Names and Addresses
He knew the name of the hotel. Carillon du Lac. He had given it to the taxi driver without thinking. He knew the reception area, and the big glass windows that looked out over Lake Zurich. He had been there before.
"It's good to see you again, sir," the receptionist said.
But I don't know you! I don't know me! Help me! Please!
"Thank you," he said. "I've hurt my hand. Could you fill in the form for me and then I'll try to sign it." The patient held his breath.
"Of course, sir." The receptionist completed the form, then turned it around for the signature.
Mr J. Bourne, New York, N.Y., U.S.A.
He stared at it. He had a name - part of a name. J. Bourne. John? James? Joseph? He signed.
The receptionist bent forward. "The usual conditions, sir? You will be informed of any calls or visitors, but only calls from your company should be put straight through to your room. Treadstone Seventy-one, if I remember correctly."
More information! Another name! He had a country, and a city, and a company that employed him - or that had employed him. And he was protected from unwanted visitors.
"That's correct. Thank you."
Upstairs in his room, he called the New York operator. Her words were quite clear. "We have no telephone number for a company of that name, sir."
He put the phone down. Might Treadstone Seventy-one be a code, a way of reaching Mr. J. Bourne of New York City? He left his room and walked into the street. His feet seemed to take him on a route that he knew - and then there was the Gemeinschaft Bank.
He entered through the heavy glass doors and was directed to a first floor receptionist.
"Your signature, please," the man requested, passing him a form.
He looked and understood; no name was needed this time, just the number of the account. He wrote out the numbers and was shown to a private room.
"The door will lock behind you," the receptionist told him. "It is usual for holders of special accounts to telephone before they come."
"I knew that," Washburn's patient lied, "but I'm in a hurry."
He walked inside, heard the door lock, sat down, and waited.
Finally another, metal door opened. A bank officer introduced himself as Herr Apfel and invited the visitor into his office. The "signature" was requested again, and within minutes the receptionist entered with a black metal container.
"May I unlock the box?" Herr Apfel asked.
"Please do - open it."
The banker looked shocked. "I said 'unlock,' not 'open.' Your identity might be listed, and I do not need to know it."
"But if I wanted the money to be sent to another bank?"
"Then a name would be needed."
"Open it."
The banker opened the box and passed the papers to the other man, who stared at the top page in disbelief. The amount in the account was 11,850,000 Swiss francs. More than 4 million American dollars. How? Why?
The bottom statement showed that the first payment into the account had been from Singapore: 5,175,000 Swiss francs. Below that was an envelope with "Owner only, officer of the Treadstone Seventy-one Company" typed on it. He opened it, and read:
Owner: Jason Charles Bourne
Address: Unlisted
Nationality: American
Jason. He felt a pain in his stomach, a ringing sound in his ears. Why did he feel that he was falling into darkness again?
When he returned to the reception area an hour later, after a meeting with another bank official, Herr Koenig, 3,000,000 Swiss francs had been sent to the Marseilles account of Dr. Geoffrey Washburn, who had saved his life. The money would cure or kill the alcoholic. Four million francs was on its way to a bank in Paris, for the use of Jason C. Bourne. Another 100,000 francs in large notes had been handed over by Herr Koenig in cash.
Herr Koenig walked with him to the elevator, past two men who were sitting at opposite ends of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Bourne noticed movement. Koenig had turned to both of the men. One took a radio out of his pocket and spoke into it. The other took out a gun. The men moved toward Bourne, who was forced to back into the empty elevator.
As the elevator doors closed, with the gun at his head, Bourne moved suddenly to the right, then swept his foot off the floor and up to the man's arm, knocking the gun from his hand. His body continued to turn and his shoulder crashed into the other man's stomach, throwing him against the wall. The man fell to the floor, unconscious.
The man at Le Bouc de Mer, Bourne knew, had wasted no time sending his message to Zurich. Kill him! He seized the other killer by his neck. "How many? How many are waiting downstairs?" No answer. He pushed the man's face into the elevator wall, opened his coat, and found another gun. He pointed it. "How many?"
"Two. One by the elevators. One by the car outside."
"What kind of car?"
"A Peugeot. Brown."
The elevator doors opened and a man in a dark coat wearing gold glasses stepped forward, recognized the situation, and pointed a silenced gun at Bourne.
Bourne quickly pushed his prisoner out in front of him, protecting himself from the gun. Shots were fired, people screamed for the police. His prisoner fell to the floor. Bourne seized the nearest person, the receptionist, threw him into the path of the man with the gold glasses, and ran through the doors. Then he slowed down and walked calmly away, past the man in the Peugeot, before he turned and watched.
As the first police car arrived, the man in gold glasses talked to the driver of the Peugeot. Then, unexpectedly, he returned to the bank, joining the police who were racing inside.
The Peugeot left and an ambulance arrived. Bourne turned away. He had to get to his hotel, pack, and leave Zurich - leave Switzerland. For Paris. Why Paris? Inside the bank, there had seemed to be no question. He had to go to Paris. But why?
