Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“They say in the laws of physics that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The behavior of certain men under certain conditions is similarly predictable. For a man like you one sets up a gauntlet, each combatant told what to say if he falls. If he does not fall, you are taken. If he does, you are misled, lulled into a false sense of progress.”

“It’s a high degree of risk,” said Jason. “For those in the gauntlet.”

“They’re paid well. And there’s something else—no guarantee, of course, but it’s there. The enigmatic Bourne does not kill indiscriminately. Not out of compassion, naturally, but for a far more practical reason. Men remember when they’ve been spared; he infiltrates the armies of others.

Refined guerrilla tactics applied to a sophisticated battleground. I commend you.”

“You’re a horse’s ass.” It was all Jason could think to say. “But both your men are alive, if that’s what you want to know.”

Another figure came into view, led from the shadows of the building by a short, stocky man. It was the woman; it was Marie St. Jacques.

“That’s him,” she said softly, her look unwavering.

“Oh, my God…” Bourne shook his head in disbelief. “How was it done, Doctor?” he asked her, raising his voice. “Was someone watching my room at the Carillon? Was the elevator timed, the others shut down? You’re very convincing. And I thought you were going to crash into a police car.”

“As it turned out,” she replied, “it wasn’t necessary. These are the police.” Jason looked at the killer in front of him; the man was adjusting his gold spectacles. “I commend you,” he said.

“A minor talent,” answered the killer. “The conditions were right. You provided them.”

“What happens now? The man inside said I was to be taken, not killed.”

“You forget. He was told what to say.” The Swiss paused. “So this is what you look like. Many of us have wondered during the past two or three years. How much speculation there’s been! How many contradictions! He’s tall, you know; no, he’s of medium height. He’s blond; no, he has dark black hair. Very light blue eyes, of course; no, quite clearly they are brown. His features are sharp; no, they’re really quite ordinary, can’t pick him out in a crowd. But nothing was ordinary. It was all extraordinary.”

Your features have been softened, the character submerged. Change your hair, you change your face … Certain types of contact lenses are designed to alter the color of the eyes… Wear glasses, you’re a different man.. Visas, passports … switched at will.

The design was there. Everything fit. Not all the answers, but more of the truth than he wanted to hear.

“I’d like to get this over with,” said Marie St. Jacques, stepping forward. “I’ll sign whatever I have to sign—at your office, I imagine. But then I really must get back to the hotel. I don’t have to tell you what I’ve been through tonight.”

The Swiss glanced at her through his gold-rimmed glasses. The stocky man who had led her out of the shadows took her arm. She stared at both men, then down at the hand that held her.

Then at Bourne. Her breathing stopped, a terrible realization becoming clear. Her eyes grew wide.

“Let her go,” said Jason. “She’s on her way back to Canada. You’ll never see her again.”

“Be practical, Bourne. She’s seen us. We two are professionals; there are rules.” The man flicked his gun up under Jason’s chin, the barrel pressed once more into Bourne’s throat. He ran his left hand about his victim’s clothes, felt the weapon in Jason’s pocket and took it out. “I thought as much,” he said, and turned to the stocky man. “Take her in the other car. The Limmat.” Bourne froze. Marie St. Jacques was to be killed, her body thrown into the Limmat River.

“Wait a minute!” Jason stepped forward; the gun was jammed into his neck, forcing him back into the hood of the car. “You’re being stupid! She works for the Canadian government. They’ll be all over Zurich.”

“Why should that concern you? You won’t be here.”

“Because it’s a waste!” cried Bourne. “We’re professionals, remember?”

“You bore me.” The killer turned to the stocky man. “Geh! Schnell. Guisan Quai!”

“Scream your goddamn head off!” shouted Jason. “Start yelling! Don’t stop!” She tried, the scream cut short by a paralyzing blow to her throat. She fell to the pavement as her would-be executioner dragged her toward a small nondescript black sedan.

“That was stupid,” said the killer, peering through his gold-rimmed spectacles into Bourne’s face.

“You only hasten the inevitable. On the other hand, it will be simpler now. I can free a man to tend to our wounded. Everything’s so military, isn’t it? It really is a battlefield.” He turned to the man with the flashlight “Signal Johann to go inside. We’ll come back for them.” The flashlight was switched on and off twice. A fourth man, who had opened the door of the small sedan for the condemned woman, nodded. Marie St. Jacques was thrown into the rear seat, the door slammed shut. The man named Johann started for the concrete steps, nodding now at the executioner.

Jason felt sick as the engine of the small sedan was gunned and the car bolted away from the curb into the Steppdeckstrasse, the twisted chrome bumper disappearing into the shadows of the street.

Inside that car was a woman he had never seen in his life … before three hours ago. And he had killed her. “You don’t lack for soldiers,” he said.

“If there were a hundred men I could trust, I’d pay them willingly. As they say, your reputation precedes you.”

“Suppose I paid you. You were at the bank; you know I’ve got funds.”

“Probably millions, but I wouldn’t touch a franc note.”

“Why? Are you afraid?”

“Most assuredly. Wealth is relative to the amount of time one has to enjoy it. I wouldn’t have five minutes.” The killer turned to his subordinate. “Put him inside. Strip him. I want photographs taken of him naked—before and after he leaves us. You’ll find a great deal of money on him; I want him holding it. I’ll drive.” He looked again at Bourne. “Carlos will get the first print. And I have no doubt that I’ll be able to sell the others quite profitably on the open market. Magazines pay outrageous prices.”

“Why should ‘Carlos’ believe you? Why should anyone believe you? You said it: no one knows what I look like.”

“I’ll be covered,” said the Swiss. “Sufficient unto the day. Two Zurich bankers will step forward identifying you as one Jason Bourne. The same Jason Bourne who met the excessively rigid standards set by Swiss law for the release of a numbered account. It will be enough.” He spoke to the gunman. “Hurry! I have cables to send. Debts to collect.” A powerful arm shot over Bourne’s shoulder, vicing his throat in a hammerlock. The barrel of a gun was jolted into his spine, pain spreading throughout his chest as he was dragged inside the sedan. The man holding him was a professional; even without his wounds it would have been impossible to break the grip. The gunman’s expertise, however, did not satisfy the bespectacled leader of the hunt. He climbed behind the wheel and issued another command.

“Break his fingers,” he said.

The armlock briefly choked off Jason’s air as the barrel of the gun crashed down repeatedly on his hand—hands. Instinctively, Bourne had swung his left hand over his right, protecting it. As the blood burst from the back of his left, he twisted his fingers, letting it flow between them until both hands were covered. He choked his screams; the grip lessened; he shouted.