The slender woman in the wide-brimmed hat that partially covered the side of her face hung up the public phone on the wall to the right of the bank’s entrance. She opened her purse, removed a compact and ostensibly checked her makeup, angling the small mirror first to the left, then to the right. Satisfied, she replaced the compact, closed her purse, and walked past the tellers’ cages toward the rear of the main floor. She stopped at a counter in the center, picked up a chained ballpoint pen, and began writing aimless numbers on a form that had been left on the marble surface. Less than ten feet away was a small, brass-framed gate, flanked by a low wooden railing that extended the width of the lobby. Beyond the gate and the railing were the desks of the lesser executives and behind them the desks of the major secretaries—five in all-in front of five doors in the rear wall. Marie read the name printed in gold script on the center door.
M. A. R. D’Amacourt
Vice-President
Comptes a L’Étranger et Devises
It would happen any moment now—if it was going to happen, if she was right. And if she was, she had to know what Monsieur A.R. d’Amacourt looked like; he would be the man Jason could reach. Reach him and talk to him, but not in the bank.
It happened. There was a flurry of controlled activity. The secretary at the desk in front of d’Amacourt’s office rushed inside with her notepad, emerged thirty seconds later, and picked up the phone. She dialed three digits—an inside call—and spoke, reading from her pad.
Two minutes passed; the door of d’Amacourt’s office opened and the vice-president stood in the frame, an anxious executive concerned over an unwarranted delay. He was a middle-aged man with a face older than his age, but striving to look younger. His thinning dark hair was singed and brushed to obscure the bald spots; his eyes were encased in small rolls of flesh, attesting to long hours with good wine. Those same eyes were cold, darting eyes, evidence of a demanding man wary of his surroundings. He barked a question to his secretary; she twisted in her chair, doing her best to maintain her composure.
D’Amacourt went back inside his office without closing the door, the cage of an angry cat left open. Another minute passed; the secretary kept glancing to her right, looking at something—for something. When she saw it, she exhaled, closing her eyes in relief.
From the far left wall, a green light suddenly appeared above two panels of dark wood; an elevator was in use. Seconds later the door opened and an elderly elegant man walked out carrying a small black case not much larger than his hand. Marie stared at it, experiencing both satisfaction and fear; she had guessed right. The black case had been removed from a confidential file inside a guarded room and signed out by a man beyond reproach or temptation—the elderly figure making his way past the ranks of desks toward d’Amacourt’s office.
The secretary rose from her chair, greeted the senior executive and escorted him into d’Amacourt’s office. She came out immediately, closing the door behind her.
Marie looked at her watch, her eyes on the sweep-second hand. She wanted one more fragment of evidence, and it would be hers shortly if she could get beyond the gate, with a clear view of the secretary’s desk. If it was going to happen, it would happen in moments, the duration brief.
She walked to the gate, opening her purse and smiling vacuously at the receptionist, who was speaking into her phone. She mouthed the name d’Amacourt with her lips to the bewildered receptionist, reached down and opened the gate. She moved quickly inside, a determined if not very bright client of the Valois Bank.
“Pardon, madame—” The receptionist held her hand over the telephone, rushing her words in French, “Can I help you?”
Again Marie pronounced the name with her lips—now a courteous client late for an appointment and not wishing to be a further burden to a busy employee. “Monsieur d’Amacourt. I’m afraid I’m late. I’ll just go see his secretary.” She continued up the aisle toward the secretary’s desk.
“Please, madame,” called out the receptionist. “I must announce—”
The hum of electric typewriters and subdued conversations drowned out her words. Marie approached the stern-faced secretary, who looked up, as bewildered as the receptionist.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Monsieur d’Amacourt, please.”
“I’m afraid he’s in conference, madame. Do you have an appointment?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Marie, opening her purse again.
The secretary looked at the typed schedule on her desk. “I’m afraid I don’t have anyone listed for this time period.”
“Oh, my word!” exclaimed the confused client of the Valois Bank. “I just noticed. It’s for tomorrow, not today! I’m so sorry!”
She turned and walked rapidly back to the gate. She had seen what she wanted to see, the last fragment of evidence. A single button was lighted on d’Amacourt’s telephone; he had bypassed his secretary and was making an outside call. The account belonging to Jason Bourne had specific, confidential instructions attached to it which were not to be revealed to the account holder.
Bourne looked at his watch in the shade of the canopy; it was 2:49. Marie would be back by the telephone at the front of the bank, a pair of eyes inside. The next few minutes would give them the answer; perhaps she already knew it.
He edged his way to the left side of the store window, keeping the bank’s entrance in view. A clerk inside smiled at him, reminding him that all attention should be avoided. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and looked at his watch again. Eight minutes to three.
And then he saw them. Him. Three well-dressed men walking rapidly up rue Madeleine, talking to each. other, their eyes, however, directed straight ahead. They passed the slower pedestrians in front of them, excusing themselves with a courtesy that was not entirely Parisian. Jason concentrated on the man in the middle. It was him. A man named Johann.
Signal Johann to go inside. We’ll come back for them. A tall, gaunt man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles had said the words in the Steppdeckstrasse. Johann. They had sent him here from Zurich; he had seen Jason Bourne. And that told him something: there were no photographs.
The three men reached the entrance. Johann and the man on his right went inside; the third man stayed by the door. Bourne started back to the telephone booth; he would wait four minutes and place his last call to Antoine d’Amacourt.
He dropped his cigarette outside the booth, crushed it under his foot and opened the door.
“Monsieur—” A voice came from behind.
Jason spun around, holding his breath. A nondescript man with a stubble of a beard pointed at the booth.
“Le téléphone—il ne marche pas. Regardez la corde.”
“Merci bien. Je vais essayer quand même.”
The man shrugged and left. Bourne stepped inside; the four minutes were up. He took the coins from his pocket—enough for two calls—and dialed the first.
“La Banque de Valois. Bonjour.”
Ten seconds later d’Amacourt was on the phone, his voice strained. “It is you, Monsieur Bourne? I thought you to say you were on your way to my office.”
“A change of plans, I’m afraid. I’ll have to call you tomorrow.” Suddenly, through the glass panel of the booth, Jason saw a car swing into a space across the street in front of the bank. The third man who was standing by the entrance nodded to the driver.
“—I can do?” D’Amacourt had asked a question.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if there was anything I can do. I have your account; everything is in readiness for you here.”
I’m sure it is, Bourne thought; the ploy was worth a try. “Look, I have to get over to London this afternoon. I’m taking one of the shuttle flights, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Keep everything with you, all right?”
“To London, monsieur?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. I have to find a cab to Orly.” He hung up and watched the entrance of the bank. In less than half a minute, Johann and his companion came running out; they spoke to the third man, then all three climbed into the waiting automobile.
The killers’ escape car was still in the hunt, on its way now to Orly Airport. Jason memorized the number on the license plate, then dialed his second call. If the pay phone in the bank was not in use, Marie would pick it up before the ring had barely started. She did.
“Yes?”
“See anything?”
“A great deal. D’Amacourt’s your man.”
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.