rl.thebourneidentity-第82部分

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　'But　once　a　terrorist；　always　a　terrorist；　don't　you　forget　that。'
　'I　can't　agree。　People　change。'
　'Not　about　some　things。　No　terrorist　ever　forgets　how　effective　he's　been；　he　lives　on　it。'
　'How　would　you　know　that？'
　'I'm　not　sure　I　want　to　ask　myself　right　now。'
　〃Then　don't。'
　'But　I　am　sure　about　Villiers。　I'm　going　to　reach　him。'　Bourne　crossed　to　the　bedside　table　and　picked　up　the　telephone　book。　'Let's　see　if　he's　listed　or　if　that　number's　private。　I'll　need　his　address。'
　'You　won't　get　near　him。　If　he's　Carlos's　connection；　he'll　be　guarded。　They'll　kill　you　on　sight；　they　have　your　photograph　remember？〃
　'It　won't　help　them。　I　won't　be　what　they're　looking　for。。。　Here　it　is。　Villiers；　A。　F。　Pare　Monceau。'
　'I　still　can't　believe　it。　Just　knowing　whom　she　was　calling　must　have　put　the　Lavier　woman　in　shock。'
　'Or　frightened　her　to　the　point　where　she'd　do　anything。'
　'Doesn't　it　strike　you　as　odd　that　she'd　be　given　that　number？'
　'Not　under　the　circumstances。　Carlos　wants　his　drones　to　know　he　isn't　kidding。　He　wants　Cain。'
　Marie　stood　up。　'Jason？　What's　a　〃drone〃？'
　Bourne　looked　up　at　her。　'I　don't　know。。。　Someone　who　works　blind　for　somebody　else。'
　'Blind？　Not　seeing？'
　'Not　knowing。　Thinking　he's　doing　one　thing　when　he's　really　doing　something　else。'
　'I　don't　understand。'
　'Let's　say　I　tell　you　to　watch　for　a　car　at　a　certain　street　corner。　The　car　never　shows　up；　but　the　fact　that　you're　there　tells　someone　else　who's　watching　for　you　that　something　else　has　happened。'
　'Arithmetically；　an　untraceable　message。'
　'Yes；　I　guess　so。〃
　'That's　what　happened　in　Zurich。　Walther　Apfel　was　a　drone。　He　released　that　story　about　the　theft　not　knowing　what　he　was　really　saying。'
　'Which　was？'
　'It's　a　good　guess　that　you　were　being　told　to　reach　someone。〃
　'Treadstone　Seventy…one；'　said　Jason。　'We're　back　to　Villiers。　Carlos　found　me　in　Zurich　through　the　Gemeinschaft。　That　means　he　had　to　know　about　Treadstone；　it's　a　good　chance　that　Villiers　does　too。　If　he　doesn't；　there　may　be　a　way　of　getting　him　to　find　out　for　us。'
　'How？'
　'His　name。　If　he's　everything　you　say　he　is；　he　thinks　pretty　highly　of　it。　The　honour…of…France　coupled　with　a　pig　like　Carlos　might　have　an　effect。　I'll　threaten　to　go　to　the　police；　to　the　papers。'
　'He'd　simply　deny　it。　He'd　say　it's　outrageous。'
　'Let　him。　It　isn't。　That　was　his　number　in　Lavier's　office。　Besides；　any　retraction　will　be　on　the　same　page…as　his　obituary。'
　'You　still　have　to　get　to　him。〃
　'I　will。　I'm　part　chameleon；　remember？'
　The　tree…lined　street　in　Pare　Monceau　seemed　familiar　somehow；　but　not　in　the　sense　that　he　had　walked　it　before。　Instead；　it　was　the　atmosphere。　Two　rows　of　well…kept　stone　houses；　doors　and　windows　glistening；　metalwork　shining；　steps　washed　clean；　the　lighted　rooms　beyond　filled　with　hanging　plants。　It　was　a　monied　street　in　a　wealthy　section　of　the　city；　and　he　knew　he　had　been　exposed　to　one　like　it　before；　and　that　exposure　had　meant　something。
　It　was　7：35　in　the　evening；　the　March　night　cold；　the　sky　clear　and　the　chameleon　dressed　for　the　occasion。　Bourne's　blond　hair　was　covered　by　a　cap；　his　neck　concealed　beneath　the　collar　of　a　jacket　that　spelled　out　the　name　of　a　messenger　service　across　the　back。　Slung　over　his　shoulder　was　a　canvas　strap　attached　to　a　nearly　empty　satchel；　it　was　the　end　of　this　particular　messenger's　run。　He　had　two　or　three　stops　to　make；　perhaps　four　or　five　if　he　thought　they　were　necessary；　he　would　know　in　a　moment。　The　envelopes　were　not　really　envelopes　at　all；　but　brochures　advertising　the　pleasures　of　the　Bateau　Mouche；　picked　up　from　a　hotel　lobby。　He　would　select　at　random　several　houses　near　General　Villiers's　residence　and　deposit　the　brochures　in　letterboxes。　His　eyes　would　record　everything　they　saw；　one　thing　sought　above　everything　else。　What　kind　of　security　arrangements　did　Villiers　have？　Who　guarded　the　general　and　how　many　were　there？
