rl.thebourneidentity-第108部分

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　The　beggar　sank　to　the　floor；　the　cord　stretched　taut；　the　phone　still　in　his　hand。　He　stared　up　at　the　horrible　instrument　that　carried　the　terrible　words。　What　could　he　do？　What　in　the　name　of　God　could　he　do！
　Bourne　walked　down　the　path　between　the　graves；　forcing　himself　to　let　his　mind　fall　free　as　Washburn　had　manded　a　lifetime　ago　in　Port　Noir。　If　ever　he　had　to　be　a　sponge；　it　was　now；　the　man　from　Treadstone　had　to　understand。　He　was　trying　with　all　his　concentration　to　make　sense　out　of　the　unremembered；　to　find　meaning　in　the　images　that　came　to　him　without　warning。　He　had　not　broken　whatever　agreement　they　had；　he　had　not　turned；　or　run。。。　He　was　a　cripple；　it　was　as　simple　as　that。
　He　had　to　find　the　man　from　Treadstone。　Where　inside　those　fenced　acres　of　silence　would　he　be？　Where　did　he　expect　him　to　be？　Jason　had　reached　the　cemetery　wall　before　1：00；　the　Chevrolet　a　faster　car　than　the　broken…down　Renault　He　had　passed　the　gates；　driven　several　hundred　yards　down　the　road；　pulled　off　on　to　the　shoulder　and　parked　the　car　reasonably　out　of　sight　On　his　way　back　to　the　gates　it　had　started　to　rain。　It　was　a　cold　rain；　a　March　rain；　but　a　quiet　rain；　little　intrusions　upon　the　silence。
　He　passed　a　cluster　of　graves　within　a　plot　bordered　by　a　low　iron　railing；　the　centrepiece　an　alabaster　cross　rising　eight　feet　out　of　the　ground。　He　stood　for　a　moment　before　it。　Had　he　been　here　before？　Was　another　door　opening　for　him　in　the　distance？　Or　was　he　trying　too　desperately　to　find　one？　And　then　it　came　to　him。　It　was　not　this　particular　grouping　of　gravestones；　not　the　tall　alabaster　cross；　nor　the　low　iron　railing。　It　was　the　rain！　A　sudden　rain。　Crowds　of　mourners　gathered　in　black　around　a　burial　site；　the　snapping　of　umbrellas。　And　two　men　ing　together；　umbrellas　touching；　brief；　quiet　apologies　muttered；　as　a　long　brown　envelope　exchanged　hands；　pocket　to　pocket；　unnoticed　by　the　mourners。
　There　was　something　else。　An　image　triggered　by　an　image；　feeding　upon　itself；　seen　only　minutes　ago。　Rain　cascading　down　white　marble；　not　a　cold；　light　rain；　but　a　downpour；　pounding　against　the　wall　of　a　glistening　white　surface。。。　and　columns。。。　rows　of　columns　on　all　sides；　a　miniature　replica　of　an　ancient　treasure。
　On　the　other　side　of　the　hill！　Near　the　gates！　A　white　mausoleum；　someone's　scaled…down　version　of　the　Parthenon。　He　had　passed　it　less　than　five　minutes　before；　looking　at　it　but　not　seeing　it。　That　was　where　the　sudden　rain　had　taken　place；　where　two　umbrellas　had　touched　and　an　envelope　been　delivered。　He　squinted　at　the　radium　dial　of　his　watch。　It　was　fourteen　minutes　past　one；　he　started　running　back　up　the　path。　He　was　still　early；　there　was　time　left　to　see　a　car's　headlights；　or　the　striking　of　a　match　or。。。
　The　beam　of　a　torch。　It　was　there　at　the　bottom　of　the　hill　and　it　was　moving　up　and　down；　intermittently　swinging　back　at　the　gates　as　though　the　holder　was　concerned　that　someone　might　appear。　Bourne　had　an　almost　uncontrollable　urge　to　race　down　between　the　rows　of　graves　and　statuary；　shouting　at　the　top　of　his　voice。　I'm　here！　It's　me。　I　understand　your　message。　I've　e　back！　I　have　so　much　to　tell　you。。。　and　there　is　so　much　you　must　tell　me！
　But　he　did　not　shout　and　he　did　not　run。　Above　all　else；　he　had　to　show　control；　for　what　afflicted　him　was　so　uncontrollable。　He　had　to　appear　pletely　lucid　…　sane　within　the　boundaries　of　his　memory。　He　began　walking　down　the　hill　in　the　cold　light　rain；　wishing　his　sense　of　urgency　had　allowed　him　to　remember　a　torch。
　The　torch。　Something　was　odd　about　the　beam　of　light　five　hundred　feet　below。　It　was　moving　in　short　vertical　strokes；　as　if　in　emphasis。。。　as　if　the　man　holding　it　was　speaking　emphatically　to　another。
