Chapter 3 Chapter two

David Webb walked through the lobby of Washington National Airport, out the automatic doors, and into the crowded plaza.He looked carefully at the sign and continued on, crossing the walkway leading to the "short-term parking area."According to the agreement, he had to go to the far right aisle, turn left, and continue along the row of cars parked there until he saw a silver-gray 1986 Pontiac LeMans So far, there is a small cross hanging on the rearview mirror of the car.There will be a man in a white hat in the driver's seat with the windows rolled down.Webb had to go up to him and say, "Flight went well." If the man took off his hat and started the engine, Webb would sit in the back seat.Nothing needs to be said.

Indeed, he didn't say much, at least there was no direct communication between Weber and the driver.Instead, the driver reached under the dashboard and pulled out a microphone.His voice was soft, but he spoke clearly. "Cargo loaded. Please begin shift vehicle cover." Webb found the outlandish sequence of connections almost comical, but since Alexander Conklin was able to track him down from the takeoff area of ​​the Rockwell jet at Logan Airport, it was Chief Peter Holland's personal override phone. , these two people should be quite sure in doing things.At the time Weber thought it had something to do with the call from Maurice Panoff nine hours earlier.He was later confirmed by Peter Holland himself, who also spoke to him.Holland insisted that he drive to Hartford and then fly to Washington on a commercial flight from Bradley Airport.Horan added, cryptically, that he didn't want any more phone calls, nor did he want any private or government planes involved.

However, the government vehicle he was in wasted no time and drove straight out of the national airport.In what seemed like a few minutes, they were speeding through country and then through suburban Virginia, slowing only slightly.In a luxurious garden-style apartment complex, their car turned in front of a hidden gate.The doorplate says "Vienna Villa", which is named after the town where the community is located.The doorman obviously recognized the driver and waved him to drive the car in, while the heavy bar blocking the entrance was raised at the same time.At this time, the driver spoke directly to Weber.

"Sir, this complex covers an area of ​​20,000 square meters and is divided into five areas that are not connected to each other. Four of the areas are ordinary apartment suites, and the owners are ordinary people; but the fifth area farthest from the gate is the CIA It has its own road and security system. Sir, you can't be more comfortable staying here." "I don't think there's anything 'wrong' with me." "There will be nothing wrong with you. You are the 'cargo' that the director has taken care of, and your safety is very important to him."

"That's good to hear, but how do you know?" "I'm on the action team, sir." "I see. What's your name?" The driver was silent for a while.As he opened his mouth to answer, Weber felt a twinge of unease: he felt pushed back in time, to a time when he knew he had to go back to his old job. "We have no names, sir. You have no names, and neither have I." Medusa. "I understand," Weber said. "Here we are." The driver turned around a circular driveway and stopped in front of a two-story attached colonial-style building.The fluted white columns in front of the house seemed to be made of Italian Carrara marble. "Excuse me, sir, I just noticed that you didn't bring any luggage?"

"Yeah, I didn't bring it." David said and opened the car door. "What do you think of my makeshift den?" Alexander Conklin asked, waving around in his tastefully decorated apartment. "The place is too neat and clean for a rowdy old bachelor," replied David Webb. "Since when did you like floral curtains? Look at those pink and yellow daisies. " "You haven't seen the wallpaper in my bedroom, it's got rosebuds on it." "I don't want to see it." "The pattern in your room is hyacinth...Of course, if a flower popped into my throat from the wallpaper, I wouldn't know it was called hyacinth; but the maid says that's what it's called."

"Maid?" "She was in her late fifties, black, and as big as a sumo wrestler. She had two air rifles tucked in her skirt, and some pocket razors were rumored." "What a maid!" "Say she's a good patrol. She won't let anything in that room unless it's from Langley, not even a bar of soap or a roll of toilet paper. She's got a ten, you know. high salary, and some clowns here will tip her." "Are they short of male waiters?" "You're so funny, our university student Weber is going to be a waiter." "Jason Bourne did."

Conklin paused, then his tone became serious. "We've got to call him back," he said, limping over to the armchair. "By the way, you've been very tired today, and it's not even noon yet, so if you want a drink, you can go by the window." Behind the dark violet shutters is a bar with everything you want to drink...don't look at me like that, our black maid Brunhilt says it's dark violet." Webb looked at his friend and laughed, a low, heartfelt laugh, "Don't you feel bad at all, Alexander?" "Damn it, I don't feel bad, you know that. You never hid the wine from me when I went to see you and Mary."

