Chapter 9 chapter eight

Jason Bourne, Jackal's brother. "John! John, don't do this!" His sister's voice rushed into his ears.She put one arm around his head, stretched the other arm over it, and with her free hand grabbed his hair so tightly that it nearly pulled it out. "Can you hear me? We're all right, John! The kids are in another cottage—we're all right!" The faces above and around him slowly came into focus.The two old men were there, one from Boston and the other from Paris. "It's them!" John yelled and got up abruptly, but was stopped by Mary who jumped on top of him. "I'm going to kill these two bastards!"

"Don't!" My sister yelled and held him down. A black guard also came to help and put his strong hands on her brother's shoulders. "At this time, they are our two best friends." "You don't know who they are!" John yelled, trying to break free. "We know." Mary interrupted him.She lowered her voice and put her mouth next to his ear, "Knows a lot: they can lead us to the Jackal—" "They work for jackals!" "One was," said the sister, "and the other never heard of Carlos." "You don't understand!" whispered John. "They're the old men—the 'Old Men of Paris', an army of jackals! Conklin contacted me in Plymouth and explained the situation...they're killers!"

"And you've got to hear me, one of them was a killer, but he's not; he doesn't have any reason to kill anymore. The other... well, the other one was a mistake, a stupid and shameless mistake, but that's all That's all; we really have to thank God for the mistake—thank him." "This is simply ridiculous...!" "It's ridiculous," said Mary, letting go of his hair and the arms that were around his neck; she nodded to the guard, motioning for him to help his brother to his feet, "Come on, John, we have something to do." talk."

The storm died down.Like a violent and unwelcome intruder, it hastily fled in the night, leaving only a mess after raging.On the eastern horizon was the morning light, and the blue outer islands of Monsetra appeared through the mist.The first boats to leave the port looked dejected, and cautiously sailed slowly to the waters where they often go fishing, because only with a day's catch can they have a day's food and clothing.On the balcony of an unoccupied villa, Marie, her brother, and two old men sat around a table.They had been talking over coffee for the better part of an hour; every dreadful detail was dealt with coolly and dispassionately.The aging phony hero of France was assured that his woman's affairs would be taken care of once telephone service was restored on the Big Island.If possible, he would like to have her buried on the island; she would understand.There was nothing left for her in France, so why go back and be humiliated in a gaudy and cheap tomb?If possible--

"Certainly," said John St. James, "my sister lives because of you." "Young man, she might be dead because of me." "Will you kill me?" Mary asked, looking at the French old man. "Of course not. I had already seen what Carlos had done for me and my woman. It was he who broke the contract, not me." "What about before?" "You mean before I saw the syringe and realized the obvious?" "yes." "It's hard to answer; a contract is a contract after all. My woman is dead, though; she died partly because she sensed that I was being asked to do a terrible thing. If I continue to make this To keep doing it would be to make her death worthless to some extent, don't you understand? But then again, even if she is dead, I can't say that the lord is worthless— —He has made us relatively happy for many years, and this kind of life would not be possible without him... I really don’t know. I might think: Your life-to let you die-is I'm in debt to him, but there's absolutely nothing I can do to the kids...let alone the rest."

"The rest?" St. James asked. "You'd better not ask." "I think you're going to kill me," said Mary. "I told you, I really don't know. It's nothing personal. You're not alone to me, you're just a business to do... But, as I said, My woman is gone and my days are numbered as an old man. Maybe see the look in your eyes, or hear you begging me to let the kids go - who knows, I might turn my guns on Myself. But then again, I probably wouldn't do that either." "My God, you are such a killer." The younger brother said softly.

"I'm a man of many faces, sir. I don't ask for forgiveness in this world; the other world is another matter. There will always be circumstances—" "French logic," said Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine, a former judge on the First Circuit in Boston.He absently put his hand under his burnt white hair and touched the red, sore skin on the back of his neck. "Thank God, I never have to argue in court; there is no real right and wrong between the two sides of the trial." The lawyer whose license was revoked chuckled, "The man in front of you is a felon. He received a fair trial and was justly convicted. The only excuse I have for my crime is I got caught, but many others didn't and are still at large."

"Mr. Judge, perhaps we are really related." "My career, sir, is closer to that of St. Thomas Aquinas—" "Blackmail." Mary interrupted him. "No, what I'm accused of is wrongdoing. Get paid, rule in someone's favour, stuff like that . . . My God, we're as pure as fangs in Boston! It's the custom in New York: Seth Give some money to the bailiff, everyone has something to spend." "I'm not talking about Boston, I'm talking about why you're here. You're trying to blackmail." "You're oversimplifying a bit, but you're basically right. I told you that the guy who paid me to track you down paid me a good deal of extra money not to leak information. Because of these situation, and I don't have any urgent business to attend to, I think it's logical to keep going. Anyway, since what I know about the situation has made so much money, I don't know if I can make more money if I learn more. how much."

"Are you French logic, sir?" put in the Frenchman. "Just a simple inquiry process." The former judge replied.He glanced at Jean-Pierre, and then at Marie, "But, my dear, I may be hiding something from you—it was very useful in my negotiations with that client." Big help. Simply put, the government is hiding and protecting your identities. This favorable factor can scare a man of great power and influence." "I need to know his name," said Mary. "Then I shall be protected too," replied Prefontaine immediately. "no problem--"

"Perhaps there must be something else," went on the old disbarred lawyer, "my client doesn't know I'm here, doesn't know what's going on here; if I describe my experience and what I saw , all this would fuel his generosity. He would probably go mad with fright at the thought of being involved in such matters. And since I was nearly killed by that Germanic Amazon, I do deserve more." "According to this, sir, shouldn't I be rewarded for saving your life?" "If I have anything of value--I don't mean my legal expertise, which is at your disposal--I'd be more than happy to share it with you. If anyone gives me anything, cousin, the rule remains the same .”

