The economy class section of Air France’s Caravelle to Zurich was filled to capacity, the narrow seats made more uncomfortable by the turbulence that buffeted the plane. A baby was screaming in its mother’s arms; other children whimpered, swallowing cries of fear as parents smiled with tentative reassurances they did not feel. Most of the remaining passengers were silent, a few drinking their whiskey more rapidly than obviously was normal. Fewer still were forcing laughter from tight throats, false bravados that emphasized their insecurity rather than disguising it. A terrible flight was many things to many people, but none escape the essential thoughts of terror. When man encased himself in a metal tube thirty thousand feet above the ground, he was vulnerable. With one elongated, screaming dive he could be plummeting downward into the earth. And there were fundamental questions that accompanied the essential terror. What thoughts would go through one’s mind at such a time? How would one react?
The patient tried to find out; it was important to him. He sat next to the window, his eyes on the aircraft’s wing, watching the broad expanse of metal bend and vibrate under the brutalizing impact of the winds. The currents were clashing against one another, pounding the manmade tube into a kind of submission, warning the microscopic pretenders that they were no match for the vast infirmities of nature. One ounce of pressure beyond the flex tolerance and the wing would crack, the lift-sustaining limb torn from its tubular body, shredded into the winds; one burst of rivets and there would be an explosion, the screaming plunge to follow.
What would he do? What would he think? Other than the uncontrollable fear of dying and oblivion, would there be anything else? That’s what he had to concentrate on; that was the projection Washburn kept emphasizing in Port Noir. The doctor’s words came back to him.
Whenever you observe a stress situation—and you have the time—do your damndest to project yourself into it. Associate as freely as you can; let words and images fill your mind. In them you may find clues.
The patient continued to stare out the window, consciously trying to raise his unconscious, fixing his eyes on the natural violence beyond the glass, distilling the movement, silently doing his “damndest” to let his reactions give rise to words and images.
They came—slowly. There was the darkness again, and the sound of rushing wind, ear-shattering, continuous, growing in volume until he thought his head would burst. His head.… The winds were lashing the left side of his head and face, burning his skin, forcing him to raise his left shoulder for protection.… Left shoulder. Left arm. His arm was raised, the gloved fingers of his left hand gripping a straight edge of metal, his right holding a … a strap; he was holding on to a strap, waiting for something. A signal … a flashing light or a tap on the shoulder, or both. A signal. It came. He plunged. Into the darkness, into the void, his body tumbling, twisting, swept away into the night sky. He had … parachuted!
“Etes-vous malade?”
His insane reverie was broken; the nervous passenger next to him had touched his left arm—which was raised, the fingers of his hand spread, as if resisting, rigid in their locked position. Across his chest his right forearm was pressed into the cloth of his jacket, his right hand gripping the lapel, bunching the fabric. And on his forehead were rivulets of sweat; it had happened. The something-else had come briefly—insanely—into focus.
“Pardon,” he said, lowering his arms. “Un mauvais rêve,” he added meaninglessly.
There was a break in the weather; the Caravelle stabilized. The smiles on the harried stewardesses’ faces became genuine again; full service was resumed as embarrassed passengers glanced at one another.
The patient observed his surroundings but reached no conclusions. He was consumed by the images and the sounds that had been so clearly defined in his mind’s eye and ear. He had hurled himself from a plane … at night … signals and metal and straps intrinsic to his leap. He had parachuted. Where? Why?
Stop crucifying yourself!
If for no other reason than to take his thoughts away from the madness, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the altered passport, and opened it. As might be expected, the name Washburn had been retained; it was common enough and its owner had explained that there were no flags out for it. The Geoffrey R., however, had been changed to George P., the eliminations and spaceline blockage expertly accomplished. The photographic insertion was expert, too; it no longer resembled a cheap print from a machine in an amusement arcade.
The identification numbers, of course, were entirely different, guaranteed not to cause an alarm in an immigration computer. At least, up until the moment the bearer submitted the passport for its first inspection; from that time on it was the buyer’s responsibility. One paid as much for this guarantee as he did for the artistry and the equipment, for it required connections within Interpol and the immigration clearing houses. Customs officials, computer specialists, and clerks throughout the European border networks were paid on a regular basis for this vital information; they rarely made mistakes. If and when they did, the loss of an eye or an arm was not out of the question—such were the brokers of false papers.