"There was no pressure back then—" "It's nothing to do with the pressure," Conklin interrupted, "I've made up my mind because I have no choice but to stop drinking. You go get a drink, David. We need to talk, and I hope you're at peace. I see those eyes of yours, and they tell me you're on fire right now." "You told me all the answers are in the eyes," Weber said, opening the purple shutters and taking out a bottle of wine. "You can still see it, can't you?" "What I'm telling you is that the answers are always behind the eyes. Never trust what's on the surface... How are Mary and the children? I reckon they're going okay."

"The pilot and I went through the flight plan over and over to make sure they got there safely, and it was disgusting. Eventually the pilot ordered the eviction and said either I get out of his cabin or I'll fly this trip myself. Weber poured a glass of wine and walked back to the chair opposite the retired agent. "Alexander, how are we going?" he asked as he sat down. "Exactly like last night. Nothing happened, nothing changed except Morris refused to leave his patient. He was picked up at his apartment this morning—his place is almost as safe as Fort Knox now— —and then drive him to the clinic. He will be brought here later this afternoon with four transfers en route, all in the underground car park."

"This is public protection, so everyone doesn't have to hide anymore, right?" "There's no point in hiding. We set up a trap at the Smithsonian, but our men are too visible." "Maybe it's going to work, isn't it? Want to take it by surprise? Tell the guards to show up on purpose, but there's another team ambushing behind them." "David, surprise does work, but being stupid doesn't work," Conklin quickly shook his head, "I take that back. Bourne can turn a fool into a smart person, but he encountered a monitoring team from an official organization." There's nothing the squad can do. The situation is too complicated." "I do not understand." “These guys are really good, but their main job is to protect the hostages, or to rescue the hostages; they also have to coordinate with each other and report to their superiors. They are paid jobs, not villains who have been paid in advance to make a hammer deal; When those thugs screw up, there's a killer with a knife to their throat." "This is too exaggerated," Webb said softly, leaning back in his chair, drinking his wine. "I think that's how I acted before, right?" "To you it's a figment of the imagination, not reality; but to those you exploit, it is reality." "Then I have to find those people and use them again." Weber leaned forward suddenly, holding his glass tightly with both hands, "He's trying to force me out, Alexander! Since 'Jackal' wants me to have a showdown , I have to show my cards.” "Shut up you," Conklin said angrily, "what you're saying is exaggeration. It's like being in one of the lowest cowboy westerns. You show yourself and Mary's going to be a widow, kid." We're all fatherless too. That's the reality, David." "You're wrong," Weber stared at the glass and shook his head. "He's chasing me, so I have to chase him; he's going to lure me out, so I have to lure him out first. This is the only way, only That's how we get him out of our lives. At the end of the day, it's Carlos vs. Bourne. We're back thirteen years ago. 'Alpha, Bravo, Cain, Delta... Cain is Carlos, Delta is Cain. '" "That's a crazy codename in Paris thirteen years ago!" Conklin said, "Delta of the Medusa, he was a great challenge to the Jackal. But this is not Paris, and it is already Thirteen Years later!" "Five years from now will be eighteen years, and five years from now will be twenty-three years. What on earth do you want me to do? Let the ghost of that bastard hang over my family, and my wife and children will tremble every time I go out , live in fear forever in this life?...Shut up, you field guy! You know this is not the way. Those analysts can draw up dozens of action plans, and we start from five or six plans. Use it piecemeal and thank them; but when it