"Thank you very much, cousin." "No problem, my friend, but don't let those Irish nuns who collect donations hear." "You don't look like a poor man, Judge," said John St. James. "Then, appearances can be deceiving, like the long-forgotten title of 'Judge' you used so generously just now... I should add that I can't ask too much, because I'm just a loner. Don, and my creature comforts don't have to be luxurious." "So your woman is gone?" "This has nothing to do with you, but I'll tell you anyway: My wife left me twenty-nine years ago, and my thirty-eight-year-old son, a successful Wall Street lawyer, is with her last name; and whenever curious people asked, he said he never saw his father. I haven't seen him since he was ten; it doesn't do him any good, you know." "It's very sad." "Sorry, cousin. That kid got his brain from me, not from the stupid woman who gave birth to him... But we're getting farther. My pure-blood French cousin is working with you, and he's He has his reasons—obviously based on treachery. I have as good a reason as he to want to help you, but I have to think of myself too. My new old friend can go back to Paris and live on. The rest of his days, and I have nowhere else to go but Boston, and the few opportunities I've had to make ends meet over the years. So those deep motivations that make me reach out must take a backseat as well. Bit. Now that I know all this, I don't think I'll survive five minutes on the streets of Boston." "Breakthrough," said John St. James, staring at Prefontaine, "I'm sorry, Judge, we don't need you." "What?" Mary leaned forward in her chair. "Come on, brother. Whoever can help now, we need it!" "His case is different. We know who hired him." "Really?" "Conklin knew; he said it was a 'breakthrough.' He told me that the man who tracked down you and the kids on the island used a judge to find you." Brother nodded to the Bostonians across the table , "That's him. That's why I rushed back and wrecked a $100,000 boat. Conklin knows who his clients are." Prefontaine glanced again at the old Frenchman. "Monsieur Hero, it's time to say 'very sad.' "Not necessarily," interrupted Mary, "you're a lawyer, so I shouldn't have to tell you that. Verification is cooperation. We might need you to tell someone in Washington everything you know. " "Certification, my dear, can be obtained by subpoena. Sworn testimony in court, I can vouch for that personally and professionally." "We're not going to court. Never." "Oh I see." "You can't understand, Judge, you can't understand at this point. But you will be paid handsomely if you promise to help us... You just said that you had good reasons for wanting to help, and with your Compared with my own well-being, these reasons must be placed second—" "Honey, you don't happen to be a lawyer, do you?" "No, I'm an economist." "Holy Mother, this is even more powerful... What's wrong with my reason?" "Are they related to your client? The guy who hired you to track us down?" "Related. His majestic mask—as majestic as Caesar Augustus—should be smashed to pieces. He's a whore except for that cunning mind. He's had The future—bigger than I'd told him to be—yet he left everything to chase flashy personal goals." "Mary, what the hell is he talking about?" "I think it's a very influential or very powerful figure, but neither of these things is worthy of this person. Our convicted felon is more serious than personal morality." "Is this the economist talking?" asked Prefontaine.He absently touched the blistered flesh on his neck again, "The economist was thinking about her last inaccurate forecast. That forecast caused people on the stock exchange to make ill-timed trades, which brought Although many people can afford the losses that come, most people go bankrupt because of it?" "My opinions have never been that important, but you're right about one thing: I was thinking of many other economists whose forecasts are extremely important; because they never take risks, they only theoretically analyze. That kind of Your position is safe...Judge, you are not in a safe position. You may need our protection. How would you like it?" "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! How cruel you are—" "I must," said Mary, her eyes fixed on the old man from Boston, "I want you to join us, but I won't beg; I'll give you nothing, just go back to the streets of Boston. " "Are you sure you're not