The Bourne identity

“Chamford? Yes, I think we’ve met. Rather short fellow, isn’t he?”

“No, sir. Quite tall, actually. About your size, I’d say.”

“Really?”

The patient learned the various entrances and inside staircases of the two-story café quickly--a produce delivery man from Roquevaire unsure of his new route. There were two sets of steps that led to the second floor, one from the kitchen, the other just beyond the front entrance in the small foyer; this was the staircase used by patrons going to the upstairs washrooms. There was also a window through which an interested party outside could see anyone who used this particular staircase, and the patient was sure that if he waited long enough he would see two people doing so.

They would undoubtedly go up separately, neither heading for a washroom but, instead, to a bedroom above the kitchen. The patient wondered which of the expensive automobiles parked on the quiet street belonged to the Marquis de Chamford. Whichever, the middle-aged manservant in the butcher shop did not have to be concerned; his employer would not be driving it.

Money.

The woman arrived shortly before one o’clock. She was a windswept blonde, her large breasts stretching the blue silk of her blouse, her long legs ta

Twenty minutes later he could see the white skirt through the window; the girl was heading upstairs. Less than sixty seconds later another figure filled the window-frame; dark trousers and a blazer beneath a white face cautiously lurched up the staircase. The patient counted off the minutes; he hoped the Marquis de Chamford owned a watch.

Carrying his canvas knapsack as unobtrusively as possible by the straps, the patient walked down the flagstone path to the entrance of the restaurant. Inside, he turned left in the foyer, excusing himself past an elderly man trudging up the staircase, reached the second floor and turned left again down a long corridor that led toward the rear of the building, above the kitchen. He passed the washrooms and came to a closed door at the end of the narrow hallway where he stood motionless, his back pressed into the wall. He turned his head and waited for the elderly man to reach the washroom door and push it open while unzipping his trousers.

The patient--instinctively, without thinking, really--raised the soft knapsack and placed it against the center of the door panel. He held it securely in place with his outstretched arms, stepped back, and in one swift movement, crashed his left shoulder into the canvas, dropping his right hand as the door sprang open, gripping the edge before the door could smash into a wall. No one below in the restaurant could have heard the muted forced entry.

“Nom de Dieu!” she shrieked. “Qui est-ce! ...”

“Silence!”

The Marquis de Chamford spun off the naked body of the blond woman, sprawling over the edge of the bed onto the floor. He was a sight from a comic opera, still wearing his starched shirt, the tie knotted in place, and on his feet black silk, knee-length socks; but that was all he wore. The woman grabbed the covers, doing her best to lessen the indelicacy of the moment.

The patient issued his commands swiftly. “Don’t raise your voices. No one will be hurt if you do exactly as I say.”

“My wife hired you!” cried Chamford, his words slurred, his eyes barely in focus. “I’ll pay you more!”

“That’s a begi

“For the love of God, give me your clothes!” said the marquis, the implausibility of his predicament penetrating the haze of alcohol.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” replied the intruder, gathering up both his own clothes and those of the blond woman.

“You can’t take mine!” she yelled.

“I told you to keep your voice down.”

“All right, all right,” she continued, “but you can’t ...”

“Yes, I can.” The patient looked around the room; there was a telephone on a desk by a window.

He crossed to it and yanked the cord out of the socket. “Now no one will disturb you,” he added, picking up the knapsack.

“You won’t go free, you know!” snapped Chamford. “You won’t get away with this! The police will find you!”

“The police?” asked the intruder. “Do you really think you should call the police? A formal report will have to be made, the circumstances described. I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea. I think you’d be better off waiting for that fellow to pick you up later this afternoon. I heard him say he was going to get you past the marquise into the stables. All things considered, I honestly believe that’s what you should do. I’m sure you can come up with a better story than what really happened here. I won’t contradict you.”

The unknown thief left the room, closing the damaged door behind him.

You are not helpless. You will find your way.

So far he had and it was a little frightening. What had Washburn said? That his skills and talents would come back ... but I don’t think you’ll ever be able to relate them to anything in your past. The past. What kind of past was it that produced the skills he had displayed during the past twenty-four hours?

Where had he learned to maim and cripple with lunging feet, and fingers entwined into hammers?

How did he know precisely where to deliver the blows? Who had taught him to play upon the criminal mind, provoking and evoking a reluctant commitment? How did he zero in so quickly on mere implications, convinced beyond doubt that his instincts were right? Where had he learned to discern instant extortion in a casual conversation overheard in a butcher shop? More to the point, perhaps, was the simple decision to carry out the crime. My God, how could he?

The more you fight it, the more you crucify yourself, the worse it will be.

He concentrated on the road and on the mahogany dashboard of the Marquis de Chamford’s Jaguar. The array of instruments was not familiar; his past did not include extensive experience with such cars. He supposed that told him something.

In less than an hour he crossed a bridge over a wide canal and knew he had reached Marseilles.

Small square houses of stone, angling like blocks up from the water; narrow streets and walls everywhere--the outskirts of the old harbor. He knew it all, and yet he did not know it. High in the distance, silhouetted on one of the surrounding hills, were the outlines of a cathedral, a statue of the Virgin seen clearly atop its steeple. Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde. The name came to him; he had seen it before--and yet he had not seen it.

Oh, Christ! Stop it!

Within minutes he was in the pulsing center of the city, driving along the crowded Canebière, with its proliferation of expensive shops, the rays of the afternoon sun bouncing off expanses of tinted glass on either side, and on either side enormous sidewalk cafés. He turned left, toward the harbor, passing warehouses and small factories and fenced off lots that contained automobiles prepared for transport north to the showrooms of Saint-Etie

Instinct. Follow instinct. For nothing could be disregarded. Every resource had an immediate use; there was value in a rock if it could be thrown, or a vehicle if someone wanted it. He chose a lot where the cars were both new and used, but all expensive; he parked at the curb and got out.