Robert Ludlum: The Bourne Identity

“Mee-sah!” Again he did not know the meaning of his silent cry.

A crewman grabbed his neck from the rear. The patient crashed his left fist into the pelvic area behind him, then bent forward, gripping the elbow to the right of his throat. He lurched to his left; his assailant was lifted off the ground, his legs spiraling in the air as he was thrown across the deck, his face and neck impaled between the wheels of a winch.

The two remaining men were on him, fists and knees pummeling him, as the captain of the fishing boat repeatedly screamed his warnings.

“Le docteur! Rappelons le docteur! Va doucement!”

The words were as misplaced as the captain’s appraisal of what he saw. The patient gripped the wrist of one man, bending it downward, twisting it counterclockwise in one violent movement; the man roared in agony. The wrist was broken.

Washburn’s patient viced the fingers of his hands together, swinging his arms upward like a sledgehammer, catching the crewman with the broken wrist at the midpoint of his throat. The man somersaulted off his feet and collapsed on the deck.

“Kwa-sah!” The whisper echoed in the patient’s ears.

The fourth man backed away, staring at the maniac who simply looked at him.

It was over. Three of Lamouche’s crew were unconscious, severely punished for what they had done. It was doubtful that any would be capable of coming down to the docks at four o’clock in the morning.

Lamouche’s words were uttered in equal parts, astonishment and contempt “Where you come from I don’t know, but you will get off this boat.”

The man with no memory understood the unintentional irony of the captain’s words. I don’t know where I came from, either.

“You can’t stay here now,” said Geoffrey Washburn, coming into the darkened bedroom. “I honestly believed I could prevent any serious assault on you. But I can’t protect you when you’ve done the damage.”

“It was provoked.”

“To the extent it was inflicted? A broken wrist and lacerations requiring sutures on a man’s throat and face, and another’s skull. A severe concussion, and an undetermined injury to a kidney? To say nothing of a blow to the groin that’s caused a swelling of the testicles? I believe the word is overkill.”

“It would have been just plain ‘kill,’ and I would have been the dead man, if it’d happened any other way.” The patient paused, but spoke again before the doctor could interrupt. “I think we should talk. Several things happened; other words came to me. We should talk.”

“We should, but we can’t. There isn’t time. You’ve got to leave now. I’ve made arrangements.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I told them you went into the village, probably to get drunk. The families will go looking for you. Every able-bodied brother, cousin, and in-law. They’ll have knives, hooks, perhaps a gun or two. When they can’t find you, they’ll come back here. They won’t stop until they do find you.”

“Because of a fight I didn’t start?”

“Because you’ve injured three men who will lose at least a month’s wages between them. And something else that’s infinitely more important.”

“What’s that?”

“The insult. An off-islander proved himself more than a match for not one, but three respected fishermen of Port Noir.”

“Respected?”

“In the physical sense. Lamouche’s crew is considered the roughest on the waterfront.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Not to them. It’s their honor… Now hurry—get your things together. There’s a boat in from Marseilles; the captain’s agreed to stow you, and drop you a half-mile offshore north of La Ciotat.” The man with no memory held his breath. “Then it’s time,” he said quietly.

“It’s time,” replied Washburn. “I think I know what’s going through your mind. A sense of helplessness, of drifting without a rudder to put you on a course. I’ve been your rudder, and I won’t be with you; there’s nothing I can do about that. But believe me when I tell you, you are not helpless. You will find your way.”

“To Zurich,” added the patient.

“To Zurich,” agreed the doctor. “Here. I’ve wrapped some things together for you in this oilcloth. Strap it around your waist.”

“What is it?”

“All the money I have, some two thousand francs. It’s not much, but it will help you get started.

And my passport, for whatever good it will do. We’re about the same age and it’s eight years old; people change. Don’t let anyone study it. It’s merely an official paper.”

“What will you do?”

“I won’t ever need it if I don’t hear from you.”

“You’re a decent man.”

“I think you are, too… As I’ve known you. But then I didn’t know you before. So I can’t vouch for that man. I wish I could, but there’s no way I can.”

The man leaned against the railing, watching the lights of Ile de Port Noir recede in the distance.

The fishing boat was heading into darkness, as he had plunged into darkness nearly five months ago.

As he was plunging into another darkness now.

There were no lights on the coast of France; only the wash of the dying moon outlined the rocky shore. They were two hundred yards from land, the fishing boat bobbing gently in the crosscurrents of the inlet. The captain pointed over the side.

“There’s a small stretch of beach between those two clusters of rock. It’s not much, but you’ll reach it if you swim to the right. We can drift in another thirty, forty feet, no more than that. Only a minute or two.”

“You’re doing more than I expected. I thank you for that.”

“No need to. I pay my debts.”

“And I’m one?”

“Very much so. The doctor in Port Noir sewed up three of my crew after that madness five months ago. You weren’t the only one brought in, you know.”

“The storm? You know me?”

“You were chalk white on the table, but I don’t know you and I don’t want to know you. I had no money then, no catch; the doctor said I could pay when my circumstances were better. You’re my payment.”

“I need papers,” said the man, sensing a source of help. “I need a passport altered.”

“Why speak to me?” asked the captain. “I said I would put a package over the side north of La Ciotat. That’s all I said.”

“You wouldn’t have said that if you weren’t capable of other things.”

“I will not take you into Marseilles. I will not risk the patrol boats. The Sûreté has squadrons all over the harbor; the narcotics teams are maniacs. You pay them or you pay twenty years in a cell.”

“Which means I can get papers in Marseilles. And you can help me.”

“I did not say that.”

“Yes, you did. I need a service and that service can be found in a place where you won’t take me—still the service is there. You said it.”

“Said what?”

“That you’ll talk to me in Marseilles—if I can get there without you. Just tell me where.” The skipper of the fishing boat studied the patient’s face; the decision was not made lightly, but it was made. “There’s a café on rue Sarrasin, south of Old Harbor—Le Bouc de Mer. I’ll be there tonight between nine and eleven. You’ll need money, some of it in advance.”

“How much?”

“That’s between you and the man you speak with.”

“I’ve got to have an idea.”

“It’s cheaper if you have a document to work with; otherwise one has to be stolen.”

“I told you. I’ve got one.”

The captain shrugged. “Fifteen hundred, two thousand francs. Are we wasting time?” The patient thought of the oilcloth packet strapped to his waist. Bankruptcy lay in Marseilles, but so did an altered passport, a passport to Zurich. “I’ll handle it,” he said, not knowing why he sounded so confident. “Tonight, then.”