rl.thebourneidentity-第87部分

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he　beggar　had　a　gun！　His　gaunt　hand　raised　it；　weapon　and　eyes　steady。　Jason　lunged　into　the　street；　careening　off　the　side　of　a　small　car。　He　heard　the　spits　of　the　bullets　above　him　and　around　him；　piercing　the　air　with　sickening　finality。　Screams；　shrill　and　in　pain；　came　from　unseen　people　on　the　pavement。　Bourne　ducked　between　two　cars　and　raced　through　the　traffic　to　the　other　side　of　the　street。　The　beggar　was　running　away；　an　old　man　with　eyes　of　steel　was　racing　into　the　crowds；　into　oblivion。
　Get　Carlos。　Trap　Carlos。　Cain　is。。。！
　Jason　spun　again　and　lurched　again；　propelling　himself　forward；　throwing　everything　in　his　path　out　of　his　path；　racing　in　the　direction　of　the　assassin。　He　stopped；　breathless；　confusion　and　anger　welling　in　his　chest；　sharp　bolts　of　pain　returning　to　his　temples。　Where　was　he？　Where　was　Carlos？　And　then　he　saw　him；　the　killer　had　climbed　behind　the　wheel　of　a　large　black　saloon。　Bourne　ran　back　into　the　traffic；　slamming　bonnets　and　boots　as　he　threaded　his　way　insanely　towards　the　assassin。　Suddenly　he　was　blocked　by　two　cars　that　had　collided。　He　spread　his　hands　on　a　glistening　chrome　grille　and　leaped　sideways　over　the　impacted　bumpers。　He　stopped　again；　his　eyes　searing　with　pain；　knowing　it　was　pointless　to　go　on。　He　was　too　late。　The　large　black　car　had　found　a　break　in　the　traffic　and　Ilyich　Ramirez　Sanchez　sped　away。
　Jason　crossed　back　to　the　far　pavement　as　the　shrieking　of　police　whistles　turned　heads　everywhere。　Pedestrians　had　been　grazed　or　wounded　or　killed；　a　beggar　with　a　gun　had　shot　them。
　Lavier！　Bourne　broke　into　a　run　again；　not　back　towards　the　Church　of　the　Blessed　Sacrament。　He　reached　the　stone　path　under　the　eye　of　the　concrete　saint　and　spun　left；　racing　towards　the　arched；　sculptured　doors　and　the　marble　steps。　He　ran　up　and　entered　the　Gothic　church；　facing　racks　of　flickering　candles；　fused　rays　of　coloured　light　streaming　down　from　the　stained…glass　windows　high　in　the　dark　stone　walls。　He　walked　down　the　centre　aisle；　staring　at　the　worshippers；　looking　for　streaked　silver　hair　and　a　mask　of　a　face　laminated　in　white。
　The　Lavier　woman　was　nowhere　to　be　seen；　yet　she　had　not　left；　she　was　somewhere　in　the　church。　Jason　turned；　glancing　up　the　aisle；　there　was　a　tall　priest　walking　casually　past　the　rack　of　candles。　Bourne　sidestepped　his　way　through　a　cushioned　row；　emerged　on　the　far　right　aisle　and　intercepted　him。
　'Excuse　me；　Father；'　he　said。　'I'm　afraid　I've　lost　someone。'
　'No　one　is　lost　in　the　house　of　God；　sir；〃　replied　the　cleric；　smiling。
　'She　may　not　be　in　spirit；　but　if　I　don't　find　the　rest　of　her；　she'll　be　very　upset。　There's　an　emergency　at　her　place　of　business。　Have　you　been　here　long；　Father？〃
　'I　greet　those　of　our　flock　who　seek　assistance；　yes。　I've　been　here　for　the　better　part　of　an　hour。'
　Two　women　came　in　a　few　minutes　ago。　One　was　extremely　tall；　quite　striking；　wearing　a　light…coloured　coat；　and　I　think　a　dark　kerchief　over　her　hair。　The　other　was　an　older　lady；　not　so　tall；　and　obviously　not　in　good　health。　Did　you　by　any　chance　see　them？'