a lawyer—you're not a royal minister who specializes in beheadings?" "It's up to you to choose, just tell me the answer." "Who can tell me what the hell is going on?!" shouted John St. James. "Your sister," replied Prefontaine, looking softly at Mary, "she has just recruited a fellow. She has made her options as clear as any lawyer can understand; her logic It was inescapable, and she had a lovely face; and her crimson hair, so it was inevitable that I would make such a decision." "what are you talking about……?" "He picked our side, John. You don't ask any more." "What do we want him for?" "Boys, since you don't have to go to court, there are probably a dozen reasons why you need me," replied the judge. "In some cases, it is often not the best choice for a person to volunteer; unless he can be closely guarded, not be taken to court.” "Sister, is it right to do this?" "Brother, there's nothing wrong with doing it, but it's up to Jason—damn—it's up to David!" "No, Mary," said John St. James, looking into his sister's eyes, "it's up to Jason." "Should I know these two names?" Prefontaine asked. "The name 'Jason Bourne' was sprayed on the wall of your villa." "Cousin, I was ordered to write it," said the false hero of France, "and I must." "I don't get it... I don't get the other name either - it's 'Jackal' or 'Carlos', and you asked me if I knew that when I wasn't sure if I was dead or alive. Two names, quite a savage question. I thought 'Jackal' was a fiction." The old man named Jean-Pierre Prefontaine looked at Marie, who nodded. "Carlos 'Jackal' is a legendary figure, but he is not a fiction. He is a professional killer, in his sixties, rumored to be ill, but still filled with a terrible hatred. He is a man There are many faces, many profiles. Some faces are loved by those who love them for their own reasons; others are hated by those who hate them as the embodiment of evil - from their own perspectives Look, these men are right. I am a man who has observed both; but you are right, St. Thomas Aquinas, that my world is very different from yours. " "Thank you very much." "No problem. But the hatred that haunts Carlos is like a growing tumor in his aging brain. There was a man who lured him out; this man played him, embezzled him to kill Carlos was going crazy with rage, and he tried to change the falsified record back to keep his supremacy as the ultimate killer. Card Los lover's death is also because of this person - she is far more than just a lover, she is also his spiritual pillar, his beloved since childhood in Venezuela, and a companion in all his careers. Governments around the world have sent hundreds of Even thousands of people went to deal with the 'Jackal', but only this one person saw his face - saw the real face of the 'Jackal'. The people who did these things were created by the US intelligence agencies ;he was a strange man, and every day of his life for three years was a deadly lie. Carlos will never rest, unless this man can be punished...and killed. This man is Jason Bo Yep." The story told by the French left Prefontaine stunned.He blinked, bent down and leaned towards the table. "Who is Jason Bourne?" he asked. "It's my husband, David Webb," replied Mary. "Oh, my God," said the judge in a low voice, "do you have anything to drink, please?" John St. James cried out, "Ronald!" "Yes, boss!" The guard in the villa agreed.He was the one who put his two powerful hands on the boss's shoulders an hour ago. "Please send us some whiskey and brandy, there should be some in the liquor cabinet." "Come right now, sir." The orange sun in the east suddenly became as bright as a fire, and the sunlight penetrated the fog that had not dissipated on the sea at dawn.The silence at the table was interrupted by the French old man's soft voice with a heavy accent, "I'm really not used to this kind of treatment," he said, looking aimlessly at the Caribbean Sea outside the balcony railing. The surface of the water is getting brighter, "Every time someone gives me an order, I always feel that I should do it." "You don't have to do this again," Mary said softly.She paused and added, "... Jean Pierre." "I think the name is acceptable..." "Why don't you stay here?" "What did you say, ma'am?" "Consider it. Paris is no more safe for you than the streets of Boston are for our judge." The judge she spoke of was lost in his own rambling thoughts when a guard