- زمان مطالعه 6 دقیقه
- سطح سخت
دانلود اپلیکیشن «زیبوک»
این فصل را میتوانید به بهترین شکل و با امکانات عالی در اپلیکیشن «زیبوک» بخوانید
متن انگلیسی فصل
Buckingham Pritchard sat next to his uniformed uncle, Cyril Sylvester Pritchard, Deputy Director of Immigration, in the office of the Crown Governor , Sir Henry Sykes, at Government House on the island of Montserrat. Beside them, on the deputy director’s right, was their attorney, the finest local lawyer Sykes could persuade to advise the Pritchards if a case was brought against them for helping terrorists: Jonathan Lemuel, now retired after many years of experience in the highest English courts. Sir Henry sat behind his desk and glanced in shock at Lemuel, who raised his eyes to the ceiling in disbelief.
The cause of Sir Henry’s shock and Jonathan Lemuel’s disbelief was the result of the following exchange between Sykes and the Deputy Director of Immigration: “Mr. Pritchard, you’ve admitted that your nephew overheard a telephone conversation between John St. Jacques and his brother-in-law, the American, Mr. David Webb. Also, your nephew Buckingham Pritchard admits calling you with certain information contained in that conversation. You then told him that you had to contact Paris immediately. Is this true?
“It is all completely true, Sir Henry.”
“Whom did you reach in Paris? What’s the telephone number?”
“With respect, sir, I am sworn to secrecy.”
“What did you say, Mr. Pritchard?”
“My nephew and I are part of an international organization involving the great leaders of the world, and we have been sworn to secrecy.”
“Enough!” shouted Sykes, the veins in his head standing out. “You have both been complete fools! You’ve been tricked by an international terrorist who is wanted all over the world! Do you know the penalty for helping such a killer? It is death by hanging. Now what’s that number in Paris?”
“Under the circumstances,” said the deputy director, speaking calmly despite the fact that his hand shook as he reached for his notebook, “I’ll write it down for you. One asks for a blackbird. In French, Sir Henry.”
As Krupkin entered Moscow’s Hotel Metropole with Bourne and Conklin, the manager quietly said, “Comrade! There is an urgent message for you.” He walked rapidly up to the KGB man and pushed a folded note into his hand. “I was told to deliver it to you personally.”
“You have done so and I thank you.” Krupkin watched the man walk away, then opened the paper. “I must call Dzerzhinsky immediately,” he said, turning. “It’s the extension number of my assistant. Come, let’s hurry.”
In the suite, the doors of the two bedrooms were opposite each other; the space between them was a large sitting room complete with a bar.
“Help yourselves,” said Krupkin, heading for a telephone on the desk. “By the way, you’ll find your weapons in your bedside table drawers. Each is a .38 Graz Burya automatic.”
Krupkin dialed a number and spoke in Russian. He shook his head as he hung up the telephone. “We must go immediately.”
“Go where?” Conklin said. “We’ve just got here.”
“We’ve taken an apartment on the Sadovaya - that’s Moscow’s widest street, Mr. Bourne. We’ll be using it as our headquarters.”
The car was parked some way from the hotel, where it would be less obvious. A hotel employee got it for them, and Krupkin drove them across the city.
The luxury apartment on the busy Sadovaya was one of many in an old stone building that, like the Hotel Metropole, reflected old Russia. The walls were covered with red wallpaper and the furniture was elegant, but to the right of the large living-room fireplace was a more modern item: a large black television set with a video cassette player.
In the apartment was a strongly built man in an untidy uniform, his shirt open at the neck.
“For you I have no name,” he said. “You can call me Captain, although my rank is higher.” The KGB officer walked to the huge television set and switched it on.
“St. Basil’s in Red Square,” said Krupkin, looking at the screen. “It’s a museum now, but occasionally they hold a small religious service.”
The screen shook as the man carrying the video camera moved inside the building. Then it became steady. It showed an elderly man in a black raincoat. He was walking beside one of the side walls.
“Rodchenko,” said the captain. “The great Rodchenko.”
The man on the screen moved into a corner where two large candles threw shadows on the stone walls. Rodchenko approached another man, a priest - losing his hair, thin, his skin dark.
“It’s him!” cried Bourne. “It’s Carlos!”
Then a third man appeared on the screen, joining the other two, and Conklin shouted. “My God!” he roared. “Hold it there!” The KGB officer paused the tape. “The other one! Do you recognize him, David?”
“I know him, but I don’t know him,” replied Bourne quietly, as images going back years began filling his mind. There were explosions, white blinding lights with figures running in a jungle. A captain with a Snake Lady tattooed on his arm.
“It’s Ogilvie!” said Conklin, his voice distant. “Bryce Ogilvie… My God, they did link up. Medusa found the Jackal!”
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