p&c.brimstone- 第47部分

　　　
　39　
　
　Locke　Bullard　stood　on　the　flying　bridge　of　the　Stormcloud。　The　air　was　crisp　and　sharp；　the　ocean　flat…calm。　It　was　a　world　reduced　to　its　essentials。　The　ship　throbbed　beneath　his　feet；　the　cool　breeze　flowed　past　him　as　the　ship　plowed　eastward　at　flank　speed　toward　Europe。　
　Bullard　lowered　his　cigar　and　stared　forward　at　the　point　where　the　sky　met　the　knife　edge　of　ocean；　his　knuckles　white　on　the　rail。　On　this　clear　fall　day；　it　really　did　look　like　the　edge　of　the　world；　from　which　a　ship　could　sail　off　into　weightless　oblivion。　A　part　of　him　wished　it　would　happen：　that　he　could　just　drop　off　the　world　and　be　done　with　it。　
　He　could　do　it　now；　in　fact；　he　could　wander　to　the　back　of　the　ship　and　slip　off　into　the　water。　Only　his　steward　would　miss　him　and　probably　not　for　some　time：　he　had　spent　most　of　the　voyage　locked　in　his　cabin；　having　his　meals　delivered；　seeing　no　one。　
　Bullard　could　feel　himself　trembling；　every　muscle　tense；　his　whole　body　in　the　grip　of　powerful　emotion；　a　terrible　bination　of　rage；　regret；　horror；　and　astonishment。　He　could　hardly　believe　what　had　happened；　what　had　brought　him　to　this　point…here；　in　the　middle　of　the　Atlantic；　heading　eastward　on　such　fateful　business。　Never　in　a　million　years　of　corporate　scheming…with　all　his　plotting；　counterplotting；　and　preparation　for　every　eventuality…could　he　have　expected　it　would　e　to　this。　At　least　he'd　been　able　to　remove　the　wild　card　of　that　FBI　agent；　Pendergast：　if　Vasquez　hadn't　finished　the　job　yet；　he　would　soon。　
　And　yet　this　was　slight　consolation。　
　He　caught　the　glimpse　of　movement　out　of　the　corner　of　his　eye。　It　was　the　slim　figure　of　his　steward；　bobbing　deferentially　at　the　hatch。　〃Sir？　The　videoconference　is　in　three　minutes。〃　
　Bullard　nodded；　turned　his　eyes　once　more　toward　the　horizon；　hawked　up　a　gobbet　of　phlegm；　and　rocketed　it　into　the　far　blue。　The　cigar　followed。　Then　he　turned　and　descended。　
　The　videoconference　room　was　small；　built　just　for　him。　The　technician　was　there…why　were　they　all　weaselly　men　with　goatees？…hunched　over　the　keyboard。　He　rose　when　Bullard　entered；　bumping　his　head　on　a　bulkhead　in　his　haste。　〃Everything's　set；　Mr。　Bullard。　Just　press…〃　
　〃Get　out。〃　
　The　man　got　out；　leaving　Bullard　alone。　He　locked　the　door　behind　him；　keyed　in　the　passphrase；　waited　for　the　prompt；　keyed　in　another。　The　screen　flickered　into　life；　split　down　the　center　into　two　images：　the　COO　of　Bullard　Aerospace　Industries　in　Italy；　Martinetti；　and　Chait；　his　head　man　in　the　States。　
　〃How'd　it　go　yesterday？〃　Bullard　asked。　
　The　hesitation　told　Bullard　there'd　been　a　fuckup。　
　〃The　guests　came　with　firecrackers。　There　was　a　party。〃　
　Bullard　nodded。　He'd　half　expected　it。　
　〃When　they　learned　there　was　no　cake；　the　party　began。　Williams　had　to　leave　suddenly。　The　guests　all　left　with　him。〃　
　So　the　Chinese　had　killed　Williams　and　got　their　asses　shot　off　in　return。　
　〃Another　thing。　The　party　got　crashed。〃　
