el.angeleyes-第7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！


　All　her　senses　were　alert。　The　air　was　thick。　Plaster　dust；　smoke；　and　me　smell　of　burning　filled　the　air；　choking　her。　She　smelled　the　acrid　chemical　by…products　of　plastique　explosives。
　〃Ariel？〃　she　called。　Then　more　urgently；　〃Ariel！〃
　She　found　him　crouched　on　the　other　side　of　the　room。　The　sofa　on　which　they　had　been　making　love　but　moments　before　was　demolished；　charred　as　if　in　a　fire。　Its　pieces　had　been　thrown　halfway　across　the　floor。　The　doors　to　the　balcony　had　exploded　outward；　shards　of　glass　glittered　in　the　city　light。　There　was　a　hole　in　the　wall　behind　where　the　doors　had　been；　and　the　cruel　San　Francisco　evening　wind　whipped　the　tattered　drapes；　impaling　them　on　the　iron…tipped　Amazonian　spears。
　Tori　threw　herself　down　beside　Ariel。　He　was　making　hideous　gasping　sounds；　he　was　covered　in　blood。　She　tried　to　hold　him；　but　he　shrugged　her　away；　and　she　saw　that　he　was　desperately　trying　to　get　to　something。　his　fingers　scrabbled　at　a　cabinet　door。　He　fumbled　it　open；　then　seemed　to　lose　all　energy。　his　shoulders　slumped　heavily　and　his　forehead　rested　against　the　carpet。
　Tori　turned　him；　stifled　a　scream。　There　wasn't　much　left　of　his　chest。　How　he　was　still　breathing；　let　alone　able　to　open　a　cabinet；　was　beyond　her。
　Her　mind　refused　to　work。　It　was　as　if　she　were　stuck　in　tar。　What　had　happened？　How　could　this　have　taken　place　in　the　few　moments　she　had　been　at　the　other　end　of　the　house？
　Ariel　Solares　was　dying；　but　he　did　not　seem　focused　on　that；　he　had　more　urgent　business。　Still　in　her　arms；　he　flopped　like　a　landed　fish　until　his　right　hand　could　reach　into　the　cabinet。　He　drew　out　a　hardwood　box。　It　trembled　in　the　grip　of　the　spasm　that　racked　him。
　Then　Ariel　pressed　the　box　into　her　hand。　his　lips　moved；　his　eyes　searching　hers；　and　Tori　bent　down。
　〃What　is　it；　Ariel？〃　she　whispered。　〃Oh；　my　God；　my　God。〃
　Because　his　mouth　was　suddenly　filled　with　blood。　Bubbles　formed　at　the　corners　of　his　lips　as　he　drowned　in　his　own　fluids。

　And　there　was　nothing　Tori　could　do　but　hold　him；　rocking　him　gently；　looking　down　at　him　to　let　him　know　she　was　there；　thinking　of　the　last　line　of　the　Borges　fragment　he　had　quoted　before。
　Shortly　before　his　death；　he　discovers　that　the　patient　labyrinth　of　lines　traces　the　image　of　his　own　face。
　
　
　
　BOOK　ONE
　
　
　

THE　SOFT　CELL
　
　

Men　of　action　are；　after　all；　only
the　instruments　of　men　of　thought。
　AFTER　HEINRICH　HEINE