brought bottles of wine, glasses and a bucket of ice to the table.Without the slightest hesitation, Prefontaine reached for the nearest wine bottle and poured himself a large glass. "I have to ask a question or two," he said firmly. "Is that okay?" "Ask," Mary replied. "I'm not sure I can answer, or want to, but you may ask." "The shots, the spray paint on the wall - red paint according to my 'cousin', and the words he was ordered to write -" "Written by order, my friend. So is the bang-bang gun." "why?" "Everything had to be exactly as 'The Jackal' originally intended. The gunshots were an added factor to draw attention to what was going to happen." "why?" "It's a trick we learned in the Resistance - I've never been a 'Jean-Pierre Fontaine', but I've tried a little bit. It's called 'emphasis' , an unmistakable statement that something was done by the underground. Everyone in the vicinity will know." "Why use it here?" "The Jackal's nurse is dead. No one will report to him that his orders have been carried out." "You're French logic. Can't understand it." "It's the judgment of the French. There is no doubt about it." "How did you see that?" "Carlos will be here at noon tomorrow." "Oh my God!" The phone in the villa rang.John St. James sprang up from his chair, but was stopped by his sister; throwing her arms across his face, she got up and rushed through the door into the living room.She picked up the phone. "David?" "It's Alexander," said the breathless voice on the phone. "God, I've been letting the bloody thing redial itself for three hours! Are you all right?" "We're all alive, but we should have died." "Those old men! Old Paris! Has John—" "John is coming, but now they're on our side!" "Who?" "Those two old men—" "Damn it, your words don't make sense at all!" "Makes sense! We've got the situation under control here. How's David?" "I don't know! The line's been cut. It's all a mess! I called the police, they're going there—" "Fuck his cops, Alexander!" Marie yelled. "You gotta get the Army, Marines, and that shitty CIA! They owe us that!" "Jason won't allow it. I can't go against his wishes now." "Well, how would you like to hear this. The Jackal will be here at noon tomorrow!" "Oh my God! I'm going to have to figure out how to get him a jet." "You must do something!" "You don't understand, Marie. The old Medusa is here again—" "You told my husband that Medusa is history! 'Jackal' is not history, he will fly over tomorrow!" "David will be there, you know that." "Yes, I know... because he is Jason Bourne now." "It wasn't thirteen years ago, Bunny Rabbit; and you happen to be thirteen years older too. Go and rest, preferably sleep, or you'll not only make yourself useless, you'll be completely Turn off the light, and lie down on the big plush sofa in the living room. I'll listen to the phone. It ain't going to ring anyway, because nobody calls at four o'clock in the morning." By the time Bourne staggered into the dark living room, Cactus' voice could no longer be heard.His legs were heavy and his eyelids drooped like lead.He flopped down on the sofa and lifted one leg at a time with difficulty, slowly over the cushions; he stared at the ceiling.Rest is the weapon on which the battle is won or lost... Philippe Danjou.Medusa.The screen in his mind went blank, and drowsiness came over him. A sharp and rhythmic siren boomed, deafening and endless, echoing through the empty house like a tornado of sound.Bourne twisted convulsively and jumped up from the sofa.At first he was a little overwhelmed, not quite sure where he was; for one horrible moment...he didn't even know who he was. "Cactus!" he yelled, rushing out of the lavishly decorated living room and into the hallway, "Cactus!" Amidst the louder siren, "Where are you?" No one answered.He ran to the door of the study and grabbed the handle.locked!He took a few steps back, then slammed his shoulder against the door once, twice, three times, each time with all the speed and strength he had.The door cracked, then loosened, and Bourne kicked hard on the middle door panel until it collapsed with a slam; he rushed into the house, and the scene in front of him made the killing machine created by Medusa and other experiences cold. , and at the same time angry.By the light of the lamp, Cactus sprawled at the table in which the murdered general had sat; his blood was a bright red pool on the blotter—he became