　Bullard　felt　a　sudden　constriction　in　his　gut。　Now；　who　the　hell　had　done　that？　Pendergast？　Christ；　Vasquez　was　taking　his　precious　time。　Bullard　had　never　met　a　man　quite　so　dangerous。　But　if　it　was　Pendergast；　how　had　he　learned　about　it？　The　files　in　the　seized　puter　were　strongly　encrypted；　no　way　they　could　have　been　cracked。　
　〃Everybody　else　got　home　safely。〃　
　Bullard　barely　heard　this。　He　was　still　thinking。　Either　their　phones　had　been　tapped　or　the　feds　had　an　informer　in　his　top　five。　Probably　the　former。　〃There's　a　bird　in　the　tree；　maybe；〃　Bullard　said；　speaking　the　prearranged　code　that　indicated　a　phone　tap。　
　This　was　greeted　with　silence。　Hell；　he　almost　didn't　care　anymore。　Bullard　turned　to　the　image　of　his　Italian　COO。　〃You　have　the　item　ready　and　packed　for　traveling？〃　
　〃Yes；　sir。〃　The　man　spoke　with　difficulty。　〃May　I　ask　why…？〃　
　〃No；　goddamnyou　to　hell；　you　may　not！〃　Bullard　felt　rage　abruptly　take　him；　it　was　like　a　seizure；　beyond　his　control。　He　glanced　over　at　the　image　of　Chait。　The　man　was　listening；　face　expressionless。　
　〃Sir…〃　
　〃Don't　ask　meany　questions。　I'll　get　the　item　when　I　arrive；　and　that'll　be　it。　You'll　never　speak　of　it　again；　to　me　or　anyone。〃　
　The　man　went　pale　and　swallowed；　his　Adam's　apple　bobbing。　〃Mr。　Bullard；　after　all　the　work　we've　done　and　the　risks　we've　taken；　I　have　the　right　to　know　why　you　are　killing　the　project。　I　speak　to　you　respectfully　as　your　chief　operating　officer。　I　have　only　the　good　of　the　pany　at　heart…〃　
　Bullard　felt　the　rage　grow　inside　him　like　a　heat；　so　intense　it　seemed　to　powder　the　very　marrow　of　his　bones。　〃You　son　of　a　bitch；　what　did　I　just　tell　you？〃　
　Martinetti　fell　silent。　Chait's　eyes　flickered　this　way　and　that；　nervously。　He　was　wondering　if　maybe　his　boss　wasn't　going　crazy。　It　seemed　a　fair　enough　question。　
　〃Iam　the　pany；〃　Bullard　went　on。　〃I　know　what's　for　the　good　of　the　pany　and　what　isn't。　You　mention　this　again　andti　faccio　fuori；　bastardo。　I'll　kill　you；　you　bastard。〃　
　He　knew　no　self…respecting　Italian　would　stand　for　such　an　insult。　He　was　right。　〃Sir；　I　hereby　tender　my　resignation…〃　
　〃Resign；　motherfucker；　resign！　And　good　riddance！〃　Bullard　brought　his　fist　down　on　the　keyboard；　again　and　again。　On　the　fifth　blow；　the　screen　finally　winked　off。　
　Bullard　sat　for　a　long　time　in　the　darkened　room。　So　the　feds　had　been　expecting　them　in　Paterson。　That　meant　they　knew　about　the　planned　transfer　of　missile　technology。　Once；　that　would　have　been　a　disaster；　but　now　it　seemed　almost　irrelevant。　At　the　last　minute；　the　crime　had　been　abandoned。　The　feds　had　jack　and　it　would　stay　that　way。　BAI　was　clean。　Not　that　Bullard　gave　a　shit；　he　had　bigger　fish　to　fry　at　the　moment。　
　Fact　was；　the　feds　knew　nothing　about　what　wasreally　going　on。　He　had　gotten　away　just　in　time。　Grove　and　Cutforth…Grove　and　Cutforth；　and　maybe　Beckmann；　too。　They　had　to　die；　it　was　inevitable。　But　he　was　still　alive　and　that's　what　counted。　
　Bullard　realized　he　was　hyperventilating。　Christ；　he　needed　air。　He　stumbled　up　from　the　console；　unlocked　the　door；　mounted　the　stairs。　In　a　moment　he　was　back　on　the　flying　bridge；　staring　eastward　into　blue　nothingness。　
