The Bourne Identity Page 11

  “You weren’t even curious?”

  “Of course not. A goat does not willingly enter the wolfs cave.”

  “Goats are surefooted; they’ve got an accurate sense of smell.”

  “And they are cautious, mein Herr. Because the wolf is faster, infinitely more aggressive. There would be only one chase. The goat’s last.”

  “What was in the envelope?”

  “I told you, I did not open it.”

  “But you know what was in it.”

  “Money, I presume.”

  “You presume?”

  “Very well. Money. A great deal of money. If there was any discrepancy, it had nothing to do with me. Now please, I beg you. Get out of here!”

  “One last question.”

  “Anything. Just leave!”

  “What was the money for?”

  The obese man stared down at Bourne, his breathing audible, sweat glistening on his chin. “You put me on the rack, mein Herr, but I will not turn away from you. Call it the courage of an insignificant goat who has survived. Every day I read the newspapers. In three languages. Six months ago a man was killed. His death was reported on the front page of each of those papers.”

  7

  They circled the block, emerging on the Falkenstrasse, then turned right on the Limmat Quai toward the cathedral of Grossmünster. The Löwenstrasse was across the river, on the west side of the city. The quickest way to reach it was to cross the Munster Bridge to the Bahnhofstrasse, then to the Nüschelerstrasse; the streets intersected, according to a couple who had been about to enter the Drei Alpenhäuser.

  Marie St. Jacques was silent, holding onto the wheel as she had gripped the straps of her handbag during the madness at the Carillon, somehow her connection with sanity. Bourne glanced at her and understood.

  ... a man was killed, his death reported on the front pages of each of those papers.

  Jason Bourne had been paid to kill, and the police in several countries had sent funds through Interpol to convert reluctant informers, to broaden the base of his capture. Which meant that other men had been killed. …

  How many are there that look for you, mein Herr? And what are they that do? ... They stop at nothing—the death of a wife or a child is nothing!

  Not the police. Others.

  The twin bell towers of the Grossmünster church rose in the night sky, floodlights creating eerie shadows. Jason stared at the ancient structure; as so much else he knew it but did not know it. He had seen it before, yet he was seeing it now for the first time.

  I know only Chernak. ... The envelope was passed through him to me. ... Löwenstrasse. Number 37. You know it as well as I do.

  Did he? Would he?

  They drove over the bridge into the traffic of the newer city. The streets were crowded, automobiles and pedestrians vying for supremacy at every intersection, the red and green signals erratic and interminable. Bourne tried to concentrate on nothing ... and everything. The outlines of the truth were being presented to him, shape by enigmatic shape, each more startling than the last. He was not at all sure he was capable—mentally capable—of absorbing a great deal more.

  “Halt! Die Dame da! Die Scheinwerfer sind aus und Sie haben links signaliziert. Das ist eine Einbahnstrasse!”

  Jason looked up, a hollow pain knotting his stomach. A patrol car was beside them, a policeman shouting through his open window. Everything was suddenly clear ... clear and infuriating. The St. Jacques woman had seen the police car in the sideview mirror, she had extinguished the headlights and slipped her hand down to the directional signal, flipping it for a left turn. A left turn into a one-way street whose arrows at the intersection clearly defined the traffic heading right. And turning left by bolting in front of the police car would result in several violations: the absence of headlights, perhaps even a premeditated collision; they would be stopped, the woman free to scream.

  Bourne snapped the headlights on, then leaned across the girl, one hand disengaging the directional signal, the other gripping her arm where he had gripped it before.

  “I’ll kill you, Doctor,” he said quietly, then shouted through the window at the police officer. “Sorry! We’re a little confused! Tourists! We want the next block!”

  The policeman was barely two feet away from Marie St. Jacques, his eyes on her face, evidently puzzled by her lack of reaction.

  The light changed. “Ease forward. Don’t do anything stupid,” said Jason. He waved at the police officer through the glass. “Sorry again!” he yelled. The policeman shrugged, turning to his partner to resume a previous conversation.