George P. Washburn. He was not comfortable with the name; the owner of the unaltered original had instructed him too well in the basics of projection and association. George P. was a sidestep from Geoffrey R., a man who had been eaten away by a compulsion that had its roots in escape—escape from identity. That was the last thing the patient wanted; he wanted more than his life to know who he was.
Or did he?
No matter. The answer was in Zurich. In Zurich there was …
“Mesdames et messieurs. Nous commençons notre descente pour l’aéroport de Zurich.”
He knew the name of the hotel: Carillon du Lac. He had given it to the taxi driver without thinking. Had he read it somewhere? Had the name been one of those listed in the Welcome-to-Zurich folders placed in the elasticized pockets in front of his seat in the plane?
No. He knew the lobby; the heavy, dark, polished wood was familiar … somehow. And the huge plateglass windows that looked out over Lake Zurich. He had been here before; he had stood where he was standing now—in front of the marble-topped counter—a long time ago.
It was all confirmed by the words spoken by the clerk behind the desk. They had the impact of an explosion.
“It’s good to see you again, sir. It’s been quite a while since your last visit.”
Has it? How long? Why don’t you call me by my name? For God’s sake. I don’t know you! I don’t know me! Help me! Please, help me!
“I guess it has,” he said. “Do me a favor, will you? I sprained my hand; it’s difficult to write. Could you fill in the registration and I’ll do my damndest to sign it?” The patient held his breath. Suppose the polite man behind the counter asked him to repeat his name, or the spelling of his name?
“Of course.” The clerk turned the card around and wrote. “Would you care to see the hotel doctor?”
“Later, perhaps. Not now.” The clerk continued writing, then lifted up the card, reversing it for the guest’s signature.
Mr. J. Bourne. New York, N.Y. U.S.A.
He stared at it, transfixed, mesmerized by the letters. He had a name—part of a name. And a country as well as a city of residence.
J. Bourne. John? James? Joseph? What did the J stand for?
“Is something wrong, Herr Bourne?” asked the clerk.
“Wrong? No, not at all.” He picked up the pen, remembering to feign discomfort. Would he be expected to write out a first name? No; he would sign exactly as the clerk had printed.
Mr. J. Bourne.
He wrote the name as naturally as he could, letting his mind fall free, allowing whatever thoughts or images that might be triggered come through. None did; he was merely signing an unfamiliar name. He felt nothing.
“You had me worried, mein Herr,” said the clerk. “I thought perhaps I’d made a mistake. It’s been a busy week, a busier day. But then, I was quite certain.”
And if he had? Made a mistake? Mr. J. Bourne of New York City, U.S.A., did not care to think about the possibility. “It never occurred to me to question your memory … Herr Stossel,” replied the patient, glancing up at the On-Duty sign on the left wall of the counter; the man behind the desk was the Carillon du Lac’s assistant manager.
“You’re most kind.” The assistant manager leaned forward. “I assume you’ll require the usual conditions of your stay with us?”
“Some may have changed,” said J. Bourne. “How did you understand them before?”
“Whoever telephones or inquires at the desk is to be told you’re out of the hotel, whereupon you’re to be informed immediately. The only exception is your firm in New York. The Treadstone Seventy-One Corporation, if I remember correctly.”
Another name! One he could trace with an overseas call. Fragmentary shapes were falling into place. The exhilaration began to return.
“That’ll do. I won’t forget your efficiency.”
“This is Zurich,” replied the polite man, shrugging. “You’ve always been exceedingly generous, Herr Bourne. Page—hierher, bitte!”
As the patient followed the page into the elevator, several things were clearer. He had a name and he understood why that name came so quickly to the Carillon du Lac’s assistant manager. He had a country and a city and a firm that employed him—had employed him, at any rate. And whenever he came to Zurich, certain precautions were implemented to protect him from unexpected, or unwanted, visitors. That was what he could not understand. One either protected oneself thoroughly or one did not bother to protect oneself at all. Where was any real advantage in a screening process that was so loose, so vulnerable to penetration? It struck him as second-rate, without value, as if a small child were playing hide-and-seek. Where am I? Try and find me. I’ll say something out loud and give you a hint.
