The Bourne Identity Page 9

  Jason slammed the large metal door shut with his foot. “Get up!”

  “No!”

  He lashed the back of his hand across her face. “Sorry, but you’re coming with me. Get up! Once we’re outside, you have my word. I’ll let you go.” But where was he going now? They were in another tunnel, but there was no carpet, no polished doors with lighted signs above them. They were in some sort of deserted loading area; the floor was concrete, and there were two pipe-framed freight dollies next to him against the wall. He had been right: exhibits used on the stage of Suite Seven had to be trucked in, the exit door high enough and wide enough to accommodate large displays.

  The door! He had to block the door! Marie St. Jacques was on her feet; he held her as he grabbed the first dolly, pulling it by its frame in front of the exit door, slamming it with his shoulder and knee until it was lodged against the metal. He looked down; beneath the thick wooden base were footlocks on the wheels. He jammed his heel down on the front lever lock, and then the back one.

  The girl spun, trying to break his grip as he stretched his leg to the end of the dolly; he slid his hand down her arm, gripped her wrist, and twisted it inward. She screamed, tears in her eyes, her lips trembling. He pulled her alongside him, forcing her to the left, breaking into a run, assuming the direction was toward the rear of the Carillon du Lac, hoping he’d find the exit. For there and only there he might need the woman; a brief few seconds when a couple emerged, not a lone man running.

  There was a series of loud crashes; the killers were trying to force the stage door open, but the locked freight dolly was too heavy a barrier.

  He yanked the girl along the cement floor; she tried to pull away, kicking again, twisting her body again from one side to the other; she was over the edge of hysteria He had no choice; he gripped her elbow, his thumb on the inner flesh, and pressed as hard as he could. She gasped, the pain sudden and excruciating; she sobbed, expelling breath, allowing him to propel her forward.

  They reached a cement staircase, the four steps edged in steel, leading to a pair of metal doors below. It was the loading dock; beyond the doors was the Carillon du Lac’s rear parking area. He was almost there. It was only a question of appearances now.

  “Listen to me,” he said to the rigid, frightened woman. “Do you want me to let you go?”

  “Oh God, yes! Please!”

  “Then you do exactly as I say. We’re going to walk down these steps and out that door like two perfectly normal people at the end of a normal day’s work. You’re going to link your arm in mine and we’re going to walk slowly, talking quietly, to the cars at the far end of the parking lot. And we’re both going to laugh—not loudly, just casually—as if we were remembering funny things that happened during the day. Have you got that?”

  “Nothing funny at all has happened to me during the past fifteen minutes,” she answered in a barely audible monotone.

  “Pretend that it has. I may be trapped; if I am I don’t care. Do you understand?”

  “I think my wrist is broken.”

  “It’s not.”

  “My left arm, my shoulder. I can’t move them; they’re throbbing.”

  “A nerve ending was depressed; it’ll pass in a matter of minutes. You’ll be fine.”

  “You’re an animal.”

  “I want to live,” he said. “Come on. Remember, when I open the door, look at me and smile, tilt your head back, laugh a little.”

  “It will be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.”

  “It’s easier than dying.”

  She put her injured hand under his arm and they walked down the short flight of steps to the platform door. He opened it and they went outside, his hand in his topcoat pocket gripping the Frenchman’s pistol, his eyes scanning the loading dock. There was a single bulb encased in wire mesh above the door, its spill defining the concrete steps to the left that led to the pavement below; he led his hostage toward them.

  She performed as he had ordered, the effect macabre. As they walked down the steps, her face was turned to his, her terrified features caught in the light. Her generous lips were parted, stretched over her white teeth in a false, tense smile; her wide eyes were two dark orbs, reflecting primordial fear, her tear-stained skin taut and pale, marred by the reddish splotches where he had hit her. He was looking at a face of chiseled stone, a mask framed by dark red hair that cascaded over her shoulders, swept back by the night breezes—moving, the only living thing about the mask.