　The　priest　nodded。　'Yes。　There　was　sorrow　in　the　older　woman's　face；　she　was　pale　and　grieving。'
　'Do　you　know　where　she　went？　I　gather　her　younger　friend　left。'
　'A　devoted　friend；　may　I　say。　She　escorted　the　poor　dear　to　confession；　helping　her　inside　the　booth。　The　cleansing　of　the　soul　gives　us　all　strength　during　the　desperate　times。'
　To　confession？'
　'Yes；　the　second　booth　from　the　right　She　has　a　passionate　father　confessor；　I　might　add。　A　visiting　priest　from　the　archdiocese　of　Barcelona。　A　remarkable　man；　too；　I'm　sorry　to　say　this　is　his　last　day。　He　returns　to　Spain。。。〃　The　tall　priest　frowned。　'Isn't　that　odd？　A　few　moments　ago　I　thought　I　saw　Father　Manuel　leave。　I　imagine　he　was　replaced　for　a　while。　No　matter；　the　dear　lady　is　in　good　hands。'
　'I'm　sure　of　it；'　said　Bourne。　Thank　you；　Father。　I'll　wait　for　her。'　Jason　walked　down　the　aisle　towards　the　row　of　confessional　booths；　his　eyes　on　the　second；　where　a　small　strip　of　white　fabric　proclaimed　occupancy；　a　soul　was　being　cleansed。　He　sat　down　in　the　front　row；　then　knelt　forward；　angling　his　head　slowly　round　so　he　could　see　the　rear　of　the　church。　The　tall　priest　stood　at　the　entrance；　his　attention　on　the　disturbance　in　the　street。　Outside；　sirens　could　be　heard　wailing　in　the　distance；　drawing　closer。
　Bourne　got　up　and　walked　to　the　second　booth。　He　parted　the　curtain　and　looked　inside；　seeing　what　he　expected　to　see。　Only　the　method　had　remained　in　question。
　Jacqueline　Lavier　was　dead；　her　body　slumped　forward；　rolled　to　the　side；　supported　by　the　prayer　stall；　her　mask　of　a　face　upturned；　her　eyes　wide；　staring　in　death　at　the　ceiling。　Her　coat　was　open；　the　cloth　of　her　dress　drenched　in　blood。　The　weapon　was　a　long；　thin　letter　opener；　plunged　in　above　her　left　breast。　Her　fingers　were　curled　around　the　handle；　her　lacquered　nails　the　colour　of　her　blood。
　At　her　feet　was　a　bag　…　not　the　white　one　she　had　clutched　in　her　hands　ten　minutes　ago；　but　a　fashionable　Yves　St　Laurent；　the　precocious　initials　stamped　on　the　fabric　an　escutcheon　of　haute　couture。　The　reason　for　it　was　clear　to　Jason。　Inside　were　papers　identifying　this　tragic　suicide；　this　overwrought　woman　so　burdened　with　grief　she　took　her　own　life　while　seeking　absolution　in　the　eyes　of　God。　Carlos　was　thorough；　brilliantly　thorough。
　Bourne　closed　the　curtain　and　stepped　away　from　the　booth。
　From　somewhere　high　in　a　tower；　the　bells　of　the　morning　Angelus　rang　splendidly。
　The　taxi　wandered　aimlessly　through　the　streets　of　Neuilly…sur…Seine；　Jason　in　the　back　seat；　his　mind　racing。
　It　was　pointless　to　wait；　perhaps　deadly　to　do　so。　Strategies　changed　as　conditions　changed；　and　they　had　taken　a　deadly　turn。　Jacqueline　Lavier　had　been　followed；　her　death　inevitable　but　out　of　sequence。　Too　soon；　she　was　still　valuable。　Then　Bourne　understood。　She　had　not　been　killed　because　she　had　been　disloyal　to　Carlos；　rather　because　she　had　disobeyed　him。　She　had　gone　to　Pare　Monceau；　that　was　her　indefensible　error。
