The Bourne identity

“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 ca

“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, spi

“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 course 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 ru

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!”

“Where? You didn’t say where.” The woman was not screaming; instead she was calm.

Unreasonably calm. Looking at him ... was she looking at him?

He was feeling dizzy again, losing focus again. “Steppdeckstrasse. ...” He heard the word as he spoke it, not sure the voice was his. But he could picture the doorway. Faded dark red paint, cracked glass ... rusted iron. “Steppdeckstrasse,” he repeated.

What was wrong? Why wasn’t the motor going? Why didn’t the car move forward? Didn’t she hear him?

His eyes were closed; he opened them. The gun. It was on his lap; he had set it down to press the bandage ... she was hitting it, hitting it! The weapon crashed to the floor; he reached down and she pushed him, sending his head against the window. Her door opened and she leaped out into the street and began ru

He could not stay in the car; he dared not try to drive it. It was a steel trap, marking him. He put the gun in his pocket with the roll of tape and grabbed the gauze, clutching it in his left hand, ready to press it against his temple at the first recurrence of blood. He got out and limped as fast as he could down the pavement.