At the Carillon du Lac, Bourne packed quickly and then started down again. There were three other guests in the elevator - two men and a red-haired woman. French-speaking Canadians, Bourne realized, and clearly at the hotel for a conference. As he followed them to the reception desk, he noticed a sign on the wall:
Welcome to members of the Sixth World Economic Conference
The woman was now speaking English to the receptionist. "Dr. St. Jacques?" the man checked, and passed her an envelope. Bourne moved toward the entrance, then stopped. A brown Peugeot was parked in the street outside, and the man with gold glasses was climbing out of the car. From another door, a second man appeared, wearing a raincoat with pockets that were wide enough for powerful guns.
How? How had they found him? Then he remembered and he felt sick. It had seemed so innocent at the time.
"Are you enjoying your stay in Zurich?" Herr Apfel had asked. "Very much. My room looks out onto the lake. Very peaceful." How many hotels looked out onto the lake? Two? Three? The names of the hotels came into his mind - from where?
They had seen him. But did they think they could walk into a crowded hotel and simply kill him? Of course they did. With silencers on their guns and people all around him, they could easily escape before they were identified. What made them think he would not scream for the police? And then the answer was clear. They knew that Jason Bourne could not expect police protection. Why?
He turned and saw the red-haired woman, still reading her message. He looked back at the entrance. The killers were moving through the crowd toward him. Bourne walked quickly toward the woman, seized her by the arm, and pulled her away from the reception desk. As she looked up at him in surprise, he showed her the end of the gun in his pocket.
"I don't want to frighten you," he said quietly, "but I have no choice. Take me to your conference room."
Surprise had turned to shock. "You can't..."
"Yes, I can." Unseen by the people around them, he pushed the gun into her side. "Let's go."
Pale and shaking, she led him quickly to a large hall where a man was giving a talk.
"I'll scream," the woman whispered.
"I'll shoot," he promised.
He pushed her across the back of the hall and down toward the front. Heads turned in their direction. The speaker paused and then came three sharp, sudden sounds. Shots! Then screams. Running now, Bourne pulled the woman toward a door at the back of the stage, and out.
They were in a car park. He heard a metallic sound, saw a slight movement. Another killer. How did they know where to find him? Radios again, of course. He moved quickly to one side, his shoulder crashing into the woman's stomach, sending her to the ground. Shots hit cars near them. He jumped up, gun in hand, and fired three shots before throwing himself down.
He heard a scream - and then nothing. He started to get up, but could not. Pain spread through his body, through all the places where his wounds had been.
He looked over at the woman, who was slowly getting to her feet. He could not let her go! He had to stop her! He slowly made his way across the ground toward her.
"Help me up!" he said, hearing the pain in his voice.
"You're joking!"
"This gun is aimed at your face, Doctor. Help me up."
When he, too, was on his feet, he pulled the dead driver from the car and ordered the woman to get behind the wheel.
"Drive!" he said, climbing into the passenger seat.
Where could he go? The killers had seen his suitcase. They would watch the stations and the airports. But he had money - a lot of money. And he had to get to Paris.
"I work for the Canadian government," the woman said quickly. "I'm an economist. They expect me to contact them tonight. If they don't hear from me, they'll call the police."
Bourne took her bag and looked through it. Keys, money, her passport: Dr. Marie St. Jacques. And the message that was given to her at reception. A message allowing her vacation time.
As they drove across Zurich, stopping only to leave the car and steal another one, Bourne was following a memory. A restaurant - he knew it was important. He knew the way, but what was it called? Drei Alpenhauser - yes! He had to go there.
Even before they parked, he had noticed that she was too quiet, too obedient. When they came to a stop, her door crashed open. She was half-way out into the street before Bourne's arm shot out and seized the back of her dress, forcing her back into the car. He took her hair and pulled her head toward him.
"I won't do it again," she cried. "I promise I won't."
"You will," he said quietly, "but if you run away before I let you go, I'll have to kill you. I don't want to, but I'll have to."
"You say you'll let me go," she said. "When?"
"In an hour or two. When we're out of Zurich and I'm on my way to somewhere else. Now dry your eyes. We're going inside."
"What's in there?"
He looked at the wide brown eyes that were searching his. "I don't know," he replied.
He showed her the gun - a reminder - and they entered the bar.
He had seen the inside of the Drei Alpenhauser before. He recognized the heavy wooden tables, the lighting, the sounds. He had come here in another life.
A waiter led them to a table, where they ordered a drink. Bourne looked around. And then he saw a face across the room - a large head above a fat body. Bourne did not know the face, which was showing fear and disbelief - but the face knew him.
The fat man walked uncomfortably over to their table.
"Why are you here?" he asked. "I did what I was told to do. I gave you the envelope. I told no one about you. Have others spoken? I saw the police offer of a reward for information about you, but I did nothing. The police have not come to me. If they did - you know - others would follow. My wife, my children... I've said nothing - done nothing!"
"Has anyone else? Tell me. I'll know if you're lying."
"Chernak is the only contact of yours that I know. He passed me the envelope - you know that. But he wouldn't say anything."
"Where is he now?"
"Where he always is. In his apartment on Lowenstrasse."
"What number?"
"You're testing me!" The fat man stared at him in fear. "37."
"Yes, I'm testing you. Who gave the envelope to Chernak? What was in it?"
"I have no idea who gave it to him. In it? Money, I guess. A lot of money. Now please, let me go! Get out of here!"
"One more question," Bourne said. "What was the money for?" The fat man was shaking now. "No one told me, but every day I read the newspapers. Six months ago, a man was killed."
by Robert Ludlum