The Bourne identity

And then he saw the face across the room. It was a large face set in a large head, above an obese body pressed against the wall of an end booth, next to a closed door. The fat man stayed in the shadows of his observation point as if they were his protection, the unlit section of the floor his sanctuary. His eyes were riveted on Jason, equal parts fear and disbelief in his stare. Bourne did not know the face, but the face knew him. The man brought his fingers to his lips and wiped the corners of his mouth, then shifted his eyes, taking in each diner at every table. Only then did he begin what was obviously a painful journey around the room toward their booth.

“A man’s coming over here,” Jason said over the flame of the candle. “A fat man, and he’s afraid.

Don’t say anything. No matter what he says, keep your mouth shut. And don’t look at him; raise your hand, rest your head on your elbow casually. Look at the wall, not him” The woman frowned, bringing her right hand to her face; her fingers trembled. Her lips formed a question, but no words came. Jason answered the unspoken.

“For your own good,” he said. “There’s no point in his being able to identify you.” The fat man edged around the corner of the booth. Bourne blew out the candle, throwing the table into relative darkness. The man stared him down and spoke in a low, strained voice.

“Du lieber Gott! Why did you come here? What have I done that you should do this to me?”

“I enjoy the food, you know that.”

“Have you no feelings? I have a family, a wife and children. I did only as I was told. I gave you the envelope, I did not look inside, I know nothing!”

“But you were paid, weren’t you?” asked Jason instinctively.

“Yes, but I said nothing. We never met, I never described you. I spoke to no one!”

Then why are you afraid? I’m just an ordinary patron about to order di

“I beg you. Leave.”

“Now I’m angry. You’d better tell me why.”

The fat man brought his hand to his face, his fingers again wiping the moisture that had formed around his mouth. He angled his head, glancing at the door, then turned back to Bourne. “Others may have spoken, others may know who you are. I’ve had my share of trouble with the police, they would come directly to me.”

The St. Jacques woman lost control; she looked at Jason, the words escaping. “The police. ...

They were the police.”

Bourne glared at her, then turned back to the nervous fat man. “Are you saying the police would harm your wife and children?”

“Not in themselves--as you well know. But their interest would lead others to me. To my family.

How many are there that look for you, mein Herr? And what are they that do? You need no answer from me; they stop at nothing--the death of a wife or a child is nothing. Please. On my life. I’ve said nothing. Leave.”

“You’re exaggerating.” Jason brought the drink to his lips, a prelude to dismissal.

“In the name of Christ, don’t do this!” The man leaned over, gripping the edge of the table. “You wish proof of my silence, I give it to you. Word was spread throughout the Verbrecherwelt. Anyone with any information whatsoever should call a number set up by the Zurich police. Everything would be kept in the strictest confidence; they would not lie in the Verbrecherwelt about that. Rewards were ample, the police in several countries sending funds through Interpol. Past misunderstandings might be seen in new judicial lights.” The conspirator stood up, wiping his mouth again, his large bulk hovering above the wood. “A man like myself could profit from a kinder relationship with the police. Yet I did nothing. In spite of the guarantee of confidentiality, I did nothing at all!”

“Did anyone else? Tell me the truth; I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“I know only Chernak. He’s the only one I’ve ever spoken with who admits having even seen you. But you know that; the envelope was passed through him to me. He’d never say anything.”

“Where’s Chernak now?”

“Where he always is. In his flat on the Löwenstrasse.”

“I’ve never been there. What’s the number?”

“You’ve never been? ...” The fat man paused, his lips pressed together, alarm in his eyes. “Are you testing me?”

“Answer the question.”

“Number 37. You know it as well as I do.”

“Then I’m testing you. Who gave the envelope to Chernak?” The man stood motionless, his dubious integrity challenged. “I have no way of knowing. Nor would I ever inquire.”

“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 co

... 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!”