The Bourne identity

“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 ru

“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.

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.” She did as she was told, a terrified automaton. Jason supported himself on the frame of the window and pulled himself to the pavement. He shifted his weight from one foot to another; mobility was returning. He could walk. Not well, and with a limp, but he could walk.

“What are you going to do?” asked the St. Jacques woman, as if she were afraid to hear his answer.

“Wait. Sooner or later someone will drive a car back here and park it. No matter what happened in there, it’s still di

“And when a car does come, how will you take it?” She paused, then answered her own question.

“Oh, my God, you’re going to kill whoever’s driving it.”

He gripped her arm, her frightened chalk-white face inches away. He had to control her by fear, but not to the point where she might slip into hysterics. “If I have to I will, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Parking attendants bring the cars back here. Keys are usually left on the dashboard or under the seats. It’s just easier.”

Headlight beams shot out from the fork in the circular drive; a small coupé entered the lot, accelerating once into it, the mark of an attendant driver. The car came directly toward them, alarming Bourne until he saw the empty space nearby. But they were in the path of the headlights; they had been seen.

Reservations for the dining room. ... A restaurant. Jason made his decision; he would use the moment. The attendant got out of the coupé and placed the keys under the seat. As he walked to the rear of the car, he nodded at them, not without curiosity. Bourne spoke in French.

“Hey, young fellow! Maybe you can help us.”

“Sir?” The attendant approached them haltingly, cautiously, the events in the hotel obviously on his mind.

“I’m not feeling so well, too much of your excellent Swiss wine.”

“It will happen, sir.” The young man smiled, relieved.

“My wife thought it would be a good idea to get some air before we left for town.”

“A good idea, sir.”

“Is everything still crazy inside? I didn’t think the police officer would let us out until he saw that I might be sick all over his uniform.”

“Crazy, sir. They’re everywhere. ... We’ve been told not to discuss it.”

“Of course. But we’ve got a problem. An associate flew in this afternoon and we agreed to meet at a restaurant, only I’ve forgotten the name. I’ve been there but I just can’t remember where it is or what it’s called. I do remember that on the front there were three odd shapes ... a design of some sort, I think. Triangles. I believe.”

“That’s the Drei Alpenhäuser, sir. The ... Three Chalets. It’s in a sidestreet off the Falkenstrasse.”

“Yes, of course, that’s it! And to get there from here we ...” Bourne trailed off the words, a man with too much wine trying to concentrate.

“Just turn left out of the exit, sir. Stay on the Uto Quai for about one hundred meters, until you reach a large pier, then turn right. It will take you into the Falkenstrasse. Once you pass Seefeld, you can’t miss the street or the restaurant. There’s a sign on the corner.”

“Thank you. Will you be here a few hours from now, when we return?”

“I’m on duty until two this morning, sir.”

“Good. I’ll look for you and express my gratitude more concretely.”

“Thank you, sir. May I get your car for you?”

“You’ve done enough, thanks. A little more walking is required.” The attendant saluted and started for the front of the hotel. Jason led Marie St Jacques toward the coupé, limping beside her.

“Hurry up. The keys are under the seat.”

“If they stop us, what will you do? That attendant will see the car go out; he’ll know you’ve stolen it.”

“I doubt it. Not if we leave right away, the minute he’s back in that crowd.”

“Suppose he does?”

“Then I hope you’re a fast driver,” said Bourne pushing her toward the door. “Get in.” The attendant had turned the corner and suddenly hurried his pace. Jason took out the gun and limped rapidly around the hood of the coupé, supporting himself on it while pointing the pistol at the windshield. He opened the passenger door and climbed in beside her. “Goddamn it--I said get the keys!”

“All right ... I can’t think.”

“Try harder!”

“Oh, God ...” She reached below the seat, stabbing her hand around the carpet until she found the small leather case.

“Start the motor, but wait until I tell you to back out.” He watched for headlight beams to shine into the area from the circular drive; it would be a reason for the attendant to have suddenly broken into a near run; a car to be parked. They did not come; the reason could be something else. Two unknown people in the parking lot. “Go ahead. Quickly. I want to get out of here.” She threw the gear into reverse; seconds later they approached the exit into the lakeshore drive. “Slow down,” he commanded. A taxi was swinging into the curve in front of them.

Bourne held his breath and looked through the opposite window at the Carillon du Lads entrance; the scene under the canopy explained the attendant’s sudden decision to hurry. An argument had broken out between the police and a group of hotel guests. A line had formed, names checked off for those leaving the hotel, the resulting delays angering the i