　If　only　he　could　just　sail　off　the　edge　of　the　world。　
　　　
　40　
　
　D'Agosta　heard　the　faint　squawking　of　a　radio　and　looked　upthrough　the　dense　undergrowth。　At　first；　nothing　could　be　seen　through　the　riot　of　vegetation。　But　within　a　few　minutes；　he　began　to　catch　distant　flashes　of　silver；　glimpses　of　blue。　Finally　a　cop　came　into　view…just　a　head　and　shoulders　above　the　dense　brush…forcing　his　way　through　the　bracken。　The　cop　spied　him；　turned。　Behind　him　were　two　medics　carrying　a　blue　plastic　remains　locker。　They　were　followed　by　two　other　men　in　jumpsuits；　lugging　a　variety　of　heavy　tools。　A　photographer　came　last。　
　The　cop　shouldered　his　way　through　the　last　of　the　brush…a　local　Yonkers　sergeant；　small　and　no…nonsense…and　stopped　before　them。　
　〃You　Pendergast？〃　
　〃Yes。　Pleased　to　meet　you；　Sergeant　Baskin。〃　
　〃Right。　This　the　grave？〃　
　〃It　is。〃　Pendergast　removed　some　papers　from　his　jacket。　The　cop　scrutinized　them；　initialed　them；　stripped　off　the　copies；　and　handed　the　originals　back。　〃Sorry；　I　need　to　see　ID。〃　
　Pendergast　and　D'Agosta　showed　their　badges。　
　〃Fine。〃　The　policeman　turned　to　the　two　workers　in　jumpsuits；　who　were　busily　unshouldering　their　equipment。　〃He's　all　yours；　guys。〃　
　The　diggers　attacked　the　tombstone　with　vigor；　crowbarring　it　up　and　rolling　it　aside。　They　cleared　an　area　around　the　grave　with　brush　hooks；　then　laid　several　big；　dirty　tarps　across　the　clearing。　Next　they　began　cutting　out　the　weedy　turf　with　turf　cutters；　popping　out　squares　and　stacking　them　like　bricks　on　one　of　the　tarps。　
　D'Agosta　turned　to　Pendergast。　〃So　how　did　you　find　him？〃　
　〃I　knew　right　away　he　had　to　be　dead；　and　I　assumed　before　his　death　he　must　have　been　either　homeless　or　mentally　ill：　there　could　be　no　other　reason　why　he'd　prove　so　elusive　in　these　days　of　the　Internet。　But　learning　more　than　that　was　a　very　difficult　task；　even　for　my　associate；　Mime；　who　as　I　mentioned　has　a　rare　talent　for　ferreting　out　obscure　information。　Ultimately；　we　learned　Beckmann　spent　the　last　years　of　his　life　on　the　street；　sometimes　under　assumed　names；　cycling　through　various　flophouses　and　homeless　shelters　in　and　around　Yonkers。〃　
　The　turf　was　now　stacked　and　the　two　workers　began　digging；　their　shovels　biting　alternately　into　the　soil。　The　medics　stood　to　one　side；　talking　and　smoking。　There　was　another　faint　roll　of　thunder　and　light　rain　began　to　fall；　pattering　onto　the　thick　vegetation　around　them。　
　〃It　appears　our　Mr。　Beckmann　had　a　promising　start　in　life；〃　Pendergast　continued。　〃Father　a　dentist；　mother　a　homemaker。　He　was　apparently　quite　brilliant　in　college。　But　both　parents　died　during　his　junior　year。　After　graduation；　Beckmann　couldn't　seem　to　find　out　what　it　was　he　wanted　out　of　life。　He　knocked　around　Europe　for　a　while；　then　came　back　to　the　U。S。　and　sold　artifacts　on　the　flea　market　circuit。　He　was　a　drinker　who　slid　into　alcoholism；　but　his　problems　were　more　mental　than　physical…a　lost　soul　who　just　couldn't　find　his　way。　That　tenement　was