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Robert Ludlum: The Bourne Identity

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Robert Ludlum The Bourne Identity

The Bourne Identity: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Jason Bourne. He has no past. And he may have no future. His memory is blank. He only knows that he was flushed out of the Mediterranean Sea, his body riddled with bullets. There are a few clues. A frame of microfilm surgically implanted beneath the flesh of his hip. Evidence that plastic surgery has altered his face. Strange things that he says in his delirium—maybe code words. Initial: "J.B." And a number on the film negative that leads to a Swiss bank account, a fortune of four million…

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Am I being clear?”

“Go on.”

“As the shock recedes, so do the pressures, until there’s no fundamental need to protect the psyche. As this process takes place, your skills and talents will come back to you. You’ll remember certain behavior patterns; you may live them out quite naturally, your surface reactions instinctive.

But there’s a gap and everything in those pages tell me it’s irreversible.” Washburn stopped and went back to his chair and his glass. He sat down and drank, closing his eyes in weariness.

“Go on,” whispered the man.

The doctor opened his eyes, leveling them at his patient. “We return to the head, which we’ve labeled the brain. The physical brain with its millions upon millions of cells and interacting components. You’ve read the books; the fornix and the limbic system, the hippocampus fibers and the thalamus; the callosum and especially the lobotomic surgical techniques. The slightest alteration can cause dramatic changes. That’s what happened to you. The damage was physical. It’s as though blocks were rearranged, the physical structure no longer what it was.” Again Washburn stopped.

“And,” pressed the man.

“The recessed psychological pressures will allow—are allowing—your skills and talents to come back to you. But I don’t think you’ll ever be able to relate them to anything in your past.”

“Why? Why not?”

“Because the physical conduits that permit and transmit those memories have been altered.

Physically rearranged to the point where they no longer function as they once did. For all intents and purposes, they’ve been destroyed.”

The man sat motionless. “The answer’s in Zurich,” he said.

“Not yet. You’re not ready; you’re not strong enough.”

“I will be.”

“Yes, you will.”

The weeks passed; the verbal exercises continued as the pages grew and the man’s strength returned. It was midmorning of the nineteenth week, the day bright, the Mediterranean calm and glistening. As was the man’s habit he had run for the past hour along the waterfront and up into the hills; he had stretched the distance to something over twelve miles daily, the pace increasing daily, the rests less frequent. He sat in the chair by the bedroom window, breathing heavily, sweat drenching his undershirt. He had come in through the back door, entering the bedroom from the dark hallway that passed the living room. It was simply easier; the living room served as Washburn’s waiting area and there were still a few patients with cuts and gashes to be repaired. They were sitting in chairs looking frightened, wondering what le docteur’s condition would be that morning. Actually, it wasn’t bad. Geoffrey Washburn still drank like a mad Cossack, but these days he stayed on his horse. It was as if a reserve of hope had been found in the recesses of his own destructive fatalism.

And the man with no memory understood; that hope was tied to a bank in Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse.

Why did the street come so easily to mind?

The bedroom door opened and the doctor burst in, grinning, his white coat stained with his patient’s blood.

“I did it!” he said, more triumph in his words than clarification. “I should open my own hiring hall and live on commissions. It’d be steadier.”

“What are you talking about?”

“As we agreed, it’s what you need. You’ve got to function on the outside, and as of two minutes ago Monsieur Jean-Pierre No-Name is gainfully employed! At least for a week.”

“How did you do that? I thought there weren’t any openings.”

“What was about to be opened was Claude Lamouche’s infected leg. I explained that my supply of local anesthetic was very, very limited. We negotiated; you were the bartered coin.”

“A week?”

“If you’re any good, he may keep you on.” Washburn paused. “Although that’s not terribly important, is it?”

“I’m not sure any of this is. A month ago, maybe, but not now. I told you. I’m ready to leave. I’d think you’d want me to. I have an appointment in Zurich.”

“And I’d prefer you function the very best you can at that appointment. My interests are extremely selfish, no remissions permitted.”

“I’m ready.”

“On the surface, yes. But take my word for it, it’s vital that you spend prolonged periods of time on the water, some of it at night. Not under controlled conditions, not as a passenger, but subjected to reasonably harsh conditions—the harsher the better, in fact.”

“Another test?”

“Every single one I can devise in this primitive Menningers of Port Noir. If I could conjure up a storm and a minor shipwreck for you, I would. On the other hand, Lamouche is something of a storm himself; he’s a difficult man. The swelling in his leg will go down and he’ll resent you. So will others; you’ll have to replace someone.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it. We’re combining two stresses. At least one or two nights on the water, if Lamouche keeps to schedule—that’s the hostile environment which contributed to your hysteria—and exposure to resentment and suspicion from men around you—symbolic of the initial stress situation.”

“Thanks again. Suppose they decide to throw me overboard? That’d be your ultimate test, I suppose, but I don’t know how much good it would do if I drowned.”

“Oh, there’ll be nothing like that,” said Washburn, scoffing.

“I’m glad you’re so confident. I wish I were.”

“You can be. You have the protection of my presence. I may not be Christiaan Barnard or Michael De Bakey, but I’m all these people have. They need me; they won’t risk losing me.”

“But you want to leave. I’m your passport out.”

“In ways unfathomable, my dear patient. Come on, now. Lamouche wants you down at the dock so you can familiarize yourself with his equipment. You’ll be starting out at four o’clock tomorrow morning. Consider how beneficial a week at sea will be. Think of it as a cruise.” There had never been a cruise like it. The skipper of the filthy, oil-soaked fishing boat was a foul-mouthed rendering of an insignificant Captain Bligh; the crew a quartet of misfits who were undoubtedly the only men in Port Noir willing to put up with Claude Lamouche. The regular fifth member was a brother of the chief netman, a fact impressed on the man called Jean-Pierre within minutes after leaving the harbor at four o’clock in the morning.

“You take food from my brother’s table!” whispered the netman angrily between rapid puffs on an immobile cigarette. “From the stomachs of his children!”

“It’s only for a week,” protested Jean-Pierre. It would have been easier—far easier—to offer to reimburse the unemployed brother from Washburn’s monthly stipend, but the doctor and his patient had agreed to refrain from such compromises.

“I hope you’re good with the nets!”

He was not.

There were moments during the next seventy-two hours when the man called Jean-Pierre thought the alternative of financial appeasement was warranted. The harassment never stopped, even at night—especially at night. It was as though eyes were trained on him as he lay on the infested deck mattress, waiting for him to reach the brink of sleep.

“You! Take the watch! The mate is sick. You fill in.”

“Get up! Philippe is writing his memoirs! He can’t be disturbed.”

“On your feet! You tore a net this afternoon. We won’t pay for your stupidity. We’ve all agreed.

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