Bourne studied the man. “it could be five,” he said.
“Five what?”
“Five figures.”
“I shall proceed. I spoke to a woman—”
“A woman? How did you begin?”
“Truthfully. I was the vice-president of the Valois, and was following instructions from the Gemeinschaft in Zurich. What else was there to say?”
“Go on.”
“I said I had been in communication with a man claiming to be Jason Bourne. She asked me how recently, to which I replied a few minutes. She was then most anxious to know the substance of our conversation. It was at this point that I voiced my own concerns. The fiche specifically stated that a call should be made to New York, not Paris. Naturally, she said it was not my concern, and that the change was authorized by signature, and did I care for Zurich to be informed that an officer of the Valois refused to follow the Gemeinschaft instructions?”
“Hold it,” interrupted Jason. “Who was she?”
“I have no idea.”
“You mean you were talking all this time and she didn’t tell you? You didn’t ask?”
“That is the nature of the fiche. If a name is proffered, well and good. If it is not, one does not inquire.”
“You didn’t hesitate to ask about the telephone number.”
“Merely a device; I wanted information. You transferred four and a half million francs, a sizable amount, and were therefore a powerful client with, perhaps, more powerful strings attached to him…
One balks, then agrees, then balks again only to agree again; that is the way one learns things.
Especially if the party one is talking with displays anxiety. I can assure you, she did.”
“What did you learn?”
“That you should be considered a dangerous man.”
“In what way?”
“The definition was left open. But the fact that the term was used was enough for me to ask why the Sûreté was not involved. Her reply was extremely interesting. ‘He is beyond the Sûreté, beyond Interpol’ she said.”
“What did that tell you?”
“That it was a highly complicated matter for any number of possibilities, all best left private.
Since our talk began, however, it now tells me something else.”
“What’s that?”
“That you really should pay me well, for I must be extremely cautious. Those who look for you, are also, perhaps, beyond the Sûreté, beyond Interpol.”
“We’ll get to that. You told this woman I was on my way to your office?”
“Within the quarter hour. She asked me to remain on the telephone for a few moments, that she would be right back. Obviously she made another call. She returned with her final instructions. You were to be detained in my office until a man came to my secretary inquiring about a matter from Zurich. And when you left you were to be identified by a nod or a gesture; there could be no error.
The man came, of course, and, of course, you never arrived, so he waited by the tellers’ cages with an associate. When you phoned and said you were on your way to London, I left my office to find the man. My secretary pointed him out and I told him. The rest you know.”
“Didn’t it strike you as odd that I had to be identified?”
“Not so odd as intemperate. A fiche is one thing—telephone calls, faceless communications—but to be involved directly, in the open, as it were, is something else again. I said as much to the woman.”
“What did she say to you?”
D’Amacourt cleared his throat. “She made it clear that the party she represented—whose stature was, indeed, confirmed by the fiche itself—would remember my cooperation. You see, I withhold nothing… Apparently they don’t know what you look like.”
“A man was at the bank who saw me in Zurich.”
“Then his associates do not trust his eyesight. Or, perhaps, what he thinks he saw.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Merely an observation, monsieur; the woman was insistent. You must understand, I strenuously objected to any overt participation; that is not the nature of the fiche. She said there was no photograph of you. An obvious lie, of course.”
“Is it?”
“Naturally. All passports have photographs. Where is the immigration officer who cannot be bought or duped? Ten seconds in a passport-control room, a photograph of a photograph; arrangements can be made. No, they committed a serious oversight.”
“I guess they did.”
“And you,” continued d’Amacourt, “just told me something else. Yes, you really must pay me very well.”
“What did I just tell you?”
“That your passport does not identify you as Jason Bourne. Who are you, monsieur?” Jason did not at first answer; he revolved his glass again. “Someone who may pay you a lot of money,” he said.
“Entirely sufficient. You are simply a client named Bourne. And I must be cautious.”
“I want that telephone number in New York. Can you get it for me? There’d be a sizable bonus.”
“I wish I could. I see no way.”
“It might be raised from the fiche card. Under a low-power scope.”
“When I said it was deleted, monsieur, I did not mean it was crossed out. It was deleted—it was cut out.”
“Then someone has it in Zurich.”
“Or it has been destroyed.”
“Last question,” said Jason, anxious now to leave. “It concerns you, incidentally. It’s the only way you’ll get paid.”
“The question will be tolerated, of course. What is it?”
“If I showed up at the Valois without calling you, without telling you I was coming, would you be expected to make another telephone call?”
“Yes. One does not disregard the fiche; it emanates from powerful boardrooms. Dismissal would follow.”
“Then how do we get our money?”
D’Amacourt pursed his lips. “There is a way. Withdrawal in absentia. Forms filled out, instructions by letter, identification confirmed and authenticated by an established firm of attorneys. I would be powerless to interfere.”
“You’d still be expected to make the call, though.”
