The Bourne Identity

12

They moved about the store, going from counter to counter. Marie, however, remained near the wide front window, keeping a perpetual eye on the entrance of the bank across rue Madeleine.
“I picked out two scarves for you,” said Bourne.
“You shouldn’t have. The prices are far too high.”
“It’s almost four o’clock. If he hasn’t come out by now, he won’t until the end of office hours.”
“Probably not. If he were going to meet someone, he would have done so by now. But we had to know.”
“Take my word for it, his friends are at Orly, running from shuttle to shuttle. There’s no way they can tell whether I’m on one or not, because they don’t know what name I’m using.”
“They’ll depend on the man from Zurich to recognize you.”
“He’s looking for a dark-haired man with a limp, not me. Come on, let’s go into the bank. You can point out d’Amacourt.”
“We can’t do that,” said Marie, shaking her head. “The cameras on the ceilings have wide-angle lenses. If they ran the tapes they could spot you.”
“A blond-haired man with glasses?”
“Or me. I was there; the receptionist or his secretary could identify me.”
“You’re saying it’s a regular cabal in there. I doubt it.”
“They could think up any number of reasons to run the tapes.” Marie stopped; she clutched Jason’s arm, her eyes on the bank beyond the window. “There he is! The one in the overcoat with the black velvet collar—d’Amacourt.”
“Pulling at his sleeves?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got him. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
“Be careful. Be very careful.”
“Pay for the scarves; they’re at the counter in the back.”
Jason left the store, wincing in the sunlight beyond the canopy, looking for a break in the traffic so he could cross the street; there was none. D’Amacourt had turned right and was strolling casually; he was not a man in a rush to meet anyone. Instead, there was the air of a slightly squashed peacock about him.
Bourne reached the corner and crossed with the light, falling behind the banker. D’Amacourt stopped at a newsstand to buy an evening paper. Jason held his place in front of a sporting goods shop, then followed as the banker continued down the block.
Ahead was a café, windows dark, entrance heavy wood, thick hardware on the door. It took no imagination to picture the inside; it was a drinking place for men, and for women brought with men other men would not discuss. It was as good a spot as any for a quiet discussion with Antoine d’Amacourt. Jason walked faster, falling in stride beside the banker. He spoke in the awkward, Anglicized French he had used on the phone.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Je ... pense que vous ... êtes Monsieur d’Amacourt. I’d say I was right, wouldn’t you?”
The banker stopped. His cold eyes were frightened, remembering. The peacock shriveled further into his tailored overcoat. “Bourne?” he whispered.
“Your friends must be very confused by now. I expect they’re racing all over Orly Airport, wondering, perhaps, if you gave them the wrong information. Perhaps on purpose.”
“What?” The frightened eyes bulged.
“Let’s go inside here,” said Jason, taking d’Amacourt’s arm, his grip firm. “I think we should have a talk.”
“I know absolutely nothing! I merely followed the demands of the account. I am not involved!”
“Sorry. When I first talked to you, you said you wouldn’t confirm the sort of bank account I was talking about on the phone; you wouldn’t discuss business with someone you didn’t know. But twenty minutes later you said you had everything ready for me. That’s confirmation, isn’t it? Let’s go inside.”
The café was in some ways a miniature version of Zurich’s Drei Alpenh?user. The booths were deep, the partitions between them high, and the light dim. From there, however, the appearances veered; the café on rue Madeleine was totally French, carafes of wine replacing steins of beer. Bourne asked for a booth in the corner; the waiter accommodated.
“Have a drink,” said Jason. “You’re going to need it.”
“You presume,” replied the banker coldly. “I’ll have a whiskey.”
The drinks came quickly, the brief interim taken up with d’Amacourt nervously extracting a pack of cigarettes from under his form-fitting overcoat. Bourne struck a match, holding it close to the banker’s face. Very close.
“Merci.” D’Amacourt inhaled, removed his cigarette, and swallowed half the small glass of whiskey. “I’m not the man you should talk with,” he said.
