Fifteen minutes later the courier emerged from the bank, the leather attaché case in his left hand, his right covering an unlatched holster. The jagged rip on the side of the case could be seen clearly.
Jason felt the fragment of leather in his shirt pocket; if nothing else it was the primitive combination that made a life beyond Paris, beyond Carlos, possible. If there was such a life and he could accept it without the terrible labyrinth from which he could find no escape.
But it was more than that. In a manmade labyrinth one kept moving, running, careening off walls, the contact itself a form of progress, if only blind. His personal labyrinth had no walls, no defined corridors through which to race. Only space, and swirling mists in the darkness that he saw so clearly when he opened his eyes at night and felt the sweat pouring down his face. Why was it always space and darkness and high winds? Why was he always plummeting through the air at night? A parachute. Why? Then other words came to him; he had no idea where they were from, but they were there and he heard them.
What’s left when your memory’s gone? And your identity, Mr. Smith?
Stop it!
The armored van swung into the traffic on rue Madeleine. Bourne tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Follow that truck, but keep at least two cars between us,” he said in French.
The driver turned, alarmed. “I think you have the wrong taxi, monsieur. Take back your money.”
“I’m with the armored-car company, you imbecile. It’s a special assignment.”
“Regrets, monsieur. We will not lose it.”
The driver plunged diagonally forward into the combat of traffic. The van took the quickest route to the Seine, going down sidestreets. Turning left on the Quai de la Rapée toward the Pont Neuf. Then, within what Jason judged to be three or four blocks of the bridge, it slowed down, hugging the curb as if the courier had decided he was too early for his appointment. But, if anything, Bourne thought, he was running late. It was six minutes to three, barely enough time for the man to park and walk the one prescribed block to the bridge. Then why had the van slowed down? Slowed down? No, it had stopped; it wasn’t moving! Why? The traffic? …
Good God, of course—the traffic!
“Stop here,” said Bourne to the driver. “Pull over to the curb. Quickly!”
“What is it, monsieur?”
“You’re a very fortunate man,” said Jason. “My company is willing to pay you an additional one hundred francs if you simply go to the front window of that van and say a few words to the driver.”
“What, monsieur?”
“Frankly, we’re testing him. He’s new. Do you want the hundred?”
“I just go to the window and say a few words?”
“That’s all. Five seconds at the most, then you can go back to your taxi and drive off.”
“There’s no trouble? I don’t want trouble.”
“My firm’s among the most respectable in France. You’ve seen our trucks everywhere.”
“I don’t know …”
“Forget it!” Bourne reached for the door handle. “What are the words?” Jason held out the hundred francs. “Just these: ‘Herr Koenig. Greetings from Zurich.’ Can you remember those?”
“‘Koenig. Greetings from Zurich.’ What’s so difficult?”
“You? Behind me?”
“That’s right.” They walked rapidly toward the van, hugging the right side of their small alley in the traffic as cars and trucks passed them in starts and stops on their left. The van was Carlos’ trap, thought Bourne. The assassin had bought his way into the ranks of the armed couriers. A single name and a rendezvous revealed over a monitored radio frequency could bring an underpaid messenger a great deal of money. Bourne. Pont Neuf. So simple. This particular courier was less concerned with being prompt, than in making sure the soldiers of Carlos reached the Pont Neuf in time. Paris traffic was notorious; anyone could be late. Jason stopped the taxi driver, holding in his hand four additional two-hundred franc notes; the man’s eyes were riveted on them.
“Monsieur?”
“My company’s going to be very generous. This man must be disciplined for gross infractions.”
“What, monsieur?”
“After you say ‘Herr Koenig. Greetings from Zurich,’ simply add, ‘The schedule’s changed. There’s a fare in my taxi who must see you.’ Have you got that?”
The driver’s eyes returned to the franc notes. “What’s difficult?” He took the money.
They edged their way along the side of the van, Jason’s back pressed against the wall of steel, his right hand concealed beneath his topcoat, gripping the gun in his belt. The driver approached the window and reached up, tapping the glass.
“You inside! Herr Koenig! Greetings from Zurich!” he yelled.
The window was rolled down, no more than an inch or two. “What is this?” a voice yelled back.
“You’re supposed to be at the Pont Neuf, monsieur!”
The driver was no idiot; he was also anxious to leave as rapidly as possible. “Not me, you jackass!” he shouted through the din of the surrounding, perilously close traffic. “I’m telling you what I was told to say! The schedule’s been changed. There’s a man back there who says he has to see you!”
“Tell him to hurry,” said Jason, holding a final fifty-franc note in his hand, beyond sight of the window.
The driver glanced at the money, then back up at the courier. “Be quick about it! If you don’t see him right away you’ll lose your job!”
“Now, get out of here!” said Bourne. The driver turned and ran past Jason, grabbing the franc note as he raced back to his taxi.
Bourne held his place, suddenly alarmed by what he heard through the cacophony of pounding horns and gunning engines in the crowded street. There were voices from inside the van, not one man shouting into a radio, but two shouting at each other. The courier was not alone; there was another man with him.
“Those were the words. You heard them.”
“He was to come up to you. He was to show himself.”
