The Bourne Identity jb-1

by Robert Ludlum

  The secretary rose from her chair, greeted the senior executive and escorted him into d’Amacourt’s office. She came out immediately, closing the door behind her.

  Marie looked at her watch, her eyes on the sweep-second hand. She wanted one more fragment of evidence, and it would be hers shortly if she could get beyond the gate, with a clear view of the secretary’s desk. If it was going to happen, it would happen in moments, the duration brief.

  She walked to the gate, opening her purse and smiling vacuously at the receptionist, who was speaking into her phone. She mouthed the name d’Amacourt with her lips to the bewildered receptionist, reached down and opened the gate. She moved quickly inside, a determined if not very bright client of the Valois Bank.

  “Pardon, madame—” The receptionist held her hand over the telephone, rushing her words in French, “Can I help you?”

  Again Marie pronounced the name with her lips—now a courteous client late for an appointment and not wishing to be a further burden to a busy employee. “Monsieur d’Amacourt. I’m afraid I’m late. I’ll just go see his secretary.” She continued up the aisle toward the secretary’s desk.

  “Please, madame,” called out the receptionist. “I must announce—”

  The hum of electric typewriters and subdued conversations drowned out her words. Marie approached the stern-faced secretary, who looked up, as bewildered as the receptionist.

  “Yes? May I help you?”

  “Monsieur d’Amacourt, please.”

  “I’m afraid he’s in conference, madame. Do you have an appointment?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Marie, opening her purse again.

  The secretary looked at the typed schedule on her desk. “I’m afraid I don’t have anyone listed for this time period.”

  “Oh, my word!” exclaimed the confused client of the Valois Bank. “I just noticed. It’s for tomorrow, not today! I’m so sorry!”

  She turned and walked rapidly back to the gate. She had seen what she wanted to see, the last fragment of evidence. A single button was lighted on d’Amacourt’s telephone; he had bypassed his secretary and was making an outside call. The account belonging to Jason Bourne had specific, confidential instructions attached to it which were not to be revealed to the account holder.

  Bourne looked at his watch in the shade of the canopy; it was 2:49. Marie would be back by the telephone at the front of the bank, a pair of eyes inside. The next few minutes would give them the answer; perhaps she already knew it.

  He edged his way to the left side of the store window, keeping the bank’s entrance in view. A clerk inside smiled at him, reminding him that all attention should be avoided. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and looked at his watch again. Eight minutes to three.

  And then he saw them. Him. Three well-dressed men walking rapidly up rue Madeleine, talking to each other, their eyes, however, directed straight ahead. They passed the slower pedestrians in front of them, excusing themselves with a courtesy that was not entirely Parisian. Jason concentrated on the man in the middle. It was him. A man named Johann.

  Signal Johann to go inside. We’ll come back for them. A tall, gaunt man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles had said the words in the Steppdeckstrasse. Johann. They had sent him here from Zurich; he had seen Jason Bourne. And that told him something: there were no photographs.

  The three men reached the entrance. Johann and the man on his right went inside; the third man stayed by the door. Bourne started back to the telephone booth; he would wait four minutes and place his last call to Antoine d’Amacourt.

  He dropped his cigarette outside the booth, crushed it under his foot and opened the door.

  “Monsieur—” A voice came from behind.

  Jason spun around, holding his breath. A nondescript man with a stubble of a beard pointed at the booth.

  “Le téléphone—il ne marche pas. Regardez la corde.”

  “Merci bien. Je vais essayer quand même.”

  The man shrugged and left. Bourne stepped inside; the four minutes were up. He took the coins from his pocket—enough for two calls—and dialed the first.

  “La Banque de Valois. Bonjour.”

  Ten seconds later d’Amacourt was on the phone, his voice strained. “It is you, Monsieur Bourne? I thought you to say you were on your way to my office.”

  “A change of plans, I’m afraid. I’ll have to call you tomorrow.” Suddenly, through the glass panel of the booth, Jason saw a car swing into a space across the street in front of the bank. The third man who was standing by the entrance nodded to the driver.

  “—I can do?” D’Amacourt had asked a question.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked if there was anything I can do. I have your account; everything is in readiness for you here.”

  I’m sure it is, Bourne thought; the ploy was worth a try. “Look, I have to get over to London this afternoon. I’m taking one of the shuttle flights, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Keep everything with you, all right?”

  “To London, monsieur?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. I have to find a cab to Orly.” He hung up and watched the entrance of the bank. In less than half a minute, Johann and his companion came running out; they spoke to the third man, then all three climbed into the waiting automobile.

  The killers’ escape car was still in the hunt, on its way now to Orly Airport. Jason memorized the number on the license plate, then dialed his second call. If the pay phone in the bank was not in use, Marie would pick it up before the ring had barely started. She did.

  “Yes?”

  “See anything?”

  “A great deal. D’Amacourt’s your man.”

  12

  They moved about the store, going from counter to counter. Marie, however, remained near the wide front window, keeping a perpetual eye on the entrance of the bank across rue Madeleine.

  “I picked out two scarves for you,” said Bourne.

