The Bourne Identity jb-1

by Robert Ludlum

  “You just said it, Jason. None of this has anything to do with you!”

  “No! That’s not true!” Bourne shouted, lunging up from the chair, holding his place, staring down at her. “Our contracts,” he added quietly.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying!”

  “I’m responding! Blindly! It’s why I had to come to Paris!” He spun around and walked to the window, gripping the frame. “That’s what the game is all about,” he continued. “We’re not looking for a lie, we’re looking for the truth, remember? Maybe we’ve found it; maybe the game revealed it.”

  “This is no valid test! It’s a painful exercise in incidental recollection. If a magazine like Potomac Quarterly printed this, it would have been picked up by half the newspapers in the world. You could have read it anywhere.”

  “The fact is I retained it.”

  “Not entirely. You didn’t know where the Ilich came from, that Carlos’ father was a Communist attorney in Venezuela. They’re salient points, I’d think. You didn’t mention a thing about the Cubans. If you had, it would have led to the most shocking speculation written here. You didn’t say a word about it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Dallas,” she said. “November 1963.”

  “Kennedy,” replied Bourne.

  “That’s it? Kennedy?”

  “It happened then.” Jason stood motionless.

  “It did, but that’s not what I’m looking for.”

  “I know,” said Bourne, his voice once again flat, as if speaking in a vacuum. “A grassy knoll … Burlap Billy.”

  “You read this!”

  “No.”

  “Then you heard it before, read it before.”

  “That’s possible, but it’s not relevant, is it?”

  “Stop it, Jason!”

  “Those words again. I wish I could.”

  “What are you trying to tell me? You’re Carlos?”

  “God, no. Carlos wants to kill me, and I don’t speak Russian, I know that.”

  “Then what?”

  “What I said at the beginning. The game. The game is called Trap-the Soldier.”

  “A soldier?”

  “Yes. One who defected from Carlos. It’s the only explanation, the only reason I know what I know. In all things.”

  “Why do you say defect?”

  “Because he does want to kill me. He has to; he thinks I know as much about him as anyone alive.”

  Marie had been crouching on the bed; she swung her legs over the side, her hands at her sides.

  “That’s a result of defecting. What about the cause? If it’s true, then you did it, became … became—” She stopped.

  “All things considered, it’s a little late to look for a moral position,” said Bourne, seeing the pain of acknowledgment on the face of the woman he loved. “I could think of several reasons, clichés. How about a falling out among thieves … killers.”

  “Meaningless!” cried Marie. “There’s not a shred of evidence.”

  “There’s buckets of it and you know it. I could have sold out to a higher bidder or stolen huge sums of money from the fees. Either would explain the account in Zurich.” He stopped briefly, looking at the wall above the bed, feeling, not seeing. “Either would explain Howard Leland, Marseilles, Beirut, Stuttgart … Munich. Everything. All the unremembered facts that want to come out. And one especially. Why I avoided his name, why I never mentioned him. I’m frightened. I’m afraid of him.”

  The moment passed in silence; more was spoken of than fear. Marie nodded. “I’m sure you believe that,” she said, “and in a way I wish it were true. But I don’t think it is. You want to believe it because it supports what you just said. It gives you an answer … an identity. It may not be the identity you want, but God knows it’s better than wandering blindly through that awful labyrinth you face every day. Anything would be, I guess.” She paused. “And I wish it were true because then we wouldn’t be here.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the inconsistency, darling. The number or symbol that doesn’t fit in your equation. If you were what you say you were, and afraid of Carlos—and heaven knows you should be—Paris would be the last place on earth you’d feel compelled to go to. We’d be somewhere else; you said it yourself. You’d run away; you’d take the money from Zurich and disappear. But you’re not doing that; instead, you’re walking right back into Carlos’ den. That’s not a man who’s either afraid or guilty.”

  “There isn’t anything else. I came to Paris to find out; it’s as simple as that.”