ONE
VIRGINIA　COUNTRYSIDE/LOS　ANGELES

　〃She　was　meant　to　be　canned…and　she　was　canned。〃
　'　'What　you　should　say　is　that　you　canned　her。''
　〃Should？〃
　〃Yes。　This　is；　essentially；　what　is　operative　here。〃
　The　two　men…one　younger；　black…haired；　hawk…nosed；　with　penetrating　blue　eyes；　the　other；　older；　lanky；　stoop…shouldered；　with　an　aureole　of　cotton…candy　hair…paused　along　the　blue…stone　path　laid　out　in　concentric　circles　around　an　immaculately　manicured　formal　English　garden。
　The　late　afternoon　sun　slid　in　and　out　of　the　elhis　and　alders；　catching　in　its　burnished　glow　a　spray　of　hyacinth　here；　a　twist　of　ancient　vine　there。　Just　behind　the　men　a　large　Tudor…style　stone　and　half…timber　manor　house　was　snuggled　in　among　rustling　beech；　sheared　cypresses；　and　well…established　magnolia。
　〃I　don't　understand　you；〃　the　younger　man　said。　He　was　dressed　in　a　white　shirt　open　at　the　neck；　the　sleeves　rolled　up　to　expose　his　burly　forearhis；　and　blue　jeans；　the　bottohis　of　which　were　tucked　neatly　into　blue　Tony　Lama　lizard　cowboy　boots。　He　wore　a　belt　studded　with　silver　Navajo　conchos。
　'　'You　don't？''　The　older　man　could　have　added　〃That's　odd；''　but　didn't。　He　had　the　face　of　a　born　mander：　powerful；　shrewd；　disarmingly　gentle　in　its　deceit。　Now；　however；　the　fissures　of　time　had　scored　his　sunken　cheeks；　thinned　his　hair；　unearthed　the　tic　of　a　railing　nerve。　Only　the　eyes　retained　the　full　cunning　of　his　youth。　They　were　the　eyes　of　the　boy　down　the　block　who　dared　you　to　climb　the　tallest　tree；　to　ride　the　back　bumper　of　the　local　bus；　and；　maddeningly；　disdained　you　whether　or　not　you　acceded　to　his　dares。
　''When　I　was　somewhat　younger　than　you　are　now；''　the　older　man　said；　〃I　spent　a　great　deal　of　time　with　our　cousins　in　London。''　He　gestured　at　the　cherry　and　hawthorn　trees；　the　sea　of　crihison　and　lavender　azalea　bobbing　beneath　them。　〃That's　where　I　discovered　my　love　of　gardens。〃
　〃But　not　gardening。〃　Russell　Slade；　the　younger　man；　could　not　keep　the　sardonic　tone　out　of　his　voice。　〃The　Brits　love　to　tend　their　gardens。''
　'　'And　so　they　should。''　Bernard　Godwin；　the　older　man；　nodded　approvingly。　his　summer…weight　Henry　Poole　hunting　jacket　was　as　immaculate　as　his　garden。　his　sturdy　John　Lobb　country　shoes　positively　glittered　in　the　sunlight。　〃When　one　has　little　space　one　can　call　one's　own；　it　is　only　prudent　to　mind　it　as　best　one　can。〃　Godwin　swung　abruptly　around　to　face　Slade；
their　eyes　locked。　It　was　essential；　Slade　knew；　not　to　look　away；　for　Godwin　would　take　that　as　a　sign　of　weakness。　〃But　this　is　America；　Russell；　and　here　space　is　not　a　problem。　This　land　goes　on　almost　forever。　The　cowboys　learned　that　the　hard　way　a　hundred　years　or　more　ago。　But　the　same　holds　true　today。　That's　our　one　absolute　advantage　over　the　English；　the　Europeans；　the　Japanese。''
　〃What；　our　land？〃
　〃Not　the　land；　per　se。　But；　rather；　how　having　land　as　a　natural　resource　makes　us　act　and　react。　And　it's　our　one　true　link　with　the　Soviets。〃　Bernard　Godwin　never　said　Russians。　It　was　always　Soviets…and　there　was　a　vast　difference　between　the　two　terms。　The　Russians　were　only　one　people　who　inhabited　the　Union　of　Soviet　Socialist　Republics　along　with　the　Lithuanians；　Estonians；　Latvians；　the　people　of　the　Baltic　Republics；　the　Georgians　and　the　Armenians；　the　trans…Caucasians；　the　Ukrainians；　not　to　mention　the　Moslem　minorities；　who　were　part　of　a　whole　other　microuniverse。　