comes time to see the real story, it's entirely between 'The Jackal' and me...and I have the advantage. You're on my side." Conklin blinked and swallowed, "David, I'm flattered by your words, maybe it's a bit too exaggerated. I might be better in the environment I adapt to, but it's thousands of kilometers away from Washington. Washington It always kind of suffocates me." "It's not like five years ago when you sent me on the plane to Hong Kong. You had already figured out the situation." "It was relatively simple at the time. It was just a third-bad operation planned by Washington. It was as disgusting as rotten flounder, and the stinky smell went straight into my nostrils. It's different now. This is Carlos." "That's exactly what I'm saying, Alexander. It's really Carlos, not some mysterious figure on the other end of the line that neither of us knows. We're dealing with a known number, a man with a pattern—" "Is there a rule to follow?" Conklin interrupted him, frowning, "You're talking crazy too. How can there be a rule to follow?" "He's a hunter, and he'll follow the trail." "He would put his very sophisticated nose up to sniff and then examine the footprints with a microscope." "Then we have to make it look like the real one, right?" "I prefer the simple and sure way. How would you like to do it?" "Saint Alexander wrote in his Gospel: To attract a target, you must leave a bait in the trap that is basically true, even dangerously true." "That passage in the Gospel emphasizes that the target carries a microscope. I think I just mentioned that. What does it matter?" "Medusa," Weber said calmly, "I want to use Medusa as bait." "Now you're completely insane," Conklin replied, louder than Webb, "that name is as untouchable as 'Jason Bourne'—frankly, it's more than that. " "There's a lot of rumors, Alexandria, stories all over Southeast Asia. They spread like wildfire, from the South China Sea to Kowloon and Hong Kong. Most of the bastards hid in those two places with money. Medu Sha is not exactly a secretive evil organization as you might imagine." "Rumours, yes; stories, there must be," interjected the retired intelligence officer, "During the so-called 'service' period of those beasts, none of them put guns or knives to other people's heads and killed a dozen or two Ten, maybe two hundred targets? Nine times out of ten they were killers and thieves, a sui generis assassination squad. Peter Holland said he encountered this during his time with the SEALs in Operation North. Help people, there is no guy he doesn't want to abolish." "But without them, the American casualties in Vietnam would have been more than 58,000, but more than 60,000. Be fair to these beasts, Alexander. They know every inch of the land there, and the Mekong Delta We know every patch of the jungle. All the intelligence gathered by all the reconnaissance teams sent out from Saigon is not as useful as what they—we—are sending back.” "David, I want to say this: The United States government must have nothing to do with Medusa. Our involvement leaves no record, let alone recognition; even the name Medusa itself must be as Strict secrecy. There is no statute of limitations for war crimes. Officially, the Medusa is a private organization of violent misfits who want to bring Southeast Asia down again, as they have known The depravity of the state and take advantage of it. If anyone finds out that Washington is Medusa's backer, the reputation of some big names in the White House and State Department will be ruined. Although they were nothing more than a bunch of hotheads in Saigon Command twenty years ago The low-level staff of the people, but these big men are now brokers of power transactions all over the world... We can accept questionable tactics in wartime; individuals, and transferred millions of dollars in total, both of which were paid for by unwitting taxpayers. The Medusa is like those still-unpublished files—many of our financial titans back then How the Nazis were funded is well remembered in the files. We never want certain things