。〃
　〃Even　in　a　crisis？〃
　〃Especially　in　a　crisis。　She　claims　it　calms　her。〃
　〃Let's　send　her　a　message…on　the　financial　pages。〃
　Ambassador　Phillip　Atkinson　settled　in　for　a　morning　of　dreary　paperwork　at　the　American　embassy　in　London。　The　dreariness　was　pounded　by　a　dull　throbbing　at　his　temples　and　a　sickening　taste　in　his　mouth。　It　was　hardly　a　typical　hangover　because　he　rarely　drank　whisky　and　for　over　twenty…five　years　had　never　been　drunk。　He　had　learned　a　long　time　ago；　roughly　thirty　months　after　Saigon　fell；　the　limits　of　his　talents；　his　opportunities　and；　above　all；　his　resources。　When　he　returned　from　the　war　with　reasonable；　if　not　exceptional；　mendations　at　twenty…nine；　his　family　had　purchased　him　an　available　seat　on　the　New　York　Stock　Exchange；　where　in　thirty　additional　months　he　had　lost　something　over　three　million　dollars。
　〃Didn't　you　ever　learn　a　goddamned　thing　at　Andover　and　Yale？〃　his　father　had　roared。　〃At　least　make　a　few　connections　on　the　Street？〃
　〃Dad；　they　were　all　jealous　of　me；　you　know　that。　My　looks；　the　girls…I　look　like　you；　Dad…they　all　conspired　against　me。　Sometimes　I　think　they　were　really　getting　at　you　through　me！　You　know　how　they　talk。　Senior　and　Junior；　dashing　socialites　and　all　that　crap。　。。。　Remember　the　column　in　the　Daily　News　when　they　pared　us　to　the　Fairbankses？〃
　〃I've　known　Doug　for　forty　years！〃　yelled　the　father。　〃He's　got　it　upstairs；　one　of　the　best。〃
　〃He　didn't　go　to　Andover　and　Yale；　Dad。〃
　〃He　didn't　have　to；　for　Christ's　sake！　。。。　Hold　it。　Foreign　Service　。。。　？　What　the　hell　was　that　degree　you　got　at　Yale？〃
　〃Bachelor　of　Arts。〃
　〃Screw　that！　There　was　something　else。　The　courses　or　something。〃
　〃I　majored　in　English　literature　and　minored　in　political　science。〃
　〃That's　it！　Shove　the　fairy　stuff　on　the　back　burner。　You　were　outstanding　in　the　other　one…the　political　science　bullshit。〃
　〃Dad；　it　wasn't　my　strongest　course。〃
　〃You　passed？〃
　〃Yes。　。。。　Barely。〃
　〃Not　barely；　with　honors！　That's　it！〃
　And　so　Phillip　Atkinson　III　began　his　career　in　the　Foreign　Service　by　way　of　a　valuable　political　contributor　who　was　his　father；　and　never　looked　back。　And　although　that　illustrious　man　had　died　eight　years　ago；　he　never　forgot　the　old　war　horse's　last　admonition：　〃Don't　fuck　this　up；　son。　You　want　to　drink　or　you　want　to　whore　around；　you　do　it　inside　your　own　house　or　in　a　goddamned　desert　somewhere；　understand？　And　you　treat　that　wife　of　yours；　whatever　the　hell　her　name　is；　with　real　affection　wherever　anybody　can　see　you；　got　it？〃
　〃Yes；　Dad。〃
　Which　was　why　Phillip　Atkinson　felt　so　blah　on　this　particular　morning。　He　had　spent　the　previous　evening　at　a　dinner　party　with　unimportant　royals　who　drank　until　the　drink　flowed　out　of　their　nostrils；　and　with　his　wife　who　excused　their　behavior　because　they　were　royals；　all　of　which　he　could　tolerate　only　with　seven　glasses　of　Chablis。　There　were　times　when　he　longed　for　the　freewheeling；　free…drinking　days　of　the　old　Saigon。
　The　telephone　rang；　causing　Atkinson　to　blur　his　signature　on　a　document　that　made　no　sense　to　him。　〃Yes？〃
　〃The　high　missioner　from　the　Hungarian　Central　mittee　is　on　the　line；　sir。〃
　〃Oh？　Who's　that…who　are　they？　Do　we　recognize　them…it…him？〃
　〃I　don't　know；　Mr。　Ambassador。　I　really　can't　pronounce　his　name。
　〃Very　well；　put　him　through。〃
　〃Mr。　Ambassador？〃　said　the　deep　accented　voice　on　the　phone。　〃Mr。　Atkinson？〃
　〃Yes；　this　is　Atkinson。　Forgive　me；　but　I　don't　recollect　either　your　name　or　the　Hungarian　affiliation　you　speak　for。〃
　〃It　does　not　matter。　I　speak　on　behalf　of　Snake　Lady…〃
　〃Stop！〃　cried　the　ambassador　to　the　Court　of　St。　James's。　〃Stay　on　the　line　and　we'll　resume　talking　in　twenty