“Where? You didn’t say where.” The woman was not screaming; instead she was calm. Unreasonably calm. Looking at him ... was she looking at him?
He was feeling dizzy again, losing focus again. “Steppdeckstrasse. ...” He heard the word as he spoke it, not sure the voice was his. But he could picture the doorway. Faded dark red paint, cracked glass ... rusted iron. “Steppdeckstrasse,” he repeated.
What was wrong? Why wasn’t the motor going? Why didn’t the car move forward? Didn’t she hear him?
His eyes were closed; he opened them. The gun. It was on his lap; he had set it down to press the bandage ... she was hitting it, hitting it! The weapon crashed to the floor; he reached down and she pushed him, sending his head against the window. Her door opened and she leaped out into the street and began running. She was running away! His hostage, his conduit was racing up the Löwenstrasse!
He could not stay in the car; he dared not try to drive it. It was a steel trap, marking him. He put the gun in his pocket with the roll of tape and grabbed the gauze, clutching it in his left hand, ready to press it against his temple at the first recurrence of blood. He got out and limped as fast as he could down the pavement.
Somewhere there was a corner, somewhere a taxi. Steppdeckstrasse.
Marie St. Jacques kept running in the middle of the wide, deserted avenue, in and out of the spills of the streetlamps, waving her arms at the automobiles in the Löwenstrasse. They sped by her. She turned in the wash of headlights behind her, holding up her hands, pleading for attention; the cars accelerated and passed her by. This was Zurich, and the Löwenstrasse at night was too wide, too dark, too near the deserted park and the river Sihl.
The men in one automobile, however, were aware of her. Its headlights were off, the driver inside having seen the woman in the distance. He spoke to his companion in Schweizerdeutsch.
“It could be her. This Chernak lives only a block or so down the street.”
“Stop and let her come closer. She’s supposed to be wearing a silk ... it’s her!”
“Let’s make certain before we radio the others.”
Both men got out of the car, the passenger moving discreetly around the trunk to join the driver. They wore conservative business suits, their faces pleasant, but serious, businesslike. The panicked woman approached; they walked rapidly into the middle of the street The driver called out.
“Was ist passiert, Fräulein?”
“Help me!” she screamed. “I ... I don’t speak German. Nicht sprechen. Call the police! The ... Polizei!”
The driver’s companion spoke with authority, calming her with his voice. “We are with the police,” he said in English. “Zurich Sicherheitpolizei. We weren’t sure, miss. You are the woman from the Carillon du Lac?”
“Yes!” she cried. “He wouldn’t let me go! He kept hitting me, threatening me with his gun! It was horrible!”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s hurt. He was shot I ran from the car ... he was in the car when I ran!” She pointed down the Löwenstrasse. “Over there. Two blocks, I think—in the middle of the block. A coupé, a gray coupé! He has a gun.”
“So do we, miss,” said the driver. “Come along, get in the back of the car. You’ll be perfectly safe; we’ll be very careful. Quickly, now.”
They approached the gray coupé, coasting, headlights extinguished. There was no one inside. There were, however, people talking excitedly on the pavement and up the stone steps of Number 37. The driver’s associate turned and spoke to the frightened woman pressed into the corner of the rear seat.
“This is the residence of a man named Chernak. Did he mention him? Did he say anything about going in to see him?”
“He did go; he made me come with him! He killed him! He killed that crippled old man!”
“Der Sender—schnell,” said the associate to the driver, as he grabbed a microphone from the dashboard. “Wir sind zwei Strassen von da.” The car bolted forward; the woman gripped the front seat.
“What are you doing? A man was killed back there!”
“And we must find the killer,” said the driver. “As you say, he was wounded; he may still be in the area. This is an unmarked vehicle and we could spot him. We’ll wait, of course, to make sure the inspection team arrives, but our duties are quite separate.” The car slowed down, sliding into the curb several hundred yards from Number 37 Löwenstrasse.