to leak out of the dark, and Medusa is one of them." Weber leaned back in his chair again—but now he was a little nervous, staring straight at his old friend who had once been his sworn enemy, "If my residual memory is correct, Bourne was born in Medusa. " "That's a perfectly plausible explanation, and an excellent cover," Conklin said, looking at Webb. "When we got back to the low level, we 'discovered' Bourne as a paranoid Tasmanian adventurer." , he disappeared in the jungles of North Vietnam. The Bourne file was so creatively done that there was no connection to Washington at all." "But it's all a lie, isn't it, Alexander? It used to have something to do with Washington, and it still does, and the 'Jackal' knows that now. When he found you and Morris in Hong Kong Know—he found your names in the ruins of that safehouse on Victoria Peak, where, according to legend, Jason Bourne was killed. His courier found you at the Smithsonian last night, and— You said it yourself - 'our people are too bright', so his idea was confirmed. He finally realized that everything he believed in for thirteen years was the truth. Medusa's delta is Jason Bourne, and Jason Bourne was created by American intelligence — this man is alive. He's alive, in hiding, and under government protection." Conklin slammed his fist on the armrest of the chair. "How did he find us, me? Everything, everything is covered up. It's McAllister and I watching!" "I can think of several ways for the news to leak, but this issue can be put aside for now, we don't have time to deal with it now. We must act based on a situation we have - Alexander, Carlos knows the Medusa organization. " "What? How does this work?" "If Bourne was picked out by Medusa, then our covert operation is naturally cooperating with this organization—cooperating with this group of people. If not, how can the conversion between real and fake Bourne be possible? What the 'Jackal' doesn't know, or haven't thought about yet, is that our government - especially some people in the government - will do whatever it takes to protect the secret of Medusa. As you say, once the secret Leak, some very important people in the White House and State Department may suffer, these brokers who deal in power all over the world - I think you use that name - they will have many ugly brands on their foreheads .” "Suddenly, a few Waldheim-style characters appeared in our country." Conklin nodded, frowned and looked at the ground, obviously racking his brains. "NuyDapRanh." Weber's voice was as low as a whisper.Hearing these oriental words, Conklin suddenly raised his eyes to look at Weber again, "This is the key point, isn't it?" Weber continued, "NuyDapRanh—the Gorgon." "You remember." "I just remembered this morning," Jason Bourne replied, his eyes were cold. "After Mary and the children took off, the plane just entered the fog over Boston Harbor, and I seemed to suddenly return. Got there. It was another plane, another time, voice crackling over radio static. 'Gorgon, Gorgon. Operation canceled...Gorgon, get it? Cancel!' I responded by turning the damn thing off and looking around at the people in the cabin who looked like they were about to be torn apart by the turbulence. I looked at everyone and seemed to think: Will this one come back alive? What about that one? Myself? If we don't come back, how will we die?... Then I saw two people roll up their sleeves and compare the ugly little patch on their forearms tattoos, the ugly markings fascinated them—” "NuyDapRanh," Conklin said flatly, "it's a woman's face, with hair made of snakes. Gorgon. You won't let them do this tattoo for you—" "I've never thought of it as a badge of honor," Weberburn interrupted with a wink. "In fact, I think it's the exact opposite." "At first it was just for identification, not for any standard of honor or notoriety, or cover. It was a detailed tattoo on the inside of the forearm, in patterns and colors that only one master in Saigon could have done. Others No one can copy it." "The old man earned a lot of money in those