It was not professional, and if he had learned anything about himself during the past forty-eight hours it was that he was a professional. Of what he had no idea, but the status was not debatable.
The voice of the New York operator faded sporadically over the line. Her conclusion, however, was irritatingly clear. And final.
“There’s no listing for any such company, sir. I’ve checked the latest directories as well as the private telephones and there’s no Treadstone Corporation—and nothing even resembling Treadstone with numbers following the name.”
“Perhaps they were dropped to shorten …”
“There’s no firm or company with that name, sir. I repeat, if you have a first or second name, or the type of business the firm’s engaged in, I might be of further help.”
“I don’t. Only the name, Treadstone Seventy-One, New York City.”
“It’s an odd name, sir. I’m sure if there were a listing it would be a simple matter to find it. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks very much for your trouble,” said J. Bourne, replacing the phone. It was pointless to go on; the name was a code of some sort, words relayed by a caller that gained him access to a hotel guest not so readily accessible. And the words could be used by anyone regardless of where he had placed the call; therefore the location of New York might well be meaningless. According to an operator five thousand miles away it was.
The patient walked to the bureau where he had placed the Louis Vuitton billfold and the Seiko chronograph. He put the billfold in his pocket and the watch on his wrist; he looked in the mirror and spoke quietly.
“You are J. Bourne, citizen of the United States, resident of New York City, and it’s entirely possible that the numbers ‘zero-seven—seventeen-twelve—zero-fourteen—twenty-six-zero’ are the most important things in your life.”
The sun was bright, filtering through the trees along the elegant Bahnhofstrasse, bouncing off the windows of the shops, and creating blocks of shadows where the great banks intruded on its rays. It was a street where solidity and money, security and arrogance, determination and a touch of frivolity all coexisted; and Dr. Washburn’s patient had walked along its pavements before.
He strolled into the Burkli Platz, the square that overlooked the Zurichsee, with its numerous quays along the waterfront, bordered by gardens that in the heat of summer became circles of bursting flowers. He could picture them in his mind’s eye; images were coming to him. But no thoughts, no memories.
He doubled back into the Bahnhofstrasse, instinctively knowing that the Gemeinschaft Bank was a nearby building of off-white stone; it had been on the opposite side of the street on which he had just walked; he had passed it deliberately. He approached the heavy glass doors and pushed the center plate forward. The right-hand door swung open easily and he was standing on a floor of brown marble; he had stood on it before, but the image was not as strong as others. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the Gemeinschaft was to be avoided.
It was not to be avoided now.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Vous désirez …?” The man asking the question was dressed in a cutaway, the red boutonnière his symbol of authority. The use of French was explained by the client’s clothes; even the subordinate gnomes of Zurich were observant.
“I have personal and confidential business to discuss,” replied J. Bourne in English, once again mildly startled by the words he spoke so naturally. The reason for the English was twofold: he wanted to watch the gnome’s expression at his error, and he wanted no possible misinterpretation of anything said during the next hour.
“Pardon, sir,” said the man, his eyebrows arched slightly, studying the client’s topcoat. “The elevator to your left, second floor. The receptionist will assist you.”
The receptionist referred to was a middle-aged man with close-cropped hair and tortoise-shell glasses; his expression was set, his eyes rigidly curious. “Do you currently have personal and confidential business with us, sir?” he asked, repeating the new arrival’s words.
“I do.”
“Your signature, please,” said the official, holding out a sheet of Gemeinschaft stationery with two blank lines centered in the middle of the page.
The client understood; no name was required. The handwritten numbers take the place of a name … they constitute the signature of the account holder. Standard procedure. Washburn.
The patient wrote out the numbers, relaxing his hand so the writing would be free. He handed the stationery back to the receptionist, who studied it, rose from the chair, and gestured to a row of narrow doors with frosted glass panels. “If you’ll wait in the fourth room, sir, someone will be with you shortly.”
