rl.thebourneultimatum-第111章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　〃That　depends　on　the　truthfulness　of　your　answers；〃　said　Holland；　returning　to　the　bed。
　〃I'd　be　very　truthful；　Nicky；〃　observed　Alex；　limping　back　to　the　chair。　〃One　misstatement　and　you　sleep　with　the　fishes…I　believe　that's　the　customary　phrase。〃
　〃I　don't　need　no　coaching；　I　know　where　it's　at。〃
　〃Let's　begin；　Mr。　Dellacroce；〃　said　the　CIA　chief；　taking　a　small　tape　recorder　out　of　his　pocket；　checking　the　charge　and　placing　it　on　the　high　white　table　by　the　patient's　bed。　He　drew　up　a　chair　and　continued　speaking；　addressing　his　opening　remarks　to　the　thin　silver　recorder。　〃My　name　is　Admiral　Peter　Holland；　currently　director　of　the　Central　Intelligence　Agency；　voice　confirmation　to　be　verified　if　necessary。　This　is　an　interview　with　an　informer　we'll　call　John　Smith；　voice　distortion　to　follow　on　interagency　master　tape；　identification　in　the　DCI's　classified　files。　。。。　All　right；　Mr。　Smith；　we're　going　to　cut　through　the　bullshit　to　the　essential　questions。　I'll　generalize　them　as　much　as　possible　for　your　protection；　but　you'll　know　exactly　what　I'm　referring　to　and　I　expect　specific　answers。　。。。　Whom　do　you　work　for；　Mr。　Smith？〃
　〃Atlas　Coin　Vending　Machines；　Long　Island　City；〃　replied　Dellacroce；　his　words　slurred　and　spoken　gruffly。
　〃Who　owns　it？〃
　〃I　dunno　who　owns　it。　Most　of　us　work　from　home…some　fifteen；　maybe　twenty　guys；　you　know　what　I　mean？　We　service　the　machines　and　send　in　our　reports。〃
　Holland　glanced　over　at　Conklin；　both　men　smiled。　With　one　answer　the　mafioso　had　placed　himself　within　a　large　circle　of　potential　informers。　Nicolo　was　not　new　to　the　game。　〃Who　signs　your　paychecks；　Mr。　Smith？〃
　〃A　Mr。　Louis　DeFazio；　a　very　legitimate　businessman；　to　d'best　of　my　knowledge。　He　gives　us　our　assignments。〃
　〃Do　you　know　where　he　lives？〃
　〃Brooklyn　Heights。　On　the　river；　I　think　someone　told　me。〃
　〃What　was　your　destination　when　our　personnel　intercepted　you？〃
　Dellacroce　winced；　briefly　closing　his　swollen　eyes　before　answering。　〃One　of　those　drunk…and…dope　tanks　somewhere　south　of　Philly…which　you　already　know；　Mr。　Big　Shot；　'cause　you　found　the　map　in　the　car。〃
　Holland　angrily　reached　for　the　recorder；　snapping　it　off。　〃You're　on　your　way　to　Hatteras；　you　son　of　a　bitch！〃
　〃Hey；　you　get　your　info　your　way；　I　give　it　mine；　okay？　There　was　a　map…there's　always　a　map…and　each　of　us　has　to　take　those　cockamamy　back　roads　to　the　joint　like　we　were　driving　the　president　or　even　a　don　superiore　to　an　Appalachian　meet。　。。。　You　gimme　that　message　pad　and　the　pencil；　I'll　give　you　the　location　right　down　to　the　brass　plate　on　the　stone　gate。〃　The　mafioso　raised　his　uncased　right　arm　and　jabbed　his　index　finger　at　the　DCI。　〃It'll　be　accurate；　Mr。　Big　Shot；　because　I　don't　wanna　sleep　with　no　fishes；　capisce？〃
　〃But　you　won't　put　it　on　tape；〃　said　Holland；　a　disturbed　inflection　in　his　voice。　〃Why　not？〃
　〃Tape；　shit！　What　did　you　call　it？　An　interagency　master　bullshit？　What　do　you　think　。。。　our　people　can't　tap　into　this　place？　Hoo…hah！　That　fuckin'　doctor　of　yours　could　be　one　of　us！〃
　〃He's　not；　but　we're　going　to　get　to　an　army　doctor　who　is。〃　Peter　Holland　picked　up　the　message　pad　and　pencil　from　the　bedside　table；　handing　both　to　Dellacroce。　He　did　not　bother　to　switch　on　the　tape　recorder。　They　were　beyond　props　and　into　hardball。
　
　In　New　York　City；　on　138th　Street　between　Broadway　and　Amsterdam　Avenue；　the　hard　core　of　Harlem；　a　large　disheveled　black　man　in　his　mid…thirties　staggered　up　the　sidewalk。　He　bounced　off　the　chipped　brick　wall　of　a　run…down　apartment　building　and　slumped　down　on　the　pavement；　his　legs　extended；　his　unshaven　face　angled　into　the　right　collar　of　his　torn　army…surplus　shirt。
　〃With　the　looks　I'm　getting；〃　he　said　quietly　into　the　miniaturized　microphone　under　the　cloth；　〃you'd　think　I'd　invaded　the　high　colonic　white　shopping　district　of　Palm　Springs。〃
　〃You're　doing　beautifully；〃　came　the　metallic　voice　over　the　tiny　speaker　sewn　into　the　back　of　the　agent's　collar。　〃We've　got　the　place　covered；　we'll　give　you　plenty　of　notice。　That　answering　machine's　so　jammed　it's　sending　out　whistling　smoke。〃