  “You shouldn’t have. The prices are far too high.”

  “It’s almost four o’clock. If he hasn’t come out by now, he won’t until the end of office hours.”

  “Probably not. If he were going to meet someone, he would have done so by now. But we had to know.”

  “Take my word for it, his friends are at Orly, running from shuttle to shuttle. There’s no way they can tell whether I’m on one or not, because they don’t know what name I’m using.”

  “They’ll depend on the man from Zurich to recognize you.”

  “He’s looking for a dark-haired man with a limp, not me. Come on, let’s go into the bank. You can point out d’Amacourt.”

  “We can’t do that,” said Marie, shaking her head. “The cameras on the ceilings have wide-angle lenses. If they ran the tapes they could spot you.”

  “A blond-haired man with glasses?”

  “Or me. I was there; the receptionist or his secretary could identify me.”

  “You’re saying it’s a regular cabal in there. I doubt it.”

  “They could think up any number of reasons to run the tapes.” Marie stopped; she clutched Jason’s arm, her eyes on the bank beyond the window. “There he is! The one in the overcoat with the black velvet collar—d’Amacourt.”

  “Pulling at his sleeves?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got him. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

  “Be careful. Be very careful.”

  “Pay for the scarves; they’re at the counter in the back.”

  Jason left the store, wincing in the sunlight beyond the canopy, looking for a break in the traffic so he could cross the street; there was none. D’Amacourt had turned right and was strolling casually; he was not a man in a rush to meet anyone. Instead, there was the air of a slightly squashed peacock about him.

  Bourne reached the corner and crossed with the light, falling behind the banker. D’Amacourt stopped at a newsstand to buy an evening paper. Jason held his place in front of a sporting goods shop, the
n followed as the banker continued down the block.

  Ahead was a café, windows dark, entrance heavy wood, thick hardware on the door. It took no imagination to picture the inside; it was a drinking place for men, and for women brought with men other men would not discuss. It was as good a spot as any for a quiet discussion with Antoine d’Amacourt. Jason walked faster, falling in stride beside the banker. He spoke in the awkward, Anglicized French he had used on the phone.

  “Bonjour, monsieur. Je … pense que vous … êtes Monsieur d’Amacourt. I’d say I was right, wouldn’t you?” The banker stopped. His cold eyes were frightened, remembering. The peacock shriveled further into his tailored overcoat. “Bourne?” he whispered.

  “Your friends must be very confused by now. I expect they’re racing all over Orly Airport, wondering, perhaps, if you gave them the wrong information. Perhaps on purpose.”

  “What?” The frightened eyes bulged.

  “Let’s go inside here,” said Jason, taking d’Amacourt’s arm, his grip firm. “I think we should have a talk.”

  “I know absolutely nothing! I merely followed the demands of the account. I am not involved!”

  “Sorry. When I first talked to you, you said you wouldn’t confirm the sort of bank account I was talking about on the phone; you wouldn’t discuss business with someone you didn’t know. But twenty minutes later you said you had everything ready for me. That’s confirmation, isn’t it? Let’s go inside.”

  The café was in some ways a miniature version of Zurich’s Drei Alpenhäuser. The booths were deep, the partitions between them high, and the light dim. From there, however, the appearances veered; the café on rue Madeleine was totally French, carafes of wine replacing steins of beer.

  Bourne asked for a booth in the corner; the waiter accommodated.

  “Have a drink,” said Jason. “You’re going to need it.”

  “You presume,” replied the banker coldly. “I’ll have a whiskey.” The drinks came quickly, the brief interim taken up with d’Amacourt nervously extracting a pack of cigarettes from under his form-fitting overcoat. Bourne struck a match, holding it close to the banker’s face. Very close.

  “Merci.” D’Amacourt inhaled, removed his cigarette, and swallowed half the small glass of whiskey. “I’m not the man you should talk with,” he said.

  “Who is?”

  “An owner of the bank, perhaps. I don’t know, but certainly not me.”

  “Explain that.”

  “Arrangements were made. A privately held bank has more flexibility than a publicly owned institution with stockholders.”

  “How?”

  “There’s greater latitude, shall we say, with regard to the demands of certain clients and sister banks. Less scrutiny than might be applied to a company listed on the Bourse. The Gemeinschaft in Zurich is also a private institution.”

  “The demands were made by the Gemeinschaft?”

  “Requests … demands … yes.”

  “Who owns the Valois?”

  “Who? Many—a consortium. Ten or twelve men and their families.”

  “Then I have to talk to you, don’t I? I mean, it’d be a little foolish my running all over Paris tracking them down.”

  “I’m only an executive. An employee.” D’Amacourt swallowed the rest of his drink, crushed out his cigarette and reached for another. And the matches.

  “What are the arrangements?”

  “I could lose my position, monsieur!”

  “You could lose your life,” said Jason, disturbed that the words came so easily to him.

  “I’m not as privileged as you think.”