　He　was。　Jason　crouched；　peering　through　the　rain；　his　eyes　struck　by　a　sharp；　darting　reflection　of　light　that　shot　out　whenever　the　beam　hit　the　object　in　front　of　it。　He　crept　forward；　his　body　close　to　the　ground；　covering　well　over　a　hundred　feet　in　seconds；　his　gaze　still　on　the　beam　and　the　strange　reflection。　He　could　see　more　clearly　now；　he　stopped　and　concentrated。　There　were　two　men；　one　holding　the　torch；　the　other　a　short…barrelled　rifle；　the　thick　steel　of　the　gun　known　only　too　well　to　Bourne。　At　distances　of　up　to　thirty　feet　it　could　blow　a　man　six　feet　into　the　air。　It　was　a　very　odd　weapon　for　an　officer…of…record　sent　by　Washington　to　have　at　his　mand。
　The　beam　of　light　shot　over　to　the　side　of　the　white　mausoleum；　the　figure　holding　the　powerful；　short…barrelled　rifle　retreated　quickly；　slipping　behind　a　column　no　more　than　twenty　feet　away　from　the　man　holding　the　torch。
　Jason　did　not　have　to　think；　he　knew　what　he　had　to　do。　If　there　was　an　explanation　for　the　deadly　weapon；　so　be　it；　but　it　would　not　be　used　on　him。　Kneeling；　he　judged　the　distance　and　looked　for　points　of　sanctuary；　both　for　concealment　and　protection。　He　started　out；　wiping　the　rain　from　his　face；　feeling　the　gun　in　his　belt　that　he　knew　he　could　not　use。
　He　scrambled　from　gravestone　to　gravestone；　statue　to　statue；　heading　to　his　right；　then　angling　gradually　to　his　left　until　the　semi…circle　was　nearly　plete。　He　was　within　fifteen　feet　of　the　mausoleum；　the　man　with　the　murderous　weapon　was　standing　by　the　left　corner　column；　under　the　short　portico　to　avoid　the　rain。　He　was　fondling　his　gun　as　though　it　were　a　sexual　object；　cracking　the　breach；　unable　to　resist　peering　inside。　He　ran　his　palm　over　the　inserted　shells；　the　gesture　obscene。
　Now。　Bourne　crept　out　from　behind　the　gravestone；　hands　and　knees　propelling　him　over　the　wet　grass　until　he　was　within　six　feet　of　the　man。　He　sprang　up；　a　silent；　lethal　panther　hurling　dirt　in　front　of　him；　one　hand　surging　for　the　barrel　of　the　rifle；　the　other　for　the　man's　head。　He　reached　both；　grabbed　both；　clasping　the　barrel　in　the　fingers　of　his　left　hand；　the　man's　hair　in　his　right。　The　head　snapped　back；　throat　stretched；　sound　muted。　He　smashed　the　head　into　the　white　marble　with　such　force　that　the　expulsion　of　breath　that　followed　signified　a　severe　concussion。　The　man　went　limp；　Jason　supporting　him　against　the　wall；　permitting　the　unconscious　body　to　slip　silently　to　the　ground　between　the　columns。　He　searched　the　man；　removing　a。357　Magnum　automatic　from　a　leather　case　sewn　into　his　jacket；　a　razor…sharp　scaling　knife　from　a　scabbard　on　his　belt　and　a　small。22　revolver　from　an　ankle　holster。　Nothing　remotely　government　issue；　this　was　a　hired　killer；　an　arsenal　on　foot。
　Break　his　fingers；　the　words　came　back　to　Bourne；　they　had　been　spoken　by　a　man　in　gold…rimmed　glasses　in　a　large　saloon　car　racing　out　of　the　Steppdeckstrasse。　There　was　reason　behind　the　violence。　Jason　grabbed　the　man's　right　hand　and　bent　the　fingers　back　until　he　heard　the　cracks；　he　did　the　same　with　the　left；　the　man's　mouth　blocked。　Bourne's　elbow　jammed　between　the　teeth。　No　sound　emerged　above　the　sound　of　the　rain；　and　neither　hand　could　be　used　for　a　weapon　or　as　a　weapon；　the　weapons　themselves　placed　out　of　reach　in　the　shadows。
　Jason　stood　up　and　edged　his　face　around　the　column。　The　Treadstone　officer　now　angled　the　light　directly　into　the　earth　in　front　of　him。　It　was　the　stationary　signal；　the　beam　a　lost　bird　was　to　home　into；　it　might　be　other　things　also；　the　next　few　minutes　would　tell。　The　man　turned　towards　the　gate　taking　a　tentative　step　as　though　he　might　have　heard　something　and　for　the　first　time　Bourne　saw　the　cane；　observed　the　limp。　The　officer…of…record　from　Treadstone　Seventy…one　was　a　cripple。。。　as　he　was　a　cripple。
　Jason　dashed　back　to　the　first　gravestone；　spun　behind　it　and　peered　around　the　marble　edge。　The　man　from　Treadstone　still　had　his　attention　on　the　gates。　Bourne　glanced　at　his　watch；　it　was　1：27。　Time　remained。　He　pushed　himself　away　from　the　grave；　hugging　the　ground　until　he　was　out　of　sight；　then　stood　up　and　ran；　retracing　the　arch　back　to　the　top　of　the　hill。　He　stood　for　a　moment；　letting　his　breathing　and　his　heartbeat　resume　a　semblance　of　normality；　then　reached　into　his　pocket　for　a　book　of　matches。　Protecting　it　from　the　rain；　he　tore　off　a　match　and　struck　it。
　'Treadstone？'　he　said　loud　enough　to　be　heard　from　below。