rl.thebourneultimatum-第130章

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ck　to　the　mother's　breast；　for　that's　where　he　was　born。　。。。　Good　God；　the　people　he's　killed　in　the　name　of　'aggressors'　while　he　made　fortunes　is　positively　revolting！〃
　〃But　you　denied　him；〃　said　Jason　flatly；　〃and　he　wants　that　denial　reversed。　He　has　to　be　acknowledged　as　the　master　killer　you　trained。　That　psychopathic　ego　of　his　is　the　basis　for　every　thing　Alex　and　I　mounted。　。。。　Santos　said　he　continuously　bragged　about　the　cadre　he　was　building　in　Moscow…'Always　Moscow；　it's　an　obsession　with　him'…those　were　Santos's　words。　The　only　specific　person　he　knew　about；　and　not　by　name；　was　Carlos's　mole　high　up　in　the　KGB；　but　he　said　Carlos　claimed　to　have　others　in　key　positions　at　various　powerful　departments；　that　as　the　monseigneur　he'd　been　sending　them　money　for　years。〃
　〃So　the　Jackal　thinks　he　forms　a　core　of　supporters　within　our　government；〃　observed　Krupkin。　〃Despite　everything；　he　still　believes　he　can　e　back。　He　is；　indeed；　an　egomaniac　but　he's　never　understood　the　Russian　mind。　He　may　temporarily　corrupt　a　few　cynical　opportunists；　but　these　will　cover　themselves　and　turn　on　him。　No　one　looks　forward　to　a　stay　at　the　Lubyanka　or　a　Siberian　gulag。　The　Jackal's　Potemkin　village　will　burn　to　the　ground。〃
　〃All　the　more　reason　for　him　to　race　to　Moscow　and　put　out　the　brushfires；〃　said　Alex。
　〃What　do　you　mean？〃　asked　Bourne。
　〃The　burning　will　start　with　the　exposure　of　Carlos's　man　in　Dzerzhinsky　Square；　he'll　know　that。　The　only　way　to　prevent　it　is　for　him　to　reach　Moscow　and　make　a　determination。　Either　his　informer　will　elude　internal　security　or　the　Jackal　will　have　to　kill　him。〃
　〃I　forgot；〃　interrupted　Bourne。　〃Something　else　Santos　said　。。。　most　of　the　Russians　on　Carlos's　payroll　spoke　French。　Look　for　a　man　high　up　in　the　Komitet　who　speaks　French。〃
　Krupkin's　radio　again　intruded；　the　two　piercing　beeps　barely　muffled　by　his　jacket。　He　pulled　it　out　and　spoke。　〃Yes？〃
　〃I　don't　know　how　or　why；　rade；〃　said　the　tense　voice　of　Sergei；　〃but　the　ambassador's　limousine　has　just　arrived　at　the　building。　I　swear　to　you　I　have　no　idea　what　happened！〃
　〃I　do。　I　called　for　it。〃
　〃But　the　embassy　flags　will　be　seen　by　everyone！〃
　〃Including；　I　trust；　an　alert　old　man　in　a　brown　automobile。　We'll　be　down　shortly。　Out。〃　Krupkin　turned　to　the　others。　〃The　car's　here；　gentlemen。　Where　shall　we　meet；　Domie？　And　when？〃
　〃Tonight；〃　replied　Lavier。　〃There's　a　showing　at　La　Galerie　d'Or　in　the　rue　de　Paradis。　The　artist's　a　young　upstart　who　wants　to　be　a　rock　star　or　something；　but　he's　the　rage　and　everyone　will　be　there。〃
　〃Tonight；　then。　e；　gentlemen。　Against　our　instincts；　we　must　be　very　observable　outside　on　the　pavement。〃
　The　crowds　moved　in　and　out　of　the　shafts　of　light　while　the　music　was　provided　by　an　ear…shattering　rock　band　mercifully　placed　in　a　side　room　away　from　the　main　viewing　area。　Were　it　not　for　the　paintings　on　the　walls　and　the　beams　of　the　small　spotlights　illuminating　them；　a　person　might　think　he　was　in　a　discotheque　rather　than　in　one　of　Paris's　elegant　art　galleries。
　Through　a　series　of　nods；　Dominique　Lavier　maneuvered　Krupkin　to　a　corner　of　the　large　room。　Their　graceful　smiles；　arched　brows　and　intermittently　mimed　laughter　covered　their　quiet　conversation。
　〃The　word　passed　among　the　old　men　is　that　the　monseigneur　will　be　away　for　a　few　days。　However；　they　are　all　to　continue　searching　for　the　tall　American　and　his　crippled　friend　and　list　wherever　they　are　seen。〃
　〃You　must　have　done　your　job　well。〃
　〃As　I　relayed　the　information　he　was　utterly　silent。　In　his　breathing；　however；　there　was　utter　loathing。　I　felt　my　bones　grow　cold。〃
　〃He's　on　his　way　to　Moscow；〃　said　the　Russian。　〃No　doubt　through　Prague。〃
　〃What　will　you　do　now？〃
　Krupkin　arched　his　neck　and　raised　his　eyes　to　the　ceiling　in　false；　silent　laughter。　Leveling　his　gaze　on　her；　he　answered；　smiling。　〃Moscow；〃　he　said。
　