A dead body... no, not a dead body!With a touch of the right hand, Cactus is still alive! Bourne rushed to the table and held the old man's head lightly. The shrill, all-encompassing siren made it impossible to communicate-if they could communicate at all.Cactus opened his dark eyes, removed his trembling right hand from the ink-blotting table, and tapped the table lightly with his index finger. "What?" Bourne yelled.The hand moved back to the ink-blotting table, knocking more urgently. "Under? Under?" Cactus moved his head, almost imperceptibly, with a nod that he was right. "Under the table!" Bourne yelled, and it dawned on him.Kneeling down to Cactus' right, he reached down to the bottom of the shallow top drawer, then moved to the side—he found it!There is a button there.He gently pushed the heavy roller desk a few centimeters to the left, and then leaned forward to take a closer look.Below the button is a piece of black plastic with the answer engraved in small white letters: Alternate button.alarm. Bourne pressed the button; the cacophony was cut short.The ensuing silence was almost as deafening, and the process of getting used to it was just as terrifying. "How did you get hurt?" Bourne asked. "How long has it been? . . . If you can talk, just whisper it, and don't strain, understand?" "Oh, man Rabbit, you're exaggerating too much," Cactus murmured bitterly. "I'm a black person who drove a cab in Washington, man. I've had it happen to me. It sucks, Boy, I got a shot in the upper chest." "I'll get you a doctor right away—our friend Ivan, by the way—and I'll move you to the floor to see what's hurt, and if you can, tell me what happened." Slowly and carefully Bourne lifted the old man out of the chair and placed him on the rug under the bay window.He tore off Cactus' shirt; the bullet pierced a muscle in his left shoulder.Bourne tore the shirt into strips with quick and quick movements, tied it tightly around his friend's chest, and then wrapped it around his shoulders through the armpits, which was a simple bandage. "It's not a very good thing," Bourne said, "but it'll hold you up for a while. Tell me." "Brother Rabbit, he's still outside!" Cactus coughed weakly and lay down on the floor again, "That guy is holding his mother's .357 Magnum, which is equipped with a muffler; He shot me through the window, smashed the window and climbed in...he—he..." "Relax! Stop talking, it's okay—" "I gotta say. My niggas are still out there, and they ain't got any. He'll kill 'em! . . . How urgent! Look over there." Bourne turned his head in the direction Cactus pointed.A dozen books were pulled out from the bookshelf on the side wall and scattered on the floor.The old man went on, his voice getting weaker and weaker. "He got to the bookshelf and started rummaging like crazy until he found what he was looking for... and then he went to the door with the . I mean... I guess he's coming at you, he saw you through the window into the other room. I'm telling you, I'm trying to move my right knee like I'm running for my life muskrat. Since I spotted that alarm button an hour ago, I knew I had to stop him—" "relax!" "I have to tell you... I can't push it with my hands, he'll see it. But I kneed the goddamn button and the goddamn siren nearly knocked me out of my chair... that bastard The White Devil was terrified. He slammed the door, turned the lock, and slipped away by the window's old path." Cactus threw his neck back, pain and exhaustion overwhelming him, "he's out there, Rabbit brother—” "Stop it!" Bourne ordered.He stood up cautiously, and snapped off the desk lamp, the only light in the room was the faint light coming in from the corridor through the smashed door. "I'll call Alexander right now; he can send a doctor—" Suddenly, there was a shrill cry from somewhere outside, a roar full of shock and pain that Bourne was all too familiar with.So does Cactus.He closed his eyes tightly and whispered, "He killed one. That bastard killed a brother!" "I'm here for Conklin," Bourne said, taking the phone off the table, "and I'll go out and kill him. . . Oh, my God! The line's down—cut!" "That white devil knows this place well." "Me too, Cactus. Try not to make a fuss. I'll get back to you—" There was another cry.It was lower and more sudden, more like a breath than a roar. "God forgive me," the old black person whispered bitterly, and every word came from