The unknown thief left the room, closing the damaged door behind him.
You are not helpless. You will find your way.
So far he had and it was a little frightening. What had Washburn said? That his skills and talents would come back ... but I don’t think you’ll ever be able to relate them to anything in your past. The past. What kind of past was it that produced the skills he had displayed during the past twenty-four hours? Where had he learned to maim and cripple with lunging feet, and fingers entwined into hammers? How did he know precisely where to deliver the blows? Who had taught him to play upon the criminal mind, provoking and evoking a reluctant commitment? How did he zero in so quickly on mere implications, convinced beyond doubt that his instincts were right? Where had he learned to discern instant extortion in a casual conversation overheard in a butcher shop? More to the point, perhaps, was the simple decision to carry out the crime. My God, how could he?
The more you fight it, the more you crucify yourself, the worse it will be.
He concentrated on the road and on the mahogany dashboard of the Marquis de Chamford’s Jaguar. The array of instruments was not familiar; his past did not include extensive experience with such cars. He supposed that told him something.
In less than an hour he crossed a bridge over a wide canal and knew he had reached Marseilles. Small square houses of stone, angling like blocks up from the water; narrow streets and walls everywhere—the outskirts of the old harbor. He knew it all, and yet he did not know it. High in the distance, silhouetted on one of the surrounding hills, were the outlines of a cathedral, a statue of the Virgin seen clearly atop its steeple. Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde. The name came to him; he had seen it before—and yet he had not seen it.
Oh, Christ! Stop it!
Within minutes he was in the pulsing center of the city, driving along the crowded Canebière, with its proliferation of expensive shops, the rays of the afternoon sun bouncing off expanses of tinted glass on either side, and on either side enormous sidewalk cafés. He turned left, toward the harbor, passing warehouses and small factories and fenced off lots that contained automobiles prepared for transport north to the showrooms of Saint-Etienne, Lyons and Paris. And to points south across the Mediterranean.
Instinct. Follow instinct. For nothing could be disregarded. Every resource had an immediate use; there was value in a rock if it could be thrown, or a vehicle if someone wanted it. He chose a lot where the cars were both new and used, but all expensive; he parked at the curb and got out. Beyond the fence was a small cavern of a garage, mechanics in overalls laconically wandering about carrying tools. He walked casually around inside until he spotted a man in a thin, pin-striped suit whom instinct told him to approach.
It took less than ten minutes, explanations kept to a minimum, a Jaguar’s disappearance to North Africa guaranteed with the filing of engine numbers.
The silver monogrammed keys were exchanged for six thousand francs, roughly one-fifth the value of Chamford’s automobile. Then Dr. Washburn’s patient found a taxi, and asked to be taken to a pawnbroker—but not an establishment that asked too many questions. The message was clear; this was Marseilles. And a half hour later the gold Girard Perregaux was no longer on his wrist, having been replaced by a Seiko chronograph and eight hundred francs. Everything had a value in relationship to its practicality; the chronograph was shockproof.
The next stop was a medium-sized department store in the southeast section of La Canebière. Clothes were chosen off the racks and shelves, paid for and worn out of the fitting rooms, an ill-fitting dark blazer and trousers left behind.
From a display on the floor, he selected a soft leather suitcase, additional garments placed inside with the knapsack. The patient glanced at his new watch; it was nearly five o’clock, time to find a comfortable hotel. He had not really slept for several days; he needed to rest before his appointment in the rue Sarrasin, at a café called Le Bouc de Mer, where arrangements could be made for a more important appointment in Zurich.
He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, the wash of the streetlamps below causing irregular patterns of light to dance across the smooth white surface. Night had come rapidly to Marseilles, and with its arrival a certain sense of freedom came to the patient. It was as if the darkness were a gigantic blanket, blocking out the harsh glare of daylight that revealed too much too quickly. He was learning something else about himself: he was more comfortable in the night. Like a half-starved cat, he would forage better in the darkness. Yet there was a contradiction, and he recognized that, too. During the months in Ile de Port Noir, he had craved the sunlight, hungered for it, waited for it each dawn, wishing only for the darkness to go away.
Things were happening to him; he was changing.
Things had happened. Events that gave a certain lie to the concept of foraging more successfully at night. Twelve hours ago he was on a fishing boat in the Mediterranean, an objective in mind and two thousand francs strapped to his waist. Two thousand francs, something less than five hundred American dollars according to the daily rate of exchange posted in the hotel lobby. Now he was outfitted with several sets of acceptable clothing and lying on a bed in a reasonably expensive hotel with something over twenty-three thousand francs in a Louis Vuitton billfold belonging to the Marquis de Chamford. Twenty-three-thousand francs … nearly six thousand American dollars.
Where had he come from that he was able to do the things he did?
Stop it!
The rue Sarrasin was so ancient that in another city it might have been designated as a landmark thoroughfare, a wide brick alley connecting streets built centuries later. But this was Marseilles; ancient coexisted with old, both uncomfortable with the new. The rue Sarrasin was no more than two hundred feet long, frozen in time between the stone walls of waterfront buildings, devoid of streetlights, trapping the mists that rolled off the harbor. It was a backstreet conducive to brief meetings between men who did not care for their conferences to be observed.