“Which he will do. And present the piece of leather, which must fit exactly! Do you expect him to do that in the middle of a street filled with traffic?”
“I don’t like it!”
“You paid me to help you and your people find someone. Not to lose my job. I’m going!”
“It must be the Pont Neuf!”
“Kiss my ass!”
There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the metal floorboards. “I’m coming with you!” The panel door opened; Jason spun behind it, his hand still under his coat. Below him a child’s face was pressed against the glass of a car window, the eyes squinting, the young features contorted into an ugly mask, fright and insult the childish intent. The swelling sound of angry horns, blaring in counterpoint, filled the street; the traffic had come to a standstill.
The courier stepped off the metal ledge, the attaché case in his left hand. Bourne was ready; the instant the courier was on the street, he slammed the panel back into the body of the second man, crashing the heavy steel into a descending kneecap and an outstretched hand. The man screamed, reeling backward inside the van. Jason shouted at the courier, the jagged scrap of leather in his free hand.
“I’m Bourne! Here’s your fragment! And you keep that gun in its holster or you won’t just lose your job, you’ll lose your life, you son of a bitch!”
“I meant no harm, monsieur! They wanted to find you! They have no interest in your delivery, you have my word on it!”
The door crashed open; Jason slammed it again with his shoulder, then pulled it back to see the face of Carlos’ soldier, his hand on the weapon in his belt.
What he saw was the barrel of a gun, the black orifice of its opening staring him in the eyes. He spun back, aware that the split-second delay in the gunshot that followed was caused by the burst of a shrill ringing that exploded out of the armored van. The alarm had been tripped, the sound deafening, riding over the dissonance in the street; t
he gunshot seemed muted by comparison, the eruption of asphalt below not heard.
Once more Jason hammered the panel. He heard the impact of metal against metal; he had made contact with the gun of Carlos’ soldier. He pulled his own from his belt, dropped to his knees in the street, and pulled the door open.
He saw the face from Zurich, the killer they had called Johann, the man they had brought to Paris to recognize him. Bourne fired twice; the man arched backward, blood spreading across his forehead.
The courier! The attaché case!
Jason saw the man; he had ducked below the tailgate for protection, his weapon in his hand, screaming for help. Bourne leaped to his feet and lunged for the extended gun, gripping the barrel, twisting it out of the courier’s hand. He grabbed the attaché case and shouted.
“No harm, right? Give me that, you bastard!” He threw the man’s gun under the van, got up and plunged into the hysterical crowds on the pavement.
He ran wildly, blindly, the bodies in front of him the movable walls of his labyrinth. But there was an essential difference between this gauntlet and one he lived in every day. There was no darkness; the afternoon sun was bright, as blinding as his race through the labyrinth.
14
“Everything is here,” said Marie. She had collated the certificates by denominations, the stacks and the franc notes on the desk. “I told you it would be.”
“It almost wasn’t.”
“What?”
“The man they called Johann, the one from Zurich. He’s dead. I killed him.”
“Jason, what happened?”
He told her. “They counted on the Pont Neuf,” he said. “My guess is that the backup car got caught in traffic, broke into the courier’s radio frequency, and told them to delay. I’m sure of it.”
“Oh God, they’re everywhere!”
“But they don’t know where I am,” said Bourne, looking into the mirror above the bureau, studying his blond hair while putting on the tortoise-shell glasses. “And the last place they’d expect to find me at this moment—if they conceivably thought I knew about it—would be a fashion house on Saint-Honoré.”
“Les Classiques?” asked Marie, astonished.
“That’s right. Did you call it!”
“Yes, but that’s insane!”
“Why?” Jason turned from the mirror. “Think about it. Twenty minutes ago their trap fell apart; there’s got to be confusion, recriminations, accusations of incompetency, or worse. Right now, at this moment, they’re more concerned with each other than with me; nobody wants a bullet in his throat. It won’t last long, they’ll regroup quickly, Carlos will make sure of that. But during the next hour or so, while they’re trying to piece together what happened, the one place they won’t look for me is a relay-drop they haven’t the vaguest idea I’m aware of.”
“Someone will recognize you!”
“Who? They brought in a man from Zurich to do that and he’s dead. They’re not sure what I look like.”
“The courier. They’ll take him; he saw you.”
“For the next few hours he’ll be busy with the police.”
“D’Amacourt. The lawyer!”
“I suspect they’re halfway to Normandy or Marseilles or, if they’re lucky, out of the country.”
“Suppose they’re stopped, caught?”
“Suppose they are? Do you think Carlos would expose a drop where he gets messages? Not on your life. Or his.”
“Jason, I’m frightened.”
“So am I. But not of being recognized.” Bourne returned to the mirror. “I could give a long dissertation about facial classifications, and softened features, but I won’t.”
“You’re talking about the evidences of surgery. Port Noir. You told me.”
“Not all of it.” Bourne leaned against the bureau, staring at his face. “What color are my eyes?”
“What?”
“No, don’t look at me. Now, tell me, what color are my eyes? Yours are brown with speckles of green; what about mine?”
