“Next time look at the traffic.” He moved away from her but did not take his eyes off her face.
“You are an animal,” she whispered, briefly closing her eyes, opening them in fear; it had come back.
They reached the Löwenstrasse, a wide avenue where low buildings of brick and heavy wood stood sandwiched between modern examples of smooth concrete and glass. The character of nineteenth-century flats competed against the utilitarianism of contemporary neuterness; they did not lose. Jason watched the numbers; they were descending from the middle eighties, with each block the old houses more in evidence than the high-rise apartments, until the street had returned in time to that other era. There was a row of neat four-story flats, roofs and windows framed in wood, stone steps and railings leading up to recessed doorways washed in the light of carriage lamps. Bourne recognized the unremembered; the fact that he did so was not startling, but something else was. The row of houses evoked another image, a very strong image of another row of flats, similar in outlines, but oddly different. Weathered, older, nowhere near as neat or scrubbed … cracked windows, broken steps, incomplete railings—jagged ends of rusted iron. Further away, in another part of … Zurich, yes they were in Zurich. In a small district rarely if ever visited by those who did not live there, a part of the city that was left behind, but not gracefully.
“Steppdeckstrasse,” he said to himself, concentrating on the image in his mind. He could see a doorway, the paint a faded red, as dark as the red silk dress worn by the woman beside him. “A boardinghouse … in the Steppdeckstrasse.”
“What?” Marie St. Jacques was startled. The words he uttered alarmed her; she had obviously related them to herself and was terrified.
“Nothing.” He took his eyes off the dress and looked out the window. “There’s Number 37,” he said, pointing to the fifth house in the row. “Stop the car.”
He got out first, ordering her to slide across the seat and follow. He tested his legs and took the keys from her.
“You can walk,” she said. “If you can walk, you can drive.”
“I probably can.”
“Then let me go! I’ve done everything you’ve wanted.”
“And then some,” he added.
“I won’t say anything, can’t you understand that? You’re the last person on earth I ever want to see again … or have anything to do with. I don’t want to be a witness, or get involved with the police, or statements, or anything! I don’t want to be a part of what you’re a part of! I’m frightened to death … that’s your protection, don’t you see? Let me go, please.”
“I can’t.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“That’s not relevant. I need you.”
“For what?”
“For something very stupid. I don’t have a driver’s license. You can’t rent a car without a driver’s license and I’ve got to rent a car.”
“You’ve got this car.”
“It’s good for maybe another hour. Someone’s going to walk out of the Carillon du Lac and want it. The description will be radioed to every police car in Zurich.”
She looked at him, dead fear in the glaze of her eyes. “I don’t want to go up there with you. I heard what that man said in the restaurant. If I hear any more you’ll kill me.”
“What you heard makes no more sense to me than it does to you. Perhaps less. Come on.” He took her by the arm, and put his free hand on the railing so he could climb the steps with a minimum of pain.
She stared at him, bewilderment and fear converged in her look.
The name M. Chernak was under the second mail slot, a bell beneath the letters. He did not ring it, but pressed the adjacent four buttons. Within seconds a cacophony of voices sprang out of the small, dotted speakers, asking in Schweizerdeutsch who was there. But someone did not answer; he merely pressed a buzzer which released the lock. Jason opened the door, pushing Marie St. Jacques in front of him.
He moved her against the wall and waited. From above came the sounds of doors opening, footsteps walking toward the staircase.
“Wer ist da?”
“Johann?”
“Wo bist du denn?”
Silence. Followed by words of irritation. Footsteps were heard again; doors closed.
M. Chernak was on the second floor, Flat 2C. Bourne took the girl’s arm, limped with her to the staircase, and started the climb. She was right, of course. It would be far better if he were alone, but there was nothing he could do about that; he did need her.
He had studied road maps during the weeks in Port Noir. Lucerne was no more than an hour away, Bern two and a half or three. He could head for either one, dropping her off in some deserted spot along the way, and then disappear. It was simply a matter of timing; he had the resources to buy a hundred connections. He needed only a conduit out of Zurich and she was it.
But before he left Zurich he had to know; he had to talk to a man named …
M. Chernak. The name was to the right of the doorbell. He sidestepped away from the door, pulling the woman with him.
“Do you speak German?” Jason asked.
“No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.”
Bourne thought, glancing up and down the short hallway. Then: “Ring the bell. If the door opens just stand there. If someone answers from inside, say you have a message—an urgent message—from a friend at the Drei Alpenhäuser.”
“Suppose he—or she—says to slide it under the door?”
Jason looked at her. “Very good.”
“I just don’t want any more violence. I don’t want to know anything or see anything. I just want to—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “Go back to Caesar’s taxes and the Punic wars. If he—or she—says something like that, explain in a couple of words that the message is verbal and, can only be delivered to the man who was described to you.”
“If he asks for that description?” said Marie St. Jacques icily, analysis momentarily pre-empting fear.
“You’ve got a good mind, Doctor,” he said.
“I’m precise. I’m frightened; I told you that. What do I do?”
“Say to hell with them, someone else can deliver it. Then start to walk away.”
She moved to the door and rang the bell. There was an odd sound from within. A scratching, growing louder, constant. Then it stopped and a deep voice was heard through the wood.
“Ja?”
“I’m afraid I don’t speak German.”
“Englisch. What is it? Who are you?”
“I have an urgent message from a friend at the Drei Alpenhäuser.”
“Shove it under the door.”
“I can’t do that. It isn’t written down. I have to deliver it personally to the man who was described to me.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be difficult,” said the voice. The lock clicked and the door opened.
Bourne stepped away from the wall, into the doorframe.
“You’re insane!” cried a man with two stumps for legs, propped up in a wheelchair. “Get out! Get away from here!”
“I’m tired of hearing that,” said Jason, pulling the girl inside and closing the door.
It took no pressure to convince Marie St. Jacques to remain in a small, windowless bedroom while they talked; she did so willingly. The legless Chernak was close to panic, his ravaged face chalk white, his unkempt gray hair matted about his neck and forehead
“What do you want from me?” he asked. “You swore the last transaction was our final one! I can do no more, I cannot take the risk. Messengers have been here. No matter how cautious, how many times removed from your sources, they have been here! If one leaves an address in the wrong surroundings, I’m a dead man!”
“You’ve done pretty well for the risks you’ve taken,” said Bourne, standing in front of the wheelchair, his mind racing, wondering if there was a word or a phrase that could trigger a flow of information. Then he remembered the envelope. If there was any discrepancy, it had nothing to do with me. A fat man at the Drei Alpenhäuser.
“Minor compared to the magnitude of those risks” Chernak shook his head; his upper chest heaved; the stumps that fell over the chair moved obscenely back and forth. “I was content before you came into my life, mein Herr, for I was minor. An old soldier who made his way to Zurich—blown up, a cripple, worthless except for certain facts stored away that former comrades paid meagerly to keep suppressed. It was a decent life, not much, but enough. Then you found me. …”
“I’m touched,” broke in Jason. “Let’s talk about the envelope—the envelope you passed to our mutual friend at Drei Alpenhäuser. Who gave it to you?”
“A messenger. Who else?”
“Where did it come from?”