  “I was confused,” said the girl, her soft voice trembling. “There’s so much traffic. ... Oh, God, you’ve broken my arm! ... You bastard.”

  Bourne released her, disturbed by her anger; he preferred fear. “You don’t expect me to believe you, do you?”

  “My arm?”

  “Your confusion.”

  “You said we were going to turn left soon; that’s all I was thinking about.”

  “Next time look at the traffic.” He moved away from her but did not take his eyes off her face.

  “You are an animal,” she whispered, briefly closing her eyes, opening them in fear; it had come back.

  They reached the Löwenstrasse, a wide avenue where low buildings of brick and heavy wood stood sandwiched between modern examples of smooth concrete and glass. The character of nineteenth-century flats competed against the utilitarianism of contemporary neuterness; they did not lose. Jason watched the numbers; they were descending from the middle eighties, with each block the old houses more in evidence than the high-rise apartments, until the street had returned in time to that other era. There was a row of neat four-story flats, roofs and windows framed in wood, stone steps and railings leading up to recessed doorways washed in the light of carriage lamps. Bourne recognized the unremembered; the fact that he did so was not startling, but something else was. The row of houses evoked another image, a very strong image of another row of flats, similar in outlines, but oddly different. Weathered, older, nowhere near as neat or scrubbed ... cracked windows, broken steps, incomplete railings—jagged ends of rusted iron. Further away, in another part of ... Zurich, yes they were in Zurich. In a small district rarely if ever visited by those who did not live there, a part of the city that was left behind, but not gracefully.

  “Steppdeckstrasse,” he said to himself, concentrating on the image in his mind. He could see a doorway, the paint a faded red, as dark as the red silk dress worn by the woman beside him. “A boardinghouse ... in the Steppdeckstrasse.”

  “What?” Marie St. Jacques was startled. The words he uttered alarmed her; she had obviously related them to herself and was terrified.

  “Nothing.” He took his eyes off the dress and looked out the window. “There’s Number 37,” he said, pointing to the fifth house in the row. “Stop the car.”

  He got out first, ordering her to slide across the seat and follow. He tested his legs and took the keys from her.

  “You can walk,” she said. “If you can walk, you can drive.”

  “I probably can.”

  “Then let me go! I’ve done everything you’ve wanted.”

  “And then some,” he added.

  “I won’t say anything, can’t you understand that? You’re the last person on earth I ever want to see again ... or have anything to do with. I don’t want to be a witness, or get involved with the police, or statements, or anything! I don’t want to be a part of what you’re a part of! I’m frightened to death ... that’s your protection, don’t you see? Let me go, please.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “That’s not relevant. I need you.”

  “For what?”

  “For something very stupid. I don’t have a driver’s license. You can’t rent a car without a driver’s license and I’ve got to rent a car.”

  “You’ve got this car.”

  “It’s good for
maybe another hour. Someone’s going to walk out of the Carillon du Lac and want it. The description will be radioed to every police car in Zurich.”

  She looked at him, dead fear in the glaze of her eyes. “I don’t want to go up there with you. I heard what that man said in the restaurant. If I hear any more you’ll kill me.”

  “What you heard makes no more sense to me than it does to you. Perhaps less. Come on.” He took her by the arm, and put his free hand on the railing so he could climb the steps with a minimum of pain.

  She stared at him, bewilderment and fear converged in her look.

  The name M. Chernak was under the second mail slot, a bell beneath the letters. He did not ring it, but pressed the adjacent four buttons. Within seconds a cacophony of voices sprang out of the small, dotted speakers, asking in Schweizerdeutsch who was there. But someone did not answer; he merely pressed a buzzer which released the lock. Jason opened the door, pushing Marie St. Jacques in front of him.

  He moved her against the wall and waited. From above came the sounds of doors opening, footsteps walking toward the staircase.

  “Wer ist da?”