　There　was　another　known　relay　at　Les　Classiques；　a　grey…haired　switchboard　operator　named　Philippe　d'Anjou；　whose　face　evoked　images　of　violence　and　darkness　and　shattering　flashes　of　light　and　sound。　He　had　been　in　Bourne's　past；　of　that　Jason　was　certain；　and　because　of　that；　the　hunted　had　to　be　cautious；　he　could　not　know　what　that　man　meant　to　him。　But　he　was　a　relay；　and　he；　too；　would　be　watched；　as　Lavier　had　been　watched；　additional　bait　for　another　trap；　dispatch　demanded　when　the　trap　closed。
　Were　these　the　only　two？　Were　there　others？　An　obscure；　faceless　clerk；　perhaps；　who　was　not　a　clerk　at　all　but　someone　else？　A　supplier　who　spent　hours　in　Saint…Honore　legitimately　pursuing　the　cause　of　haute　couture；　but　with　another　cause　far　more　vital　to　him。　Or　her。　Or　the　muscular　designer；　Rene　Bergeron；　whose　movements　were　so　quick　and。。。　fluid。
　Bourne　suddenly　stiffened；　his　neck　pressed　back　against　the　seat；　a　recent　memory　triggered。　Bergeron。　The　darkly…tanned　skin；　the　wide　shoulders　accentuated　by　tightly　rolled　up　sleeves。。。　shoulders　that　floated　in　place　above　a　tapered　waist；　beneath　which　strong　legs　moved　swiftly；　like　an　animal's；　a　cat's。
　Was　it　possible？　Were　the　other　conjectures　merely　phantoms；　pounded　fragments　of　familiar　images　he　had　convinced　himself　might　be　Carlos？　Was　the　assassin　…　unknown　to　his　relays　…　deep　inside　his　own　apparatus；　controlling　and　shaping　every　move？　Was　it　Bergeron？
　He　had　to　get　to　a　telephone　right　away。　Right　away！　Every　minute　he　lost　was　a　minute　removed　from　the　answer；　and　too　many　meant　there　would　be　no　answer　at　all。　But　he　could　not　make　the　call　himself；　the　sequence　of　events　had　been　too　rapid；　he　had　to　hold　back；　store　his　own　information。
　'The　first　telephone　box　you　see；　pull　over；'　he　said　to　the　driver；　who　was　still　shaken　by　the　chaos　at　the　Church　of　the　Blessed　Sacrament。
　'As　you　wish；　Monsieur。　But　if　Monsieur　will　please　try　to　understand；　it　is　past　the　time　when　I　should　report　to　the　fleet　garage。　Way　past　the　time！'
　'I　understand。'
　There's　a　telephone！'
　'Good。　Pull　over。'
　The　red　telephone　box；　its　quaint　panes　of　glass　glistening　in　the　sunlight；　looked　like　a　large　doll's　house　from　the　outside　and　smelled　of　urine　on　the　inside。　Bourne　dialled　the　Terrasse；　inserted　the　coins　and　asked　for　room　Four…twenty。　Marie　answered。
　'What　happened？'
　'I　haven't　time　to　explain。　I　want　you　to　call　Les　Classiques　and　ask　for　Rend　Bergeron。　D'Anjou　will　probably　be　on　the　switchboard；　make　up　a　name　and　tell　him　you've　been　trying　to　reach　Bergeron　on　Lavier's　private　line　for　the　past　hour　or　so。　Say　it's　urgent；　you've　got　to　talk　to　him。'
　'When　he　es　on；　what　do　I　say？'
　'I　don't　think　he　will；　but　if　he　does；　just　hang　up。　And　if　d'Anjou　es　on　the　line　again；　ask　him　when　Bergeron's　expected。　I'll　call　you　back　in　three　minutes。'
　'Darling；　are　you　all　right？'
　'I've　had　a　profound　religious　experience。　I'll　tell　you　about　it　later。'
　Jason　kept　his　eyes　on　his　watch；　the　infinitesimal　jumps　of　the　thin；　delicate　sweep　hand　too　agonizingly　slow。　He　began　his　own　personal　count　dow