The only light and sound came from Le Bouc de Mer. The café was situated roughly in the center of the wide alley, its premises once a nineteenth-century office building. A number of cubicles had been taken down to allow for a large barroom and tables; an equal number were left standing for less public appointments. These were the waterfront’s answer to those private rooms found at restaurants along La Canebière, and, as befitting their status, there were curtains, but no doors.
The patient made his way between the crowded tables, cutting his way through the layers of smoke, excusing himself past lurching fishermen and drunken soldiers and red-faced whores looking for beds to rest in as well as new francs. He peered into a succession of cubicles, a crewman looking for his companions—until he found the captain of the fishing boat. There was another man at the table. Thin, pale faced, narrow eyes peering up like a curious ferret’s.
“Sit down,” said the dour skipper. “I thought you’d be here before this.”
“You said between nine and eleven. It’s quarter to eleven.”
“You stretch the time, you can pay for the whiskey.”
“Be glad to. Order something decent if they’ve got it.”
The thin, pale-faced man smiled. Things were going to be all right.
They were. The passport in question was, naturally, one of the most difficult in the world to tamper with, but with great care, equipment, and artistry, it could be done.
“How much?”
“These skills—and equipment—do not come cheap. Twenty-five hundred francs.”
“When can I have it?”
“The care, the artistry, they take time. Three or four days. And that’s putting the artist under great pressure; he’ll scream at me.”
“There’s an additional one thousand francs if I can have it tomorrow.”
“By ten in the morning,” said the pale-faced man quickly. “I’ll take the abuse.”
“And the thousand,” interrupted the scowling captain. “What did you br
ing out of Port Noir? Diamonds?”
“Talent,” answered the patient, meaning it but not understanding it.
“I’ll need a photograph,” said the connection.
“I stopped at an arcade and had this made,” replied the patient, taking a small square photograph out of his shirt pocket. “With all that expensive equipment I’m sure you can sharpen it up.”
“Nice clothes,” said the captain, passing the print to the pale-faced man.
“Well tailored,” agreed the patient.
The location of the morning rendezvous was agreed upon, the drinks paid for, and the captain slipped five hundred francs under the table. The conference was over; the buyer left the cubicle and started across the crowded, raucous, smoke-layered barroom toward the door.
It happened so rapidly, so suddenly, so completely unexpectedly, there was no time to think. Only react.
The collision was abrupt, casual, but the eyes that stared at him were not casual; they seemed to burst out of their sockets, widening in disbelief, on the edge of hysteria.
“No! Oh my God, no! It cannot—” The man spun in the crowd; the patient lurched forward, clamping his hand down on the man’s shoulder.
“Wait a minute!”
The man spun again, thrusting the V of his outstretched thumb and fingers up into the patient’s wrist, forcing the hand away. “You! You’re dead! You could not have lived!”
“I lived. What do you know?”
The face was now contorted, a mass of twisted fury, the eyes squinting, the mouth open, sucking air, baring yellow teeth that took on the appearance of animals’ teeth. Suddenly the man pulled out a knife, the snap of its recessed blade heard through the surrounding din. The arm shot forward, the blade an extension of the hand that gripped it, both surging in toward the patient’s stomach. “I know I’ll finish it!” whispered the man.
The patient swung his right forearm down, a pendulum sweeping aside all objects in front of it. He pivoted, lashing his left foot up, his heel plunging into his attacker’s pelvic bone.
“Che-sah.” The echo in his ears was deafening.
The man lurched backward into a trio of drinkers as the knife fell to the floor. The weapon was seen; shouts followed, men converged, fists and hands separating the combatants.
“Get out of here!”
“Take your argument somewhere else!”
“We don’t want the police in here, you drunken bastards!”
The angry coarse dialects of Marseilles rose over the cacophonous sounds of Le Bouc de Mer. The patient was hemmed in; he watched as his would-be killer threaded his way through the crowd, holding his groin, forcing a path to the entrance. The heavy door swung open; the man raced into the darkness of rue Sarrasin.
Someone who thought he was dead—wanted him dead—knew he was alive.
4
The economy class section of Air France’s Caravelle to Zurich was filled to capacity, the narrow seats made more uncomfortable by the turbulence that buffeted the plane. A baby was screaming in its mother’s arms; other children whimpered, swallowing cries of fear as parents smiled with tentative reassurances they did not feel. Most of the remaining passengers were silent, a few drinking their whiskey more rapidly than obviously was normal. Fewer still were forcing laughter from tight throats, false bravados that emphasized their insecurity rather than disguising it. A terrible flight was many things to many people, but none escape the essential thoughts of terror. When man encased himself in a metal tube thirty thousand feet above the ground, he was vulnerable. With one elongated, screaming dive he could be plummeting downward into the earth. And there were fundamental questions that accompanied the essential terror. What thoughts would go through one’s mind at such a time? How would one react?
