The European walked around in suede gloves, appraising his artistry, and it was artistry. He had dismissed the chauffeur, wiped every door handle, every knob, every gleaming surface of wood. It was time for the final touch. He walked to a table where there were brandy glasses on a silver tray, picked one up and held it to the light; as he expected, it was spotless. He put it down and took out a small, flat, plastic case from his pocket. He opened it and removed a strip of transparent tape, holding it, too, up to the light. There they were, as clear as portraits—for they were portraits, as undeniable as any photograph.
They had been taken off a glass of Perrier, removed from an office at the Gemeinschaft Bank in Zurich. They were the fingerprints of Jason Bourne’s right hand.
The European picked up the brandy glass and, with the patience of the artist he was, pressed the tape around the lower surface, then gently peeled it off. Again he held the glass up; the prints were seen in dull perfection against the light of the table lamp.
He carried the glass over to a corner of the parquet floor and dropped it. He knelt down, studied the fragments, removed several, and brushed the rest under the curtain.
They were enough.
21
“Later,” said Bourne, throwing their suitcases on the bed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Marie sat in the armchair. She had reread the newspaper article again, selecting phrases, repeating them. Her concentration was absolute; she was consumed, more and more confident of her analysis.
“I’m right, Jason. Someone is sending us a message.”
“We’ll talk about it later; we’ve stayed here too long as it is. That newspaper’ll be all over this hotel in an hour, and the morning papers may be worse. It’s no time for modesty; you stand out in a hotel lobby, and you’ve been seen in this one by too many people. Get your things.”
Marie stood up, but made no other move. Instead, she held her place and forced him to look at her. “We’ll talk about several things later,” she said firmly. “You were leaving me, Jason, and I want to know why.”
“I told you I’d tell you,” he answered without evasion, “because you have to know and I mean that. But right now I want to get out of here. Get your things, goddamn it!”
She blinked, his sudden anger having its effect. “Yes, of course,” she whispered.
They took the elevator down to the lobby. As the worn marble floor came into view, Bourne had the feeling they were in a cage, exposed and vulnerable; if the machine stopped, they would be taken. Then he understood why the feeling was so strong. Below on the left was the front desk, the concierge sitting behind it, a pile of newspapers on the counter to his right. They were copies of the same tabloid Jason had put in the attaché case Marie was now carrying. The concierge had taken one; he was reading it avidly; poking a toothpick between his teeth, oblivious to everything but the latest scandal.
“Walk straight through,” said Jason. “Don’t stop, just go right to the door. I’ll meet you outside.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, seeing the concierge.
“I’ll pay him as quickly as I can.”
The sound of Marie’s heels on the marble floor was a distraction Bourne did not want. The concierge looked up as Jason moved in front of him, blocking his view.
“It’s been very pleasant,” he said in French, “but I’m in a great hurry. I have to drive to Lyon tonight. Just round out the figure to the nearest five hundred francs. I haven’t had time to leave gratuities.”
The financial distraction accomplished its purpose. The concierge reached his totals quickly, he presented the bill. Jason paid it and bent down for the suitcases, glancing up at the sound of surprise that exploded from the concierge’s gaping mouth. The man was staring at the pile of newspapers on his right, his eyes on the photograph of Marie St. Jacques. He looked over at the glass doors of the entrance; Marie stood on the pavement. He shifted his astonished gaze to Bourne; the connection was made, the man inhibited by sudden fear.
Jason walked rapidly toward the glass doors, angling his shoulder to push them open, glancing back at the front desk. The concierge was reaching for a telephone.
“Let’s go!” he cried to Marie. “Look for a cab!”
They found one on rue Lecourbe, five blocks from the hotel. Bourne feigned the role of an inexperienced American tourist, employing the inadequate French that had served him so well at the Valois Bank. He explained to the driver that he and his petite amie wanted to get out of central Paris for a day or so, someplace where they could be alone. Perhaps the driver could suggest several places and they would choose one.
The driver could and did. “There’s a small inn outside Issy-les-Moulineaux, called La Maison Carrée,” he said. “Another in Ivry sur Seine, you might like. It’s very private, monsieur. Or perhaps the Auberge du Coin in Montrouge; it’s very discreet.”
“Let’s take the first,” said Jason. “It’s the first that came to your mind. How long will it take?”
“No more than fifteen, twenty minutes, monsieur.”
“Good.” Bourne turned to Marie and spoke softly. “Change your hair.”
“What?”
“Change your hair. Pull it up or push it back, I don’t care, but change it. Move out of sight of his mirror. Hurry up!”
Several moments later Marie’s long auburn hair was pulled severely back, away from her face and neck, fastened with the aid of a mirror and hairpins from her purse into a tight chignon. Jason looked at her in the dim light. “Wipe off your lipstick. All of it.”
She took out a tissue and did so. “All right?”
“Yes. Have you got an eyebrow pencil?”
“Of course.”