  Choked laughter came from her throat, the veins in her long neck pronounced. She was not far from collapsing, but he could not think about that. He had to concentrate on the space around them, at whatever movement—however slight—he might discern in the shadows of the large parking lot. It was obvious that these back, unlit regions-were used by the Carillon du Lac’s employees; it was nearly 6:30, the night shift well immersed in its duties. Everything was still, a smooth black field broken up by rows of silent automobiles, ranks of huge insects, the dull glass of the headlamps, a hundred eyes staring at nothing.

  A scratch. Metal had scraped against metal. It came from the right, from one of the cars in a nearby row. Which row? Which car? He tilted his head back as if responding to a joke made by his companion, letting his eyes roam across the windows of the cars nearest to them. Nothing.

  Something? It was there but it was so small, barely seen … so bewildering. A tiny circle of green, an infinitesimal glow of green light. It moved ... as they moved.

  Green. Small ... light? Suddenly, from somewhere in a forgotten past the image of crosshairs burst across his eyes. His eyes were looking at two thin intersecting lines! Crosshairs! A scope ... an infrared scope of a rifle.

  How did the killers know? Any number of answers. A hand-held radio had been used at the Gemeinschaft; one could be in use now. He wore a topcoat; his hostage wore a thin silk dress and the night was cool. No woman would go out like that.

  He swung to his left, crouching, lunging into Marie St. Jacques, his shoulder crashing into her stomach, sending her reeling back toward the steps. The muffled cracks came in staccato repetition; stone and asphalt exploded all around them. He dove to his right, rolling over and over again the instant he made contact with the pavement, yanking the pistol from his topcoat pocket. Then he sprang again, now straight forward, his left hand steadying his right wrist, the gun centered, aimed at the window with the rifle. He fired three shots.

  A scream came from the dark open space of the stationary car, it was drawn out into a cry, then a gasp, and then nothing. Bourne lay motionless, waiting, listening, watching, prepared to fire again. Silence. He started to get up … but he could not. Something had happened. He could barely move. Then the pain spread through his chest, the pounding so violent he bent over, supporting himself with both hands, shaking his head, trying to focus his eyes, trying to reject the agony. His left shoulder, his lower chest—below the ribs ... his left thigh—above the knee, below the hip; the locations of his previous wounds, where dozens of stitches had been removed over a month ago. He had damaged the weakened areas, stretching tendons and muscles not yet fully restored. Oh, Christ! He had to get up; he had to reach the would-be killer’s car, pull the killer from it, and get away.

  He whipped his head up, grimacing with the pain, and looked over at Marie St. Jacques. She was getting slowly to her feet, first on one knee, then on one foot, supporting herself on the outside wall of the hotel. In a moment she would be standing, then running. Away.

  He could not let her go! She would race screaming into the Carillon du Lac; men would come, some to take him ... some to kill him. He had to stop her!

  He let his body fall forward and started rolling to his left, spinning like a wildly out-of-control manikin, until he was within four feet of the wall, four feet from her. He raised his gun, aiming at her head.

  “Help me up,” he said, hearing the strain in his voice.

  “What?”

  “You heard me! Help me up.” />
  “You said I could go! You gave me your word!”

  “I have to take it back.”

  “No, please.”

  “This gun is aimed directly at your face, Doctor. You come here and help me get up or I’ll blow it off.”

  He pulled the dead man from the car and ordered her to get behind the wheel. Then he opened the rear door and crawled into the back seat out of sight.

  “Drive,” he said. “Drive where I tell you.”

  6

  Whenever you’re in a stress situation yourself—and there’s time, of course—do exactly as you would do when you project yourself into one you’re observing. Let your mind fall free, let whatever thoughts and images that surface come cleanly. Try not to exercise any mental discipline. Be a sponge, concentrate on everything and nothing. Specifics may come to you, certain repressed conduits electrically prodded into functioning.