The patient tried to find out; it was important to him. He sat next to the window, his eyes on the aircraft’s wing, watching the broad expanse of metal bend and vibrate under the brutalizing impact of the winds. The currents were clashing against one another, pounding the manmade tube into a kind of submission, warning the microscopic pretenders that they were no match for the vast infirmities of nature. One ounce of pressure beyond the flex tolerance and the wing would crack, the lift-sustaining limb torn from its tubular body, shredded into the winds; one burst of rivets and there would be an explosion, the screaming plunge to follow.
What would he do? What would he think? Other than the uncontrollable fear of dying and oblivion, would there be anything else? That’s what he had to concentrate on; that was the projection Washburn kept emphasizing in Port Noir. The doctor’s words came back to him.
Whenever you observe a stress situation—and you have the time—do your damndest to project yourself into it. Associate as freely as you can; let words and images fill your mind. In them you may find clues.
The patient continued to stare out the window, consciously trying to raise his unconscious, fixing his eyes on the natural violence beyond the glass, distilling the movement, silently doing his “damndest” to let his reactions give rise to words and images.
They came—slowly. There was the darkness again, and the sound of rushing wind, ear-shattering, continuous, growing in volume until he thought his head would burst. His head. ... The winds were lashing the left side of his head and face, burning his skin, forcing him to raise his left shoulder for protection. ... Left shoulder. Left arm. His arm was raised, the gloved fingers of his left hand gripping a straight edge of metal, his right holding a ... a strap; he was holding on to a strap, waiting for something. A signal ... a flashing light or a tap on the shoulder, or both. A signal. It came. He plunged. Into the darkness, into the void, his body tumbling, twisting, swept away into the night sky. He had ... parachuted!
“Etes-vous malade?”
His insane reverie was broken; the nervous passenger next to him had touched his left arm—which was raised, the fingers of his hand spread, as if resisting, rigid in their locked position. Across his chest his right forearm was pressed into the cloth of his jacket, his right hand gripping the lapel, bunching the fabric. And on his forehead were rivulets of sweat; it had happened. The something-else had come briefly—insanely—into focus.
“Pardon,” he said, lowering his arms. “Un mauvais rêve,” he added meaninglessly.
There was a break in the weather; the Caravelle stabilized. The smiles on the harried stewardesses’ faces became genuine again; full service was resumed as embarrassed passengers glanced at one another.
The patient observed his surroundings but reached no conclusions. He was consumed by the images and the sounds that had been so clearly defined in his mind’s eye and ear. He had hurled himself from a plane ... at night ... signals and metal and straps intrinsic to his leap. He had parachuted. Where? Why?
Stop crucifying yourself!
If for no other reason than to take his thoughts away from the madness, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the altered passport, and opened it. As might be expected, the name Washburn had been retained; it was common enough and its owner had explained that there were no flags out for it. The Geoffrey R., however, had been changed to, George P., the eliminations and spaceline blockage expertly accomplished. The photographic insertion was expert, too; it no longer resembled a cheap print from a machine in an amusement arcade.
The identification numbers, of course, were entirely different, guaranteed not to cause an alarm in an immigration computer. At least, up until the moment the bearer submitted the passport for its first inspection; from that time on it was the buyer’s responsibility. One paid as much for this guarantee as he did for the artistry and the equipment, for it required connections within Interpol and the immigration clearing houses. Customs officials, computer specialists, and clerks throughout the European border networks were paid on a regular basis for this vital information; they rarely made mistakes. If and when they did, the loss of an eye or an arm was not out of the question—such were the brokers of false papers.
George P.
Washburn. He was not comfortable with the name; the owner of the unaltered original had instructed him too well in the basics of projection and association. George P. was a sidestep from Geoffrey R., a man who had been eaten away by a compulsion that had its roots in escape—escape from identity. That was the last thing the patient wanted; he wanted more than his life to know who he was.
Or did he?
No matter. The answer was in Zurich. In Zurich there was …
“Mesdames et messieurs. Nous commençons notre descente pour l’aéroport de Zurich.”
He knew the name of the hotel: Carillon du Lac. He had given it to the taxi driver without thinking. Had he read it somewhere? Had the name been one of those listed in the Welcome-to-Zurich folders placed in the elasticized pockets in front of his seat in, the plane?
No. He knew the lobby; the heavy, dark, polished wood was familiar ... somehow. And the huge plate-glass windows that looked out over Lake Zurich. He had been here before; he had stood where he was standing now—in front of the marble-topped counter—a long time ago.
It was all confirmed by the words spoken by the clerk behind the desk. They had the impact of an explosion.
“It’s good to see you again, sir. It’s been quite a while since your last visit.”
Has it? How long? Why don’t you call me by my name? For God’s sake. I don’t know you! I don’t know me! Help me! Please, help me!
“I guess it has,” he said. “Do me a favor, will you? I sprained my hand; it’s difficult to write. Could you fill in the registration and I’ll do my damndest to sign it?” The patient held his breath. Suppose the polite man behind the counter asked him to repeat his name, or the spelling of his name?
“Of course.” The clerk turned the card around and wrote. “Would you care to see the hotel doctor?”
The Bourne Identity Page 5