“The fourth room?”
“The fourth door from the left. It will lock automatically.”
“Is that necessary?”
The receptionist glanced at him, startled. “It is in line with your own request, sir,” he said politely, an undertone of surprise beneath his courtesy. “This is a three-zero account. It’s customary at the Gemeinschaft for holders of such accounts to telephone in advance so that a private entrance can be made available.”
“I know that,” lied Washburn’s patient with a casualness he did not feel. “It’s just that I’m in a hurry.”
“I’ll convey that to Verifications, sir.”
“Verifications?” Mr. J. Bourne of New York City, U.S.A., could not help himself; the word had the sound of an alarm.
“Signature Verifications, sir.” The man adjusted his glasses; the movement covered his taking a step nearer his desk, his lower hand inches from a console. “I suggest you wait in Room Four, sir.” The suggestion was not a request; it was an order, the command in the praetorian’s eyes.
“Why not? Just tell them to hurry, will you?” The patient crossed to the fourth door, opened it and walked inside. The door closed automatically; he could hear the click of the lock. J. Bourne looked at the frosted panel; it was no simple pane of glass, for there was a network of thin wires webbed beneath the surface. Undoubtedly if cracked, an alarm would be triggered; he was in a cell, waiting to be summoned.
The rest of the small room was paneled and furnished tastefully, two leather armchairs next to one another, across from a miniature couch flanked by antique tables. At the opposite end was a second door, startling in its contrast; it was made of gray steel. Up-to-date magazines and newspapers in three languages were on the tables. The patient sat down and picked up the Paris edition of the Herald-Tribune. He read the printed words but absorbed nothing. The summons would come any moment now; his mind was consumed by thoughts of maneuver. Maneuver without memory, only by instinct.
Finally, the steel door opened, revealing a tall, slender man with aquiline features and meticulously groomed gray hair. His face was patrician, eager to serve an equal who needed his expertise. He extended his hand, his English refined, mellifluous under his Swiss intonation.
“So very pleased to meet you. Forgive the delay; it was rather humorous, in fact.”
“In what way?”
“I’m afraid you rather startled Herr Koenig. It’s not often a three-zero account arrives without prior notice. He’s quite set in his ways, you know; the unusual ruins his day. On the other hand, it generally makes mine more pleasant. I’m Walther Apfel. Please, come in.”
The bank officer released the patient’s hand and gestured toward the steel door. The room beyond was a V-shaped extension of the cell. Dark paneling, heavy comfortable furniture and a wide desk that stood in front of a wider window overlooking the Bahnhofstrasse.
“I’m sorry I upset him,” said J. Bourne. “It’s just that I have very little time.”
“Yes, he relayed that.” Apfel walked around the desk, nodding at the leather armchair in front. “Do sit down. One or two formalities and we can discuss the business at hand.” Both men sat; the instant they did so the bank officer picked up a white clipboard and leaned across his desk, handing it to the Gemeinschaft client. Secured in place was another sheet of stationery, but instead of two blank lines there were ten, starting below the letterhead and extending to within an inch of the bottom border. “Your signature, please. A minimum of five will be sufficient.”
“I don’t understand. I just did this.”
“And very successfully. Verification confirmed it.”
“Then why again?”
“A signature can be practiced to the point where a single rendition is acceptable. However, successive repetitions will result in flaws if it’s not authentic. A graphological scanner will pick them up instantly; but then I’m sure that’s no concern of yours.” Apfel smiled as he placed a pen at the edge of the desk. “Nor of mine, frankly, but Koenig insists.”
“He’s a cautious man,” said the patient, taking the pen and starting to write. He had begun the fourth set when the banker stopped him.
“That will do; the rest really is a waste of time.” Apfel held out his hand for the clipboard. “Verifications said you weren’t even a borderline case. Upon receipt of this, the account will be delivered.” He inserted the sheet of paper into the slot of a metal case on the right side of his desk and pressed a button; a shaft of bright light flared and then went out. “This transmits the signatures directly to the scanner,” continued the banker. “Which, of course, is programmed. Again, frankly, it’s all a bit foolish. No one forewarned of our precautions would consent to the additional signatures if he were an imposter.”