“Who is?”
“An owner of the bank, perhaps. I don’t know, but certainly not me.”
“Explain that.”
“Arrangements were made. A privately held bank has more flexibility than a publicly owned institution with stockholders.”
“How?”
“There’s greater latitude, shall we say, with regard to the demands of certain clients and sister banks. Less scrutiny than might be applied to a company listed on the Bourse. The Gemeinschaft in Zurich is also a private institution.”
“The demands were made by the Gemeinschaft?”
“Requests … demands ... yes.”
“Who owns the Valois?”
“Who? Many—a consortium. Ten or twelve men and their families.”
“Then I have to talk to you, don’t I? I mean, it’d be a little foolish my running all over Paris tracking them down.”
“I’m only an executive. An employee.” D’Amacourt swallowed the rest of his drink, crushed out his cigarette and reached for another. And the matches.
“What are the arrangements?”
“I could lose my position, monsieur!”
“You could lose your life,” said Jason, disturbed that the words came so easily to him.
“I’m not as privileged as you think.”
“Nor as ignorant as you’d like me to believe,” said Bourne, his eyes wandering over the banker across the table. “Your type’s everywhere, d’Amacourt. It’s in your clothes, the way you wear your hair, even your walk; you strut too much. A man like you doesn’t get to be the vice-president of the Valois Bank without asking questions; you cover yourself. You don’t make a smelly move unless you can save your own ass. Now, tell me what those arrangements were. You’re not important to me, am I being clear?”
D’Amacourt struck a match and held it beneath his cigarette while staring at Jason. “You don’t have to threaten me, monsieur. You’re a very rich man. Why not pay me?” The banker smiled nervously. “You’re quite right, incidentally. I did ask a question or two. Paris is not Zurich. A man of my station must have words if not answers.”
Bourne leaned back, revolving his glass, the clicking of the ice cubes obviously annoying d’Amacourt. “Name a reasonable price,” he said finally, “and we’ll discuss it.”
“I’m a reasonable man. Let the decision be based on value, and let it be yours. Bankers the world over are compensated by grateful clients they have advised. I would like to think of you as a client.”
“I’m sure you would.” Bourne smiled, shaking his head at the man’s sheer nerve. “So we slide from bribe to gratuity. Compensation for personal advice and service.”
D’Amacourt shrugged. “I accept the definition and, if ever asked, would repeat your words.”
“The arrangements?”
“Accompanying the transfer of our funds from Zurich was une fiche confidentielle—”
“Une fiche?” broke in Jason, recalling the moment in Apfel’s office at the Gemeinschaft when Koenig came in saying the words. “I heard it once before. What is it?”
“A dated term, actually. It comes from the middle nineteenth century when it was a common practice for the great banking houses—primarily the Rothschilds—to keep track of the international flow of money.”
“Thank you. Now what is it specifically?”
“Separate sealed instructions to be opened and followed when the account in question is called up.”
“ ‘Called up’?”
“Funds removed or deposited.”
“Suppose I’d just gone to a teller, presented a bank book, and asked for money?”
“A double asterisk would have appeared on the transaction computer. You would have been sent to me.”
“I was sent to you anyway. The operator gave me your office.”
“Irrelevant chance. There are two other officers in the Foreign Services Department. Had you been connected to either one, the fiche would have dictated that you still be sent to me. I am the senior executive.”
“I see.” But Bourne was not sure that he did see. There was a gap in the sequence; a space needed filling. “Wait a minute. You didn’t know anything about a fiche when you had the account brought to your office.”
“Why did I ask for it?” interrupted d’Amacourt, anticipating the question. “Be reasonable, monsieur. Put yourself in my place. A man calls and identifies himself, then says he is ‘talking about over four million francs.’ Four million. Would you not be anxious to be of service? Bend a rule here and there?”
Looking at the seedily elegant banker, Jason realized it was the most unstartling thing he had said. “The instructions. What were they?”
