The Bourne Identity jb-1

by Robert Ludlum

  “Thank you, sir. May I get your car for you?”

  “You’ve done enough, thanks. A little more walking is required.” The attendant saluted and started for the front of the hotel. Jason led Marie St Jacques toward the coupé, limping beside her.

  “Hurry up. The keys are under the seat.”

  “If they stop us, what will you do? That attendant will see the car go out; he’ll know you’ve stolen it.”

  “I doubt it. Not if we leave right away, the minute he’s back in that crowd.”

  “Suppose he does?”

  “Then I hope you’re a fast driver,” said Bourne pushing her toward the door. “Get in.” The attendant had turned the corner and suddenly hurried his pace. Jason took out the gun and limped rapidly around the hood of the coupé, supporting himself on it while pointing the pistol at the windshield. He opened the passenger door and climbed in beside her. “Goddamn it—I said get the keys!”

  “All right … I can’t think.”

  “Try harder!”

  “Oh, God …” She reached below the seat, stabbing her hand around the carpet until she found the small leather case.

  “Start the motor, but wait until I tell you to back out.” He watched for headlight beams to shine into the area from the circular drive; it would be a reason for the attendant to have suddenly broken into a near run; a car to be parked. They did not come; the reason could be something else. Two unknown people in the parking lot. “Go ahead. Quickly. I want to get out of here.” She threw the gear into reverse; seconds later they approached the exit into the lakeshore drive. “Slow down,” he commanded. A taxi was swinging into the curve in front of them.

  Bourne held his breath and looked through the opposite window at the Carillon du Lads entrance; the scene under the canopy explained the attendant’s sudden decision to hurry. An argument had broken out between the police and a group of hotel guests. A line had formed, names checked off for those leaving the hotel, the resulting delays angering the innocent.

  “Let’s go,” said Jason, wincing again, the pain shooting through his chest. “We’re clear.”

  It was a numbing sensation, eerie and uncanny. The three triangles were as he had pictured them: thick dark wood raised in bas-relief on white stone. Three equal triangles, abstract renditions of chalet roofs in a valley of snow so deep the lower stories were obscured. Above the three points was the restaurant’s name in Germanic letters: DREI ALPENHAUSER. Below the baseline of the center triangles was the entrance, double doors that together formed a cathedral arch, the hardware massive rings of iron common to an Alpine château.

  The surrounding buildings on both sides of the narrow brick street were restored structures of a Zurich and a Europe long past. It was not a street for automobiles; instead one pictured elaborate coaches drawn by horses, drivers sitting high in mufflers and top hats, and gas lamps everywhere. It was a street filled with the sights and sounds of forgotten memories, thought the man who had no memory to forget.

  Yet he had had one, vivid and disturbing. Three dark triangles, heavy beams and candlelight. He had been right; it was a memory of Zurich. But in another life.

  “We’re here,” said the woman.

  “I know.”

  “Tell me what to do!” she cried. “We’re going past it.”

  “Go to the next corner and turn left. Go around the block, then drive back through here.”

  “Why?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “What?”

  “Because I said so.” Someone was there … at that restaurant. Why didn’t other images come? Another image.

  A face.

  They drove down the street past the restaurant twice more. Two separate couples and a foursome went inside; a single man came out, heading for the Falkenstrasse. To judge from the cars parked on the curb, there was a medium-sized crowd at the Drei Alpenhäuser. It would grow in number as the next two hours passed, most of Zurich preferring its evening meal nearer ten-thirty than eight. There was no point in delaying any longer; nothing further came to Bourne. He could only sit and watch and hope something would come. Something. For something had; a book of matches had evoked an image of reality. Within that reality there was a truth he had to discover.

  “Pull over to your right, in front of the last car. We’ll walk back.” Silently, without comment or protest, the St. Jacques woman did as she was told. Jason looked at her, her reaction was too docile, inconsistent with her previous behavior. He understood. A lesson had to be taught. Regardless of what might happen inside the Drei Alpenhäuser, he needed her for a final contribution. She had to drive him out of Zurich.