  “Then run away. We’ll have the money in the morning; there’s nothing stopping. you—us. That’s simple, too.” Marie watched him closely.

  Jason looked at her, then turned away. He walked to the bureau and poured himself a drink.

  “There’s still Treadstone to consider,” he said defensively.

  “Why any more than Carlos? There’s your real equation. Carlos and Treadstone. A man I once loved very much was killed by Treadstone. All the more reason for us to run, to survive.”

  “I’d think you’d want the people who killed him exposed,” said Bourne. “Make them pay for it.”

  “I do. Very much. But others can find them. I have priorities, and revenge isn’t at the top of the list. We are. You and I. Or is that only my judgment? My feelings.”

  “You know better than that.” He held the glass tighter in his hand and looked over at her. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “Then let’s run!” she said, raising her voice almost mechanically, taking a step toward him. “Let’s forget it all, really forget, and run as fast as we can, as far away as we can! Let’s do it!”

  “I … I,” Jason stammered, the mists interfering, infuriating him. “Where are … things?”

  “What things? We love each other, we’ve found each other! We can go anywhere, be anyone.

  There’s nothing to stop us, is there?”

  “Only you and me,” he repeated softly, the mists now closing in, suffocating him. “I know. I know. But I’ve got to think. There’s so much to learn, so much that has to come out.”

  “Why is it so important?”

  “It … just is.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Yes … No, I’m not sure. Don’t ask me now.”

  “If not now, when? When can I ask you? When will it pass? Or will it ever?!”

  “Stop it!” he suddenly roared, slamming the glass down on the wooden tray. “I can’t run! I won’t! I’ve got to stay here! I’ve got to know!”

  Marie rushed to him, putting her hands first on his shoulders, then on his face, wiping away the perspiration. “Now you’ve said it. Can you hear yourself, darling? You can’t run because the closer you get, the more maddening it is for you. And if you did run, it would only get worse. You wouldn’t have a life, you’d live a nightmare. I know that.”

  He reached for her face, touching it, looking at her. “Do you?”

  “Of course. But you had to say it, not me.” She held him, her head against his chest. “I had to force you to. The funny thing is that I could run. I could get on a plane with you tonight and go wherever you wanted, disappear, and not look back, happier than I’ve ever been in my life. But you couldn’t do that. What is—or isn’t—here in Paris would eat away at you until you couldn’t stand it anymore. That’s the crazy irony, my darling. I could live with it but you couldn’t.”

  “You’d just disappear?” asked Jason. “What about your family, your job—all the people you know?”

  “I’m neither a child nor a fool,” she answered quickly. “I’d cover myself somehow, but I don’t think I’d take it very seriously. I’d request an extended leave for medical and personal reasons. Emotional stress, a breakdown; I could always go back, the department would understand.”

  “Peter?”

  “Yes.” She was silent for a moment. “We went from one relationship to another, the second more importan
t to both of us, I think. He was like an imperfect brother you want to succeed in spite of his flaws, because underneath there was such decency.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.”

  She looked up at him. “You have the same decency. When you do the kind of work I do decency becomes very important. It’s not the meek who are inheriting the earth, Jason, it’s the corrupters. And I have an idea that the distance between corruption and killing is a very short step.”

  “Treadstone Seventy-One?”

  “Yes. We were both right. I do want them exposed, I want them to pay for what they’ve done. And you can’t run away.”

  He brushed his lips against her cheek and then her hair and held her. “I should throw you out,” he said. “I should tell you to get out of my life. I can’t do it, but I know damned well I should.”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference if you did. I wouldn’t go, my love.”

  The attorney’s suite of offices was on the boulevard de la Chapelle, the book-lined conference room more a stage netting than an office; everything was a prop, and in its place. Deals were made in that room, not contracts. As for the lawyer himself, a dignified white goatee and silver pince-nez above an aquiline nose could not conceal the essential graft in the man. He even insisted on conversing in poor English, for which, at a later date, he could claim to have been misunderstood.