his heart, "only one brother left—" "If anyone should ask for forgiveness, it's me," Bourne cried, his voice choking in his throat. "Damn it! Cactus, I swear to you, I never thought , never realized it was going to happen.” "Of course you didn't. Brother Rabbit, I've known you for so many years, I've never heard that you begged anyone to take a little risk for you...someone always begs you." "I'm going to drag you over the edge," Bourne cut him off.He tugged on the rug and moved Cactus to the right side of the table so the old man's left hand could reach the spare alarm button. "You just hear something, see something, or feel something, and press the alarm." "Where are you going? I mean, how do you get out?" "From another room, another window." Bourne crawled from the floor to the shattered door, groped through it without a sound, stood up and ran into the living room.At the other end of the room were two French windows that opened onto a courtyard; he remembered seeing white wrought-iron tables and chairs on the lawn to the south of the house when he was with the guards.He unscrewed the handle and slipped out quietly, drew the automatic pistol from his waist, closed the French window on the right, then crouched down and walked towards the bushes on the edge of the lawn.He has to act fast.Not only because there is a third life at stake, and a third unrelated person who may die unnecessarily, but because that killer may be his shortcut to the new Medusa's crimes; "The bait!Gotta divert the killer's attention, lead him somewhere, step into a trap...the signal flare—one of the things he brought with him to Manassas.The two emergency "candles" were installed in the left back pocket of his trousers, each fifteen centimeters long, and the light from them could be seen several kilometers away; if the two signal torches were lit together and placed separately, they would Will light up General Swayne's estate like two searchlights.Throw one into the south driveway, another next to the kennel, and maybe wake up the slumped dogs, confuse them, and irritate them—go for it!hurry up! Bourne crawled across the lawn, his eyes scanning his surroundings, wondering where the stealthy killer was hiding, and how the innocent brothers Cactus had enlisted to help him would elude him.One was a veteran at the craft, the other was completely inexperienced, and Bourne could not let the latter die in vain. There is movement!He found out!There were two soft whooshes on either side of him, the shots from the suppressed pistol.He climbed to the road on the south side of the smooth U-shaped driveway and hurried across the road and into the bushes.He pulled a flare from his pocket, put the gun down, flicked on the lighter, lit the fuse, and tossed the snorting flare to the right.It fell on the road; in seconds, it would spew blinding flames.He turned left under the pines and ran toward the rear of the estate, lighter and second flare in one hand and an automatic in the other.He was now next to the kennel; the signal torch on the road flared up, spewing blue-white flames.He lit the second signal torch and threw it out, only to see it tumbling and flying in an arc thirty to forty meters away, and landed in front of the kennel.He waits. The second signal torch also burst into flames, and two glaring white lights eerily illuminated the houses and courtyards on the south side of the manor.The three dogs whimpered and then tried feebly howling; soon their bewildered and angry barking would be heard.There is a shadow.Against the wall on the west side of the white house--the shadow moved, caught in the light of the signal torch near the kennel and house.The shadow rushed into the concealment of the bushes and crouched, motionless, but looming out of the silhouette of the bushes.Is that the killer, or is it the killer's target—the last "brother" Cactus recruited? ...there's only one way to figure it out.If it's the former, and the guy's a good shot, then it's not exactly the best strategy; however, it's still the fastest way. Bourne jumped up from the low bushes, exposing his whole body to the outside.他大声嚷嚷着，作势要往右边冲；可在最后的一刻，他却使劲把脚跺进松软的泥土里，猛地一拧身朝左奔去。 “往小木屋跑！”他大吼。他的行动得到了回应。又是噗噗两声，空中飞来两颗子弹，把伯恩右边的地面打得泥土直溅。杀手挺厉害；也许还算不上顶级高手，不过已经够好的了。点三五七口径的左轮能装六发子弹；杀手已经打了五发，可他来不及往打空的转轮里填子弹。再想个法子——快点！ 突然间冒出了另一个人影；一个男人跑到了路上，朝弗拉纳根那间小木屋的后方狂奔。他暴露在外面——他很可能被打死！ “这边，混蛋！”伯恩高喊着跳起身，用自动手枪朝房子边上的灌木丛胡乱射击。随即他又得到了一次回应，这正是他所希望的。