The associate had spoken into the microphone while the driver had explained their official position. There was static from the dashboard speaker, then the words “Wir kommen binnen zwanzig Minuten. Wartet.”
“Our superior will be here shortly,” the associate said. “We’re to wait for him. He wishes to speak with you.”
Marie St. Jacques leaned back in the seat, closing her eyes, expelling her breath. “Oh, God—I wish I had a drink!”
The driver laughed, nodded to his companion. The associate took out a pint bottle from the glove compartment and held it up, smiling at the woman. “We’re not very chic, miss. We have no glasses or cups, but we do have brandy. For medical emergencies, of course. I think this is one now. Please, our compliments.”
She smiled back and accepted the bottle. “You’re two very nice people, and you’ll never know how grateful I am. If you ever come to Canada, I’ll cook you the best French meal in the province of Ontario.”
“Thank you, miss,” said the driver.
Bourne studied the bandage on his shoulder, squinting at the dull reflection in the dirty, streaked mirror, adjusting his eyes to the dim light of the filthy room. He had been right about the Steppdeckstrasse, the image of the faded red doorway accurate, down to the cracked windowpanes and rusted iron railings. No questions had been asked when he rented the room, in spite of the fact that he was obviously hurt. However, a statement had been made by the building manager when Bourne paid him.
“For something more substantial a doctor can be found who keeps his mouth shut.”
“I’ll let you know.”
The wound was not that severe; the tape would hold it until he found a doctor somewhat more reliable than one who practiced surreptitiously in the Steppdeckstrasse.
If a stress situation results in injury, be aware of the fact that the damage may be as much psychological as physical. You may have a very real revulsion to pain and bodily harm. Don’t take risks, but if there’s time, give yourself a chance to adjust. Don’t panic. …
He had panicked; areas of his body had frozen. Although the penetration in his shoulder and the graze at his temple were real and painful, neither was serious enough to immobilize him. He could not move as fast as he might wish or with the strength he knew he had, but he could move deliberately. Messages were sent and received, brain to muscle and limb; he could function.
He would function better after a rest. He had no conduit now; he had to be up long before daybreak and find another way out of Zurich. The building manager on the first floor liked money; he would wake up the slovenly landlord in an hour or so.
He lowered himself onto the sagging bed and lay back on the pillow, staring at the naked lightbulb in the ceiling, trying not to hear the words so he could rest. They came anyway, filling his ears like the pounding of kettledrums.
A man was killed. …
But you did accept that assignment. …
He turned to the wall, shutting his eyes, blocking out the words. Then other words came and he sat up, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
They’ll pay for your corpse! ... Carlos will pay! By Christ, he’ll pay!
Carlos.
A large sedan pulled up in front of the coupe and parked at the curb. Behind them, at 37 Löwenstrasse, the patrol cars had arrived fifteen minutes ago, the ambulance less than five. Crowds from surrounding flats lined the pavement near the staircase, but the excitement was muted now. A death had occurred, a man killed at night in this quiet section of the Löwenstrasse. Anxiety was uppermost; what had happened at Number 37 could happen at 32 o
r 40 or 53. The world was going mad, and, Zurich was going with it.
“Our superior has arrived, miss. May we take you to him, please?” The associate got out of the car and opened the door for Marie St. Jacques.
“Certainly.” She stepped out on the pavement and felt the man’s hand on her arm; it was so much gentler than the hard grip of the animal who had held the barrel of a gun to her cheek. She shuddered at the memory. They approached the rear of the sedan and she climbed inside. She sat back in the seat and looked at the man beside her. She gasped, suddenly paralyzed, unable to breathe, the man beside her evoking a memory of terror.
The light from the streetlamps was reflected off the thin gold rims of his spectacles.
“You! ... You were at the hotel! You were one of them!”
The man nodded wearily; his fatigue apparent. “That’s right. We’re a special branch of the Zurich police. And before we speak further, I must make it clear to you that at no time during the events of the Carillon du Lac were you in any danger of being harmed by us. We’re trained marksmen; no shots were fired that could have struck you. A number were withheld because you were too close to the man in our sights.”