years, and his craftsmanship is unique." "Every officer in Saigon Command who has anything to do with Medusa has one of those tattoos. They're like a bunch of kids who found a 'code ring' in an oatmeal box and went crazy with joy." "Alexander, they're not kids. They're crazy, no doubt about that, but they're not kids. They've got a nasty virus called irresponsibility, and there's a whole lot of hundreds of people out of the ubiquitous Saigon command." Millionaire. Those real kids are dying and maiming in the jungles of Vietnam, while there are a lot of dudes in crisply pressed khaki uniforms in the South sending personal couriers to Switzerland, or Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich banks." "Careful, David. You may be talking about a big man in our government." "Who are they?" Weber asked calmly, holding the cup in front of him. "I knew guys who were doing all kinds of bad things back then, and after Saigon fell I tried to screw them up. But I stopped working in the field a few years before Saigon fell, and people didn't talk much about Gorgon during that time. " "You must know something, though." "Of course, but there's nothing solid, no evidence at all. Just possibilities, based on the way they live, properties they shouldn't own, places they can't afford; People who are in important positions, or have been in important positions, can naturally get high salaries, but from the perspective of their background, they are not qualified to sit in those positions at all.” "You're talking about a network," Weber said.His voice was tense now, and it was Jason Bourne's. "If it's a network, it's very well organized," Conklin agreed, "and very exclusive." "You make a list, Alexander." "Such a list will be full of loopholes." “Then limit yourself to the big guys in our government that have ties to the Saigon Command. Maybe expand that to include guys who own real estate they shouldn’t have, and guys who have high-paying jobs in private companies that don’t really Unqualified people." "I repeat, such a list is probably useless." "Based on your intuition, it won't be useless." "David, what does all this have to do with Carlos?" "Partially true as bait, Alexander. Dangerously true, I admit; but simple and reliable, and irresistible to the Jackal." The ex-intelligence officer glared at his friend dumbfounded, "Why can't you resist?" "It's up to you to get creative. If you come up with fifteen or twenty names, there's bound to be three or four of them that we can verify somehow. Once those people are identified, we can put pressure on them, use various methods to coerce them, and send the same basic message: There is a former member of the Medusa who has gone crazy; Heads off, and with the ammunition in hand—names, crimes, secret Swiss bank account locations, literally a whole Caesar salad all in one, and the word out—to the saint we know and respect As far as old Alexander is concerned, this step will test his talents—said there was someone more eager to catch this disaffected and dangerous traitor than they were." "Ilich Ramirez Sanchez," Conklin continued softly, "Carlos the Jackal. The next thing is also impossible: somehow—how it happened only God knows—the news has spread, which requires a meeting between the two parties who are interested. The so-called interest means that they are interested in a joint assassination. Among the two parties, the first party is more sensitive due to its high official position, and cannot Too ostentatious to participate in the assassination, am I right?" "Basically that's it, but there's one more thing: These guys with the power in Washington can find out who the target is and where they're going. They can't wait to get him dead." "Naturally," Conklin said, nodding incredulously. "They just wave their wand, and all the restrictions on the top-secret files will be lifted, and the information will be sent to them." "That's right," Weber said in a deep voice, "no matter who goes to contact Carlos' messenger, this person must be in a very high status, and his identity must be genuine, and the 'Jackal' will definitely accept him—or they Don't let Carlos have any doubts; once these people come forward, Carlos will no longer suspect that this is a trap." "Do you still want me to make rosebuds bloom in a January snowstorm in Montana?" "Basically, all of this has to be done within a day or two, while Carlos is still aching about the Smithsonian." "It can't be done! . . . Well, hell, I'll try. I'm going to set up an operations center here and have Langley deliver what I need. 