噗地一声，一颗子弹破空而来，然后就没动静了。杀手没有重新装填！也许他已经没子弹了——无论如何，他要杀的主要目标现在占据着优势。伯恩快步奔出灌木丛，穿过草坪从两枚信号火炬发出的强光之间跑了过去；那群狗渐渐苏醒过来，嗥叫声和要发出攻击的低沉吼声越来越响。从灌木丛中跑出来的杀手逃到了路上，在阴影之中向着前门狂奔。这混蛋跑不掉了，伯恩心里有数。大门是锁着的，这个梅杜莎已成瓮中之鳖。伯恩大吼：“你跑不出去的，蛇发女！省省吧你——” 噗地一声，又是一记轻响。那家伙一边跑一边又装上了子弹！伯恩举枪开火，杀手一跤摔倒在路上。就在他倒下的同时，夜空中片刻的沉寂又被一台急速旋转的大马力引擎的轰鸣声撕裂了，一辆车沿着庄园外的道路疾驶而来，闪烁的红蓝两色灯光标志着那是辆警车。Policemen!警报器肯定是和马萨诸塞州的警察局总部连在一起的，这一点伯恩根本就没想到；他本以为与梅杜莎有关的地方决不可能采取这种手段。这不合逻辑；安全措施都是在内部；蛇发女不可能允许外部力量介入。其他人进来之后会发现许多情况，有许多情况需要保守秘密——这儿可是座坟场！ 杀手在路上痛苦地蠕动着，一下又一下翻身朝路边的松树林滚去。他手里紧紧攥着个什么东西。伯恩朝他走去，这时大门外的巡逻车里下来了两个警察。他抬起脚往那人身上猛踢，迫使杀手松开紧攥着的不知什么东西，然后弯下腰把它捡了起来。那是本皮子封面的书，是整套书里的一册，就像狄更斯或萨克雷著作中的一卷。书上印着凸起的金色字母，看来主要是为了展示，而不是让人阅读。简直是荒唐！随后他翻开了书页，才意识到这根本就不荒唐。书里头什么也没印，空白纸上全是潦草的手写记录。这是一本日记，是本账册！ 不能让警察进来！这会儿尤其不行。他和康克林窥探到了梅杜莎的秘密，这事他既不能让梅杜莎看破，也不能让警察发现。他手里拿着的皮面书绝对不能暴露在官方面前！“胡狼”是最要紧的。他必须把他们支走！ “先生，我们接到了报警。”一位干练的中年巡警拖长了声音，边说边朝格栅铁门走来，身旁跟着个比较年轻的搭档，“总部说报警的那人紧张得要命。我们是来响应的，不过我跟调度说了，这地方以前也搞过不少挺疯狂的聚会呢。我没批评的意思啊，先生。咱们大家谁都想偶尔快活一把，对不对？” “一点儿也没错，警官。”伯恩回答说。他竭力控制着胸口因剧烈起伏而感到的刺痛，眼光朝受伤的杀手那边一瞥——他不见了！“刚才有一阵子电力不足，不知怎么影响到了电话线。” “常有的事，”年轻巡警证实了他的话，“突然下阵暴雨啊、大夏天打闪电啊。总有一天他们得把电线全埋到地底下去。我爸妈有座房子——” “关键是，”伯恩打断了他，“一切都在恢复正常。你能看到吧，屋里有些灯又亮起来了。” “那两个信号火炬太刺眼，我啥也看不见。”年轻警察说。 “将军的防范措施一向最为严密，”伯恩解释说，“我琢磨着，他觉得自己必须这么做，”他补充的这句话多少有点拙劣，“无论如何，就像我刚才说的，所有一切都在恢复正常。没问题吧？” “我看没问题，”年长的巡警答道，“不过我有个口信要捎给一个叫韦伯的人。他在屋里么？” “我就是韦伯。”杰森·伯恩警觉地说。 “那就省事了。你得马上给一位'康克先生'打电话。是急事。” “急事？” “说是有紧急情况。这消息是刚用无线电通知我们的。” 伯恩能听到斯韦恩庄园周围的栅栏在哗啦哗啦作响。杀手要逃走了！“呃，警官，这儿的电话还是不通……你们的车上有没有电话？” “先生，那电话不是给私人用的。对不起。” “可是你刚才还说有紧急情况呢。” “好吧，既然你是将军的客人，我看还是可以通融一下。不过如果你要打长途，最好还是报一个信用卡号码。” “唉，我的天。”伯恩打开大门，奔到巡逻车前，这时候房子里的警报器又响了起来——刚一响马上又被切断了。剩下的那个黑人兄弟看来找到了卡克特斯。 “见鬼，那是什么玩意儿？”年轻的巡警叫道。 “没事的！”伯恩喊着跳上了警车，从支架上一把将他再熟悉不过的巡逻车载电话拽了下来。他把亚历山大在弗吉尼亚的号码报给警方的接线员，同时不停地重复道：“这是紧急情况，这是紧急情况！” “喂？”康克林回应了警方的接线员。 "it's me!" "What happened?" “太复杂了，不好细说。有什么紧急情况？” “我在雷斯顿机场那边给你找了架私人喷气机。” “雷斯顿？那可是在北边——” “马纳萨斯的田里又不能跑飞机。我这就派辆车去接你。” "why?" “宁静岛。玛莉和孩子们没事；他们都没事！她控制着局面呢。” “见鬼，这是什么意思？” “到雷斯顿我再告诉你。” “你光说这么一点儿可不行！” “'胡狼'今天会飞到岛上去。” "My goodness!" “你把那边的事先收拾一下，等我的车。” “这件事我来处理！” “不行！除非你想把一切都搞砸。我们还有时间。把那边的事先收拾起来。” “卡克特斯……他受伤了——中枪了。” “我来给伊万打电话。他马上就会赶回去。” “他带来的黑兄弟还剩下一个——只剩下一个了，亚历山大。我把另两个人害死了——是我的责任。” “行了！别这样。干你该干的事情。” “该死，我办不到。肯定会有人到这边来，可我又不能待在这儿！” “你说得对。那地方要掩盖起来的东西实在太多，而你必须去蒙塞特拉。我跟车一块过来，来替你。” “亚历山大，告诉我宁静岛出了什么事！” “是两个老头……你说的那些'巴黎老人'。” “他们死定了。”杰森·伯恩只轻声说了这么一句。 “别急着下结论。他们倒戈了——我想最起码那个真的巴黎老头倒了戈，另一个是天赐的错误。现在他们站在我们这边。” “他们从来不和任何人站在一起，除非是'胡狼'。你不了解他们。” “你也不了解。听听你妻子的话吧。不过你现在得回屋里去，把我应该知道的事全写下来……还有，杰森，有件事我必须得告诉你。我祈求上帝，希望你能在宁静岛找到自己的出路——我们的出路。因为考虑到所有的情况，包括我的性命在内，我再也不能把梅杜莎的事这么掖着藏着了。这一点我觉得你也明白。” “你保证过我的！” “最多三十六小时，三角洲。” 围栏之外的树丛里蹲着一个负伤的男子，他那张惊惧的脸孔贴在绿色的铁丝网上。借着巡逻车头灯射出的亮白色光芒，他观察着那个爬上车的高个子男人。这会儿那人下了车，正笨拙而紧张地向两个警察表示感谢。不过，他没让警察进去。 韦伯。杀手听到了“韦伯”这个名字。 他们只需要知道这个就行了。蛇发女只需要知道这个。 15 “天哪，我爱你！”弗吉尼亚雷斯顿一个私人机场的候机室里，大卫·韦伯凑到付费电话上说，“等待是最难熬的，等着和你说话，听你亲口告诉我你们都很好。” “亲爱的，你以为我会是什么感觉？亚历山大说电话被切断了，他通知了警察，我却想让他把整支该死的军队都派过去。” “我们甚至都不能让警察牵扯进来，眼下的任何事都还不能公开。亚历山大答应再给我三十六个小时……现在我们说不定不需要等那么久了。如果'胡狼'来蒙塞特拉的话。” “大卫，出了什么事？亚历山大提到了梅杜莎——” “简直是一团糟。他说得对，他必须把这事报告给级别更高的部门。由他去做，不是我们。我们不去碰这事，得离它远远的。” “出什么事了？”玛莉又问了一遍，“以前的梅杜莎和这一切有什么关系？” “现在有一个新的梅杜莎——实际上是原先那个梅杜莎的延伸——这是个规模庞大的丑恶组织，而且它还杀人——他们杀人。我今晚亲眼看到了；他们的一个杀手自以为干掉了卡克特斯，接着打死了两个无辜的人，然后还想要干掉我。” “我的天！亚历山大给我回电的时候说到了卡克特斯，但别的什么也没提。你的那位雷姆斯大叔现在怎么样？” “他能挺过来。中情局的医生赶到那边，把他和最后一个黑兄弟带走了。” “'黑兄弟'？” “见了面我再跟你说……亚历山大现在到那儿去了。他会处理好一切，然后找人把电话线路修好。我到了宁静岛再给他打电话。” “你都筋疲力尽了——” “我是挺累，但我不清楚这是为什么。当时卡克特斯非要让我去睡一会儿，我肯定是足足睡了十二分钟。” “可怜的宝贝。” “你这话的语气我很喜欢，”韦伯说，“用的词更喜欢，不过我并不可怜。十三年前在巴黎，你就让我不再可怜啦。”听到妻子突然陷入了沉默，韦伯顿时警觉起来，“怎么了？你还好吗？” “我不太确定，”玛莉轻声答道，但她的话音中却蕴涵着一种力量；那力量并非源自感情，而是出于思考，“你说这个新梅杜莎是个规模庞大的丑恶组织，它还试图杀掉你——他们试图杀掉你。” “他们没杀成。” “但他们——或者说它——确实想要你的命。为什么？” “因为我去了那儿。” “不能因为一个人跑到别人的宅子里去就杀人啊——” “今晚那所宅子发生了许多事。亚历山大和我窥探到了它的核心秘密，我还被人瞧见了。我本来想引'胡狼'上钩，利用西贡时期几个既有钱又有名的狗杂种做诱饵，他们会雇'胡狼'来追杀我。这个策略很棒，但现在它有点失控。” “我的天啊，大卫，你难道还不明白吗？你已经成为目标了！他们会自己来追杀你！” “他们怎么追杀我？梅杜莎派到那儿去的杀手始终没瞧见我的脸，只看到我在阴影中跑来跑去；他们根本就不知道我是什么人。我是个微不足道的小人物，很快就这么消失了……不行，玛莉，要是卡洛斯现身，要是我能在蒙塞特拉做出我知道自己能做的事，我们就自由了。借用马丁·路德·金的那句名言，'终于自由了'。” “你的声音会变的，对不对？” “我的声音会什么？” “是真的。我听得出来。” “我不知道你在说什么，”杰森·伯恩说，“他们在叫我呢。飞机到了。告诉约翰，把那两个老头看好！” 窃窃私语如同一团团翻卷的雾气，传遍了蒙塞特拉。外岛宁静岛上发生了可怕的事情……“伙计，真是太不幸了”……“牙买加的奥比巫术跨过安的列斯群岛而来，带来了死亡和疯狂”……“伙计，死亡之屋里的几面墙上都有血，那是对一窝动物下的诅咒”……“嘘！是一只母猫，还有两只小猫崽……！” 还有其他一些声音……“我的天哪，别声张！它可能会把我们建起的旅游业全部毁掉！”……“从来没发生过这样的事——这是一起孤立的事件，显然和贩毒有关，是从另一个岛上传过来的！”……“说得太对了，伙计！我听说那是个疯子，体内装满了毒品”……“我听说，有一艘快艇把他接到海里去了，那船跑得简直和飓风一样快！他不见了！”……“我告诉你了，别声张！记不记得维尔京群岛？还有源泉酒店的残杀事件？它们过了好多年才恢复元气。别声张！” 还有个声音与众不同。“这是个计谋，长官。如果它能像我们预计的那样取得成功，我们就会被西印度群岛众口相传，成为加勒比海的英雄。它对我们的形象绝对会大有好处。法治严密，秩序井然，诸如此类。” “感谢上帝！真的有人被杀吗？” “有一个，那女人当时正企图杀害别人。” “是个女的？天哪，这事过去之前我再也不想听到任何消息了。” “您最好是让他们找不着，这样就不用对此事发表评论了。” “真是个好主意。