Her shock eased, the man’s quiet authority reassuring. “Thank you for that.”
“It’s a minor talent,” said the official. “Now, as I understand, you last saw him in the front seat of the car back there.”
“Yes. He was wounded.”
“How seriously?”
“Enough to be incoherent. He held some kind of bandage to his head, and there was blood on his shoulder—on the cloth of his coat, I mean. Who is he?”
“Names are meaningless; he goes by many. But as you’ve seen, he’s a killer. A brutal killer, and he must be found before he kills again. We’ve been hunting him for several years. Many police from many countries. We have the opportunity now none of them has had. We know he’s in Zurich, and he’s wounded. He would not stay in this area, but how far can he go? Did he mention how he expected to get out of the city?”
“He was going to rent a car. In my name, I gather. He. doesn’t have a driver’s license.”
“He was lying. He travels with all manner of false papers. You were an expendable hostage. Now, from the beginning, tell me everything he said to you. Where you went, whom he met, whatever comes to mind.”
“There’s a restaurant, Drei Alpenhäuser, and a large fat man who was frightened to death. ...” Marie St. Jacques recounted everything she could remember. From time to time the police official interrupted, questioning her about a phrase, or reaction, or a sudden decision on the part of the killer. Intermittently he removed his gold spectacles, wiping them absently, gripping the frames as if the pressure controlled his irritation. The interrogation lasted nearly twenty-five minutes; then the official made his decision. He spoke to his driver.
“Drei Alpenhäuser. Schnell!” He turned to Marie St. Jacques. “We’ll confront that man with his own words. His incoherence was quite intentional. He knows far more than he said at the table.”
“Incoherence. ...” She said the word softly, remembering her own use of it. “Steppdeck— Steppdeckstrasse. Cracked windows, rooms.”
“What?”
“ ‘A boardinghouse in the Steppdeckstrasse’ That’s what he said. Everything was happening so fast, but he said it. And just before I jumped out of the car, he said it again. Steppdeckstrasse.”
The driver spoke. “Ich kenne diese Strasse. Früher gab es Textilfabriken da.”
“I don’t understand,” said Marie St. Jacques.
“It’s a rundown section that has not kept up with the times,” replied the official. “The old fabric mills used to be there. A haven for the less fortunate ... and others. Los!” he ordered.
They drove off.
8
A crack. Outside the room. Snaplike, echoing off into a sharp coda, the sound penetrating, diminishing in the distance. Bourne opened his eyes.
The staircase. The staircase in the filthy hallway outside his room. Someone had been walking up the steps and had stopped, aware of the noise his weight had caused on the warped, cracked wood. A normal boarder at the Steppdeckstrasse rooming house would have no such concerns.
Silence.
Crack. Now closer. A risk was taken, timing paramount, speed the cover. Jason spun off the bed, grabbing the gun that was by his head, and lunged to the wall by the door. He crouched, hearing the footsteps—one man—the runner, no longer concerned with sound, only with reaching his destination. Bourne had no doubt what it was; he was right.
The door crashed open; he smashed it back, then threw his full weight into the wood, pinning the intruder against the doorframe, pummeling the man’s stomach, chest, and arm into the recessed edge of the wall. He pulled the door back and lashed the toe of his right foot into the throat below him, reaching down with his left hand, grabbing blond hair and yanking the figure inside. The man’s hand went limp; the gun in it fell to the floor, a long-barreled revolver with a silencer attached.
Jason closed the door and listened for sounds on the staircase. There were none. He looked down at the unconscious man. Thief? Killer? What was he?
Police? Had the manager of the boardinghouse decided to overlook the code of the Steppdeckstrasse in search of a reward? Bourne rolled the intruder over and took out a billfold. Second nature made him remove the money, knowing it was ludicrous to do so; he had a small fortune on him. He looked at the various credit cards and the driver’s license; he smiled, but then his smile disappeared. There was nothing funny; the names on the cards were different ones, the name on the license matching none. The unconscious man was no police officer.