  “Johann?”

  “Wo bist du denn?”

  Silence. Followed by words of irritation. Footsteps were heard again; doors closed.

  M. Chernak was on the second floor, Flat 2C. Bourne took the girl’s arm, limped with her to the staircase, and started the climb. She was right, of course. It would be far better if he were alone, but there was nothing he could do about that; he did need her.

  He had studied road maps during the weeks in Port Noir. Lucerne was no more than an hour away, Bern two and a half or three. He could head for either one, dropping her off in some deserted spot along the way, and then disappear. It was simply a matter of timing; he had the resources to buy a hundred connections. He needed only a conduit out of Zurich and she was it.

  But before he left Zurich he had to know; he had to talk to a man named ...

  M. Chernak. The name was to the right of the doorbell. He sidestepped away from the door, pulling the woman with him.

  “Do you speak German?” Jason asked.

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “I’m not.”

  Bourne thought, glancing up and down the short hallway. Then: “Ring the bell. If the door opens just stand there. If someone answers from inside, say you have a message—an urgent message—from a friend at the Drei Alpenhäuser.”

  “Suppose he—or she—says to slide it under the door?”

  Jason looked at her. “Very good.”

  “I just don’t want any more violence. I don’t want to know anything or see anything. I just want to—”

  “I know,” he interrupted. “Go back to Caesar’s taxes and the Punic wars. If he—or she—says something like that, explain in a couple of words that the message is verbal and, can only be delivered to the man who was described to you.”

  “If he asks for that description?” said Marie St. Jacques icily, analysis momentarily pre-empting fear.

  “You’ve got a good mind, Doctor,” he said.

  “I’m precise. I’m frightened; I told you that. What do I do?”

  “Say to hell with them, someone else can deliver it. Then start to walk away.”

  She moved to the door and rang the bell. There was an odd sound from within. A scratching, growing louder, constant. Then it stopped and a deep voice was heard through the wood.

  “Ja?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t speak German.”

  “Englisch. What is it? Who are you?”

  “I have an urgent message from a friend at the Drei Alpenhäuser.”

  “Shove it under the door.”

  “I can’t do that. It isn’t written down. I have to deliver it personally to the man who was described to me.”

  “Well, that shouldn’t be difficult,” said the voice. The lock clicked and the door opened.

  Bourne stepped away from the wall, into the doorframe.

  “You’re insane!” cried a man with two stumps for legs, propped up in a wheelchair. “Get out! Get away from here!”

  “I’m tired of hearing that,” said Jason, pulling the girl inside and closing the door.

  It took no pressure to convince Marie St. Jacques to remain in a small, windowless bedroom while they talked; she did so willingly. The legless Chernak was close to panic, his ravaged face chalk white, his unkempt gray hair matted about his neck and forehead

  “What do you want from me?” he asked. “You swore the last transaction was our final one! I can do no more, I cannot take the risk. Messengers have been here. No matter how cautious, how many times removed from your sources, they have been here! If one leaves an address in the wrong surroundings, I’m a dead man!”

  “You’ve done pretty well for the risks you’ve taken,” said Bourne, standing in front of the wheelchair, his mind racing, wondering if there was a word or a phrase that could trigger a flow of information. Then he remembered the envelope. If there was any discrepancy, it had nothing to do with me. A fat man at the Drei Alpenhäuser.

  “Minor compared to the magnitude of those risks” Chernak shook his head; his upper chest heaved; the stumps that fell over the chair moved obscenely back and forth. “I was content before you came into my life, mein Herr, for I was minor. An old soldier who made his way to Zurich—blown up, a cripple, worthless except for certain facts stored away that former comrades paid meagerly to keep suppressed. It was a decent life, not much, but enough. Then you found me. ...”

  “I’m touched,” broke in Jason. “Let’s talk about the envelope—the envelope you passed to our mutual friend at Drei Alpenhäuser. Who gave it to you?”