　And　because　he　had　been　convinced　he　would　find　either　men　in　cars　or　other　men　walking　their　posts；　he　was　startled　to　realize　there　was　no　one。　Andrel　Francois　Villiers；　militarist；　spokesman　for　his　cause；　and　the　prime　connection　to　Carlos；　had　no　external　security　arrangements　whatsoever。　If　he　was　protected；　that　protection　was　solely　within　the　house。　Considering　the　enormity　of　his　crime；　Villiers　was　either　arrogant　to　the　point　of　carelessness　or　a　damn　fool。
　Jason　climbed　the　steps　of　an　adjacent　residence；　Villiers's　door　no　more　than　twenty　feet　away。　He　deposited　the　brochure　in　the　slot；　glancing　up　at　the　windows　of　Villiers's　house；　looking　for　a　face；　a　figure。　There　was　no　one。
　The　door　twenty　feet　away　suddenly　opened。　Bourne　crouched；　thrusting　his　hand　beneath　his　jacket　for　his　gun；　thinking　he　was　a　damn　fool；　someone　more　observant　than　he　had　spotted　him。　But　the　words　he　heard　told　him　it　wasn't　so。　A　middle…aged　couple　…　a　uniformed　maid　and　a　dark…jacketed　man　…　were　talking　in　the　doorway。
　'Make　sure　the　ashtrays　are　clean；'　said　the　woman。　'You　know　how　he　dislikes　ashtrays　that　are　stuffed　full。'
　'He　drove　this　afternoon；'　answered　the　man。　'That　means　they're　full　now。'
　'Clean　them　in　the　garage；　you've　got　time。　He　won't　be　down　for　another　ten　minutes。　He　doesn't　have　to　be　in　Nanterre　until　eight…thirty。〃
　The　man　nodded；　pulling　up　the　lapels　of　his　jacket　as　he　started　down　the　steps。　Ten　minutes；'　he　said　aimlessly。
　The　door　closed　and　silence　returned　to　the　quiet　street。　Jason　stood　up；　his　hand　on　the　railing；　watching　the　man　hurry　down　the　pavement。　He　was　not　sure　where　Nanterre　was；　only　that　it　was　a　suburb　of　Paris。　And　if　Villiers　was　driving　there　himself；　and　if　he　was　alone；　there　was　no　point　in　postponing　confrontation。
　Bourne　shifted　the　strap　on　his　shoulder　and　walked　rapidly　down　the　steps；　turning　left　on　the　pavement　Ten　minutes。
　Jason　watched　through　the　windscreen　as　the　door　opened　and　General　Andrel　Fracois　Villiers　came　into　view。　He　was　a　medium…sized；　barrel…chested　man　in　his　late　sixties；　perhaps　early　seventies。　He　was　hatless；　with　close…cropped　grey　hair　and　a　meticulously　groomed　white　chin　beard。　His　bearing　was　unmistakably　military；　imposing　his　body　on　the　surrounding　space；　entering　it　by　breaking　it；　invisible　walls　collapsing　as　he　moved。
　Bourne　stared　at　him；　fascinated；　wondering　what　insanities　could　have　driven　such　a　man　into　the　obscene　world　of　Carlos。　Whatever　the　reasons；　they　had　to　be　powerful；　for　he　was　powerful。　And　that　made　him　dangerous　…　for　he　was　respected　and　had　the　ears　of　his　government。
　Villiers　turned；　speaking　to　the　maid　and　glancing　at　his　wristwatch。　The　woman　nodded；　closing　the　door；　as　the　general　walked　briskly　down　the　steps　and　around　the　bonnet　of　a　large　saloon　to　the　driver's　side。　He　opened　the　door　and　climbed　in；　then　started　the　engine　and　rolled　slowly　out　into　the　middle　of　the　street。　Jason　waited　until　the　saloon　reached　the　corner　and　turned　right；　he　eased　the　Renault　away　from　the　kerb　and　accelerated；　reaching　the　intersection　in　time　to　see　Villiers　turn　right　again　a　block　east。
　There　was　a　certain　irony　in　the　coincidence；　an　omen　if　one　could　believe　in　such　things。　The　route　General　Villiers　chose　to　the　outlying　suburb　of　Nanterre　included　a　stretch　of　back　road　in　the　countryside　nearly　identical　to　the　one　in　St　Germain…en…Laye　where　twelve　hours　ago　Marie　had　pleaded　with　Jason　not　to　give　up　…　his　life　or　hers。　There　were　stretches　of　pasture　land；　fields　that　fused　into　the　gently　rising　hills；　but　instead　of　being　crowned　by　early　light；　these　were　washed　in　the　cold；　white　rays　of　the　moon。　It　occurred　to　Bourne　that　this　stretch　of　isolated　road　would　be　as　good　a　spot　as　any　on　which　to　intercept　the　returning　general。
　It　was　not　difficult　for　Jason　to　follow　at　distances　up　to　a　quarter　of　a　mile；　which　was　why　he　was　surprised　to　realize　he　had　practically　caught　up　with　the　old　soldier。　Villiers　had　suddenly　slowed　down　and　was　turning　into　a　gravelled　drive　cut　out　of　the　woods；　the　parking　area　beyond　illuminated　by　floodlights。　A　sign；　hanging　from　two　chains　on　a　high…angle　post；　was　caught　in　the　spill。