　〃How　did　you　two　lily　boys　get　into　that　trap　over　there？〃
　〃Very　early　this　morning；　so　early　no　one　noticed　what　we　looked　like。〃
　〃I　can't　wait　to　watch　you　get　out；　it's　a　needle　condo　if　I　ever　saw　one。　Speaking　of　which；　which　we　are　in　a　way；　are　the　cops　on　this　beat　alerted？　I'd　hate　like　hell　to　get　hauled　in　after　growing　this　bristle　on　my　face。　It　itches　like　crazy　and　my　new　wife　of　three　weeks　doesn't　dig　it。〃
　〃You　should　have　stayed　with　the　first　one；　buddy。〃
　〃Funny　little　white　boy。　She　didn't　like　the　hours　or　the　geography。　Like　in　being　away　for　weeks　at　a　time　playing　games　in　Zimbabwe。　Answer　me；　please？〃
　〃The　blue　coats　have　your　description　and　the　scenario。　You're　part　of　a　federal　bust；　so　they'll　leave　you　alone。　。。。　Hold　it！　Conversation's　over。　This　has　to　be　our　man；　he's　got　a　telephone　satchel　strapped　to　his　belt。　。。。　It　is。　He's　heading　for　the　doorway。　It's　all　yours；　Emperor　Jones。〃
　〃Funny　little　white　boy。　。。。　I've　got　him　and　I　can　tell　you　now　he's　a　soft　chocolate　mousse。　He's　scared　shitless　to　go　into　this　palace。〃
　〃Which　means　he's　legitimate；〃　said　the　metallic　voice　in　the　collar。　〃That's　good。〃
　〃That's　bad；　junior；〃　countered　the　black　agent　instantly。
　〃If　you're　right；　he　doesn't　know　anything；　and　the　layers　between　him　and　the　source　will　be　as　thick　as　Southern　molasses。〃
　〃Oh？　Then　how　do　you　read　it？〃
　〃On…scene　tech。　I　have　to　see　the　numbers　when　he　programs　them　into　his　troubleshooter。〃
　〃What　the　hell　does　that　mean？〃
　〃He　may　be　legit；　but　he's　also　been　frightened　and　not　by　the　premises。〃
　〃What　does　that　mean？〃
　〃It's　all　over　his　face；　man。　He　could　enter　in　false　numbers　if　he　thinks　he's　being　followed　or　watched。〃
　〃You've　lost　me；　buddy。〃
　〃He　has　to　duplicate　the　digits　that　correspond　to　the　remote　so　the　beeps　can　be　relayed…〃
　〃Forget　it；〃　said　the　voice　from　the　back　of　the　collar。　〃That　high…tech　I'm　not。　Besides；　we　got　a　man　down　at　that　pany；　Reco…something…or…other；　now。　He's　waiting　for　you。〃
　〃Then　I've　got　work　to　do。　Out；　but　keep　me　monitored。〃　The　agent　rose　from　the　pavement　and　unsteadily　made　his　way　into　the　dilapidated　building。　The　telephone　repairman　had　reached　the　second　floor；　where　he　turned　right　in　the　narrow；　filthy　corridor；　he　had　obviously　been　there　before；　as　there　was　no　hesitation；　no　checking　the　barely　legible　numbers　on　the　doors。　Things　were　going　to　be　a　little　easier；　considered　the　CIA　man；　grateful　because　his　assignment　was　beyond　the　purview　of　the　Agency。　Purview；　shit；　it　was　illegal。
　The　agent　took　the　steps　three　at　a　time；　his　soft　double…soled　rubber　shoes　reducing　the　noise　to　the　inevitable　creaks　of　an　old　staircase。　His　back　against　the　wall；　he　peered　around　the　corner　of　the　trash…filled　hallway　and　watched　the　repairman　insert　three　separate　keys　into　three　vertical　locks；　turning　each　in　succession　and　entering　the　last　door　on　the　left。　Things；　reconsidered　the　agent；　might　not　be　so　easy　after　all。　The　instant　the　man　closed　the　door；　he　ran　silently　down　the　corridor　and　stood　motionless；　listening。　Not　wonderful；　but　not　the　worst；　he　thought　as　he　heard　the　sound　of　only　one　lock　being　latched；　the　repairman　was　in　a　hurry。　He　placed　his　ear　against　the　peeling　paint　of　the　door　and　held　his　breath；　no　echo　from　his　lungs　disturbing　his　hearing。　Thirty　seconds　later　he　turned　his　head；　exhaled；　then　took　a　deep　breath　and　went　back　to　the　door。　Although　muffled；　he　heard　the　words　clearly　enough　to　piece　together　the　meaning。
　〃Central；　this　is　Mike　up　on　a　Hundred　Thirty…eighth　Street；　section　twelve；　machine　sixteen。　Is　there　another　unit　in　this　building；　which　I　wouldn't　believe　if　you　said　there　was。〃　The　following　silence　lasted　perhaps　twenty　additional　seconds。　。。。　We　don't；　huh？　Well；　we　got　a　frequency　interference　and　it　don't　make　no　sense　to　me。　。。。　The　what？　Cable　TV？　Ain't　no　one　in　this　neighborhood　got　the　bread　for　that。　。。。　Oh；　I　gotcha；　brother。　Area　cable。　The　drug　boys　live　high；　don't　they？　Their　addresses　may　be　shit；　but　inside　them　homes　t