The Bourne Identity (47 page)

"The answer to both questions is yes."
The moment had come. The message was sent by Carlos. I
am Cain and you must leave me. I must lose you. But first there is Zurich and you have to
understand
. "That article was planted to find me."

"I won't argue with that," she broke in, surprising him with the interruption. "I've had time to think; they know the evidence is false--so patently false it's ridiculous. The Zurich police fully expect me to get in touch with the Canadian Embassy now--" Marie stopped, the unlit cigarette in her hand. "My God, Jason, that's what they want us to do!"

"Who wants us to do?"

"Whoever's sending us the message. They know I have no choice but to call the embassy, get the protection of the Canadian government. I didn't think of it because I've already
spoken
to the embassy, to what's his name--Dennis Corbelier--and he had absolutely' nothing to tell me. He only did what I asked him to do; there was nothing else. But that was
yesterday
, not
today
, not
tonight
." Marie started for the telephone on the bedside table.

Bourne rose quickly from the chair and intercepted her, holding her arm. "Don't" he said firmly.

"Why not?"

"Because you're wrong."

"I'm right, Jason! Let me prove it to you."

Bourne moved in front of her. "I think you'd better listen to what I have to say."

"No!" she cried, startling him. "I don't want to hear it. Not now!"

"An hour ago in Paris it was the only thing you wanted to hear. Hear it!"

"No! An hour ago I was dying. You'd made up your mind to run. Without me. And I know now it will happen over and over again until it stops for you. You hear words, you see images, and fragments of things come back to you that you can't understand, but because they're there you condemn yourself. You always
will
condemn yourself until someone proves to you that whatever you were ... there are others using you, who will sacrifice you. But there's also someone else out there who wants to help you,
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help us. That's the message! I know I'm right I want to prove it to you.
Let
me!"

Bourne held her arms in silence, looking at her face, her lovely face filled with pain and useless hope, her eyes pleading. The terrible ache was everywhere within him. Perhaps it was better this way; she would see for herself, and her fear would make her listen, make her understand. There was nothing for them any longer.
I am Cain
... "All right, you can make the call, but its got to be done my way." He released her and went to the telephone; he dialed the Auberge du Coin's front desk. "This is room 341. I've just heard from friends in Paris; they're coming out to join us in a while. Do you have a room down the hall for them? Fine. Their name is Briggs, an American couple. I'll come down and pay in advance and you can let me have the key. Splendid. Thank you."

"What are you doing?"

"Proving something to you," he said. "Get me a dress," he continued. "The longest one you've got."

"What?"

"If you want to make your call, you'll do as I tell you."

"You're crazy."

"I've admitted that," he said, taking trousers and a shirt from his suitcase. "The dress, please."

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Briggs' room, six doors away and across the hall from room 341, was in readiness. The clothes had been properly placed, selected lights left on, others not functioning because the bulbs had been removed.

Jason returned to their room; Marie was standing by the telephone. "We're set."

"What have you done?"

"What I wanted to do; what I had to do. You can make the call now."

"It's very late. Suppose he isn't there?"

"I think he will be. If not, they'll give you his home phone. His name was in the telephone logs in Ottawa; it had to be."

"I suppose it was."

"Then he will have been reached. Have you gone over what I told you to say?"

"Yes, but it doesn't matter; it's not relevant. I know I'm not wrong."

"We'll see. Just say the words I told you. I'll be right beside you listening. Go ahead."

She picked up the phone and dialed. Seven seconds after she reached the embassy switchboard, Dennis Corbelier was on the line. It was quarter past one in the morning.

"Christ almighty, where
are
you?"

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"You were expecting me to call, then?"

"I was hoping to hell you would! This place is in an uproar. I've been waiting here since five o'clock this afternoon."

"So was Alan. In Ottawa."

"Alan who? What are you talking about? Where the hell
are
you?"

"First I want to know what you have to tell me."

"
Tell
you?"

"You have a message for me, Dennis. What is it?"

"What is
what?
What message?"

Marie's face went pale. "I didn't kill anyone in Zurich. I wouldn't ..."

"Then for God's sake," interrupted the attache, "get
in
here! We'll give you all the protection we can. No one can touch you here!"

"Dennis, listen to me! You've been waiting there for my call, haven't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Someone told you to wait, isn't that true?"

A pause. When Corbelier spoke, his voice was subdued. "Yes, he did. They did."

"What did they tell you?"

"That you need our help. Very badly."

Marie resumed breathing. "And they want to help us?"

"By us," replied Corbelier, "you're saying he's with you, then?"

Bourne's face was next to hers, his head angled to hear Corbelier's words. He nodded.

"Yes," she answered. "We're together, but he's out for a few minutes. It's all lies; they told you that, didn't they?"

"All they said was that you had to be found, protected. They
do
want to help you: they want to send a car for you. One of ours. Diplomatic."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know them by name; I don't have to. I know their rank."

"Rank?"

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"Specialists, FS-Five. You don't get much higher than that."

"You trust them?"

"My God, yes! They reached me through Ottawa. Their orders came from Ottawa."

"They're at the embassy now?"

"No, they're outposted." Corbelier paused, obviously exasperated. "Jesus Christ, Marie--where
are
you?"

Bourne nodded again, she spoke.

"We're at the Auberge du Coin in Montrouge. Under the name of Briggs."

"I'll get that car to you right away."

"No, Dennis!" protested Marie, watching Jason, his eyes telling her to follow his instructions. "Send one in the morning. First thing in the morning--four hours from now, if you like."

"I can't
do
that! For your own sake."

