rl.thebourneidentity-第127部分

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had　reminded　him　of　that　fragment　of　memory；　they　would　light　up　a　jungle　now。
　He　uncoiled　the　waxed　fuse　from　the　small　round　recess　in　the　flare　head；　brought　it　to　his　teeth　and　bit　through　the　cord；　shortening　the　fuse　to　less　than　an　inch。　He　reached　into　his　other　pocket　and　took　out　a　plastic　lighter；　he　pressed　it　against　the　flare；　gripping　both　in　his　left　hand。　Then　he　angled　the　rod　and　brace　of　the　weapon　into　his　right　shoulder；　shoving　the　curved　strip　of　metal　into　the　cloth　of　his　blood…soaked　field　jacket；　it　was　secure。　He　stretched　out　his　legs　and；　snake…like；　started　down　the　final　flight　of　steps；　head　below；　feet　above；　his　back　scraping　the　wall。
　He　reached　the　mid…point　of　the　staircase。　Silence；　darkness；　all　the　lights　had　been　extinguished。。。　Lights？　Lights？　Where　were　the　rays　of　sunlight　he　had　seen　in　that　hallway　only　minutes　ago？　It　had　streamed　through　a　pair　of　French　windows　at　the　far　end　of　the　room　…　that　room　…　beyond　the　corridor；　but　he　could　see　only　darkness　now。　The　door　had　been　shut；　the　door　beneath　him；　the　only　other　door　in　that　hallway；　was　also　closed；　marked　only　by　a　thin　shaft　of　light。　Carlos　was　making　him　choose。　Behind　which　door？　Or　was　the　assassin　using　a　better　strategy？　Was　he　in　the　darkness　of　the　narrow　hall　itself？
　Bourne　felt　a　stabbing　jolt　of　pain　in　his　shoulder　blade；　then　an　eruption　of　blood　that　drenched　the　flannel　shirt　beneath　his　field　jacket。　Another　warning：　there　was　very　little　time。
　He　braced　himself　against　the　wall；　the　weapon　levelled　at　the　thin　posts　of　the　railing；　aimed　down　into　the　darkness　of　the　corridor。　Now！　He　pulled　the　trigger。　The　staccato　explosions　tore　the　posts　apart　as　the　railing　fell；　the　bullets　shattering　the　walls　and　the　door　beneath　him。　He　released　the　trigger；　slipping　his　hand　under　the　scalding　barrel；　grabbing　the　plastic　lighter　with　his　right　hand；　the　flare　in　his　left。　He　spun　the　flint；　the　wick　took　fire　and　he　put　it　to　the　short　fuse。　He　pulled　his　hand　back　to　the　weapon　and　squeezed　the　trigger　again；　blowing　away　everything　below。　A　glass　chandelier　crashed　to　a　floor　somewhere；　singing　whines　of　ricochets　filled　the　darkness。　And　then　…　light　I　Blinding　light　as　the　flare　ignited；　firing　the　jungle；　lighting　up　the　trees　and　the　walls；　the　hidden　paths　and　the　mahogany　corridors。　The　stench　of　death　and　the　jungle　was　everywhere；　and　he　was　there。
　Almanac　to　Delta；　Almanac　to　Delta！　Abandon；　abandon！
　Never。　Not　now。　Not　at　the　end。　Cain　is　for　Carlos　and　Delta　is　for　Cain。　Trap　Carlos。　Kill　Carlos！
　Bourne　rose　to　his　feet；　his　back　pressed　against　the　wall；　the　flare　in　his　left　hand；　the　exploding　weapon　in　his　right。　He　plunged　down　into　the　carpeted　underbrush；　kicking　the　door　in　front　of　him　open；　shattering　silver　frames　and　trophies　that　flew　off　tables　and　shelves　into　the　air。　Into　the　trees。　He　stopped；　there　was　no　one　in　that　quiet；　sound…proof　elegant　room。　No　one　in　the　jungle　path。
　He　spun　around　and　lurched　back　into　the　hall；　puncturing　the　walls　with　a　prolonged　burst　of　gunfire。　No　one。
　The　door　at　the　end　of　the　narrow；　dark　corridor。　Beyond　was　the　room　where　Cain　was　born。　Where　Cain　would　die；　but　not　alone。
　He　held　his　fire；　shifting　the　flare　to　his　right　hand　beneath　the　weapon；　reaching　into　his　pocket　for　the　second　flare。　He　pulled　it　out；　and　again　uncoiled　the　fuse　and　brought　it　to　his　teeth；　severing　the　cord；　now　millimetres　from　its　point　of　contact　with　the　gelatinous　incendiary。　He　shoved　the　first　flare　to　it；　the　explosion　of　light　was　so　bright　it　pained　his　eyes。　Awkwardly；　he　held　both　flares　in　his　left　hand　and；　squinting；　his　legs　and　arms　losing　the　battle　for　balance；　approached　the　door。
　It　was　open；　the　narrow　crack　extending　from　top　to　bottom　on　the　lock　side。　The　assassin　was　acmodating；　but　as　he　looked　at　that　door；　Jason　instinctively　knew　one　thing　about　it　that　Carlos　did　not　know。　It　was　a　part　of　his　past；　a　part　of　the　room　where　Cain　was　born。　He　reached　down　with　his　right　hand；　bracing　the　weapon　between　his　forearm　and　his　hip；　and　gripped　the　knob。