  Marie did most of the talking, Bourne deferring, client to adviser. She made her points succinctly, altering the cashiers checks to bearer bonds, payable in dollars, in denominations ranging from a maximum of twenty thousand dollars to a minimum of five. She instructed the lawyer to tell the bank that all series were to be broken up numerically in threes, the international guarantors changed with every fifth lot of certificates. Her objective was not lost on the attorney; she so complicated the issuing of the bonds that tracing them would be beyond the facilities of most banks or brokers. Nor would such banks or brokers take on the added trouble or expense; payments were guaranteed.

  When the irritated, goateed lawyer had nearly concluded his telephone conversation with an equally disturbed Antoine d’Amacourt, Marie held up her hand.

  “Pardon me, but Monsieur Bourne insists that Monsieur d’Amacourt also include two hundred thousand francs in cash, one hundred thousand to be included with the bonds and one hundred to be held by Monsieur d’Amacourt. He suggests that the second hundred thousand be divided as follows. Seventy-five thousand for Monsieur d’Amacourt and twenty-five thousand for yourself. He realizes that he is greatly in debt to both of you for your advice and the additional trouble he has caused you. Needless to say, no specific record of breakdown is required.” Irritation and disturbance vanished with her words, replaced by an obsequiousness not seen since the court of Versailles. The arrangements were made in accordance with the unusual—but completely understandable—demands of Monsieur Bourne and his esteemed adviser.

  A leather attaché case was provided by Monsieur Bourne for the bonds and the money; it would be carried by an armed courier who would leave the bank at 2:30 in the afternoon and meet Monsieur Bourne at 3:00 on the Pont Neuf. The distinguished client would identify himself with a small piece of leather cut from the shell of the case and which, when fitted in place, would prove to be the missing fragment. Added to this would be the words: “Herr Koenig sends greeting from Zurich.”

  So much for the details. Except for one, which was made clear by Monsieur Bourne’s adviser.

  “We recognize that the demands of the fiche must be carried out to the letter, and fully expect Monsieur d’Amacourt to do so,” said Marie St. Jacques. “However, we also recognize that the timing can be advantageous to Monsieur Bourne, and would expect no less than that advantage. Were he not to have it, I’m afraid that I, as a certified—if for the present, anonymous—member of the International Banking Commission, would feel compelled to report certain aberrations of banking and legal procedures as I have witnessed them. I’m sure that won’t be necessary, we’re all very well paid, n’est-ce pas, monsieur?”

  “C’est vrai, madame! In banking and law … indeed, as in life itself … timing is everything. You have nothing to fear.”

  “I know,” said Marie.

  Bourne examined the grooves of the silencer, satisfied that he had removed the particles of dust and lint that had gathered with nonuse. He gave it a final, wrenching turn, depressed the magazine release and checked the clip. Six shells remained; he was ready. He shoved the weapon into his belt and buttoned his jacket.

  Marie had not seen him with the gun. She was sitting on the bed, her back to him, talking on the telephone with the Canadian Embassy attaché, Dennis Corbelier. Cigarette smoke curled up from an ashtray next to her notebook; she was writing down Corbelier’s information. When he had finished, she thanked him and hung up the phone. She remained motionless for two or three seconds, the pencil still in her hand.

  “He doesn’t know about Peter, she said, turning to Jason. “That’s odd.”

  “Very,” agreed Bourne. “I thought he’d be one of the first to know. You said they looked over Peter’s telephone logs; he’d placed a call to Paris, to Corbelier. You’d think someone would have followed up on it.”

  “I hadn’t even considered that. I was thinking about the newspapers, the wire services. Peter was … was found eighteen hours ago, and regardless of how casual I may have sounded, he was an important man in the Canadian government. His death would be news in itself, his murder infinitely more so… It wasn’t reported.”

  “Call Ottawa tonight. Find out why.”

  “I will.”