'Forty-zero' level of secrecy, that's Of course... whoever is staying at the Mayflower Hotel, the thought of letting this guy slip away makes me hate it." "Maybe the guy can't get away," Weber said. "Whoever's trying to connect isn't going to give up so quickly. It's not 'Jackal' style to leave such an obvious hole." "'Jackal'? Carlos himself, you think?" "Not him, of course, but someone on his paycheck. It would be someone out of the ordinary - the kind we wouldn't believe if he hung a sign around his neck with the name 'Jackal' on it. He's under the Jackal." "Could it be Chinese?" "Maybe. He might finish the play, maybe he won't. He's as precise as geometry; there's logic to everything he does, even if the logic doesn't seem to make sense." "Your words remind me of a man from before, who never existed." "He existed, Alexander. He did exist. Now he's back." Alexander Conklin looked towards the apartment door, and David Webb's words suddenly reminded him of another incident. "Where's your suitcase?" he asked. "Have you brought your clothes?" "I didn't bring it, and when I got other clothes, I threw the outfit in the ditch in Washington. But I had to see another old friend first. It was also a slum Curious genius." "Let me guess," said the retired agent, "it's an old black man named Cactus, he's got a damn name, and he's a genius at forging documents, like passports, driver's licenses, credit cards, whatever. " "Almost, it's him." "The CIA can do all these things." "But not as well as he did, and the bureau was too procrastinating. I didn't want to leave anything behind, not even with '40'-level secrecy. This was a solo operation." "Okay. Then what?" "You've got to get to work, field man. I hope you've got a lot of people in this city panicking before tomorrow morning." "Tomorrow morning...it's impossible!" "You can quickly remember how to do things. It's like having sex and riding a bicycle. Once you learn it, you can't forget it." "What about you? What are you going to do?" "After looking for Cactus, I will open a room at the Mayflower Hotel." Jason Bourne replied.Hotel magnate Culver Parnell, from Atlanta, had reigned supreme in the hotel industry for two decades and had been named chief of protocol at the White House.Now he angrily hung up the phone in the office, and at the same time scribbled a sixth sentence of swear words on the legal pad.With the election and the big shift of the White House staff, he took over the post of chief of protocol in the previous administration-the woman came from a prominent background, but she had no idea what political conflicts might arise in the invitation list issued by 1600. known.Then he encountered another extremely annoying thing: he found out that his chief assistant was at war with him.The assistant was also a middle-aged woman from some pompous Eastern University.To make matters worse, she's a popular socialite in Washington; her salary goes to a bumbling dance club where people dance around in their underwear all day long and don't know when they're not. What a virtue. "Damn it!" Parnell cursed angrily, smoothing his grizzled hair at the temples with his hands.He picked up the receiver and dialed four numbers on the phone. "Get me that redhead, Sweetie," he draws out, exaggerating his already distinct Georgia accent. "Okay, sir," the female secretary said happily, "he's talking to someone else, but I'll connect you in. Please wait a moment, Mr. Parnell." "Good girl, you are the cutest among all the beauties." "Oh my God, that's very kind of you! Just