我会乘船出海；暴风雨之后鱼应该很多。” “好极了，长官。我会通过无线电，随时向您报告事情的进展。” “恐怕你不该用无线电。不管你在那上头说什么，都有可能被别人监听到。” “我说用无线电，只是想建议您在什么时候回来最好——在一个合适的时机露面，以取得最有利的效果。当然，最新消息我会向您通报的。” “好的，那当然。亨利，干得不错。” “谢谢您，直辖总督。” The time is ten o'clock in the morning.他们紧紧地拥抱在一起，但却没有时间说话。他们只拥有两人相聚的片刻安慰，能安全地待在一起，并且因一件事感到放心：他们掌握着“胡狼”所不了解的情况，这给了他们极大的优势。然而，这仍旧只是个优势，并不是什么保证，因为它涉及的是卡洛斯。伯恩和约翰都非常坚决：玛莉和孩子们一定要乘飞机飞往南方，到瓜德罗普的巴斯特尔岛去。他们和韦伯家那位棒极了的女佣库珀太太要暂时住在那里，所有人都会受到保护，直到让他们返回蒙塞特拉。玛莉不同意，但她的反对只换来一片沉默；她丈夫下达命令时的态度很生硬，简直是冷若冰霜。 “让你们走是因为我有事要办。这事就不要再讨论了。” “这又和在瑞士的时候一样……又和苏黎世一样，对吗，杰森？” “随便你怎么说。”伯恩答道，他这会儿正想着事情。他们三个人站在码头的底部，两架水上飞机在码头远端的海面上随波起伏，彼此相距只有几米。一架飞机把伯恩从安提瓜直接送到了宁静岛；另一架加满了油准备飞往瓜德罗普，库珀太太和孩子们已经坐在上面了。“快点儿，玛莉，”伯恩补充了一句，“我想和约翰再把事情过一遍，然后就去审那两个老混球。” “他们不是混球，大卫。因为他们，我们才能活下来。” “怎么不是？就因为他俩搞砸了行动，不得不倒戈来保住自己？” “这么说不公平。” “公平不公平得由我说了算；那两个老头就是混球，除非他们能让我确信他俩不是。你不了解'胡狼'手下的老人，我可了解。他们什么话都说得出、什么事都做得出；他们撒谎、装可怜的功夫都厉害得很，可只要你一转身，他们就会往你的脊梁骨上捅刀子。'胡狼'拥有他们——从身体、心灵，到他们那所剩无几的灵魂……现在赶快上飞机去，它等着呢。” “你难道不想见见孩子们，跟杰米说声——” “不行，没时间了！约翰，你带她过去。我想去查看一下海滩。” “那边我都已经彻底查过了，大卫。”约翰的声音里透着不服气。 “彻底还是不彻底得由我说了算。”伯恩回了一句，眼睛里怒气冲冲。他开始往沙滩对面走去，头也没回又大声补充加了一句，“我可有十几个问题要问你，但愿上帝保佑你能答得上来！” 约翰的身子绷紧了，往前迈了一步，可又被姐姐拦住了。“随他去吧，弟弟，”玛莉把手放在他的胳膊上说，“他这是吓着了。” “他什么？该说他是个可恶的狗杂种才对！” "Yeah, I know." 弟弟看了看他姐姐，“是因为你们刚才说的，昨天那所宅子里的陌生人？” “对，只不过现在情况更糟糕了。所以他才会给吓着。” "I do not understand." “他老了，约翰。他已经五十岁了，以前做过的那些事情，他不知道自己是不是还能干得了。那是好多年以前了，越战期间，在巴黎，还有香港。这一切都在折磨他，在噬咬着他的心，因为他知道自己必须比以往任何时候都强。” “我觉得他能行。” “我知道他能行，因为有一个极不寻常的理由在推动着他。以前，他曾经失去过一个妻子和两个孩子。他几乎完全记不起他们了，可他们确实埋藏在他痛苦的最深处；莫里斯·帕诺夫是这么认为的，我也是……现在，多年以后，另一个妻子和两个孩子也受到了威胁。他的每一根神经肯定都紧张万分。” 突然间，伯恩的声音透过了海边的微风，从百米开外的沙滩上传来。“该死的，我说了让你们快点！……还有你，专家先生，这儿有块珊瑚礁的前方透着沙洲的颜色！这一条你考虑到了没有？” “别答理他，约翰。咱们到飞机那边去。” “沙洲？他在说什么鬼玩意儿？……哦，天哪，我明白了！” “我可不明白。”玛莉说。他们俩快步走上了码头。 “岛周围百分之八十的海水里长着珊瑚礁，沙滩外的海水里百分之九十五都有。它们能遏制住海浪的势头，所以这地方才叫做宁静岛；这里根本就掀不起激浪。” "so what?" “那使用水下呼吸器的人就不敢冒险潜过来，因为有可能撞上珊瑚礁；但珊瑚礁的前面要是有一块沙洲就没事了。他能在那儿观察海滩和警卫，趁可以安全登陆的时候爬上来；他可以潜在离岸只有几米的海里，直到他找着机会把警卫干掉。我从来没想到这一点。” “他想到了，弟弟。” 伯恩坐在桌角，两个老头坐在他面前的长沙发上，他的妻弟则站在别墅面朝海滩的一扇窗户旁边。 “先生，我为什么——我们为什么要骗你？”法兰西英雄问道。 “因为这一切都像是一出经典的法国闹剧。相似却不同的名字；一扇门关上的时候另一扇又打开，长相酷似的两个人掐准了时间，一会儿消失，一会儿又冒出来。先生们，这事情很不对头啊。” “你大概是研究莫里哀的吧，要不就是拉辛……？” “我研究的是莫名其妙的巧合，尤其是在与'胡狼'有关的问题上。” “我觉得我们俩的长相压根就没有一点儿相似之处啊，”波士顿来的法官说，“不过，也许我们的年龄差不多。” the phone is ringing.伯恩赶紧弯腰拿起话机。 "Hey?" “波士顿那边的情况都核实了，”康克林说，“他名叫普里方丹，布伦丹·普里方丹。他是第一巡回法庭的联邦法官，在一起政府阴谋中被抓获，被判定在担任法官期间犯下了严重的不法行为——也就是说贿赂生意做得很大。他被判处二十一年徒刑，坐了十年牢，这足以毁掉他在所有法律部门的前程。他是那种人称具有正常社会功能的酒鬼，在豆子城波士顿市的绰号。波士顿早期移民在冬季粮食短缺的时候常常以烘焙的豆子为食，故有此名。比较阴暗的地区还算是个人物，不过他没什么危害；实际上，他还挺招人喜欢——只不过方式有点儿古怪罢了。据说他头脑清醒的时候非常聪明。别人告诉我，要不是因为他给那些正式律师提出的狡诈建议，有许多地位卑微的小人物就会被送上法庭，而其他一些人则会在监狱里蹲得更久。可以说，他是个在幕后执业的店面律师，而他坐堂的'店面'都是些发廊、弹子房，可能还有仓库式收容所……我也曾和他一样身陷酒国，所以我觉得他还挺正直。在这方面他处理得比我当年好。” “你把酒戒了。” “在那种迷迷糊糊的状态下我要是能控制得好一些，说不定还不会戒酒呢。很多情况下，人们对吃不到嘴的葡萄总是有话说。” “他的那个主顾呢？” “厉害得很！咱们这位风光一度的前任法官曾是哈佛大学法学院的副教授，伦道夫·盖茨在学院时上过他教的两门课。毫无疑问，普里方丹肯定认识这个人……相信他吧，杰森。他没有理由撒谎。他就是想捞一票。” “你在继续追查那个主顾吧？” “我可是把自己暗藏的所有秘密武器都用上了。他是我们找到卡洛斯的关联……梅杜莎那层关系是个让人误入歧途的线索，源于五角大楼一个笨蛋将军的愚蠢之举——他企图把人安插到伦道夫·盖茨的法律界内部圈子里去。” "Are you sure?" “现在能肯定了。伦道夫·盖茨是一家律师事务所的高薪顾问，该事务所代表的一个国防承包商巨头正在接受反垄断审查。他连斯韦恩的电话都不回；他如果回了电可就比斯韦恩还蠢，不过他不是个笨蛋。” “那是你要操心的问题，伙计，与我无关。如果这儿的一切都能按我的预想进行，连'蛇发女'这几个字我都不想再听到。事实上，我都不记得自己是不是听说过这个名字。” “你就把它全甩给我，多谢啦——从某种程度上说，我可是当真的。顺便说一句，你在马纳萨斯从快枪手刺客那里抢来的小学生笔记本，里头写的东西挺有趣。” "Oh?" “你记不记得五月花酒店住客登记表里那三个常飞来飞去的家伙？他们八个月前飞到费城，而八个月之后碰巧又住在同一家酒店？” "certainly." “他们的名字都在斯韦恩的那个米老鼠活页本里。他们和卡洛斯毫无干系，倒是和梅杜莎有关。这可是一大堆互不连贯的信息。” “我没兴趣。你们自己善加利用就是了。” “会利用的，而且会非常保密。不出几天就会有人悬赏找那本笔记本。” “真为你高兴，不过我还有事要办。” “你还是拒绝接受任何帮助吗？” “一点不错。这个机会我可是等了十三年。就像我一开始说的那样，这是一对一。” “你想来一场《正午》啊，你这个该死的傻瓜？” “不是。这只是一场充满智慧的象棋比赛的合理延伸。哪一个棋手布下的圈套更好，他就会获胜。优势在我这一边，因为我利用的正是他自己的圈套。情况一旦有异，他就能察觉出来。” “我们把你调教得太出色了，大学者。” “这可得感谢你。” “祝你狩猎成功，三角洲。” “再见。”伯恩挂断电话，朝沙发上的两个老头看去，他们一脸可怜兮兮的好奇表情。“法官，你通过了一场以卑鄙龌龊为主要内容的检查，”他对普里方丹说，“至于你，'让·皮埃尔'，我该怎么说呢？我自己的妻子——她对我说，你原本很有可能会把她杀掉，而且不会有一丝一毫的懊悔——我妻子说我必须信任你。见鬼，这一切简直就是不可理喻，对不对？” “我就是这么一个人，我做的也就是这样的事。”风光不再的律师很有尊严地说，“但我的主顾实在太过分了。一定要把他那张盛气凌人的假面具砸得粉碎。” “比起我新认识的这位有学问的亲戚，我的遣词造句没那么讲究，”法国老英雄说道，“但我知道必须制止杀戮；我的女人总是想让我明白这一点。当然，我这么说很虚伪，因为我没少杀过人；所以我应该说，必须制止这样的杀戮。这不是为了做交易，也无利可图；只因为一个生了病的疯子想报仇，就得毫无必要地陪上一位母亲和两个孩子的性命。这样做能带来什么利益？……不行，'胡狼'太过分了。我们也必须制止他。” “他妈的，我从来没听过这么冷血的逻辑！”窗边的约翰喊道。 “我认为你的遣词造句非常讲究，”前任法官对来自巴黎的罪犯说，“棒极了。” "agree." “我觉得，和你们俩之中的任何一个人扯上关系都是脑子有问题，”伯恩插了一句，“不过眼下我别无选择……先生们，现在是十一点三十五分。钟可在转呢。” “你说什么？”普里方丹不解地问。 “接下来的事情，将在从现在开始的两小时、五小时、十小时或二十四小时之内发生。我要飞回布莱克本机场大闹一番，装作一位悲痛欲绝的丈夫和父亲，因为妻子儿女被害而伤心欲狂。你们放心好了，这事对我来说不难；我会把机场闹得天翻地覆……我会要求他们派飞机直接送我去宁静岛；等我到了这儿，码头上得停放好三副松木棺材，据说我的妻子和孩子就装在里面。” “一切都得和预想的一样，”法国人插了一句，“好。” “好得很。”伯恩表示赞同，“我会坚持要求打开一副棺材，然后我就会大喊大叫，或者是瘫倒在地，要不就两样一起来；我会即兴发挥，让旁观的每一个人都忘不了他们所看到的情