Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“Walk straight through,” said Jason. “Don’t stop, just go right to the door. I’ll meet you outside.”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, seeing the concierge.

“I’ll pay him as quickly as I can.”

The sound of Marie’s heels on the marble floor was a distraction Bourne did not want. The concierge looked up as Jason moved in front of him, blocking his view.

“It’s been very pleasant,” he said in French, “but I’m in a great hurry. I have to drive to Lyon tonight. Just round out the figure to the nearest five hundred francs. I haven’t had time to leave gratuities.”

The financial distraction accomplished its purpose. The concierge reached his totals quickly, he presented the bill. Jason paid it and bent down for the suitcases, glancing up at the sound of surprise that exploded from the concierge’s gaping mouth. The man was staring at the pile of newspapers on his right, his eyes on the photograph of Marie St. Jacques. He looked over at the glass doors of the entrance; Marie stood on the pavement. He shifted his astonished gaze to Bourne; the connection was made, the man inhibited by sudden fear.

Jason walked rapidly toward the glass doors, angling his shoulder to push them open, glancing back at the front desk. The concierge was reaching for a telephone.

“Let’s go!” he cried to Marie. “Look for a cab!”

They found one on rue Lecourbe, five blocks from the hotel. Bourne feigned the role of an inexperienced American tourist, employing the inadequate French that had served him so well at the Valois Bank. He explained to the driver that he and his petite amie wanted to get out of central Paris for a day or so, someplace where they could be alone. Perhaps the driver could suggest several places and they would choose one.

The driver could and did. “There’s a small inn outside Issy-les-Moulineaux, called La Maison Carrée,” he said. “Another in Ivry sur Seine, you might like. It’s very private, monsieur. Or perhaps the Auberge du Coin in Montrouge; it’s very discreet.”

“Let’s take the first,” said Jason. “It’s the first that came to your mind. How long will it take?”

“No more than fifteen, twenty minutes, monsieur.”

“Good.” Bourne turned to Marie and spoke softly. “Change your hair.”

“What?”

“Change your hair. Pull it up or push it back, I don’t care, but change it. Move out of sight of his mirror. Hurry up!”

Several moments later Marie’s long auburn hair was pulled severely back, away from her face and neck, fastened with the aid of a mirror and hairpins from her purse into a tight chignon. Jason looked at her in the dim light. “Wipe off your lipstick. All of it.” She took out a tissue and did so. “All right?”

“Yes. Have you got an eyebrow pencil?”

“Of course.”

“Thicken your eyebrows; just a little bit. Extend them about a quarter of an inch; curve the ends down just a touch.”

Again she followed his instructions. “Now?” she asked.

“That’s better,” he replied, studying her. The changes were minor but the effect major. She had been subtly transformed from a softly elegant, striking woman into a harsher image. At the least, she was not on first sight the woman in the newspaper photograph and that was all that mattered.

“When we reach Moulineaux,” he whispered, “get out quickly and stand up. Don’t let the driver see you.”

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

“Just do as I say.”

Listen to me. I am a chameleon called Cain and I can teach you many things I do not care to teach you, but at the moment I must. I can change my color to accommodate any backdrop in the forest, I can shift with the wind by smelling it. I can find my way through the natural and the manmade jungles. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta… Delta is for Charlie and Charlie is for Cain. I am Cain. I am death. And I must tell you who I am and lose you.

“My darling, what is it?”

“What?”

“You’re looking at me; you’re not breathing. Are you all right?”

“Sorry,” he said, glancing away, breathing again. “I’m figuring out our moves. I’ll know better what to do when we get there.”

They arrived at the inn. There was a parking lot bordered by a post-and-rail fence on the right; several late diners came out of the lattice-framed entrance in front. Bourne leaned forward in the seat.

“Let us off inside the parking area, if you don’t mind,” he ordered, offering no explanation for the odd request.

“Certainly, monsieur,” said the driver, nodding his head, then shrugging, his movements conveying the fact that his passengers were, indeed, a cautious couple. The rain had subsided, returning to a mistlike drizzle. The taxi drove off. Bourne and Marie remained in the shadows of the foliage at the side of the inn until it disappeared. Jason put the suitcases down on the wet ground.

“Wait here,” he said.

“Where are you going?”

“To phone for a taxi.”

The second taxi took them into the Montrouge district. This driver was singularly unimpressed by the stern-faced couple who were obviously from the provinces, and probably seeking cheaper lodgings. When and if he picked up a newspaper and saw a photograph of a French-Canadiènne involved with murder and theft in Zurich, the woman in his back seat now would not come to mind.

The Auberge du Coin did not live up to its name. It was not a quaint village inn situated in a secluded nook of the countryside. Instead, it was a large, flat, two-story structure a quarter of a mile off the highway. If anything, it was reminiscent of motels the world over that blighted the outskirts of cities; commerciality guaranteeing the anonymity of their guests. It was not hard to imagine various appointments by the scores that were best left to erroneous registrations.

So they registered erroneously and were given a plastic room where every accessory worth over twenty francs was bolted into the floor or attached with headless screws to lacquered formica. There was, however, one positive feature to the place; an ice machine down the hall. They knew it worked because they could hear it. With the door closed.

“All right, now. Who would be sending us a message?” asked Bourne, standing, revolving the glass of whiskey in his hand.

“If I knew, I’d get in touch with them,” she said, sitting at the small desk, chair turned, legs crossed, watching him closely. “It could be connected with why you were running away.”

“If it was, it was a trap.”

“It was no trap. A man like Walther Apfel didn’t do what he did to accommodate a trap.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Bourne walked to the single plastic armchair and sat down.

“Koenig did; he marked me right there in the waiting room.”

“He was a bribed foot-soldier, not an officer of the bank. He acted alone. Apfel wouldn’t.”

Jason looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Apfel’s statement had to be cleared by his superiors. It was made in the name of the bank.”

“If you’re so sure, let’s call Zurich.”

“They don’t want that. Either they haven’t the answer or they can’t give it. Apfel’s last words were that they would have no further comment. To anyone. That, too, was part of the message. We’re to contact someone else.”

Bourne drank; he needed the alcohol, for the moment was coming when he would begin the story of a killer named Cain. “Then we’re back to whom?” he said. “Back to the trap.”

“You think you know who it is, don’t you?” Marie reached for her cigarettes on the desk. “It’s why you were running, isn’t it?”

“The answer to both questions is yes.” The moment had come. The message was sent by Carlos. I am Cain and you must leave me. I must lose you. But first there is Zurich and you have to understand. “That article was planted to find me.”