He was a professional, come to kill a wounded man in the Steppdeckstrasse. Someone had hired him. Who? Who could possibly know he was there?
The woman? Had he mentioned the Steppdeckstrasse when he had seen the row of neat houses, looking for Number 37? No, it was not she; he may have said something, but she would not have understood. And if she had, there’d be no professional killer in his room; instead, the rundown boardinghouse would be surrounded by police.
The image of a large fat man perspiring above a table came to Bourne. That same man had wiped the sweat from his protruding lips and had spoken of the courage of an insignificant goat—who had survived. Was this an example of his survival technique? Had he known about the Steppdeckstrasse? Was he aware of the habits of the patron whose sight terrified him? Had he been to the filthy rooming house? Delivered an envelope there?
Jason pressed his hand to his forehead and shut his eyes. Why can’t I remember? When will the mists clear? Will they ever clear?
Don’t crucify yourself. …
Bourne opened his eyes, fixing them on the blond man. For the briefest of moments he nearly burst out laughing; he had been presented with his exit visa from Zurich, and instead of recognizing it, he was wasting time tormenting himself. He put the billfold in his pocket, wedging it behind the Marquis de Chamford’s, picked up the gun and shoved it into his belt, then dragged the unconscious figure over to the bed.
A minute later the man was strapped to the sagging mattress, gagged by a torn sheet wrapped around his face. He would remain where he was for hours, and in hours Jason would be out of Zurich, compliments of a perspiring fat man.
He had slept in his clothes. There was nothing to gather up or carry except his topcoat. He put it on, and tested his leg, somewhat after the fact, he reflected. In the heat of the past few minutes he had been unaware of the pain; it was there, as the limp was there, but neither immobilized him. The shoulder was not in as good shape. A slow paralysis was spreading; he had to get to a doctor. His head ... he did not want to think about his head.
He walked out into the dimly lit hallway, pulled the door closed, and stood motionless, listening. There was a burst of laughter from above; he pressed his back against the wall, gun poised. The laughter trailed off; it was a drunk’s laughter—incoherent, pointless.
He li
mped to the staircase, held on to the railing, and started down. He was on the third floor of the four-story building, having insisted on the highest room when the phrase high ground had come to him instinctively. Why had it come to him? What did it mean in terms of renting a filthy room for a single night? Sanctuary?
Stop it!
He reached the second floor landing, creaks in the wooden staircase accompanying each step. If the manager came out of his flat below to satisfy his curiosity, it would be the last thing he satisfied for several hours.
A noise. A scratch. Soft fabric moving briefly across an abrasive surface. Cloth against wood. Someone was concealed in the short stretch of hallway between the end of one staircase and the beginning of another. Without breaking the rhythm of his walk, he peered into the shadows; there were three recessed doorways in the right wall, identical to the floor above. In one of them ...
He took a step closer. Not the first; it was empty. And it would not be the last, the bordering wall forming a cul-de-sac, no room to move. It had to be the second, yes, the second doorway. From it a man could rush forward, to his left or right, or throwing a shoulder into an unsuspecting victim, send his target over the railing, plunging down the staircase.
Bourne angled to his right, shifting the gun to his left hand and reaching into his belt for the weapon with a silencer. Two feet from the recessed door, he heaved the automatic in his left hand into the shadows as he pivoted against the wall.
“Was ist? ...” An arm appeared; Jason fired once, blowing the hand apart. “Ahh!” The figure lurched out in shock, incapable of aiming his weapon. Bourne fired again, hitting the man in the thigh; he collapsed on the floor, writhing, cringing. Jason took a step forward and knelt, his knee pressing into the man’s chest, his gun at the man’s head. He spoke in a whisper.
“Is there anyone else down there?”
“Nein!” said the man, wincing in pain. “Zwei ... two of us only. We were paid.”
“By whom?”
“You know.”
“A man named Carlos?”
The Bourne Identity Page 12