“To begin with a telephone number—unlisted, of course. It was to be called, all information relayed.”
“Do you remember the number?”
“I make it a point to commit such things to memory.”
“I’ll bet you do. What is it?”
“I must protect myself, monsieur. How else could you have gotten it? I pose the question ... how do you say it? … rhetorically.”
“Which means you have the answer. How did I get it? If it ever comes up.”
“In Zurich. You paid a very high price for someone to break not only the strictest regulation on the Bahnhofstrasse, but also the laws of Switzerland.”
“I’ve got just the man,” said Bourne, the face of Koenig coming into focus. “He’s already committed the crime.”
“At the Gemeinschaft? Are you joking?”
“Not one bit. His name is Koenig; his desk is on the second floor.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“I’m sure you will. The number?” D’Amacourt gave it to him. Jason wrote it on a paper napkin. “How do I know this is accurate?”
“You have a reasonable guarantee. I have not been paid.”
“Good enough.”
“And as long as value is intrinsic to our discussion, I should tell you that it is the second telephone number; the first was canceled.”
“Explain that.”
D’Amacourt leaned forward. “A photostat of the original fiche arrived with accounts-courier. It was sealed in a black case, accepted and signed for by the senior keeper-of-records. The card inside was validated by a partner of the Gemeinschaft, countersigned by the usual Swiss notary; the instructions were simple, quite clear. In all matters pertaining to the account of Jason C. Bourne, a transatlantic call to the United States was to be placed immediately, the details relayed. ... Here the card was altered, the number in New York deleted, one in Paris inserted and initialed.”
“New York?” interrupted Bourne. “How do you know it was New York?”
“The telephone area code was parenthetically included, spaced in front of the number itself; it remained intact. It was 212. As first vice-president, Foreign Services, I place such calls daily.”
“The alteration was pretty sloppy.”
“Possibly. It could have been made in haste, or not thoroughly understood. On the other hand, there was no way to delete the body of the instructions without renotarization. A minor risk considering the number of telephones in New York. At any rate, the substitution gave me the latitude to ask a question or two. Change is a banker’s anathema.” D’Amacourt sipped what remained of his drink.
“Care for another?” asked Jason.
“No, thank you. It would prolong our discussion.”
“You’re the one who stopped.”
“I’m thinking, monsieur. Perhaps you should have in mind a vague figure before I proceed.”
Bourne studied the man. “it could be five,” he said. “Five what?”
“Five figures.”
“I shall proceed. I spoke to a woman—”
“A woman? How did you begin?”
“Truthfully. I was the vice-president of the Valois, and was following instructions from the Gemeinschaft in Zurich. What else was there to say?”
“Go on.”
“I said I had been in communication with a man claiming to be Jason Bourne. She asked me how recently, to which I replied a few minutes. She was then most anxious to know the substance of our conversation. It was at this point that I voiced my own concerns. The fiche specifically stated that a call should be made to New York, not Paris. Naturally, she said it was not my concern, and that the change was authorized by signature, and did I care for Zurich to be informed that an officer of the Valois refused to follow the Gemeinschaft instructions?”
“Hold it,” interrupted Jason. “Who was she?”
“I have no idea.”
“You mean you were talking all this time and she didn’t tell you? You didn’t ask?”
“That is the nature of the fiche. If a name is proffered, well and good. If it is not, one does not inquire.”
“You didn’t hesitate to ask about the telephone number.”
“Merely a device; I wanted information. You transferred four and a half million francs, a sizable amount, and were therefore a powerful client with, perhaps, more powerful strings attached to him. ... One balks, then agrees, then balks again only to agree again; that is the way one learns things. Especially if the party one is talking with displays anxiety. I can assure you, she did.”
“What did you learn?”
“That you should be considered a dangerous man.”
“In what way?”
“The definition was left open. But the fact that the term was used was enough for me to ask why the S?reté was not involved. Her reply was extremely interesting. ‘He is beyond the S?reté, beyond Interpol’ she said.”