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　Bryce　Ogilvie；　managing　partner　of　Ogilvie；　Spofford；　Crawford　and　Cohen；　prided　himself　on　his　self…discipline。　That　was　to　say；　not　merely　the　outward　appearance　of　posure；　but　the　cold　calm　he　forced　upon　his　deepest　fears　in　times　of　crisis。　However；　when　he　arrived　at　his　office　barely　fifty　minutes　ago　and　found　his　concealed　private　telephone　ringing；　he　had　experienced　a　twinge　of　apprehension　at　such　an　early　morning　call　over　that　particular　line。　Then　when　he　heard　the　heavily　accented　voice　of　the　Soviet　consul　general　of　New　York　demanding　an　immediate　conference；　he　had　to　acknowledge　a　sudden　void　in　his　chest　。。。　and　when　the　Russian　instructed　him…ordered　him…to　be　at　the　Carlyle　Hotel；　Suite　4C；　in　one　hour；　rather　than　their　usual　meeting　place　at　the　apartment　on　Thirty…second　and　Madison；　Bryce　felt　a　searing…hot　pain　filling　that　void　in　his　chest。　And　when　he　had　mildly　objected　to　the　suddenness　of　the　proposed；　unscheduled　conference；　the　pain　in　his　chest　had　burst　into　fire；　the　flames　traveling　up　to　his　throat　at　the　Soviet's　reply：　〃What　I　have　to　show　you　will　make　you　devoutly　wish　we　never　knew　each　other；　much　less　had　any　occasion　to　meet　this　morning。　Be　there！〃
　Ogilvie　sat　back　in　his　limousine；　as　far　back　as　the　upholstery　could　be　pressed；　his　legs　stretched；　rigid　on　the　carpeted　floor。　Abstract；　swirling　thoughts　of　personal　wealth；　power　and　influence　kept　circling　in　his　mind；　he　had　to　get　hold　of　himself！　After　all；　he　was　Bryce　Ogilvie；　the　Bryce　Ogilvie；　perhaps　the　most　successful　corporate　attorney　in　New　York；　and　arguably　second　only　to　Boston's　Randolph　Gates　in　the　fast　track　of　corporate　and　antitrust　law。
　Gates！　The　mere　thought　of　that　son　of　a　bitch　was　a　wele　diversion。　Medusa　had　asked　a　minor　favor　of　the　celebrated　Gates；　an　inconsequential；　perfectly　acceptable　staff　appointment　on　an　ad　hoc　government…oriented　mission；　and　he　had　not　even　answered　their　phone　calls！　Calls　put　through　by　another　perfectly　acceptable　source；　the　supposedly　irreproachable；　impartial　head　of　Pentagon　procurements；　an　asshole　named　General　Norman　Swayne；　who　only　wanted　the　best　information。　Well；　perhaps　more　than　information；　but　Gates　could　not　have　known　about　that。　。。。　Gates？　There　was　something　in　the　Times　the　other　morning　about　his　bowing　out　of　a　hostile　takeover　proceeding。　What　was　it？
　The　limousine　pulled　up　to　the　curb　in　front　of　the　Carlyle　Hotel；　once　the　Kennedy　family's　favored　New　York　City　address；　now　the　temporary　clandestine　favorite　of　the　Soviets。　Ogilvie　waited　until　the　uniformed　doorman　opened　the　left　rear　door　of　the　car　before　he　stepped　out　onto　the　pavement。　He　normally　would　not　have　done　so；　believing　the　delay　was　an　unnecessary　affectation；　but　this　morning　he　did；　he　had　to　get　hold　of　himself。　He　had　to　be　the　Ice…Cold　Ogilvie　his　legal　adversaries　feared。
　The　elevator's　ascent　to　the　fourth　floor　was　swift；　the　walk　over　the　blue…carpeted　hallway　to　Suite　4…C　far　slower；　the　distance　much　closer。　The　Bryce　Ogilvie　breathed　deeply；　calmly；　and　stood　erect　as　he　pressed　the　bell。　Twenty…eight　seconds　later；　irritatingly　clocked　by　the　attorney　as　he　silently　counted　〃one　one…thousand；　two　one…thousand；〃　ad　nauseam；　the　door　was　opened　by　the　Soviet　consul　general；　a　slender　man　of　medium　height　whose　aquiline　face　had　taut　white　skin　and　large　brown　eyes。
　Vladimir　Sulikov　was　a　wiry　seventy…three…year…old　full　of　nervous　energy；　a　scholar　and　former　professor　of　history　at　Moscow　University；　a　mitted　Marxist；　yet　oddly　enough；　considering　his　position；　not　a　member　of　the　munist　Party。　In　truth；　he　was　not　a　member　of　any　political　orthodoxy；　preferring　the　passive　role　of　the　unorthodox　individual　within　a　collectivist　society。　That；　and　his　singularly　acute　intellect；　had　served　him　well；　he　was　sent　to　posts　where　more　conformist　men　would　not　have　been　half　so　effective。　The　bination　of　these　attributes；　along　with　a　dedication　to　physical　exercise；　made　Sulikov　appear　ten　to　fifteen　years　younger　than　his　age。　His　was　an　unsettling　presence　for　those　negotiating　with　him；　for　somehow　he　radiated　the　wisdom　acquired　over　the　years　and　the　vitality　of　youth　to　implement　it。
　The　greetings　were　abrupt。　Sulikov　offered　nothing　but　a　stiff；　cold　handshake　and　a