  “What did Corbelier tell you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Marie shifted her eyes to the notebook. The license in rue Madeleine was meaningless, a car rented at De Gaulle Airport to a Jean-Pierre Larousse.”

  “John Smith,” interrupted Jason.

  “Exactly. He had better luck with the telephone number d’Amacourt gave you, but he can’t see what it could possibly have to do with anything. Neither can I, as a matter of fact.”

  “It’s that strange?”

  “I think so. It’s a private line belonging to a fashion house on Saint-Honoré. Les Classiques.”

  “A fashion house? You mean a studio?”

  “I’m sure it’s got one, but it’s essentially an elegant dress shop. Like the House of Dior, or Givenchy. Haute couture. In the trade, Corbelier said, it’s known as the House of René. That’s Bergeron.”

  “Who?’

  “René Bergeron, a designer. He’s been around for years, always on the fringes of a major success. I know about him because my little lady back home copies his designs.”

  “Did you get the address?’

  Marie nodded. “Why didn’t Corbelier know about Peter? Why doesn’t everybody?”

  “Maybe you’ll learn when you call. It’s probably as simple as time zones; too late for the morning editions here in Paris. I’ll pick up the afternoon paper.” Bourne went to the closet for his topcoat, conscious of the hidden weight in his belt. “I’m going back to the bank. I’ll follow the courier to the Pont Neuf.” He put on the coat, aware that Marie was not listening. “I meant to ask you, do these fellows wear uniforms?”

  “Who?”

  “Bank couriers.”

  “That would account for the newspapers, not the wire services.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The difference in time. The papers might not have picked it up, but the wire services would have known. And embassies have teletypes; they would have known about it. It wasn’t reported, Jason.”

  “You’ll call tonight,” he said. “I’m going.”

  “You asked about the couriers. Do they wear uniforms?”

  “I was curious.”

  “Most of the time, yes. They also drive armored vans, but I was specific about that. If a van was used it was to be parked a block from the bridge, the courier to proceed on foot.”

  “I heard you, but I wasn’t sure what you meant.
Why?”

  “A bonded courier’s bad enough, but he’s necessary; bank insurance requires him. A van is simply too obvious; it could be followed too easily. You won’t change your mind and let me go with you?”

  “No.”

  “Believe me, nothing will go wrong; those two thieves wouldn’t permit it.”

  “Then there’s no reason for you to be there.”

  “You’re maddening.”

  “I’m in a hurry.”

  “I know. And you move faster without me.” Marie got up and came to him. “I do understand.” She leaned into him, kissing him on the lips, suddenly aware of the weapon in his belt. She looked into his eyes. “You are worried, aren’t you?”

  “Just cautious.” He smiled, touching her chin. “It’s an awful lot of money. It may have to keep us for a long time.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “The money?”

  “No. Us.” Marie frowned. “A safety deposit box.”

  “You keep talking in non sequiturs.”

  “You can’t leave negotiable certificates worth over a million dollars in a Paris hotel room. You’ve got to get a deposit box.”

  “We can do it tomorrow.” He released her, turning for the door. “While I’m out, look up Les Classiques in the phone book and call the regular number. Find out how late it’s open.” He left quickly.

  Bourne sat in the back seat of a stationary taxi, watching the front of the bank through the windshield. The driver was humming an unrecognizable tune, reading a newspaper, content with the fifty-franc note he had received in advance. The cab’s motor, however, was running, the passenger had insisted upon that.

  The armored van loomed in the right rear window, its radio antenna shooting up from the center of the roof like a tapered bowsprit. It parked in a space reserved for authorized vehicles directly in front of Jason’s taxi. Two small red lights appeared above the circle of bulletproof glass in the rear door. The alarm system had been activated.

  Bourne leaned forward, his eyes on the uniformed man who climbed out of the side door and threaded his way through the crowds on the pavement toward the entrance of the bank. He felt a sense of relief, the man was not one of the three well-dressed men who had come to the Valois yesterday.