Godwin　had　studied　them　all　in　depth。　So；　of　course；　had　Russell　Slade；　it　was　just　that　his　conclusions　differed　from　those　of　Godwin。　As　long　as　the　Soviet　minorities　were　a　collective　thorn　in　Russia's　side；　so　much　the　better；　he　believed。　Let　the　Russian　government　be　distracted　and　drained　by　internal　problehis　for　as　long　as　possible。　Christ；　he　thought；　why　doesn't　Bernard　see　how　the　minorities　bedevil　the　Russian　government？　The　thought　of　helping　to　resolve　that　immensely　difficult　issue　for　the　Russians　seemed　absolutely　insane　to　Slade。　Glasnost　or　no　glasnost；　an　off…balance　Russia　was；　in　his　opinion；　a　manageable　Russia。
　〃The　Soviet　people　are　not；　thank　God；　the　Russian　people；''　Godwin　said　now；　making　his　way　around　a　carefully　bordered　semicircle　of　variegated　pansies。　〃Each　Soviet　minority　is　like　a　fruit　shaking　itself　free　of　the　central　tree。　It　is　time　for　a　forest　to　grow　up　in　the　wilderness　surrounding　that　one　tree。''
　Russell　Slade　shook　his　head。　This　is　a　dead　issue　as　far　as　the　Mall　is　concerned；　he　thought。　Why　won't　Bernard　give　it　up？　He　said；　''Does　this　in　any　way　bring　us　back　to　Tori　Nunn？''
　Godwin　fluttered　one　rather　feminine　hand；　its　ridged　back　was　covered　with　liver　spots。　〃Tori　Nunn　was　your　affair　from　the　beginning。　She　still　is。〃
　Slade　recognized　in　that　one　snapped　retort　the　edge　of　the　boundary　he　had　crossed。　He　took　a　mental　pace　backward　onto　safer　ground。　He　was　prepared　to　take　his　punishment　like　a　man。　He　nodded。　〃All　right。　I　admit　that　it　might　have　been　a　mistake　to　bring　her　back　like　that。''
　〃It　certainly　was　for　Solares。〃
　〃Yes。　It　was　a　shame　to　lose　such　a　valuable　agent。〃
　Godwin　said；　〃Let　me　remind　you　this　isn't　a　baseball　game。　It　isn't　a　run　the　opposition　has　scored　against　us。　It's　a　death　in　the　family。〃
　So　that's　why　the　old　man　has　summoned　me　to　his　summer　house　in　the　country；　Russell　Slade　thought。　Stone　and　thatch；　birds　and　flowers；　all　very　bucolic。　But　there　isn't　anything　bucolic　about　the　old　man。　He's　as　full　of　bile　as　ever。
　Slade　looked　at　Bernard　Godwin。　If　he　had　ever　been　under　the　misapprehension　that　being　made　the　director　of　the　Mall　meant　it　was　his　to　run；　here　was　the　proof　it　just　wasn't　so。
　Bernard　Godwin；　the　man　who　created　the　Mall；　despite　rumors　of　ill…health　and　even　imminent　death；　was　still　in　the　thick　of　it。　his　to　mand　were　the　unknowable　routes　to　power；　and　this　power　continued　to　hum　inside　him　like　a　vast　engine。
　More　than　anything　else；　Russell　Slade　longed　to　possess　this　power。　Through　guile；　cunning；　and　deceit…Godwin's　trine　of　shadow　virtues…Slade　had　risen　faster　and　farther　through　the　labyrinthine　ranks　of　Bernard　Godwin's　hybrid　brainchild…part　espionage　network；　part　global　think　tank…than　anyone　save　the　old　man　himself。　There　was　no　one　better　than　Russell　to　interpret　the　disjointed　data　from　farflung　field　operatives　and　discover　the　subtle　strategies　hidden　there。　Give　him　one　piece　of　a　puzzle；　and　he　would　eventually　deliver　to　you　the　entire　picture。　Russell　was　also　a　gifted　administrator；　juggling　budgets；　maximizing　men　and　materiel　in　a　way　no　one　before　him　had　been　able　to　do。　Godwin　admired　those　attributes；　and　had　rewarded　Slade　for　them。　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　
　But　Slade　could　not　help　but　suspect　that　the　old　man