The Bourne Identity (14 page)

"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
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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 Alpenhauser.

"You said that before."

He looked 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 maitre 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."

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"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.

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"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 Lowenstrasse."

"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."

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"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 Quai toward the cathedral of Grossmunster. The Lowenstrasse 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 Nuschelerstrasse; the streets intersected, according to a couple who had been about to enter the Drei Alpenhauser.

Marie St. Jacques was silent, holding onto the wheel as she had gripped the straps of her handbag
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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 Grossmunster 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. ... Lowenstrasse. 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. Bourne snapped the headlights on, then leaned across the girl, one hand disengaging the directional signal, the other gripping her arm where he had gripped it before.

"I'll kill you, Doctor," he said quietly, then shouted through the window at the police officer. "Sorry!

We're a little confused! Tourists! We want the next block!"

The policeman was barely two feet away from Marie St. Jacques, his eyes on her face, evidently puzzled by her lack of reaction.

The light changed. "Ease forward. Don't do anything stupid," said Jason. He waved at the police officer through the glass. "Sorry again!" he yelled. The policeman shrugged, turning to his partner to resume a
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previous conversation.

"I
was
confused," said the girl, her soft voice trembling. "There's so much traffic. ... Oh, God, you've broken my arm! ... You
bastard
."

Bourne released her, disturbed by her anger; he preferred fear. "You don't expect me to believe you, do you?"

"My arm?"

"Your confusion."

"You said we were going to turn left soon; that's all I was thinking about."

"Next time look at the traffic." He moved away from her but did not take his eyes off her face.

"You
are
an animal," she whispered, briefly closing her eyes, opening them in fear; it had come back. They reached the Lowenstrasse, a wide avenue where low buildings of brick and heavy wood stood sandwiched between modern examples of smooth concrete and glass. The character of nineteenth-century flats competed against the utilitarianism of contemporary neuterness; they did not lose. Jason watched the numbers; they were descending from the middle eighties, with each block the old houses more in evidence than the high-rise apartments, until the street had returned in time to that other era. There was a row of neat four-story flats, roofs and windows framed in wood, stone steps and railings leading up to recessed doorways washed in the light of carriage lamps. Bourne recognized the unremembered; the fact that he did so was not startling, but something else was. The row of houses evoked another image, a very strong image of another row of flats, similar in outlines, but oddly different. Weathered, older, nowhere near as neat or scrubbed ... cracked windows, broken steps, incomplete railings--jagged ends of rusted iron. Further away, in another part of ... Zurich, yes they
were
in Zurich. In a small district rarely if ever visited by those who did not live there, a part of the city that was left behind, but not gracefully.