  Bourne thought of Washburn’s words as he adjusted his body into the corner of the seat, trying to restore some control. He massaged his chest, gently rubbing the bruised muscles around his previous wound; the pain was still there, but not as acute as it had been minutes ago.

  “You can’t just tell me to drive!” cried the St. Jacques woman. “I don’t know where I’m going!”

  “Neither do I,” said Jason. He had told her to stay on the lakeshore drive; it was dark and he had to have time to think. If only to be a sponge.

  “People will be looking for me,” she exclaimed.

  “They’re looking for me, too.”

  “You’ve taken me against my will. You struck me. Repeatedly.” She spoke more softly now, imposing a control on herself. “That’s kidnapping, assault ... those are serious crimes. You’re out of the hotel; that’s what you said you wanted. Let me go and I won’t say anything. I promise you!”

  “You mean you’ll give me your word?”

  “Yes!”

  “I gave you mine and took it back. So could you.”

  “You’re different. I won’t. No one’s trying to kill met Oh God! Please!”

  “Keep driving.”

  One thing was clear to him. The killers had seen him drop his suitcase and leave it behind in his race for escape. That suitcase told them the obvious: he was getting out of Zurich, undoubtedly out of Switzerland. The airport and the train station would be watched. And the car he had taken from the man he had killed—who had tried to kill him—would be the object of a search.

  He could not go to the airport or to the train station; he had to get rid of the car and find another. Yet he was not without resources. He was carrying 100,000 Swiss francs, and more than 16,000 French francs, the Swiss currency in his passport case, the French in the billfold he had stolen from the Marquis de Chamford. It was more than enough to buy him secretly to Paris.

  Why Paris? It was as though the city were a magnet, pulling him to her without explanation.

  You are not helpless. You will find your way. ... Follow your instincts, reasonably, of course.

  To Paris.

  “Have you been to Zurich before?” he asked his hostage.

  “Never.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

  “I’ve no reason to! Please. Let me stop. Let me go!”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A week. The conference was for a week.”

  “Then you’ve had time to get around, do some sightseeing.”

  “I barely left the hotel. There wasn’t time.”

  “The schedule I saw on the board didn’t seem very crowded. Only two lectures for the entire day.”

  “They were guest speakers; there were never more than two a day. The majority of our work was done in conference ... small conferences. Ten to fifteen people from different countries, different interests.”

  “You’re from Canada?”

  “I work for the Canadian government Treasury Board, Department of National Revenue.”

  “The ‘doctor’s’ not medical then.”

  “Economics. McGill University. Pembroke College, Oxford.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  Suddenly, with controlled stridency, she added, “My superiors expect me to be in contact with them. Tonight. If they don’t hear from me, they’ll be alarmed. They’ll make inquiries; they’ll call the Zurich police.”

  “I see,” he said. “That’s something to think about, isn’t it?” It occurred to Bourne that throughout the shock and the violence of the last half hour, the St. Jacques woman had not let her purse out of her hand. He leaned forward, wincing as he did so, the pain in his chest suddenly acute again. “Give me your purse.”

  “What?” She moved her hand quickly from the wheel, grabbing the purse in a futile attempt to keep it from him.

  He thrust his right hand over the seat, his fingers grasping the leather. “Just drive, Doctor,” he said as he lifted the purse off the seat and leaned back again.

  “You have no right …” She stopped, the foolishness of her remark apparent.

  “I know that,” he replied, opening the purse, turning on the sedan’s reading lamp, moving the handbag into its spill. As befitted the owner, the purse was well organized. Passport, wallet, a change purse, keys, and assorted notes and messages in the rear pockets. He looked for a specific message; it was in a yellow envelope given her by the clerk at the Carillon du Lac’s front desk. He found it, lifted the flap, and took out the folded paper. It was a cablegram from Ottawa.

