rl.thebourneidentity-第74节
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rlos himself …was an opportunity that might never e again。 He had to get inside L'Arbalete。 There was a pulsion within him to take the risk。 Any risk！ It was crazy！ But then he was not sane。 Sane as a man with a memory was sane。 Carlos。 Find Carlos！ Cod in heaven； why？
He felt the gun in his belt； it was secure。 He got out and put on his overcoat； covering the jacket with the lettering across the back。 He picked up a narrow…brimmed hat from the seat； the cloth soft； angled down on all sides； it would cover his hair。 Then he tried to remember if he had been wearing the tortoise…shell glasses when the photograph was taken in Argenteuil。 He had not； he had removed them at the table when successive bolts of pain had seared through his head； brought on by words that told him of a past too familiar； too frightening to face； He felt his shirt pocket； the glasses were there if he needed them。 He pressed the door closed and started for the woods。
The glare of the restaurant floodlights filtered through the trees； growing brighter with each several yards； less foliage to block the light。 Bourne reached the edge of the short patch of forest； the gravelled parking area in front of him。 He was at the side of the rustic restaurant； a row of small windows running the length of the building； flickering candles beyond the glass illuminating the figures of the diners。 Then his eyes were drawn to the first floor … although it did not extend the length of the building but only halfway； the rear section an open terrace。 The enclosed part； however； was similar to the ground floor。 A line of windows； a bit larger； perhaps； but still in a row； and again glowing with candles。 Figures were milling about； but they were different from the diners below。
They were all men。 Standing； not sitting； moving casually； glasses in hands； cigarette smoke spiralling over their heads。 It was impossible to tell how many … more than ten； less than twenty； perhaps。
There he was； crossing from one group to another； the white beard a beacon； switching on and off as it was intermittently blocked by figures nearer the windows。 General Villiers had； indeed； driven out to Nanterre for a meeting； and the odds favoured a conference that dealt with the failures of the past forty…eight hours； failures that permitted a man named Cain to remain alive。
The odds。 What were the odds？ Where were the guards？ How many； and where were their stations？ Keeping behind the edge of the woods； Bourne side…stepped his way towards the front of the restaurant； bending branches silently； his feet over the underbrush。 He stood motionless； watching for men concealed in the foliage or in the shadows of the building。 He saw none； and retraced his path； breaking new ground until he reached the rear of the restaurant
A door opened； the spill of light harsh； and a man hi a white jacket emerged。 He stood for a moment； cupping his hands； lighting a cigarette。 Bourne looked to the left； to the right； above to the terrace； no one appeared。 A guard stationed in the area would have been alarmed by the sudden light ten feet below the conference。 There were no guards outside。 Protection found … as it had to be at Villiers's house in Pare Monceau … within the building itself。
Another man appeared in the doorway； also wearing a white jacket； but with the addition of a chef's hat。 His voice was angry； his French laced with the guttural dialect of Gascony。 'While you piss off； we sweat！ The pastry cart is half empty。 Fill it。 Now； you bastard！'
The pastry man turned and shrugged； he crushed out his cigarette and went back inside； closing the door behind him。 The light vanished； only the wash of the moon remained； but it was enough to illuminate the terrace。 There was no one there； no guard patrolling the wide double doors that led to the inside room。
Carlos。 Find Carlos。 Trap Carlos。 Cain is for Charlie； and Delta is for Cain。
Bourne judged the distance and the obstacles。 He was no more than forty feet from the rear of the building； ten or twelve below the railing that bordered the terrace。 There were two vents in the exterior wall； vapour escaping from both and next to them a drainpipe that was within reach of the railing。 If he could scale the pipe and manage to get a toehold in the lower vent； he would be able to grab a rung of the railing and pull himself up to the terrace。 But be could do none of this wearing the overcoat； he took it off； placing it at his feet； the soft…brimmed hat on top； and covered both with undergrowth。 Then he stepped to the edge of the woods and raced as quietly as possible across the gravel to the drainpipe。