“Thicken your eyebrows; just a little bit. Extend them about a quarter of an inch; curve the ends down just a touch.”
Again she followed his instructions. “Now?” she asked.
“That’s better,” he replied, studying her. The changes were minor but the effect major. She had been subtly transformed from a softly elegant, striking woman into a harsher image. At the least, she was not on first sight the woman in the newspaper photograph and that was all that mattered.
“When we reach Moulineaux,” he whispered, “get out quickly and stand up. Don’t let the driver see you.”
“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
“Just do as I say.”
Listen to me. I am a chameleon called Cain and I can teach you many things I do not care to teach you, but at the moment I must. I can change my color to accommodate any backdrop in the forest, I can shift with the wind by smelling it. I can find my way through the natural and the manmade jungles. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta. ... Delta is for Charlie and Charlie is for Cain. I am Cain. I am death. And I must tell you who I am and lose you.
“My darling, what is it?”
“What?”
“You’re looking at me; you’re not breathing. Are you all right?”
“Sorry,” he said, glancing away, breathing again. “I’m figuring out our moves. I’ll know better what to do when we get there.”
They arrived at the inn. There was a parking lot bordered by a post-and-rail fence on the right; several late diners came out of the lattice-framed entrance in front. Bourne leaned forward in the seat.
“Let us off inside the parking area, if you don’t mind,” he ordered, offering no explanation for the odd request.
“Certainly, monsieur,” said the driver, nodding his head, then shrugging, his movements conveying the fad that his passengers were, indeed, a cautious couple. The rain had subsided, returning to a mistlike drizzle. The taxi drove off. Bourne and Marie remained in the shadows of the foliage at the side of the inn until it disappeared. Jason put the suitcases down on the wet ground. “Wait here,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
“To phone for a taxi.”
The second taxi took them into the Montrouge district. This driver was singularly unimpressed by the ste
rn-faced couple who were obviously from the provinces, and probably seeking cheaper lodgings. When and if he picked up a newspaper and saw a photograph of a French-Canadiènne involved with murder and theft in Zurich, the woman in his back seat now would not come to mind.
The Auberge du Coin did not live up to its name. It was not a quaint village inn situated in a secluded nook of the countryside. Instead, it was a large, flat, two-story structure a quarter of a mile off the highway. If anything, it was reminiscent of motels the world over that blighted the outskirts of cities; commerciality guaranteeing the anonymity of their guests. It was not hard to imagine various appointments by the scores that were best left to erroneous registrations.
So they registered erroneously and were given a plastic room where every accessory worth over twenty francs was bolted into the floor or attached with headless screws to lacquered formica. There was, however, one positive feature to the place; an ice machine down the hall. They knew it worked because they could hear it. With the door closed.
“All right, now. Who would be sending us a message?” asked Bourne, standing, revolving the glass of whiskey in his hand.
“If I knew, I’d get in touch with them,” she said, sitting at the small desk, chair turned, legs crossed, watching him closely. “It could be connected with why you were running away.”
“If it was, it was a trap.”
“It was no trap. A man like Walther Apfel didn’t do what he did to accommodate a trap.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Bourne walked to the single plastic armchair and sat down. “Koenig did; he marked me right there in the waiting room.”
“He was a bribed foot-soldier, not an officer of the bank. He acted alone. Apfel wouldn’t.”
Jason looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Apfel’s statement had to be cleared by his superiors. It was made in the name of the bank.”
“If you’re so sure, let’s call Zurich.”
“They don’t want that. Either they haven’t the answer or they can’t give it. Apfel’s last words were that they would have no further comment. To anyone. That, too, was part of the message. We’re to contact someone else.”
Bourne drank; he needed the alcohol, for the moment was coming when he would begin the story of a killer named Cain. “Then were back to whom?” he said. “Back to the trap.”
“You think you know who it is, don’t you?” Marie reached for her cigarettes on the desk. “It’s why you were running, isn’t it?”
“The answer to both questions is yes.” The moment had come. The message was sent by Carlos. I am Cain and you must leave me. I must lose you. But first there is Zurich and you have to understand. “That article was planted to find me.”
“I won’t argue with that,” she broke in, surprising him with the interruption. “I’ve had time to think; they know the evidence is false—so patently false it’s ridiculous. The Zurich police fully expect me to get in touch with the Canadian Embassy now—” Marie stopped, the unlit cigarette in her hand. “My God, Jason, that’s what they want us to do!”
“Who wants us to do?”
“Whoever’s sending us the message. They know I have no choice but to call the embassy, get the protection of the Canadian government. I didn’t think of it because I’ve already spoken to the embassy, to what’s his name—Dennis Corbelier—and he had absolutely’ nothing to tell me. He only did what I asked him to do; there was nothing else. But that was yesterday, not today, not tonight.” Marie started for the telephone on the bedside table.
Bourne rose quickly from the chair and intercepted her, holding her arm. “Don’t” he said firmly.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re wrong.”
