The Bourne identity

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 wasconfused,” 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?”

“Joha

“Wo bist du de

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 co

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.