“Why not? As long as he’d gone this far, why not chance it?”
“There is only one entrance to this office, conversely one exit. I’m sure you heard the lock snap shut in the waiting room.”
“And saw the wire mesh in the glass,” added the patient.
“Then you understand. A certified imposter would be trapped.”
“Suppose he had a gun?”
“You don’t.”
“No one searched me.”
“The elevator did. From four different angles. If you had been armed, the machinery would have stopped between the first and second floors.”
“You’re all cautious.”
“We try to be of service.” The telephone rang. Apfel answered. “Yes?… Come in.” The banker glanced at his client. “Your account file’s here.”
“Herr Koenig signed for it several minutes ago; he was merely waiting for the scanner release.” Apfel opened a drawer and took out a ring of keys. “I’m sure he’s disappointed. He was quite certain something was amiss.”
The steel door opened and the receptionist entered carrying a black metal container, which he placed on the desk next to a tray that held a bottle of Perrier and two glasses.
“Are you enjoying your stay in Zurich?” asked the banker, obviously to fill in the silence.
“Very much so. My room overlooks the lake. It’s a nice view, very peaceful, quiet.”
“Splendid,” said Apfel, pouring a glass of Perrier for his client. Herr Koenig left; the door was closed and the banker returned to business.
“Your account, sir,” he said, selecting a key from the ring. “May I unlock the case or would you prefer doing so yourself?”
“Go ahead. Open it.”
The banker looked up. “I said unlock, not open. That’s not my privilege, nor would I care for the responsibility.”
“Why not?”
“In the event your identity is listed, it’s not my position to be aware of it.”
“Suppose I wanted business transacted? Money transferred, sent to someone else?”
“It could be accomplished with your numerical signature on a withdrawal form.”
“Or sent to another bank—outside of Switzerland? For me.”
“Then a name would be required. Under those circumstances an identity would be both my responsibility and my privilege.”
“Open it.”
The bank officer did so. Dr. Washburn’s patient held his breath, a sharp pain forming in the pit of his stomach. Apfel took out a sheaf of statements held together by an outsized paperclip. His banker’s eyes strayed to the righthand column of the top pages, his banker’s expression unchanged, but not totally. His lower lip stretched ever so slightly, creasing the corner of his mouth; he leaned forward and handed the pages to their owner.
Beneath the Gemeinschaft letterhead the typewritten words were in English, the obvious language of the client:
Account: Zero—Seven—Seventeen—Twelve—Zero—Fourteen—Twenty-six—Zero
Name: Restricted to Legal Instructions and Owner
Access: Sealed Under Separate Cover
Current Funds on Deposit: 7,500,000 Francs
The patient exhaled slowly, staring at the figure. Whatever he thought he was prepared for, nothing prepared him for this. It was as frightening as anything he had experienced during the past five months. Roughly calculated the amount was over five million American dollars.
$5,000,000!
How? Why?
Controlling the start of a tremble in his hand, he leafed through the statements of entry. They were numerous, the sums extraordinary, none less than 300,000 francs, the deposits spaced every five to eight weeks apart, going back twenty-three months. He reached the bottom statement, the first. It was a transfer from a bank in Singapore and the largest single entry. Two million, seven hundred thousand Malaysian dollars converted into 5,175,000 Swiss francs.
Beneath the statement he could feel the outline of a separate envelope, far shorter than the page itself. He lifted up the paper; the envelope was rimmed with a black border, typewritten words on the front.
| Identity: | Owner Access | |
| Legal Restrictions: | Access—Registered Officer, Treadstone Seventy-One Corporation, Bearer Will Produce Written Instructions From Owner. Subject To Verifications. |
“I’d like to check this,” said the client.
“It’s your property,” replied Apfel. “I can assure you it has remained intact.”
The patient removed the envelope and turned it over. A Gemeinschaft seal was pressed over the borders of the flap; none of the raised letters had been disturbed. He tore the flap open, took out the card, and read:
| Owner: | Jason Charles Bourne | |
| Address: | Unlisted | |
| Citizenship: | U.S.A. |
Jason Charles Bourne.