  The car came to a stop, tires scraping the curb. She turned off the motor and began to remove the keys, her movement slow, too slow. He reached over and held her wrist; she stared at him in the shadows without breathing. He slid his fingers over her hand until he felt the key case.

  “I’ll take those,” he said.

  “Naturally,” she replied, her left hand unnaturally at her side, poised by the panel of the door.

  “Now get out and stand by the hood,” he continued. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Why should I? You’d kill me.”

  “Good.” He reached for the handle of the door, exaggerating the difficulty. The back of his head was to her; he snapped the handle down.

  The rustle of fabric was sudden, the rush of air more sudden still; her door crashed open, the woman half out into the street. But Bourne was ready; a lesson had to be taught. He spun around, his left arm an uncoiling spring, his hand a claw, gripping the silk of her dress between her shoulder blades. He pulled her back into the seat, and, grabbing her by the hair, yanked her head toward him until her neck was stretched, her face against his.

  “I won’t do it again!” she cried, tears welling at her eyes. “I swear to you I won’t!” He reached across and pulled the door shut, then looked at her closely, trying to understand something in himself. Thirty minutes ago in another car he had experienced a degree of nausea when he had pressed the barrel of the gun into her cheek, threatening to take her life if she disobeyed him.

  There was no such revulsion now; with one overt action she had crossed over into another territory.

  She had become an enemy, a threat; he could kill her if he had to, kill her without emotion because it was the practical thing to do.

  “Say something!” she whispered. Her body went into a brief spasm, her breasts pressing against the dark silk of her dress, rising and falling with the agitated movement. She gripped her own wrist in an attempt to control herself; she partially succeeded. She spoke again, the whisper replaced by a monotone. “I said I wouldn’t do it again and I won’t.”

  “You’ll try,” he replied quietly. “There’ll come a moment when you think you can make it, and you’ll try. Believe me when I tell you you can’t, but if you try again I will have to kill you. I don’t want to do that, there’s no reason for it, no reason at all. Unless you become a threat to me, and in running away before I let you go you do just that. I can’t allow it.”

  He had spoken the truth as he understood the truth. The simplicity of the decision was as astonishing to him as the decision itself. Killing was a practical matter, nothing else.

  “You say you’ll let me go,” she said. “When?”

  “When I’m safe,” he answered. “When it doesn’t make any difference what you say or do.”

  “When will that be?”

  “An hour or so from now. When we’re out of Zurich and I’m on my way to someplace else. You won’t know where or how.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “I don’t care whether you do or not.” He released her. “Pull yourself together. Dry your eyes and comb your hair. We’re going inside.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “I wish I knew,” he said, glancing through the rear window at the door of the Drei Alpenhäuser.

  “You said that before.”

  He lo
oked at her, at the wide brown eyes that were searching his. Searching in fear, in bewilderment. “I know. Hurry up.”

  There were thick beams running across the high Alpine ceiling, tables and chairs of heavy wood, deep booths and candlelight everywhere. An accordion player moved through the crowd, muted strains of Bavarian music coming from his instrument.

  He had seen the large room before, the beams and the candlelight printed somewhere in his mind, the sounds recorded also. He had come here in another life. They stood in the shallow foyer in front of the maître d’s station; the tuxedoed man greeted them.

  “Haben Sie einen Tisch schon reserviert, mein Herr?”

  “If you mean reservations, I’m afraid not. But you were highly recommended. I hope you can fit us in. A booth, if possible.”

  “Certainly, sir. It’s the early sitting; we’re not yet crowded. This way, please.”

  They were taken to a booth in the nearest corner, a flickering candle in the center of the table.

  Bourne’s limp and the fact that he held on to the woman, dictated the closest available location.

  Jason nodded to Marie St Jacques; she sat down and he slid into the booth opposite her.

  “Move against the wall,” he said, after the maitre d’ had left. “Remember, the gun’s in my pocket and all I have to do is raise my foot and you’re trapped.”