“It’s a matter of timing. Should an attorney with whom the Valois has had numerous dealings call me requesting that I prepare, say, a number of cashiers checks drawn upon a foreign transfer he has ascertained to have been cleared, I would do so. He would state that he was sending over the completed forms, the checks, of course, made out to ‘Bearer,’ not an uncommon practice in these days of excessive taxes. A messenger would arrive with the letter during the most hectic hours of activity, and my secretary—an esteemed, trusted employee of many years—would simply bring in the forms for my countersignature and the letter for my initialing.”
“No doubt,” interrupted Bourne, “along with a number of other papers you were to sign.”
“Exactly. I would then place my call, probably watching the messenger leave with his briefcase as I did so.”
“You wouldn’t, by any remote chance, have in mind the name of a law firm in Paris, would you? Or a specific attorney?”
“As a matter of fact, one just occurred to me.”
“How much will he cost?”
“Ten thousand francs.”
“That’s expensive.”
“Not at all. He was a judge on the bench, an honored man.”
“What about you? Let’s refine it.”
“As I said, I’m reasonable, and the decision should be yours. Since you mentioned five figures, let us be consistent with your words. Five figures, commencing with five. Fifty thousand francs.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“So is whatever you’ve done, Monsieur Bourne.”
“Une fiche confidentielle,” said Marie, sitting in the chair by the window, the late afternoon sun bouncing off the ornate buildings of the boulevard Montparnasse outside. “So that’s the device they’ve used.”
&nbs
p; “I can impress you—I know where it comes from.” Jason poured a drink from the bottle on the bureau and carried it to the bed; he sat down, facing her. “Do you want to hear?”
“I don’t have to,” she answered, gazing out the window, preoccupied. “I know exactly where it comes from and what it means. It’s a shock, that’s all.”
“Why? I thought you expected something like this.”
“The results, yes, not the machinery. A fiche is an archaic stab at legitimacy, almost totally restricted to private banks on the Continent. American, Canadian, and UK laws forbid its use.” Bourne recalled‘ d’Amacourt’s words; he repeated them. “‘It emanates from powerful boardrooms’—that’s what he said.”
“He was right.” Marie looked over at him. “Don’t you see? I knew that a flag was attached to your account. I assumed that someone had been bribed to forward information. That’s not unusual; bankers aren’t in the front ranks for canonization. But this is different. That account in Zurich was established—at the very beginning—with the fiche as part of its activity. Conceivably with your own knowledge.”
“Treadstone Seventy-One,” said Jason.
“Yes. The owners of the bank had to work in concert with Treadstone. And considering the latitude of your access, it’s possible you were aware that they did.”
“But someone was bribed. Koenig. He substituted one telephone number for another.”
“He was well paid, I can assure you. He could face ten years in a Swiss prison.”
“Ten? That’s pretty stiff.”
“So are the Swiss laws. He had to be paid a small fortune.”
“Carlos,” said Bourne. “Carlos … Why? What am I to him? I keep asking myself. I say the name over and over and over again! I don’t get anything, nothing at all. Just a … a … I don’t know.
Nothing.”
“But there’s something, isn’t there?” Marie sat forward. “What is it, Jason? What are you thinking of?”
“I’m not thinking … I don’t know.”
“Then you’re feeling. Something. What is it?”
“I don’t know. Fear, maybe … Anger, nerves. I don’t know.”
“Concentrate!”
“Goddamn it, do you think I’m not? Do you think I haven’t? Have you any idea what it’s like?”
Bourne stiffened, annoyed at his own outburst. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Ever. These are the hints, the clues you have to look for—we have to look for. Your doctor friend in Port Noir was right; things come to you, provoked by other things. As you yourself said, a book of matches, a face, or the front of a restaurant. We’ve seen it happen. Now, it’s a name, a name you avoided for nearly a week while you told me everything that had happened to you during the past five months, down to the smallest detail. Yet you never mentioned Carlos. You should have, but you didn’t. It does mean something to you, can’t you see that? It’s stirring things inside of you; they want to come out.”
“I know.” Jason drank.
“Darling, there’s a famous bookstore on the boulevard Saint-Germain that’s run by a magazine freak. A whole floor is crammed with back issues of old magazines, thousands of them. He even catalogues subjects, indexes them like a librarian. I’d like to find out if Carlos is in that index. Will you do it?”
Bourne was aware of the sharp pain in his chest. It had nothing to do with his wounds; it was fear. She saw it and somehow understood; he felt it and could not understand. “There are back issues of newspapers at the Sorbonne,” he said, glancing up at her. “One of them put me on cloud nine for a while. Until I thought about it.”
“A lie was exposed. That was the important thing.”
“But we’re not looking for a lie now, are we?”
“No, we’re looking for the truth. Don’t be afraid of it, darling. I’m not.” Jason got up. “Okay. Saint-Germain’s on the schedule. In the meantime, call that fellow at the embassy.” Bourne reached into his pocket and took out the paper napkin with the telephone number on it, he had added the numbers of the license plate on the car that had raced away from the bank on rue Madeleine. “Here’s the number d’Amacourt gave me, also the license of that car. See what he can do.”