“What did that tell you?”
“That it was a highly complicated matter for any number of possibilities, all best left private. Since our talk began, however, it now tells me something else.”
“What’s that?”
“That you really should pay me well, for I must be extremely cautious. Those who look for you, are also, perhaps, beyond the S?reté, beyond Interpol.”
“We’ll get to that. You told this woman I was on my way to your office?”
“Within the quarter hour. She asked me to remain on the telephone for a few moments, that she would be right back. Obviously she made another call. She returned with her final instructions. You were to be detained in my office until a man came to my secretary inquiring about a matter from Zurich. And when you left you were to be identified by a nod or a gesture; there could be no error. The man came, of course, and, of course, you never arrived, so he waited by the tellers’ cages with an associate. When you phoned and said you were on your way to London, I left my office to find the man. My secretary pointed him out and I told him. The rest you know.”
“Didn’t it strike you as odd that I had to be identified?”
“Not so odd as intemperate. A fiche is one thing—telephone calls, faceless communications—but to be involved directly, in the open, as it were, is something else again. I said as much to the woman.”
“What did she say to you?”
D’Amacourt cleared his throat. “She made it clear that the party she represented—whose stature was, indeed, confirmed by the fiche itself—would remember my cooperation. You see, I withhold nothing. ... Apparently they don’t know what you look like.”
“A man was at the bank who saw me in Zurich.”
“Then his associates do not trust his eyesight. Or, perhaps, what he thinks he saw.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Merely an observation, monsieur; the woman was insistent. You must understand, I strenuously objected to any overt participation; that is not the nature of the fiche. She said there was no photograph of you. An obvious lie, of course.”
“Is it?”
“Naturally. All passports have photographs. Where is the immigration officer who cannot be bought or duped? Ten seconds in a passport-control room, a photograph of a photograph; arrangements can be made. No, they committed a serious oversight.”
“I guess they did.”
“And you,” continued d’Amacourt, “just told me something else. Yes, you really must pay me very well.”
“What did I just tell you?”
“That your passport does not identify you as Jason Bourne. Who are you, monsieur?”
Jason did not at first answer; he revolved his glass again. “Someone who may pay you a lot of money,” he said.
“Entirely sufficient. You are simply a client named Bourne. And I must be cautious.”
“I want that telephone number in New York. Can you get it for me? There’d be a sizable bonus.”
“I wish I could. I see no way.”
“It might be raised from the fiche card. Under a low-power scope.”
“When I said it was deleted, monsieur, I did not mean it was crossed out. It was deleted—it was cut out.”
“Then someone has it in Zurich.”
“Or it has been destroyed.”
“Last question,” said Jason, anxious now to leave. “It concerns you, incidentally. It’s the only way you’ll get paid.”
“The question will be tolerated, of course. What is it?”
“If I showed up at the Valois without calling you, without telling you I was coming, would you be expected to make another telephone call?”
“Yes. One does not disregard the fiche; it emanates from powerful boardrooms. Dismissal would follow.”
“Then how do we get our money?”
D’Amacourt pursed his lips. “There is a way. Withdrawal in absentia. Forms filled out, instructions by letter, identification confirmed and authenticated by an established firm of attorneys. I would be powerless to interfere.”
“You’d still be expected to make the call, though.”
“It’s a matter of timing. Should an attorney with whom the Valois has had numerous dealings call me requesting that I prepare, say, a number of cashiers checks drawn upon a foreign transfer he has ascertained to have been cleared, I would do so. He would state that he was sending over the completed forms, the checks, of course, made out to ‘Bearer,’ not an uncommon practice in these days of excessive taxes. A messenger would arrive with the letter during the most hectic hours of activity, and my secretary—an esteemed, trusted employee of many years—would simply bring in the forms for my countersignature and the letter for my initialing.”
“No doubt,” interrupted Bourne, “along with a number of other papers you were to sign.”