  DAILY REPORTS FIRST RATE. LEAVE GRANTED. WILL MEET YOU AT AIRPORT WEDNESDAY 26. CALL OR CABLE FLIGHT. IN LYON DO NOT MISS BELLE MEUNIERE. CUISINE SUPERB. LOVE PETER

  Jason put the cable back in the purse. He saw a small book of matches, the cover a glossy white, scroll writing on the front. He picked it out and read the name. Kronenhalle. A restaurant ... A restaurant. Something bothered him; he did not know what it was, but it, was there. Something about a restaurant. He kept the matches, closed the purse, and leaned forward, dropping it on the front seat. “That’s all I wanted to see,” he said, settling back into the corner, staring at the matches. “I seem to remember your saying something about ‘word from Ottawa.’ You got it; the twenty-sixth is over a week away.”

  “Please ...”

  The supplication was a cry for help; he heard it for what it was but could not respond. For the next hour or so he needed this woman, needed her as a lame man needed a crutch, or more aptly, as one who could not function behind a wheel needed a driver. But not in this car.

  “Turn around,” he ordered. “Head back to the Carillon.”

  “To the ... hotel?”

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes on the matches, turning them over and over in his hand under the light of the reading lamp. “We need another car.”

  “We? No, you can’t! I won’t go any—” Again she stopped before the statement was made, before the thought was completed. Another thought had obviously struck her, she was abruptly silent as she swung the wheel until the sedan was facing the opposite direction on the dark lakeshore road. She pressed the accelerator down with such force that the car bolted; the tires spun under the sudden burst of speed. She depressed the pedal instantly, gripping the wheel, trying to control herself.

  Bourne looked up from the matches at the back of her head, at the long dark red hair that shone in the light. He took the gun from his pocket and once more leaned forward directly behind her. He raised the weapon, moving his hand over her shoulder, turning the barrel and pressing it against her cheek.

  “Understand me clearly. You’re going to do exactly as I tell you. You’re going to be right at my side and this gun will be in my pocket. It will be aimed at your stomach, just as its aimed at your head right now. As you’ve seen, I’m running for my life, and I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. I want you to understand.”

  “I understand.” Her reply was a whisper. She breathed through her parted lips, her terror complete. Jason removed the barrel of the gun from her cheek; he was satisfied.

&n
bsp; Satisfied and revolted.

  Let your mind fall free. ... The matches. What was it about the matches? But it was not the matches, it was the restaurant—not the Kronenhalle, but a restaurant. Heavy beams, candlelight, black ... triangles on the outside. White stone and black triangles. Three? ... Three black triangles.

  Someone was there ... at a restaurant with three triangles in front. The image was so clear, so vivid ... so disturbing. What was it? Did such a place even exist?

  Specifics may come to you ... certain repressed conduits ... prodded into functioning.

  Was it happening now? Oh, Christ, I can’t stand it!

  He could see the lights of the Carillon du Lac several hundred yards down the road. He had not fully thought out his moves, but was operating on two assumptions. The first was that the killers had not remained on the premises. On the other hand, Bourne was not about to walk into a trap of his own making. He knew two of the killers; he would not recognize others if they had been left behind.

  The main parking area was beyond the circular drive, on the left side of the hotel. “Slow down,” Jason ordered. “Turn into the first drive on the left.”

  “It’s an exit,” protested the woman, her voice strained. “We’re going the wrong way.”

  “No one’s coming out. Go on! Drive into the parking lot, past the lights.”

  The scene at the hotel’s canopied entrance explained why no one paid attention to them. There were four police cars lined up in the circular drive, their roof lights revolving, conveying the aura of emergency. He could see uniformed police, tuxedoed hotel clerks at their sides, among the crowds of excited hotel guests; they were asking questions as well as answering them, checking off names of those leaving in automobiles.

  Marie St. Jacques drove across the parking area beyond the floodlights and into an open space on the right. She turned off the engine and sat motionless, staring straight ahead.

  “Be very careful,” said Bourne, rolling down his window. “And move slowly. Open your door and get out, then stand by mine and help me. Remember, the window’s open and the gun’s in my hand. You’re only two or three feet in front of me; there’s no way I could miss if I fired.”