In the shadows he tugged at the fluted metal； it was strongly in place。 He reached as high as he could； then sprang up； gripping the pipe； his feet pressed into the wall； pedalling one on top of the other until his left foot was parallel to the first vent。 Holding on； he slipped his foot into the recess； and propelled himself further up the drain。 He was within eighteen inches of the railing； one surge launched from the vent and he could reach the bottom rung。
The door crashed open beneath him； white light shooting across the gravel into the woods。 A figure plummeted out； weaving to maintain its balance； followed by the white…hatted chef who was screaming。
'You piss…ant！ You're drunk； that's what you are！ You've been drunk the whole shit…filled night！ Pastries all over the dining…room floor。。。 everything a mess。 Get out； you'll not get a sou！'
The door was pulled shut； the sound of a bolt unmistakably final。 Jason held onto the pipe； arms and ankles aching； rivulets of sweat breaking out on his forehead。 The man below staggered backwards； making obscene gestures repeatedly with his right hand for the benefit of the chef who was no longer there。 His glazed eyes wandered up the wall； settling on Bourne's face。 Jason held his breath as their eyes met； the man stared； then blinked； and stared again。 He shook his head； closing his lids； then opened them wide； taking in the sight he was not entirely sure was there。 He backed away； lurching into a sideslip and a forward walk； obviously deciding that the apparition halfway up the wall was the result of his pressured labours。 He weaved around the corner of the building； a man more at peace with himself for having rejected the foolishness that had assaulted his eyes。
Bourne breathed again； letting his body slump against the wall in relief。 But it was only for a moment； the ache in his ankle had descended to his foot； a cramp forming。 He lunged； grabbing the iron bar that was the base of the railing with his right hand； whipping his left up from the drainpipe； joining it。 He pressed his knees into the tiles and pulled himself slowly up the wall until his head was over the edge of the terrace。 It was deserted。 He kicked his right leg up to the ledge； his right hand reaching for the wrought…iron top； balanced； he swung over the railing。
He was on a terrace used for dining in the spring and summer months； a tiled floor that could acmodate ten to fifteen tables。 In the centre of the wall separating the enclosed section from the terrace were the wide double doors he had seen from the woods。 The figures inside were now motionless； standing still； and for an instant Jason wondered whether an alarm had been set off … whether they were waiting for him。 He stood immobile； his hand on his gun； nothing happened。 He approached the wall； staying in the shadows。 Once there； he pressed his back against the wood and edged his way towards the first door until his ringers touched the frame。 Slowly； he inched his head up to the pane of glass level with his eyes and looked inside。 What he saw was both mesmerising and not a little frightening。 The men were in lines … three separate lines； four men to a line … facing Andrel Villiers； who was addressing them。 Thirteen men in all； twelve of them not merely standing； but standing at attention。 They were old men； but not merely old men； they were old soldiers。 None wore uniforms； instead in each lapel they wore ribbons； regimental colours above decorations for valour and rank。 And if there was one all…pervasive note about the scene； it； too； was unmistakable。 These were men used to mand … used to power。 It was in their faces； their eyes； in the way they listened … respect rendered but not blindly； judgment ever present。 Their bodies were old； but there was strength in that room。 Immense strength。 That was the frightening aspect。 If these men belonged to Carlos； the assassin's resources were not only far…reaching； they were extraordinarily dangerous。 For these were not ordinary men； they were seasoned professional soldiers。 Unless he was grossly mistaken； thought Bourne； the depth of experience and range of influence in that room was staggering。
The mad colonels of Algiers； what was left of them？ Men driven by memories of a France that no longer existed； a world that was no more； replaced by one they found weak and ineffectual。 Such men could make a pact with Carlos； if only for the covert power it gave them。 Strike。 Attack。 Dispatch。 Decisions of life and death that were once a part of their fabric brought back by a force that could serve causes they refused to admit were no longer