“Exactly. I would then place my call, probably watching the messenger leave with his briefcase as I did so.”
“You wouldn’t, by any remote chance, have in mind the name of a law firm in Paris, would you? Or a specific attorney?”
“As a matter of fact, one just occurred to me.”
“How much will he cost?”
“Ten thousand francs.”
“That’s expensive.”
“Not at all. He was a judge on the bench, an honored man.”
“What about you? Let’s refine it.”
“As I said, I’m reasonable, and the decision should be yours. Since you mentioned five figures, let us be consistent with your words. Five figures, commencing with five. Fifty thousand francs.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“So is whatever you’ve done, Monsieur Bourne.”

“Une fiche confidentielle,” said Marie, sitting in the chair by the window, the late afternoon sun bouncing off the ornate buildings of the boulevard Montparnasse outside. “So that’s the device they’ve used.”
“I can impress you—I know where it comes from.” Jason poured a drink from the bottle on the bureau and carried it to the bed; he sat down, facing her. “Do you want to hear?”
“I don’t have to,” she answered, gazing out the window, preoccupied. “I know exactly where it comes from and what it means. It’s a shock, that’s all.”
“Why? I thought you expected something like this.”
“The results, yes, not the machinery. A fiche is an archaic stab at legitimacy, almost totally restricted to private banks on the Continent. American, Canadian, and UK laws forbid its use.”
Bourne recalled‘ d’Amacourt’s words; he repeated them. “ ‘It emanates from powerful boardrooms’—that’s what he said.”
“He was right.” Marie looked over at him. “Don’t you see? I knew that a flag was attached to your account. I assumed that someone had been bribed to forward information. That’s not unusual; bankers aren’t in the front ranks for canonization. But this is different. That account in Zurich was established—at the very beginning—with the fiche as part of its activity. Conceivably with your own knowledge.”
“Treadstone Seventy-One,” said Jason.
“Yes. The owners of the bank had to work in concert with Treadstone. And considering the latitude of your access, it’s possible you were aware that they did.”
“But someone was bribed. Koenig. He substituted one telephone number for another.”
“He was well paid, I can assure you. He could face ten years in a Swiss prison.”
“Ten? That’s pretty stiff.”
“So are the Swiss laws. He had to be paid a small fortune.”
“Carlos,” said Bourne. “Carlos ... Why? What am I to him? I keep asking myself. I say the name over and over and over again! I don’t get anything, nothing at all. Just a ... a ... I don’t know. Nothing.”
“But there’s something, isn’t there?” Marie sat forward. “What is it, Jason? What are you thinking of?”
“I’m not thinking ... I don’t know.”
“Then you’re feeling. Something. What is it?”
“I don’t know. Fear, maybe ... Anger, nerves. I don’t know.”
“Concentrate!”
“Goddamn it, do you think I’m not? Do you think I haven’t? Have you any idea what it’s like?” Bourne stiffened, annoyed at his own outburst. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Ever. These are the hints, the clues you have to look for—we have to look for. Your doctor friend in Port Noir was right; things come to you, provoked by other things. As you yourself said, a book of matches, a face, or the front of a restaurant. We’ve seen it happen. Now, it’s a name, a name you avoided for nearly a week while you told me everything that had happened to you during the past five months, down to the smallest detail. Yet you never mentioned Carlos. You should have, but you didn’t. It does mean something to you, can’t you see that? It’s stirring things inside of you; they want to come out.”
“I know.” Jason drank.
“Darling, there’s a famous bookstore on the boulevard Saint-Germain that’s run by a magazine freak. A whole floor is crammed with back issues of old magazines, thousands of them. He even catalogues subjects, indexes them like a librarian. I’d like to find out if Carlos is in that index. Will you do it?”
Bourne was aware of the sharp pain in his chest. It had nothing to do with his wounds; it was fear. She saw it and somehow understood; he felt it and could not understand. “There are back issues of newspapers at the Sorbonne,” he said, glancing up at her. “One of them put me on cloud nine for a while. Until I thought about it.”
