"Ludlum, Robert - Bourne 01 - The Bourne Identity" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ludlum Robert)

I will not take you into Marseilles. I will not risk the patrol boats. The Surete' has squadrons all over the harbour; the narcotics teams are maniacs. You pay them or you pay twenty years in a cell!'

'Which means I can get papers in Marseilles. And you can help me.'

'I did not say that.'

'Yes, you did. I need a service and that service can be found in a place where you won't take me - still the service is there. You said it.'

'Said what?'

'That you'll talk to me in Marseilles - if I can get there without you. Just tell me where."

The skipper of the fishing boat studied the patient's face, the decision was not made lightly, but it was made. 'There's a cafe on rue Sarasin, south of Old Harbour. Le Bouc de Mer. I'll be there tonight between nine and eleven. You'll need money, some of it in advance.'

'How much?'

"That's between you and the man you speak with.'

'I've got to have an idea."

'It's cheaper if you have a document to work with; otherwise one has to be stolen.'

'I told you. I've got one.!

The captain shrugged. 'Fifteen hundred, two thousand francs. Are we wasting time?'

The patient thought of the oil-cloth packet strapped to his waist Bankruptcy lay in Marseilles, but so did an altered passport, a passport to Zurich. I'll handle it,' he said, not knowing why he sounded so confident. Tonight, then.'

The captain peered at the dimly lit shoreline. 'This is as far as we can drift. You're on your own now. Remember, if we don't meet in Marseilles, you've never seen me and I've never seen you. None of my crew has seen you, either.'

I'll be there. Le Bouc de Mer, rue Sarasin, south of Old Harbour.!

'In God's hands,' said the skipper, signalling a crewman at the wheel; the engines rumbled beneath the boat. 'By the way, the clientele at Le Bouc are not used to the Parisian dialect. I'd rough it up if I were you.'

Thanks for the advice,' said the patient as he swung his legs over the gunwale and lowered himself into the water. He held his knapsack above the surface, legs scissoring to stay afloat. 'See you tonight,' he added in a louder voice, looking up at the black hull of the fishing boat.

There was no one there; the captain had left the railing. The only sounds were the slapping of the waves against the wood and the muffled acceleration of the engines. ~

You're on your own now.

He shivered and spun in the cold water, angling his body towards the shore, remembering to sidestroke to his right, to head for a cluster of rocks on the right. If the captain knew what he was talking about, the current would take him into the unseen beach.

It did; he could feel the undertow pulling his bare feet into the sand, making the last thirty yards the most difficult to cross. But the canvas knapsack was relatively dry, still held above the breaking waves.

Minutes later he was sitting on a dune of wild grass, the tall reeds bending with the offshore breezes, the first rays of morning intruding on the night sky. The sun would be up in an hour; he would have to move with it.

He opened the knapsack and took out a pair of boots and heavy socks along with rolled-up trousers and a coarse denim shirt. Somewhere in his past he had learned to pack with an economy of space; the knapsack contained far more than an observer might think. Where had he learned that? Why? The questions never stopped.

He got up and took off the British walking shorts he had accepted from Washburn. He stretched them across the reeds of grass to dry; he could discard nothing. He removed his undershirt and did the same.