a moment, please." Tried and tested, Culver thought.The soft southern accent, like the fragrant magnolia, is far more effective than the dry oak bark of the northerners.That stinky bitch of the chief assistant should really learn a lesson from her superiors from the South; her goddamn teeth didn't budge when she spoke, as if they had been glued together by a Yankee dentist. "Is that you, Culver?" the redhead's voice over the phone interrupted Parnell's thoughts.He was writing the seventh swear word on the legal pad. "You're bloody right, man, we're in trouble! That bitch who deserved to be stewed is at it again. The reception on the twenty-fifth, I put a few of our guys on Wall Street Got to a table, the one where the new French ambassador was sitting, and she ended up pushing them out and replacing them with some ballerina jerks—she said she and the First Lady were very interested in that. Fuck that shit! The money guys on Wall Street have loads of French money to make, and this meal at the White House reception will get them to the top. Those guys just have to sit at the ambassador's table, Europe Every Frenchie on the Exchange will think they have a hand in Washington." "Come on, Culver," interrupted the redhead anxiously, "we've got a bigger problem, and I don't know what it is yet." "What happened?" "When we were in Saigon, did you ever hear of a 'Gorgon' thing, or a person?" "I've heard a lot about Snake Eyes," Culver Parnell chuckled, "but I've never heard of Gorgon. What's the matter?" "The guy I was talking to just now - he said he'd call back in five minutes - seemed to be threatening me. Culver, I meant serious threats! He mentioned Saigon, implying that something terrible happened back then , and repeated the name of the Gorgon several times, as if I should quickly find a place to hide." "Let me deal with the bastard!" Parnell cut him off, snarling, "I know what that bastard is talking about! This must have been done by my chief assistant, ignorant bitch-- mother Yes, she's the Gorgon! Give that slug my number and tell him I know what he's up to!" "Can you tell me what's going on, Culver?" "Fuck it, redhead, you were there back then... Yes, we did a few games, even opened a few small casinos, and some of the rough guys even took off a few clothes ; but who hasn't done this kind of thing as a soldier? Remember that when Jesus was crucified, the Roman soldiers played dice to gamble on Jesus' clothes!... We just played a little bigger, and maybe we did it by the way A few sluts, they used to hook up with people on the street... The red-haired, so-called assistant with her ass up in the sky thought she caught my pigtail—that's why she used you to make trouble, because Y'all know we're buddies...Tell that disgusting bastard to call me himself and I'm going to get rid of him with that bitch! Dude, she's doing it wrong! My guys on Wall Street Going to the reception and all her sissies need to get out!" "Okay, Culver, then I'll ask him to call you." The redhead said and hung up the phone.Another title for this person is the Vice President of the United States. Four minutes later the bell rang, and the person on the other end spat out a few words to Culver Parnell: "Gorgon, Culver, we're all in trouble now!" "Come on, you sneaky bastard, listen to me! I'll tell you who's in trouble! She's not a woman at all, she's a bitch! Thirty or forty guys she's fucked are all eggless Egg guy, they probably threw snake eye twos a lot of times in Saigon and lost the money she advertised for someone to win, but no one cared about that shit back then, and it doesn't happen now Who cares. Not to mention the ex-Marine Captain sitting in the Oval Office right now who likes to play a game of poker every now and then. And I'm telling you, you eggless bastard, Those brave soldiers who fought and fought without a word of thanks, they just wanted to relax a little; if the colonel finds out that she wants to continue to discredit their reputation—” In Vienna, Virginia, Alexander Conklin dropped the receiver.Miss one, miss two... He had never heard of Culver Parnell before. In the steamy bathroom, Federal Trade Commission Chairman Albert Ambrewster heard his wife screaming, swearing as he turned off the shower, "Mamie, what the hell is going on? Do I even have to listen to a shower?" Are you going to die?" “阿尔伯特，可能是白宫打来的！