Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

Carlos.

A large sedan pulled up in front of the coupe and parked at the curb. Behind them, at 37 Löwenstrasse, the patrol cars had arrived fifteen minutes ago, the ambulance less than five. Crowds from surrounding flats lined the pavement near the staircase, but the excitement was muted now. A death had occurred, a man killed at night in this quiet section of the Löwenstrasse. Anxiety was uppermost; what had happened at Number 37 could happen at 32 or 40 or 53. The world was going mad, and, Zurich was going with it.

“Our superior has arrived, miss. May we take you to him, please?” The associate got out of the car and opened the door for Marie St. Jacques.

“Certainly.” She stepped out on the pavement and felt the man’s hand on her arm; it was so much gentler than the hard grip of the animal who had held the barrel of a gun to her cheek. She shuddered at the memory. They approached the rear of the sedan and she climbed inside. She sat back in the seat and looked at the man beside her. She gasped, suddenly paralyzed, unable to breathe, the man beside her evoking a memory of terror.

The light from the streetlamps was reflected off the thin gold rims of his spectacles.

“You! … You were at the hotel! You were one of them!”

The man nodded wearily; his fatigue apparent. “That’s right. We’re a special branch of the Zurich police. And before we speak further, I must make it clear to you that at no time during the events of the Carillon du Lac were you in any danger of being harmed by us. We’re trained marksmen; no shots were fired that could have struck you. A number were withheld because you were too close to the man in our sights.”

Her shock eased, the man’s quiet authority reassuring. “Thank you for that.”

“It’s a minor talent,” said the official. “Now, as I understand, you last saw him in the front seat of the car back there.”

“Yes. He was wounded.”

“How seriously?”

“Enough to be incoherent. He held some kind of bandage to his head, and there was blood on his shoulder—on the cloth of his coat, I mean. Who is he?”

“Names are meaningless; he goes by many. But as you’ve seen, he’s a killer. A brutal killer, and he must be found before he kills again. We’ve been hunting him for several years. Many police from many countries. We have the opportunity now none of them has had. We know he’s in Zurich, and he’s wounded. He would not stay in this area, but how far can he go? Did he mention how he expected to get out of the city?”

“He was going to rent a car. In my name, I gather. He doesn’t have a driver’s license.”

“He was lying. He travels with all manner of false papers. You were an expendable hostage. Now, from the beginning, tell me everything he said to you. Where you went, whom he met, whatever comes to mind.”

“There’s a restaurant, Drei Alpenhäuser, and a large fat man who was frightened to death…” Marie St. Jacques recounted everything she could remember. From time to time the police official interrupted, questioning her about a phrase, or reaction, or a sudden decision on the part of the killer. Intermittently he removed his gold spectacles, wiping them absently, gripping the frames as if the pressure controlled his irritation. The interrogation lasted nearly twenty-five minutes; then the official made his decision. He spoke to his driver.

“Drei Alpenhäuser. Schnell!” He turned to Marie St. Jacques. “We’ll confront that man with his own words. His incoherence was quite intentional. He knows far more than he said at the table.”

“Incoherence…” She said the word softly, remembering her own use of it. “Steppdeck—Steppdeckstrasse. Cracked windows, rooms.”

“What?”

“‘A boardinghouse in the Steppdeckstrasse’ That’s what he said. Everything was happening so fast, but he said it. And just before I jumped out of the car, he said it again. Steppdeckstrasse.” The driver spoke. “Ich kenne diese Strasse. Früher gab es Textilfabriken da.”

“I don’t understand,” said Marie St. Jacques.

“It’s a rundown section that has not kept up with the times,” replied the official. “The old fabric mills used to be there. A haven for the less fortunate … and others. Los!” he ordered.

They drove off.

A crack. Outside the room. Snaplike, echoing off into a sharp coda, the sound penetrating, diminishing in the distance. Bourne opened his eyes.

The staircase. The staircase in the filthy hallway outside his room. Someone had been walking up the steps and had stopped, aware of the noise his weight had caused on the warped, cracked wood.

A normal boarder at the Steppdeckstrasse rooming house would have no such concerns.

Silence.

Crack. Now closer. A risk was taken, timing paramount, speed the cover. Jason spun off the bed, grabbing the gun that was by his head, and lunged to the wall by the door. He crouched, hearing the footsteps—one man—the runner, no longer concerned with sound, only with reaching his destination. Bourne had no doubt what it was; he was right.

The door crashed open; he smashed it back, then threw his full weight into the wood, pinning the intruder against the doorframe, pummeling the man’s stomach, chest, and arm into the recessed edge of the wall. He pulled the door back and lashed the toe of his right foot into the throat below him, reaching down with his left hand, grabbing blond hair and yanking the figure inside. The man’s hand went limp; the gun in it fell to the floor, a long-barreled revolver with a silencer attached.

Jason closed the door and listened for sounds on the staircase. There were none. He looked down at the unconscious man. Thief? Killer? What was he?

Police? Had the manager of the boardinghouse decided to overlook the code of the Steppdeckstrasse in search of a reward? Bourne rolled the intruder over and took out a billfold.

Second nature made him remove the money, knowing it was ludicrous to do so; he had a small fortune on him. He looked at the various credit cards and the driver’s license; he smiled, but then his smile disappeared. There was nothing funny; the names on the cards were different ones, the name on the license matching none. The unconscious man was no police officer.

He was a professional, come to kill a wounded man in the Steppdeckstrasse. Someone had hired him. Who? Who could possibly know he was there?

The woman? Had he mentioned the Steppdeckstrasse when he had seen the row of neat houses, looking for Number 37? No, it was not she; he may have said something, but she would not have understood. And if she had, there’d be no professional killer in his room; instead, the rundown boardinghouse would be surrounded by police.

The image of a large fat man perspiring above a table came to Bourne. That same man had wiped the sweat from his protruding lips and had spoken of the courage of an insignificant goat—who had survived. Was this an example of his survival technique? Had he known about the Steppdeckstrasse?

Was he aware of the habits of the patron whose sight terrified him? Had he been to the filthy rooming house? Delivered an envelope there?

Jason pressed his hand to his forehead and shut his eyes. Why can’t I remember? When will the mists clear? Will they ever clear?

Don’t crucify yourself…

Bourne opened his eyes, fixing them on the blond man. For the briefest of moments he nearly burst out laughing; he had been presented with his exit visa from Zurich, and instead of recognizing it, he was wasting time tormenting himself. He put the billfold in his pocket, wedging it behind the Marquis de Chamford’s, picked up the gun and shoved it into his belt, then dragged the unconscious figure over to the bed.