“All right.” Marie took the napkin and went to the telephone. A small, spiral-hinged notebook was beside it; she flipped through the pages. “Here it is. His name is Dennis Corbelier. Peter said he’d call him by noon today, Paris time. And I could rely on him; he was as knowledgeable as any attaché in the embassy.”
“Peter knows him, doesn’t he? He’s not just a name from a list.”
“They were classmates at the University of Toronto. I can call him from here, can’t I?”
“Sure. But don’t say where you are.”
Marie picked up the phone. “I’ll tell him the same thing I told Peter. That I’m moving from one hotel to another but don’t know which yet.” She got an outside line, then dialed the number of the Canadian Embassy on the avenue Montaigne. Fifteen seconds later she was talking with Dennis Corbelier, attaché.
Marie got to the point of her call almost immediately. “I assume Peter told you I might need some help.”
“More than that,” replied Corbelier, “he explained that you were in Zurich. Can’t say I understood everything he said, but I got the general idea. Seems there’s a lot of maneuvering in the world of high finance these days.”
“More than usual. The trouble is no one wants to say who’s maneuvering whom. That’s my problem.”
“How can I help?”
“I have a license and a telephone number, both here in Paris. The telephone’s unlisted; it could be awkward if I called.”
“Give them to me.” She did. “A mari usque ad mari,” Corbelier said, reciting the national motto of their country. “We have several friends in splendid places. We trade off favors frequently, usually in the narcotics area, but we’re all flexible. Why not have lunch with me tomorrow? I’ll bring what I can.”
“I’d like that, but tomorrow’s no good. I’m spending the day with an old friend. Perhaps another time.”
“Peter said I’d be an idiot not to insist. He says you’re a terrific lady.”
“He’s a dear, and so are you. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Fine. I’ll go to work on these.”
“Talk to you tomorrow, and thanks again.” Marie hung up and looked at her watch. “I’m to call Peter in three hours. Don’t let me forget.
“You really think he’ll have something so soon?”
“He does; he started last night by calling Washington. It’s what Corbelier just said; we all trade off. This piece of information here for that one there, a name from our side for one of yours.”
“Sounds vaguely like betrayal.”
“The opposite. Were dealing in money, not missiles. Money that’s illegally moving around, outflanking laws that are good for all our interests. Unless you want the sheiks of Araby owning Grumman Aircraft. Then we’re talking about missiles … after they’ve left the launching pads.”
“Strike my objection.”
“We’ve got to see d’Amacourt’s man first thing in the morning. Figure out what you want to withdraw.”
“All of it.”
“All?”
“That’s right. If you were the directors of Treadstone, what would you do if you learned that six million francs were missing from a corporate account?”
“I see.”
“D’Amacourt suggested a series of cashiers checks made out to the bearer.”
“He said that? Checks?”
“Yes. Something wrong?”
“There certainly is. The numbers of those checks could be punched on a fraud tape and sent to banks everywhere. You have to go to a bank to redeem them; payments would be stopped.”
“He’s a winner, isn’t he? He collects from both sides. What do we do?”
“Accept half of what he told you—the bearer part. But not checks. Bonds. Bearer bonds of v
arious denominations. They’re far more easily brokered.”
“You’ve just earned dinner,” said Jason, reaching down and touching her face.
“I tries to earn my keep, sir,” she replied, holding his hand against her cheek. “First dinner, then Peter … and then a bookstore on Saint-Germain.”
“A bookstore on Saint-Germain,” repeated Bourne, the pain coming to his chest again. What was it? Why was he so afraid?
They left the restaurant on the boulevard Raspail and walked to the telephone complex on rue Vaugirard. There were glass booths against the walls and a huge circular counter in the center of the floor where clerks filled out slips, assigning booths to those placing calls.
“The traffic is very light, madame,” said the clerk to Marie. “Your call should go through in a matter of minutes. Number twelve, please.”
“Thank you. Booth twelve?”
“Yes, madame. Directly over there.”
As they walked across the crowded floor to the booth, Jason held her arm. “I know why people use these places,” he said. “They’re a hundred and ten times quicker than a hotel phone.”
“That’s only one of the reasons.”
They had barely reached the booth and lighted cigarettes when they heard the two short bursts of the bell inside. Marie opened the door and went in, her spiral-hinged notebook and a pencil in her hand. She picked up the receiver.
Sixty seconds later Bourne watched in astonishment as she stared at the wall, the blood draining from her face, her skin chalk white. She began shouting and dropped her purse, the contents scattering over the floor of the small booth; the notebook was caught on the ledge, the pencil broken in the grip of her hand. He rushed inside; she was close to collapse.
“This is Marie St. Jacques in Paris, Lisa. Peter’s expecting my call.”
“Marie? Oh, my God …” The secretary’s voice trailed off, replaced by other voices in the background. Excited voices, muted by a cupped hand over the phone. Then there was a rustle of movement, the phone being given to or taken by another.
“Marie, this is Alan,” said the first assistant director of the section. “We’re all in Peter’s office.”
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