Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“I won’t argue with that,” she broke in, surprising him with the interruption. “I’ve had time to think; they know the evidence is false—so patently false it’s ridiculous. The Zurich police fully expect me to get in touch with the Canadian Embassy now—” Marie stopped, the unlit cigarette in her hand. “My God, Jason, that’s what they want us to do!”

“Who wants us to do?”

“Whoever’s sending us the message. They know I have no choice but to call the embassy, get the protection of the Canadian government. I didn’t think of it because I’ve already spoken to the embassy, to what’s his name—Dennis Corbelier—and he had absolutely’ nothing to tell me. He only did what I asked him to do; there was nothing else. But that was yesterday, not today, not tonight.” Marie started for the telephone on the bedside table.

Bourne rose quickly from the chair and intercepted her, holding her arm. “Don’t” he said firmly.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re wrong.”

“I’m right, Jason! Let me prove it to you.”

Bourne moved in front of her. “I think you’d better listen to what I have to say.”

“No!” she cried, startling him. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now!”

“An hour ago in Paris it was the only thing you wanted to hear. Hear it!”

“No! An hour ago I was dying. You’d made up your mind to run. Without me. And I know now it will happen over and over again until it stops for you. You hear words, you see images, and fragments of things come back to you that you can’t understand, but because they’re there you condemn yourself. You always will condemn yourself until someone proves to you that whatever you were … there are others using you, who will sacrifice you. But there’s also someone else out there who wants to help you, help us. That’s the message! I know I’m right I want to prove it to you. Let me!”

Bourne held her arms in silence, looking at her face, her lovely face filled with pain and useless hope, her eyes pleading. The terrible ache was everywhere within him. Perhaps it was better this way; she would see for herself, and her fear would make her listen, make her understand. There was nothing for them any longer. I am Cain … “All right, you can make the call, but its got to be done my way.” He released her and went to the telephone; he dialed the Auberge du Coin’s front desk. “This is room 341. I’ve just heard from friends in Paris; they’re coming out to join us in a while. Do you have a room down the hall for them? Fine. Their name is Briggs, an American couple. I’ll come down and pay in advance and you can let me have the key. Splendid. Thank you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Proving something to you,” he said. “Get me a dress,” he continued. “The longest one you’ve got.”

“What?”

“If you want to make your call, you’ll do as I tell you.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I’ve admitted that,” he said, taking trousers and a shirt from his suitcase. “The dress, please.” Fifteen minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Briggs’ room, six doors away and across the hall from room 341, was in readiness. The clothes had been properly placed, selected lights left on, others not functioning because the bulbs had been removed.

Jason returned to their room; Marie was standing by the telephone. “We’re set.”

“What have you done?”

“What I wanted to do; what I had to do. You can make the call now.”

“It’s very late. Suppose he isn’t there?”

“I think he will be. If not, they’ll give you his home phone. His name was in the telephone logs in Ottawa; it had to be.”

“I suppose it was.”

“Then he will have been reached. Have you gone over what I told you to say?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter; it’s not relevant. I know I’m not wrong.”

“We’ll see. Just say the words I told you. I’ll be right beside you listening. Go ahead.” She picked up the phone and dialed. Seven seconds after she reached the embassy switchboard, Dennis Corbelier was on the line. It was quarter past one in the morning.

“Christ almighty, where are you?”

“You were expecting me to call, then?”

“I was hoping to hell you would! This place is in an uproar. I’ve been waiting here since five o’clock this afternoon.”

“So was Alan. In Ottawa.”

“Alan who? What are you talking about? Where the hell are you?”

“First I want to know what you have to tell me.”

“Tell you?”

“You have a message for me, Dennis. What is it?”

“What is what? What message?”

Marie’s face went pale. “I didn’t kill anyone in Zurich. I wouldn’t …”

“Then for God’s sake,” interrupted the attaché, “get in here! We’ll give you all the protection we can. No one can touch you here!”

“Dennis, listen to me! You’ve been waiting there for my call, haven’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Someone told you to wait, isn’t that true?”

A pause. When Corbelier spoke, his voice was subdued. “Yes, he did. They did.”

“What did they tell you?”

“That you need our help. Very badly.”

Marie resumed breathing. “And they want to help us?”

“By us,” replied Corbelier, “you’re saying he’s with you, then?”

Bourne’s face was next to hers, his head angled to hear Corbelier’s words. He nodded.

“Yes,” she answered. “We’re together, but he’s out for a few minutes. It’s all lies; they told you that, didn’t they?”

“All they said was that you had to be found, protected. They do want to help you: they want to send a car for you. One of ours. Diplomatic.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know them by name; I don’t have to. I know their rank.”

“Rank?”

“Specialists, FS-Five. You don’t get much higher than that.”

“You trust them?”

“My God, yes! They reached me through Ottawa. Their orders came from Ottawa.”

“They’re at the embassy now?”

“No, they’re outposted.” Corbelier paused, obviously exasperated. “Jesus Christ, Marie—where are you?”

Bourne nodded again, she spoke.

“We’re at the Auberge du Coin in Montrouge. Under the name of Briggs.”

“I’ll get that car to you right away.”

“No, Dennis!” protested Marie, watching Jason, his eyes telling her to follow his instructions.

“Send one in the morning. First thing in the morning—four hours from now, if you like.”

“I can’t do that! For your own sake.”

“You have to; you don’t understand. He was trapped into doing something and he’s frightened; he wants to run. If he knew I called you, he’d be running now. Give me time. I can convince him to turn himself in. Just a few more hours. He’s confused, but underneath he knows I’m right.” Marie said the words, looking at Bourne.

“What kind of a son of a bitch is he?”

“A terrified one,” she answered. “One who’s being manipulated. I need the time. Give it to me.”

“Marie …?” Corbelier stopped. “All right, first thing in the morning. Say … six o’clock. And, Marie, they want to help you. They can help you.”

“I know. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Marie hung up.

“Now, we’ll wait,” Bourne said.

“I don’t know what you’re proving. Of course he’ll call the FS-Fives, and of course they’ll show up here. What do you expect? He as much as admitted what he was going to do, what he thinks he has to do.”

“And these diplomatic FS-Fives are the ones sending us the message?”

“My guess is they’ll take us to who is. Or if those sending it are too far away, they’ll put us in touch with them. I’ve never been surer of anything in my professional life.” Bourne looked at her. “I hope you’re right, because it’s your whole life that concerns me. If the evidence against you in Zurich isn’t part of any message, if it was put there by experts to find me—if the Zurich police believe it—then I’m that terrified man you spoke about to Corbelier. No one wants you to be right more than I do. But I don’t think you are.”