　Now。　He　shoved　the　door　open　six　inches　and　hurled　the　flares　inside。　A　long　staccato　burst　from　a　Sten　gun　echoed　throughout　the　room；　throughout　the　entire　house；　a　thousand　dead　sounds　forming　a　running　chord　beneath　as　sprays　of　bullets　embedded　in　a　lead　shield　backed　by　a　steel　plate　in　the　door。
　The　firing　stopped；　a　final　clip　expended。　Now。　Bourne　whipped　his　hand　back　to　the　trigger；　crashed　his　shoulder　into　the　door；　and　lunged　inside；　firing　in　circles　as　he　rolled　on　the　floor；　swinging　his　legs　counter　clockwise。　Gunshots　were　returned　wildly　as　Jason　honed　his　weapon　towards　the　source。　A　roar　of　fury　burst　from　blindness　across　the　room；　it　acpanied　Bourne's　realization　that　the　curtains　had　been　drawn；　blocking　out　the　sunlight　from　the　French　windows。　Then　why　was　there　so　much　light。。。　magnified　light　beyond　the　sizzling　blindness　of　the　flares？　It　was　overpowering；　causing　explosions　in　his　head；　sharp　bolts　of　agony　at　his　temples。
　The　screen！　The　huge　screen　was　pulled　down　from　its　bulging　recess　in　the　ceiling；　drawn　taut　to　the　floor；　the　wide　expanse　of　glistening　silver　a　white…hot　shield　of　ice…cold　fire。　He　plunged　behind　the　large　table　to　the　protection　of　a　copper　corner　bar；　he　rose　and　jammed　the　trigger　back；　in　another　burst　…　a　final　burst。　The　last　clip　had　run　out。　He　hurled　the　weapon　by　its　rod…stock　across　the　room　at　the　figure　in　white　overalls　and　a　white　silk　scarf　that　had　fallen　below　his　face。
　The　face！　He　knew　it！　He　had　seen　it　before　I　Where。。。　where？　Was　it　Marseilles？　Yes。。。　no！　Zurich？　Paris？　Yes　and　no！　Then　it　struck　him　at　that　instant　in　the　blinding　vibrating　light；　that　the　face　across　the　room　was　known　to　many；　not　just　him。　But　from　where？　Where？　As　so　much　else；　he　knew　it　and　did　not　know　it。　But　he　did　know　it！　It　was　only　the　name　he　could　not　find！
　He　spiralled　back　off　his　feet；　behind　the　heavy　copper　bar。　Gunshots　came；　two。。。　three；　the　second　bullet　tearing　the　flesh　of　his　〃left　forearm。　He　pulled　his　automatic　from　his　belt；　he　had　three　shots　left。　One　of　them　had　to　find　its　mark；　Carlos。　There　was　a　debt　to　pay　in　Paris；　and　a　contract　to　fulfil；　his　love　far　safer　with　the　assassin's　death。　He　took　the　plastic　lighter　from　his　pocket；　ignited　it；　and　held　it　beneath　a　cloth　suspended　from　a　hook。　The　cloth　caught　fire；　he　grabbed　it　and　threw　it　to　his　right　as　he　dived　to　his　left。　Carlos　fired　at　the　flaming　rag　as　Bourne　spun　to　his　knees；　levelling　his　gun；　pulling　the　trigger　twice。
　The　figure　buckled　but　did　not　fall。　Instead；　he　crouched；　then　sprang　like　a　white　panther　diagonally　forward；　his　hands　outstretched。　What　was　he　doing！　Then　Jason　knew。　The　assassin　gripped　the　edge　of　the　huge；　silver　screen；　ripping　it　from　its　metal　bracket　in　the　ceiling；　pulling　it　downwards　with　all　his　weight　and　strength。
　It　floated　down　above　Bourne；　filling　his　vision；　blocking　everything　else　from　his　mind。　He　screamed　as　the　shimmering　silver　descended　over　him；　suddenly　more　frightened　of　it　than　of　Carlos；　or　of　any　other　human　being　on　the　earth。　It　terrified　him；　infuriated　him；　splitting　his　mind　in　fragments；　images　flashed　across　his　eyes　and　angry　voices　shouted　in　his　ears。　He　aimed　his　gun　and　fired　at　the　terrible　shroud。　As　he　slashed　his　band　against　it　wildly；　pushing　the　rough；　silver　cloth　away；　he　understood。　He　had　fired　his　last　shot；　his　last。　Like　a　legend　named　Cain　Carlos　knew　by　sight　and　by　sound　every　weapon　on　earth；　he　had　counted　the　gunshots。
　The　assassin　loomed　above　him；　the　automatic　in　his　hand　aimed　at　Jason's　head。　'Your　execution；　Delta。　On　the　day　scheduled。　For　everything　you've　done。〃
　Bourne　arched　his　back；　rolling　furiously　to　his　right；　at　least　he　would　die　in　motion！　Gunshots　filled　the　shimmering　room；　hot　needles　slicing　across　his　neck；　piercing　his　legs；　cutting　up　to　his　waist。　Roll；　roll＇
　Suddenly　the　gunshots　stopped；　and　in　the　distance　he　could　hear　repeated　sounds　of　hammering；　the　smashing　of　wood　and　steel；　growing　louder；　more　insistent。　There　was　a　final　deafening　crash　from　the　dark　corridor　outsid