Jason.
The J was for Jason! His name was Jason Bourne. The Bourne had meant nothing, the J. Bourne still meaningless, but in the combination Jason and Bourne, obscure tumblers locked into place. He could accept it; he did accept it. He was Jason Charles Bourne, American. Yet he could feel his chest pounding; the vibration in his ears was deafening, the pain in his stomach more acute. What was it? Why did he have the feeling that he was plunging into the darkness again, into the black waters again?
“Is something wrong?” asked Walther Apfel.
Is something wrong, Herr Bourne?
“No. Everything’s fine. My name’s Bourne. Jason Bourne.”
Was he shouting? Whispering? He could not tell.
“My privilege to know you, Mr. Bourne. Your identity will remain confidential. You have the word of an officer of the Bank Gemeinschaft.”
“Thank you. Now, I’m afraid I’ve got to transfer a great deal of this money and I’ll need your help.”
“Again, my privilege. Whatever assistance or advice I can render, I shall be happy to do so.”
Bourne reached for the glass of Perrier.
The steel door of Apfel’s office closed behind him; within seconds he would walk out of the tasteful anteroom cell, into the reception room and over to the elevators. Within minutes he would be on the Bahnhofstrasse with a name, a great deal of money, and little else but fear and confusion.
He had done it. Dr. Geoffrey Washburn had been paid far in excess of the value of the life he had saved. A teletype transfer in the amount of 1,500,000 Swiss francs had been sent to a bank in Marseilles, deposited to a coded account that would find its way to Ile de Port Noir’s only doctor, without Washburn’s name ever being used or revealed. All Washburn had to do was to get to Marseilles, recite the codes, and the money was his. Bourne smiled to himself, picturing the expression on Washburn’s face when the account was turned over to him. The eccentric, alcoholic doctor would have been overjoyed with ten or fifteen thousand pounds; he had more than a million dollars. It would either ensure his recovery or his destruction; that was his choice, his problem.
A second transfer of 4,500,000 francs was sent to a bank in Paris on the rue Madeleine, deposited in the name of Jason C. Bourne. The transfer was expedited by the Gemeinschaft’s twice-weekly pouch to Paris, signature cards in triplicate sent with the documents. Herr Koenig had assured both his superior and the client that the papers would reach Paris in three days.
The final transaction was minor by comparison. One hundred thousand francs in large bills were brought to Apfel’s office, the withdrawal slip signed in the account holder’s numerical signature.
Remaining on deposit in the Gemeinschaft Bank were 1,400,000 Swiss francs, a not inconsequential sum by any standard.
How? Why? From where?
The entire business had taken an hour and twenty minutes, only one discordant note intruding on the smooth proceedings. In character, it had been delivered by Koenig, his expression a mixture of solemnity and minor triumph. He had rung Apfel, was admitted, and had brought a small, black-bordered envelope to his superior.
“Une fiche,” he had said in French.
The banker had opened the envelope, removed a card, studied the contents, and had returned both to Koenig. “Procedures will be followed,” he had said.
Koenig had left.
“Did that concern me?” Bourne had asked.
“Only in terms of releasing such large amounts. Merely house policy.” The banker had smiled reassuringly.
The lock clicked. Bourne opened the frosted glass door and walked out into Herr Koenig’s personal fiefdom. Two other men had arrived, seated at opposite ends of the reception room. Since they were not in separate cells behind opaque glass windows, Bourne presumed that neither had a three-zero account. He wondered if they had signed names or written out a series of numbers, but he stopped wondering the instant he reached the elevator and pressed the button.
Out of the corner of his eye he perceived movement; Koenig had shifted his head, nodding at both men. They rose as the elevator door opened. Bourne turned; the man on the right had taken a small radio out of his overcoat pocket; he spoke into it—briefly, quickly.
The man on the left had his right hand concealed beneath the cloth of his raincoat. When he pulled it out he was holding a gun, a black .38 caliber automatic pistol with a perforated cylinder attached to the barrel. A silencer.
Both men converged on Bourne as he backed into the deserted elevator.
The madness began.