"You have to; you don't understand. He was trapped into doing something and he's frightened; he wants to run. If he knew I called you, he'd be running now. Give me time. I can convince him to turn himself in. Just a few more hours. He's confused, but underneath he knows I'm right." Marie said the words, looking at Bourne.

"What kind of a son of a bitch is he?"

"A terrified one," she answered. "One who's being manipulated. I need the time. Give it to me."

"Marie ...?" Corbelier stopped. "All right, first thing in the morning. Say ... six o'clock. And, Marie, they want to help you. They
can
help you."

"I know. Good night."

"Good night."

Marie hung up.

"Now, we'll wait," Bourne said.

"I don't know what you're proving. Of course he'll call the FS-Fives, and of course they'll show up here. What do you expect? He as much as admitted what he was going to do, what he thinks he has to do."

"And these diplomatic FS-Fives are the ones sending us the message?"

"My guess is they'll take us to who is. Or if those sending it are too far away, they'll put us in touch with them. I've never been surer of anything in my professional life."

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Bourne looked at her. "I hope you're right, because it's your whole life that concerns me. If the evidence against you in Zurich isn't part of any message, if it was put there by experts to find me--if the Zurich police
believe
it--then I'm that terrified man you spoke about to Corbelier. No one wants you to be right more than I do. But I don't think you are."

At three minutes past two, the lights in the motel corridor flickered and went out, leaving the long hallway in relative darkness, the spill from the stairwell the only source of illumination. Bourne stood by the door of their room, pistol in hand, the lights turned off, watching the corridor through a crack between the door's edge and the frame. Marie was behind him, peering over his shoulder; neither spoke. The footsteps were muffled, but there. Distinct, deliberate, two sets of shoes cautiously climbing the staircase. In seconds, the figures of two men could be seen emerging our of the dim light. Marie gasped involuntarily; Jason reached. over his shoulder, his hand gripping her mouth harshly. He understood; she had recognized one of the two men, a man she had seen only once before. In Zurich's Steppdeckstrasse, minutes before another had ordered her execution. It was the blond man they had sent up to Bourne's room, the expendable scout brought now to Paris to spot the target he had missed. In his left hand was a small pencil light, in his right a long-barreled gun, swollen by a silencer. His companion was shorter, more compact, his walk not unlike an animal's tread, shoulders and waist moving fluidly with his legs. The lapels of his topcoat were pulled up, his head covered by a narrow-brimmed hat, shading his unseen face. Bourne stared at this man; there was something familiar about him, about the figure, the walk, the way he carried his head. What was it? What
was
it? He knew him.

But there was not time to think about it; the two men were approaching the door of the room reserved in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Briggs. The blond man held his pencil light on the numbers, then swept the beam down toward the knob and the lock.

What followed was mesmerizing in its efficiency. The stocky man held a ring of keys in his right hand, placing it under the beam of light, his fingers selecting a specific key. In his left hand he gripped a weapon, its shape In the spill revealing an outsized silencer for a heavy-calibered automatic, not unlike the powerful Sternlicht Luger favored by the Gestapo in World War Two. It could cut through webbed steel and concrete, its sound no more than a rheumatic cough, ideal for taking enemies of the state at night in quiet neighborhoods, nearby residents unaware of any disturbance, only of disappearance in the morning.

The shorter man inserted the key, turned it silently, then lowered the barrel of the gun to the lock. Three rapid coughs accompanied three flashes of light; the wood surrounding any bolts shattered. The door fell free; the two killers rushed inside.

There were two beats of silence, then an eruption of muffled gunfire, spits and white flashes from the darkness. The door was slammed shut; it would not stay closed, falling back as louder sounds of thrashing and collision came from within the room. Finally a light was found; it was snapped on briefly, then shot out in fury, a lamp sent crashing to the floor, glass shattering. A cry of frenzy exploded from the throat of an infuriated man.

The two killers rushed out, weapons leveled, prepared for a trap, bewildered that there was none. They reached the staircase and raced down as a door to the right of the invaded room opened. A blinking
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guest peered out, then shrugged and went back inside. Silence returned to the darkened hallway. Bourne held his place, his arm around Marie St. Jacques. She was trembling, her head pressed into his chest, sobbing quietly, hysterically, in disbelief. He let the minutes pass, until the trembling subsided and deep breaths replaced the sobs. He could not wait any longer; she had to see for herself. See completely, the impression indelible; she had to finally understand.
I am Cain. I am death.

"Come on," he whispered.

He led her out into the hallway, guiding her firmly toward the room that was now his ultimate proof. He pushed the broken door open and they walked inside.

She stood motionless, both repelled and hypnotized by the sight. In an open doorway on the right was the dim silhouette of a figure, the light behind it so muted only the outline could be seen, and only then when the eyes adjusted to the strange admixture of darkness and glow. It was the figure of a woman in a long gown, the fabric moving gently in the breeze of an open window. Window. Straight ahead was a second figure, barely visible but there, its shape an obscure blot indistinctly outlined by the wash of light from the distant highway. Again, it seemed to move, brief, spastic flutterings of cloth--of arms.

"Oh, God," said Marie, frozen. "Turn on the lights, Jason."

"None of them work," he replied. "Only two table lamps; they found one." He walked across the room cautiously and reached the lamp he was looking for; it was on the floor against the wall. He knelt down and turned it on; Marie shuddered.

Strung across the bathroom door, held in place by threads torn from a curtain, was her long dress, rippling from an unseen source of wind. It was riddled with bullet holes. Against the far window, Bourne's shirt and trousers had been tacked to the frame, the panes by both sleeves smashed, the breeze rushing in, causing the fabric to move up and down. The white cloth of the shirt was punctured in a half-dozen places, a diagonal line of bullets across the chest.