“Blue … bluish. Or a kind of gray, really …” Marie stopped. “I’m not really sure. I suppose that’s dreadful of me.”
“It’s perfectly natural. Basically they’re hazel, but not all the time. Even I’ve noticed it. When I wear a blue shirt or tie, they become bluer, a brown coat or jacket, they’re gray. When I’m naked, they’re strangely nondescript.”
“That’s not so strange. I’m sure millions of people are the same.”
“I’m sure they are. But how many of them wear contact lenses when their eyesight is normal?”
“Contact—”
“That’s what I said,” interrupted Jason. “Certain types of contact lenses are worn to change the color of the eyes. They’re most effective when the eyes are hazel. When Washburn first examined me there was evidence of prolonged usage. It’s one of the clues, isn’t it?”
“It’s whatever you want to make of it,” said Marie. “If it’s true.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because the doctor was more often drunk than sober. You’ve told me that. He piled conjecture on top of conjecture, heaven knows how warped by alcohol. He was never specific. He couldn’t be.”
“He was about one thing. I’m a chameleon, designed to fit a flexible mold. I want to find out whose; maybe I can now. Thanks to you I’ve got an address. Someone there may know the truth. Just one man, that’s all I need. One person I can confront, break if I have to …”
“I can’t stop you, but for God’s sake be careful. If they do recognize you, they’ll kill you.”
“Not there they won’t; it’d be rotten for business. This is Paris.”
“I don’t think that’s funny, Jason.”
“Neither do I. I’m counting on it very seriously.”
“What are you going to do? I mean, how?”
“I’ll know better when I get there. See if anyone’s running around looking nervous or anxious or waiting for a phone call as if his life depended on it.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll do the same as I did with d’Amacourt. Wait outside and follow whoever it is. I’m this close; I won’t miss. And I’ll be careful.”
“Will you call me?”
“I’ll try.”
“I may go crazy waiting. Not knowing.”
“Don’t wait. Can you deposit the bonds somewhere?”
“The banks are closed.”
“Use a large hotel; hotels have vaults.”
“You have to have a room.”
“Take one. At the Meurice or the George Cinq. Leave the case at the desk but come back here.”
Marie nodded. “It would give me something to do.”
“Then call Ottawa. Find out what happened.”
“I will.”
Bourne crossed to the bedside table and picked up a number of five-thousand franc notes. “A bribe would be easier,” he said. “I don’t think it’ll happen, but it could.”
“It could,” agreed Marie, and then in the same breath continued. “Did you hear yourself? You just rattled off the names of two hotels.”
“I heard.” He turned and faced her. “I’ve been here before. Many times. I lived here, but not in those hotels. In out-of-the-way streets, I think. Not very easily found.” The moment passed in silence, the fear electric.
“I love you, Jason.”
“I love you, too,” said Bourne.
“Come back to me. No matter what happens, come back to me.”
The lighting was soft and dramatic, pinpoint spotlights shining down from the dark brown ceiling, bathing manikins and expensively dressed clients in pools of flattering yellows. The jewelry and accessories counters were lined with black velvet, silks of bright red and green tastefully flowing above the midnight sheen, glistening eruptions of gold and silver caught in the recessed frame lights.
The aisles curved graciously in semicircles, giving an illusion of space that was not there, for Les Classiques, though hardl
y small, was not a large emporium. It was, however, a beautifully appointed store on one of the most costly strips of real estate in Paris. Fitting rooms with doors of tinted glass were at the rear, beneath a balcony where the offices of management were located. A carpeted staircase rose on the right beside an elevated switchboard in front of which sat an oddly out-of-place middle-aged man dressed in a conservative business suit, operating the console, speaking into a mouthpiece that was an extension of his single earphone.
The clerks were mostly women, tall, slender, gaunt of face and body, living postmortems of former fashion models whose tastes and intelligence had carried them beyond their sisters in the trade, other practices no longer feasible. The few men in evidence were also slender; reedlike figures emphasized by form-fitting clothes, gestures rapid, stances balletically defiant.
Light romantic music floated out of the dark ceiling, quiet crescendos abstractly punctuated by the beams of the miniature spotlights. Jason wandered through the aisles, studying manikins, touching the fabric, making his own appraisals. They covered his essential bewilderment. Where was the confusion, the anxiety he expected to find at the core of Carlos’ message center? He glanced up at the open office doors and the single corridor that bisected the small complex. Men and women walked casually about as they did on the main floor, every now and then stopping one another, exchanging pleasantries or scraps of relevantly irrelevant information. Gossip. Nowhere was there the slightest sense of urgency, no sign at all that a vital trap had exploded in their faces, an imported killer—the only man in Paris who worked for Carlos and could identify the target—shot in the head, dead in the back of an armored van on the Quai de la Rapée.
It was incredible, if only because the whole atmosphere was the opposite of what he had anticipated. Not that he expected to find chaos, far from it; the soldiers of Carlos were too controlled for that. Still he had expected something. And here there were no strained faces, or darting eyes, no abrupt movements that signified alarm. Nothing whatsoever was unusual; the elegant world of haute couture continued to spin in its elegant orbit, unmindful of events that should have thrown its axis off balance.
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