你知道那帮人讲话时的样子，压低了嗓门悄悄说话，还总说是急事。” “该死！”主席大吼一声拉开玻璃门，光着身子走到墙上的电话跟前，“我是安布鲁斯特。怎么回事？” “出现了一个危急情况，需要你马上关注。” “你是1600号那边吗？” “不是。我们希望这件事永远不要捅到白宫上去。” “那你他妈的是谁？” “一个忧心忡忡的人，你马上也会跟我一样。都过了这么多年——哦，天哪！” “忧心什么？你在说什么啊？” “是蛇发女，主席先生。” “哦，我的天！”安布鲁斯特不由自主地发出一声低低的惊呼。他马上恢复了自制，不过已经太晚了。命中一。“我不知道你在说什么……蛇什么来着？从来没听说过。” “那你现在听好了，梅杜莎先生。有人掌握了全部情况，所有的一切。日期、军用物资的转移、日内瓦和苏黎世的银行——甚至包括好几个来自西贡的信使的名字——更糟糕的是……天哪，再没有比这更糟的了！还有其他人的名字——那些据称在战斗中失踪的人员，其实根本就没参加过战斗……检察总长办公室派出的八人调查小组。所有的一切。” “你说的我根本就不明白！什么莫名其妙的东西！” “你也在名单上，主席先生。那个人肯定是花了十几年的工夫才搞清楚情况，现在他想为多年来的辛苦讨回报酬，否则就会把事情捅出去——所有的事，所有的一切。” “是谁？天啊，这人是谁？” “我们就快查出来了。我们只知道他在政府保护之下过了十多年，这种状况下谁也别想发财。他肯定是被剔除出了西贡的行动，现在他想把这段失去的时间补回来。保持警惕。我们再和你联络。”咔嗒一声，电话挂断了。 尽管热烘烘的浴室里雾气蒸腾，光着身子的阿尔伯特·安布鲁斯特还是浑身发抖，脸上冷汗直流。他挂上电话，眼神不由自主地游移到前臂内侧那一小块难看的文身上。 弗吉尼亚州维也纳那边，亚历山大·康克林看着电话机。 命中一。 五角大楼负责采办事务的诺曼·斯韦恩将军从发球区往后退了退，对自己在平道上笔直击出的一杆长球感到很满意。高尔夫球会滚到一个最为理想的位置上，然后就可以用五号铁头球杆打出漂亮的一击，把球送上十七洞的果岭。“这下应该成了。”他转过头，对一起打高尔夫的球友说。 “肯定没问题，诺曼，”卡尔柯科技公司年纪轻轻的高级副总裁回答说，“今天下午你可把我打惨了。到最后我恐怕得输给你三百块。一个洞二十，我到现在才打完第四洞。” “你的曲球不太行啊，小伙子。可得好好练练。” “你说的一点儿不错，诺曼。”这位在卡尔柯公司负责营销的总裁一边走向发球区一边说。突然，球场上响起了高尔夫球车刺耳的喇叭声，一辆三轮球车从十六洞的平道那边翻过山坡，以最快速度开了过来。“是你的司机，将军。”武器推销商说道。他马上意识到自己用了球友的正式称呼，心里头直后悔。 “是啊。奇怪，我打高尔夫的时候他从来不会打扰。”斯韦恩朝快速开来的球车走去，在发球区十米开外的地方迎上了车子。“怎么回事？”他问那个身材魁梧、衣服上别着勋章的中年军士长。此人给他开车已经有十五年多了。 “我觉得这是件很恶心的破事。”军士握紧方向盘，颇为无礼地答道。 “你这话怎么这么无礼——” “打电话的那个杂种就是这副德性。当时我只好到里头去接，用的是付费电话。我告诉他，你玩高尔夫的时候我不会去打搅你；他说我要是知道好歹，最好就他妈的照办。自然，我问了他是什么人、什么军衔，还有那一整套鬼问题，但他打断了我的话，好像都吓得魂不附体了。'你就告诉将军，我打电话是要跟他说西贡的事，还有大约二十年前游走在那座城市里的一些爬行动物。'这是他的原话——” “我的老天！”斯韦恩的喊声打断了军士的话，“蛇……” “他说半个小时之后再打过来——这会儿已经过了十八分钟。上车，诺曼。我跟这事儿也有关系，还记得吧？” 不知所措的将军惊魂不定地嘟囔着说：“我……我得找些借口。我不能就这么走，就这么坐车走了。” “动作快点。还有，诺曼，你穿的是件短袖衫，你这个该死的蠢货！把胳膊弯过来。” 诺曼·斯韦恩两眼睁得老大，瞪着自己皮肤上那块小小的文身。他马上照着英军准将的架势蜷起胳膊抱在胸前，晃晃悠悠地走回发球区，强装出一副轻松的样子来。“真该死，军队在召唤我了，小伙子。” “啊呀，确实是该死，诺曼。不过我还得把输的钱给你。这可是一定要给的。” 神情恍惚的将军从球友手里接过赢来的钱，点都没点，也没意识到这叠钞票比他实际赢的钱多出了好几百。斯韦恩一边不知所云地向球友道谢，一边快步走回高尔夫球车那里，爬上车坐到自己的军士长旁边。 “小当兵的，叫你见识见识我的曲球。”卖武器的副总裁一边冲着发球区自言自语一边挥起球杆，一下子就把布满凹坑的小白球击过了平道，把将军的球远远甩在后面，落地的位置也要好得多。“我打的球价值四亿美元，你这个扛着将星的混蛋。” 命中二。 “我的天，你到底在说什么啊？”参议员笑着对电话说，“或许我应该说，阿尔伯特·安布鲁斯特想搞什么名堂？新法案的事他又用不着我来支持；况且如果他真的需要我支持，我还不愿意帮他呢。他在西贡的时候就是个笨蛋，现在还是；不过，他已经拿到多数票了。” “参议员，我们说的可不是选票的事。是蛇发女！” “在西贡，我所知道的蛇只有阿尔伯特这样的一帮笨蛋，他们在市里四处横行，装出一副无所不知的样子来，其实谁心里都没有数……你他妈的到底是什么人？” 在弗吉尼亚州的维也纳，亚历山大·康克林放下了电话。 脱靶三。 驻英国大使菲利普·阿特金森在伦敦接起了电话。他估计，这个不知其名、自称“华府信使”的来电者是在按照国务院一项高度机密的指令行事。阿特金森也自动照着这条指令的要求，啪地打开了他那台很少使用的扰频器。这台机器能在英国情报部门截获的通话中制造出一阵阵静电噪讯。这样一来，过后伦敦康诺特酒吧里的诸位好友如果问他华盛顿有什么新闻，他就能面带微笑地坦然以对。他知道，这帮好朋友里头总有哪个跟军情五处“沾亲带故”。 “是特区信使吗？” “大使先生，我估计没人能监听我们吧。”华盛顿那头的人开口了，他的声音低低的，显得很紧张。 “你估计得不错，除非他们发明出了新型的'埃尼格玛'密码机。显然这不大可能。” “那就好……我想请你回想一下西贡，还有那个谁都不会提起的行动——” “你是谁？”坐在椅子上的阿特金森猛地向前一倾，打断了他。 “那个组织里的人从来都不用名字，大使先生。我们对自己的信仰也不太声张，对吧？” “该死，你到底是谁？我认识你吗？” “你怎么会认识我呢，菲利普。不过我的声音你竟然没听出来，这可让我有点意外。” 菲利普·阿特金森睁大眼睛，飞快地扫视着自己的办公室。他其实什么也没看见，只是在努力回想；他竭力思索着，要把这个声音和面孔联系起来。“是你吗，杰克？你放心，我们现在开着扰频器呢！” “还差一点儿，菲利普——” “第六舰队，杰克。把莫尔斯电码反过来读就是了。后来的事情可就大了；大了许多。是你，对吗？” “咱们姑且说可能是吧，但这一点无关紧要。我想说的是，咱们碰上糟糕的天气了，非常糟糕——” “真的是你！” “闭嘴，你听着就是了。有一艘该死的护卫舰挣脱了锚链四处乱闯，撞上了太多的暗礁。” “杰克，我是岸上的人，不是海军。你说的话我听不懂。” “当年在西贡的时候，肯定有哪个擦甲板的混蛋在行动中被撇开了。据我了解的情况，他不知因为什么事被保护了起来，现在把前因后果全想明白了。他掌握了全部情况，菲利普。所有的一切。” "My goodness!" “他准备发起——” "Stop him!" “这就是问题所在。他的身份我们还不能确定。兰利那边对整件事守得很紧。” “天哪，老兄，你坐在那个位置上，完全可以下条命令让他们闪开！就说那是国防部一份始终没有完成的文件，已经失效了——说它是为了散布虚假情报而编写的！说那里面全都是假话！” “这么干可能会招来一轮舰炮齐射——” “你有没有给布鲁塞尔那边的吉米·T打电话？”大使插话说，“他和兰利最高层的关系很铁。” “现在这个时候，我还不想采取任何进一步的行动。我得先把消息送出去才行。” “随便你怎么说，杰克。这事儿全听你的。” “菲利普，把你的升降索拉紧点。” “如果你这话的意思是让我闭紧嘴巴，那你完全不用担心！”菲利普·阿特金森说。他弯起胳膊，心想伦敦不知有谁能去掉他前臂上那块难看的文身。 在大西洋对岸弗吉尼亚州的维也纳，亚历山大·康克林挂断电话往椅背上一靠，只觉得胆战心惊。他凭着直觉行事，在二十多年的外勤工作中一向如此：从话中推断出其他的话，从说法中引出别的说法，凭空捕捉住微妙的言外之意来支持假设，甚至得出结论。这是一盘全靠随机应变的棋局，他知道自己是精通此道的专业老手——有时精通得都有些过头。有些事情本来就应该留在黑洞里，它们是深埋在历史之中、从未被人发现的毒瘤。他刚才所了解到的情况，正属于这个范畴。 命中三、命中四、命中五。 菲利普·阿特金森，驻英国大使。詹姆斯·蒂加登，北约总司令。乔纳森·“杰克”·伯顿，第六舰队前任司令，现为参谋长联席会议主席。 蛇发女。Medusa.

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Notes: 中的译法保持一致，本书中的“Delta”意译为“三角洲”，“Cain”译为“伯恩”。