“A lie was exposed. That was the important thing.”
“But we’re not looking for a lie now, are we?”
“No, we’re looking for the truth. Don’t be afraid of it, darling. I’m not.”
Jason got up. “Okay. Saint-Germain’s on the schedule. In the meantime, call that fellow at the embassy.” Bourne reached into his pocket and took out the paper napkin with the telephone number on it, he had added the numbers of the license plate on the car that had raced away from the bank on rue Madeleine. “Here’s the number d’Amacourt gave me, also the license of that car. See what he can do.”
“All right.” Marie took the napkin and went to the telephone. A small, spiral-hinged notebook was beside it; she flipped through the pages. “Here it is. His name is Dennis Corbelier. Peter said he’d call him by noon today, Paris time. And I could rely on him; he was as knowledgeable as any attaché in the embassy.”
“Peter knows him, doesn’t he? He’s not just a name from a list.”
“They were classmates at the University of Toronto. I can call him from here, can’t I?”
“Sure. But don’t say where you are.”
Marie picked up the phone. “I’ll tell him the same thing I told Peter. That I’m moving from one hotel to another but don’t know which yet.” She got an outside line, then dialed the number of the Canadian Embassy on the avenue Montaigne. Fifteen seconds later she was talking with Dennis Corbelier, attaché.
Marie got to the point of her call almost immediately. “I assume Peter told you I might need some help.”
“More than that,” replied Corbelier, “he explained that you were in Zurich. Can’t say I understood everything he said, but I got the general idea. Seems there’s a lot of maneuvering in the world of high finance these days.”
“More than usual. The trouble is no. one wants to say who’s maneuvering whom. That’s my problem.”
“How can I help?”
“I have a license and a telephone number, both here in Paris. The telephone’s unlisted; it could be awkward if I called.”
“Give them to me.” She did. “A mari usque ad mari,” Corbelier said, reciting the national motto of their country. “We have several friends in splendid places. We trade off favors frequently, usually in the narcotics area, but we’re all flexible. Why not have lunch with me tomorrow? I’ll bring what I can:”
“I’d like that, but tomorrow’s no good. I’m spending the day with an old friend. Perhaps another time.”
“Peter said I’d be an idiot not to insist. He says you’re a terrific lady.”
“He’s a dear, and so are you. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Fine. I’ll go to work on these.”
“Talk to you tomorrow, and thanks again.” Marie hung up and looked at her watch. “I’m to call Peter in three hours. Don’t let me forget.
“You really think he’ll have something so soon?”
“He does; he started last night by calling Washington. It’s what Corbelier just said; we all trade off. This piece of information here for that one there, a name from our side for one of yours.”
“Sounds vaguely like betrayal.”
“The opposite. Were dealing in money, not missiles. Money that’s illegally moving around, outflanking laws that are good for all our interests. Unless you want the sheiks of Araby owning Grumman Aircraft. Then we’re talking about missiles ... after they’ve left the launching pads.”
“Strike my objection.”
“We’ve got to see d’Amacourt’s man first thing in the morning. Figure out what you want to withdraw.”
“All of it.”
“All?”
“That’s right. If you were the directors of Treadstone, what would you do if you learned that six million francs were missing from a corporate account?”
“I see.”
“D’Amacourt suggested a series of cashiers checks made out to the bearer.”
“He said that? Checks?”
“Yes. Something wrong?”
“There certainly is. The numbers of those checks could be punched on a fraud tape and sent to banks everywhere. You have to go to a bank to redeem them; payments would be stopped.”
“He’s a winner, isn’t he? He collects from both sides. What do we do?”
“Accept half of what he told you—the bearer part. But not checks. Bonds. Bearer bonds of various denominations. They’re far more easily brokered.”
“You’ve just earned dinner,” said Jason, reaching down and touching her face.