  “I said I wouldn’t try”

  “I hope you don’t. Order a drink; there’s no time to eat.”

  “I couldn’t eat.” She gripped her wrist again, her hands visibly trembling. “Why isn’t there time? What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why do you keep saying that? ‘I don’t know.’ ‘I wish I knew.’ Why did you come here?”

  “Because I’ve been here before.”

  “That’s no answer!”

  “There’s no reason for me to give you one.”

  A waiter approached. The St. Jacques woman asked for wine; Bourne ordered scotch, needing the stronger drink. He looked around the restaurant, trying to concentrate on everything and nothing. A sponge. But there was only nothing. No images filled his mind; no thoughts intruded on his absence of thought. Nothing.

  And then he saw the face across the room. It was a large face set in a large head, above an obese body pressed against the wall of an end booth, next to a closed door. The fat man stayed in the shadows of his observation point as if they were his protection, the unlit section of the floor his sanctuary. His eyes were riveted on Jason, equal parts fear and disbelief in his stare. Bourne did not know the face, but the face knew him. The man brought his fingers to his lips and wiped the corners of his mouth, then shifted his eyes, taking in each diner at every table. Only then did he begin what was obviously a painful journey around the room toward their booth.

  “A man’s coming over here,” Jason said over the flame of the candle. “A fat man, and he’s afraid. Don’t say anything. No matter what he says, keep your mouth shut. And don’t look at him; raise your hand, rest your head on your elbow casually. Look at the wall, not him” The woman frowned, bringing her right hand to her face; her fingers trembled. Her lips formed a question, but no words came. Jason answered the unspoken.

  “For your own good,” he said. “There’s no point in his being able to identify you.” The fat man edged around the corner of the booth. Bourne blew out the candle, throwing the table into relative darkness. The man stared him down and spoke in a low, strained voice.

  “Du lieber Gott! Why did you come here? What have I done that you should do this to me?”

  “I enjoy the food, you know that.”

  “Have you no feelings? I have a family, a wife and children. I did only as I was told. I gave you the envelope, I did not look inside, I know nothing!”

  “But you were paid, weren’t you?” asked Jason instinctively.

  “Yes, but I said nothing. We never met, I never described you. I spoke to no one!”

  “Then why are you afraid? I’m just an ordinary patron about to order dinner.”

  “I beg you. Leave.”

  “Now I’m angry. You’d better tell me why.”

  The fat man brought his hand to his face, his fingers again wiping the moisture that had formed around his mouth. He angled his head, glancing at the door, then turned back to Bourne. “Others may have spoken, others may know who you are. I’ve had my share of trouble with the police, they would come directly to me.”

  The St. Jacques woman lost control; she looked at Jason, the words escaping. “The police… They were the police.”

  Bourne glared at her, then turned back to the nervous fat man. “Are you saying the police would harm your wife and children?”

  “Not in themselves—as you well know. But their interest would lead others to me. To my family. How many are there that look for you, mein Herr? And what are they that do? You need no answer from me; they stop at nothing—the death of a wife or a child is nothing. Please. On my life. I’ve said nothing. Leave.”

  “You’re exaggerating.” Jason brought the drink to his lips, a prelude to dismissal.

  “In the name of Christ, don’t do this!” The man leaned over, gripping the edge of the table. “You wish proof of my silence, I give it to you. Word was spread throughout the Verbrecherwelt. Anyone with any information whatsoever should call a number set up by the Zurich police. Everything would be kept in the strictest confidence; they would not lie in the Verbrecherwelt about that. Rewards were ample, the police in several countries sending funds through Interpol. Past misunderstandings might be seen in new judicial lights.” The conspirator stood up, wiping his mouth again, his large bulk hovering above the wood. “A man like myself could profit from a kinder relationship with the police. Yet I did nothing. In spite of the guarantee of confidentiality, I did nothing at all!”