“I’m right, Jason! Let me prove it to you.”
Bourne moved in front of her. “I think you’d better listen to what I have to say.”
“No!” she cried, startling him. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now!”
“An hour ago in Paris it was the only thing you wanted to hear. Hear it!”
“No! An hour ago I was dying. You’d made up your mind to run. Without me. And I know now it will happen over and over again until it stops for you. You hear words, you see images, and fragments of things come back to you that you can’t understand, but because they’re there you condemn yourself. You always will condemn yourself until someone proves to you that whatever you were ... there are others using you, who will sacrifice you. But there’s also someone else out there who wants to help you, help us. That’s the message! I know I’m right I want to prove it to you. Let me!”
Bourne held her arms in silence, looking at her face, her lovely face filled with pain and useless hope, her eyes pleading. The terrible ache was everywhere within him. Perhaps it was better this way; she would see for herself, and her fear would make her listen, make her understand. There was nothing for them any longer. I am Cain ... “All right, you can make the call, but its got to be done my way.” He released her and went to the telephone; he dialed the Auberge du Coin’s front desk. “This is room 341. I’ve just heard from friends in Paris; they’re coming out to join us in a while. Do you have a room down the hall for them? Fine. Their name is Briggs, an American couple. I’ll come down and pay in advance and you can let me have the key. Splendid. Thank you.”
“What are you doing?”
“Proving something to you,” he said. “Get me a dress,” he continued. “The longest one you’ve got.”
“What?”
“If you want to make your call, you’ll do as I tell you.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’ve admitted that,” he said, taking trousers and a shirt from his suitcase. “The dress, please.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Briggs’ room, six doors away and across the hall from room 341, was in readiness. The clothes had been properly placed, selected lights left on, others not functioning because the bulbs had been removed.
Jason returned to their room; Marie was standing by the telephone. “We’re set.”
“What have you done?”
“What I wanted to do; what I had to do. You can make the call now.”
“It’s very late. Suppose he isn’t there?”
“I think he will be. If not, they’ll give you his home phone. His name was in the telephone logs in Ottawa; it had to be.”
“I suppose it was.”
“Then he will have been reached. Have you gone over what I told you to say?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter; it’s not relevant. I know I’m not wrong.”
“We’ll see. Just say the words I told you. I’ll be right beside you listening. Go ahead.”
She picked up the phone and dialed. Seven seconds after she reached the embassy switchboard, Dennis Corbelier was on the line. It was quarter past one in the morning.
“Christ almighty, where are you?”
“You were expecting me to call, then?”
“I was hoping to hell you would! This place is in an uproar. I’ve been waiting here since five o’clock this afternoon.”
“So was Alan. In Ottawa.”
“Alan who? What are you talking about? Where the hell are you?”
“First I want to know what you have to tell me.”
“Tell you?”
“You have a message for me, Dennis. What is it?”
“What is what? What message?”
Marie’s face went pale. “I didn’t kill anyone in Zurich. I wouldn’t …”
“Then for God’s sake,” interrupted the attaché, “get in here! We’ll give you all the protection we can. No one can touch you here!”
“Dennis, listen to me! You’ve been waiting there for my call, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Someone told you to wait, isn’t that true?”
A pause. When Corbelier spoke, his voice was subdued. “Yes, he did. They did.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That you need our help. Very badly.”
Marie resumed breathing. “And they want to help us?”
“By us,” replied Corbelier, “you’re saying he’s with you, then?”
Bourne’s face was next to hers, his head angled to hear Corbelier’s words. He nodded.
“Yes,” she answered. “We’re together, but he’s out for a few minutes. It’s all lies; they told you that, didn’t they?”
“All they said was that you had to be found, protected. They do want to help you: they want to send a car for you. One of ours. Diplomatic.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know them by name; I don’t have to. I know their rank.”
“Rank?”
“Specialists, FS-Five. You don’t get much higher than that.”
“You trust them?”
“My God, yes! They reached me through Ottawa. Their orders came from Ottawa.”
“They’re at the embassy now?”
“No, they’re outposted.” Corbelier paused, obviously exasperated. “Jesus Christ, Marie—where are you?”
Bourne nodded again, she spoke.
“We’re at the Auberge du Coin in Montrouge. Under the name of Briggs.”
“I’ll get that car to you right away.”
“No, Dennis!” protested Marie, watching Jason, his eyes telling her to follow his instructions. “Send one in the morning. First thing in the morning—four hours from now, if you like.”
“I can’t do that! For your own sake.”
“You have to; you don’t understand. He was trapped into doing something and he’s frightened; he wants to run. If he knew I called you, he’d be running now. Give me time. I can convince him to turn himself in. Just a few more hours. He’s confused, but underneath he knows I’m right.” Marie said the words, looking at Bourne.
“What kind of a son of a bitch is he?”
“A terrified one,” she answered. “One who’s being manipulated. I need the time. Give it to me.”
The Bourne Identity Page 35