“I tries to earn my keep, sir,” she replied, holding his hand against her cheek. “First dinner, then Peter ... and then a bookstore on Saint-Germain.”
“A bookstore on Saint-Germain,” repeated Bourne, the pain coming to his chest again. What was it? Why was he so afraid?

They left the restaurant on the boulevard Raspail and walked to the telephone complex on rue Vaugirard. There were glass booths against the walls and a huge circular counter in the center of the floor where clerks filled out slips, assigning booths to those placing calls.
“The traffic is very light, madame,” said the clerk to Marie. “Your call should go through in a matter of minutes. Number twelve, please.”
“Thank you. Booth twelve?”
“Yes, madame. Directly over there”
As they walked across the crowded floor to the booth, Jason held her arm. “I know why people use these places,” he said. “They’re a hundred and ten times quicker than a hotel phone.”
“That’s only one of the reasons.”
They had barely reached the booth and lighted cigarettes when they heard the two short bursts of the bell inside. Marie opened the door and went in, her spiral-hinged notebook and a pencil in her hand. She picked up the receiver.
Sixty seconds later Bourne watched in astonishment as she stared at the wall, the blood draining from her face, her skin chalk white. She began shouting and dropped her purse, the contents scattering over the floor of the small booth; the notebook was caught on the ledge, the pencil broken in the grip of her hand. He rushed inside; she was close to collapse.

“This is Marie St. Jacques in Paris, Lisa. Peter’s expecting my call.”
“Marie? Oh, my God …” The secretary’s voice trailed off, replaced by other voices in the background. Excited voices, muted by a cupped hand over the phone. Then there was a rustle of movement, the phone being given to or taken by another.
“Marie, this is Alan,” said the first assistant director of the section. “We’re all in Peter’s office.”
“What’s the matter, Alan? I don’t have much time; may I speak to him, please?”
There was a moment of silence. “I wish I could make this easier for you, but I don’t know how. Peter’s dead, Marie.”
“He’s … what?”
“The police called a few minutes ago; they’re on their way over.”
“The police? What happened? Oh God, he’s dead? What happened?”
“We’re trying to piece it together. We’re studying his phone log, but we’re not supposed to touch anything on his desk.”
“His desk ... ?”
“Notes or memos, or anything like that.”
“Alan! Tell me what happened!”
“That’s just it—we don’t know. He didn’t tell any of us what he was doing. All we know is that he got two phone calls this morning from the States—one from Washington, the other from New York. Around noon he told Lisa he was going to the airport to meet someone flying up. He didn’t say who. The police found him an hour ago in one of those tunnels used for freight. It was terrible; he was shot. In the throat ... Marie? Marie?”

The old man with the hollow eyes and the stubble of a white beard limped into the dark confessional booth, blinking his eyes repeatedly, trying to focus on the hooded figure beyond the opaque curtain. Sight was not easy for this eighty-year-old messenger. But his mind was clear; that was all that mattered.
“Angelus Domini,” he said.
“Angelus Domini, child of God,” whispered the hooded silhouette. “Are your days comfortable?”
“They draw to an end, but they are made comfortable.”
“Good ... Zurich?”
“They found the man from the Guisan Quai. He was wounded; they traced him through a doctor known to the Verbrecherwelt. Under severe interrogation he admitted assaulting the woman. Cain came back for her, it was Cain who shot him.”
“So it was an arrangement, the woman and Cain”
“The man from the Guisan Quai does not think so. He was one of the two who picked her up on the L?wenstrasse.”
“He’s also a fool. He killed the watchman?”
“He admits it and defends it. He had no choice in making his escape.”
“He may not have to defend it; it could be the most intelligent thing he did. Does he have his gun?”
“Your people have it.”
“Good. There is a prefect on the Zurich police. That gun must be given to him. Cain is elusive, the woman far less so. She has associates in Ottawa; they’ll stay in touch. We trap her, we trace him. Is your pencil ready?”
“Yes, Carlos.”