  “Did anyone else? Tell me the truth; I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  “I know only Chernak. He’s the only one I’ve ever spoken with who admits having even seen you. But you know that; the envelope was passed through him to me. He’d never say anything.”

  “Where’s Chernak now?”

  “Where he always is. In his flat on the Löwenstrasse.”

  “I’ve never been there. What’s the number?”

  “You’ve never been? …” The fat man paused, his lips pressed together, alarm in his eyes. “Are you testing me?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Number 37. You know it as well as I do.”

  “Then I’m testing you. Who gave the envelope to Chernak?” The man stood motionless, his dubious integrity challenged. “I have no way of knowing. Nor would I ever inquire.”

  “You weren’t even curious?”

  “Of course not. A goat does not willingly enter the wolfs cave.”

  “Goats are surefooted; they’ve got an accurate sense of smell.”

  “And they are cautious, mein Herr. Because the wolf is faster, infinitely more aggressive. There would be only one chase. The goat’s last.”

  “What was in the envelope?”

  “I told you, I did not open it.”

  “But you know what was in it.”

  “Money, I presume.”

  “You presume?”

  “Very well. Money. A great deal of money. If there was any discrepancy, it had nothing to do with me. Now please, I beg you. Get out of here!”

  “One last question.”

  “Anything. Just leave!”

  “What was the money for?”

  The obese man stared down at Bourne, his breathing audible, sweat glistening on his chin. “You put me on the rack, mein Herr, but I will not turn away from you. Call it the courage of an insignificant goat who has survived. Every day I read the newspapers. In three languages. Six months ago a man was killed. His death was reported on the front page of each of those papers.”

  7

  They circled the block, emerging on the Falkenstrasse, then turned right on the Limmat Qu
ai toward the cathedral of Grossmünster. The Löwenstrasse was across the river, on the west side of the city.

  The quickest way to reach it was to cross the Munster Bridge to the Bahnhofstrasse, then to the Nüschelerstrasse; the streets intersected, according to a couple who had been about to enter the Drei Alpenhäuser.

  Marie St. Jacques was silent, holding onto the wheel as she had gripped the straps of her handbag during the madness at the Carillon, somehow her connection with sanity. Bourne glanced at her and understood.

  … a man was killed, his death reported on the front pages of each of those papers.

  Jason Bourne had been paid to kill, and the police in several countries had sent funds through Interpol to convert reluctant informers, to broaden the base of his capture. Which meant that other men had been killed…

  How many are there that look for you, mein Herr? And what are they that do? … They stop at nothing—the death of a wife or a child is nothing!

  Not the police. Others.

  The twin bell towers of the Grossmünster church rose in the night sky, floodlights creating eerie shadows. Jason stared at the ancient structure; as so much else he knew it but did not know it. He had seen it before, yet he was seeing it now for the first time.

  I know only Chernak… The envelope was passed through him to me… Löwenstrasse. Number 37. You know it as well as I do.

  Did he? Would he?

  They drove over the bridge into the traffic of the newer city. The streets were crowded, automobiles and pedestrians vying for supremacy at every intersection, the red and green signals erratic and interminable. Bourne tried to concentrate on nothing … and everything. The outlines of the truth were being presented to him, shape by enigmatic shape, each more startling than the last.

  He was not at all sure he was capable—mentally capable—of absorbing a great deal more.

  “Halt! Die Dame da! Die Scheinwerfer sind aus und Sie haben links signaliziert. Das ist eine Einbahnstrasse!”

  Jason looked up, a hollow pain knotting his stomach. A patrol car was beside them, a policeman shouting through his open window. Everything was suddenly clear … clear and infuriating. The St.Jacques woman had seen the police car in the sideview mirror, she had extinguished the headlights and slipped her hand down to the directional signal, flipping it for a left turn. A left turn into a one-way street whose arrows at the intersection clearly defined the traffic heading right. And turning left by bolting in front of the police car would result in several violations: the absence of headlights, perhaps even a premeditated collision; they would be stopped, the woman free to scream.