  “Nor as ignorant as you’d like me to believe,” said Bourne, his eyes wandering over the banker across the table. “Your type’s everywhere, d’Amacourt. It’s in your clothes, the way you wear your hair, even your walk; you strut too much. A man like you doesn’t get to be the vice-president of the Valois Bank without asking questions; you cover yourself. You don’t make a smelly move unless you can save your own ass. Now, tell me what those arrangements were. You’re not important to me, am I being clear?”

  D’Amacourt struck a match and held it beneath his cigarette while staring at Jason. “You don’t have to threaten me, monsieur. You’re a very rich man. Why not pay me?” The banker smiled nervously. “You’re quite right, incidentally. I did ask a question or two. Paris is not Zurich. A man of my station must have words if not answers.”

  Bourne leaned back, revolving his glass, the clicking of the ice cubes obviously annoying d’Amacourt. “Name a reasonable price,” he said finally, “and we’ll discuss it.”

  “I’m a reasonable man. Let the decision be based on value, and let it be yours. Bankers the world over are compensated by grateful clients they have advised. I would like to think of you as a client.”

  “I’m sure you would.” Bourne smiled, shaking his head at the man’s sheer nerve. “So we slide from bribe to gratuity. Compensation for personal advice and service.” D’Amacourt shrugged. “I accept the definition and, if ever asked, would repeat your words.”

  “The arrangements?”

  “Accompanying the transfer of our funds from Zurich was une fiche confidentielle—”

  “Une fiche?” broke in Jason, recalling the moment in Apfel’s office at the Gemeinschaft when Koenig came in saying the words. “I heard it once before. What is it?”

  “A dated term, actually. It comes from the middle nineteenth century when it was a common practice for the great banking houses—primarily the Rothschilds—to keep track of the international flow of money.”

  “Thank you. Now what is it specifically?”

  “Separate sealed instructions to be opened and followed when the account in question is called up.”

  “‘Called up’?”

  “Funds removed or deposited.”

  “Suppose I’d just gone to a teller, presented a bank book, and asked for money?”

  “A double asterisk would have appeared on the transaction computer. You would have been sent to me.”

  “I was sent to you anyway. The operator gave me your office.”

  “Irrelevant chance. There are two other officers in the Foreign Services Department. Had you been connected to either one, the fiche would have dictated that you still be sent to me. I am the senior executive.”

  “I see.” But Bourne was not sure that he did see. There was a gap in the sequence; a space needed filling. “Wait a minute. You didn’t know anything about a fiche when you had the account brought to your office.”

  “Why did I ask for it?” interrupted d’Amacourt, anticipating the question. “Be reasonable, monsieur. Put yourself in my place. A man calls and identifies himself, then says he is ‘talking about over four million francs.’ Four million. Would you not be anxious to be of service? Bend a rule here and there?”

  Looking at the seedily elegant banker, Jason realized it was the most unstartling thing he had said.

  “The instructions. What were they?”

  “To begin with a telephone number—unlisted, of course. It was to be called, all information relayed.”

  “Do you remember the number?”

  “I make it a point to commit such things to memory.”

  “I’ll bet you do. What is it?”

  “I must protect myself, monsieur. How else could you have gotten it? I pose the question … how do you say it? … rhetorically.”

  “Which means you have the answer. How did I get it? If it ever comes up.”

  “In Zurich. You paid a very high price for someone to break not only the strictest regulation on the Bahnhofstrasse, but also the laws of Switzerland.”

  “I’ve got just the man,” said Bourne, the face of Koenig coming into focus. “He’s already committed the crime.”

  “At the Gemeinschaft? Are you joking?”

  “Not one bit. His name is Koenig; his desk is on the second floor.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “I’m sure you
will. The number?” D’Amacourt gave it to him. Jason wrote it on a paper napkin.

  “How do I know this is accurate?”

  “You have a reasonable guarantee. I have not been paid.”

  “Good enough.”

  “And as long as value is intrinsic to our discussion, I should tell you that it is the second telephone number; the first was canceled.”

  “Explain that.”

  D’Amacourt leaned forward. “A photostat of the original fiche arrived with accounts-courier. It was sealed in a black case, accepted and signed for by the senior keeper-of-records. The card inside was validated by a partner of the Gemeinschaft, countersigned by the usual Swiss notary; the instructions were simple, quite clear. In all matters pertaining to the account of Jason C. Bourne, a transatlantic call to the United States was to be placed immediately, the details relayed… Here the card was altered, the number in New York deleted, one in Paris inserted and initialed.”

  “New York?” interrupted Bourne. “How do you know it was New York?”

  “The telephone area code was parenthetically included, spaced in front of the number itself; it remained intact. It was 212. As first vice-president, Foreign Services, I place such calls daily.”

  “The alteration was pretty sloppy.”

  “Possibly. It could have been made in haste, or not thoroughly understood. On the other hand, there was no way to delete the body of the instructions without renotarization. A minor risk considering the number of telephones in New York. At any rate, the substitution gave me the latitude to ask a question or two. Change is a banker’s anathema.” D’Amacourt sipped what remained of his drink.

  “Care for another?” asked Jason.

  “No, thank you. It would prolong our discussion.”

  “You’re the one who stopped.”

  “I’m thinking, monsieur. Perhaps you should have in mind a vague figure before I proceed.”