  “A messenger. Who else?”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “How would I know? It arrived in a box, just like the others. I unpacked it and sent it on. It was you who wished it so. You said you could not come here any longer.”

  “But you opened it.” A statement.

  “Never!”

  “Suppose I told you there was money missing.”

  “Then it was not paid; it was not in the envelope!” The legless man’s voice rose. “However, I don’t believe you. If that were so, you would not have accepted the assignment. But you did accept that assignment. So why are you here now?”

  Because I have to know. Because I’m going out of my mind. I see things and I hear things I do not understand. I’m a skilled, resourceful ... vegetable! Help me!

  Bourne moved away from the chair; he walked aimlessly toward a bookcase where there were several upright photographs recessed against the wall. They explained the man behind him. Groups of German soldiers, some with shepherd dogs, posing outside of barracks and by fences ... and in front of a high-wire gate with part of a name showing. DACH—

  Dachau.

  The man behind him. He was moving! Jason turned; the legless Chernak had his hand in the canvas bag strapped to his chair; his eyes were on fire, his ravaged face contorted. The hand came out swiftly, in it a short-barreled revolver, and before Bourne could reach his own, Chernak fired. The shots came rapidly, the icelike pain filling his left shoulder, then head—oh God! He dove to his right, spinning on the rug, shoving a heavy floor lamp toward the cripple, spinning again until he was at the far side of the wheelchair. He crouched and lunged, crashing his right shoulder into Chernak’s back, sending the legless man out of the chair as he reached into his pocket for the gun.

  “They’ll pay for your corpse!” screamed the deformed man, writhing on the floor, trying to steady his slumped body long enough to level his weapon. “You won’t put me in a coffin! I’ll see you there! Carlos will pay! By Christ, he’ll pay!”

  Jason sprang to the left and fired. Chernak’s head snapped back, his throat erupting in blood. He was dead.

  A cry came from the door of the bedroom. It grew in depth, low and hollow, an elongated wail, fear and revulsion weaved into the chord. A woman’s cry ... of cou
rse it was a woman! His hostage, his conduit out of Zurich! Oh, Jesus, he could not focus his eyes! His temple was in agony!

  He found his vision, refusing to acknowledge the pain. He saw a bathroom, the door open, towels and a sink and a ... mirrored cabinet. He ran in, pulled the mirror back with such force that it jumped its hinges, crashing to the floor, shattered. Shelves. Rolls of gauze and tape and ... they were all he could grab. He had to get out ... gunshots; gunshots were alarms. He had to get out, take his hostage, and get away! The bedroom, the bedroom. Where was it?

  The cry, the wail ... follow the cry! He reached the door and kicked it open. The woman ... his hostage—what the hell was her name?—was pressed against the wall, tears streaming down her face, her lips parted. He rushed in and grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her out.

  “My God, you killed him!” she cried. “An old man with no—”

  “Shut up!” He pushed her toward the door, opened it, and shoved her into the hallway. He could see blurred figures in open spaces, by railings, inside rooms. They began running, disappearing; he heard doors slam, people shout. He took the woman’s arm with his left hand; the grip caused shooting pains in his shoulder. He propelled her to the staircase and forced her to descend with him, using her for support, his right hand holding the gun.

  They reached the lobby and the heavy door. “Open it!” he ordered; she did. They passed the row of mailboxes to the outside entrance. He released her briefly, opening the door himself, peering out into the street, listening for sirens. There were none. “Come on!” he said, pulling her out to the stone steps and down to the pavement. He reached into his pocket, wincing, and took out the car keys. “Get in!”

  Inside the car he unraveled the gauze, bunching it against the side of his head, blotting the trickle of blood. From deep inside his consciousness, there was a strange feeling of relief. The wound was a graze; the fact that it had been his head had sent him into panic, but the bullet had not entered his skull. It had not entered; there would be no return to the agonies of Port Noir.

  “Goddamn it, start the car! Get out of here!”