They both laughed.
The three-year commitment to Ottawa was extended for all the logical reasons: whenever she thought of leaving, she was promoted a grade, given a large office and an expanded staff.
“Power corrupts, of course”—she smiled—“and no one knows it better than a ranking bureaucrat whom banks and corporations pursue for a recommendation. But I think Napoleon said it better. ‘Give me enough medals and I’ll win you any war.’ So I stayed. I enjoy my work immensely. But then it’s work I’m good at and that helps.”
Jason watched her as she talked. Beneath the controlled exterior there was an exuberant, childlike quality about her. She was an enthusiast, reining in her enthusiasm whenever she felt it becoming too pronounced. Of course she was good at what she did; he suspected she never did anything with less than her fullest application. “I’m sure you are—good, I mean—but it doesn’t leave much time for other things, does it?”
“What other things?”
“Oh, the usual. Husband, family, house with the picket fence.”
“They may come one day; I don’t rule them out.”
“But they haven’t.”
“No. There were a couple of close calls, but no brass ring. Or diamond, either.”
“Who’s Peter?”
The smile faded. “I’d forgotten. You read the cable.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We’ve covered that. … Peter? I adore Peter. We lived together for nearly two years, but it didn’t work out.”
“Apparently he doesn’t hold any grudges.”
“He’d better not!” She laughed again. “He’s director of the section, hopes for a cabinet appointment soon. If he doesn’t behave himself, I’ll tell the Treasury Board what he doesn’t know and he’ll be back as an SX-Two”
“He said he was going to pick you up at the airport on the twenty-sixth. You’d better cable him.”
“Yes, I know.”
Her leaving was what they had not talked about; they had avoided the subject as though it were a distant eventuality. It was not related to what-had-happened; it was something that was going to be. Marie had said she wanted to help him; he had accepted, assuming she was driven by false gratitude into staying with him for a day or so—and he was grateful for that. But anything else was unthinkable.
Which was why they did not talk about it. Words and looks had passed between them, quiet laughter evoked, comfort established. At odd moments there were tentative rushes of warmth and they both understood and backed away. Anything else was unthinkable.
So they kept returning to the abnormality, to what-had-happened. To him more than to them, for he was the irrational reason for their being together … together in a room at a small village inn in Switzerland. Abnormality. It was not part of the reasonable, ordered world of Marie St. Jacques, and because it was not, her orderly, analytical mind was provoked. Unreasonable things were to be examined, unraveled, explained. She became relentless in her probing, as insistent as Geoffrey Washburn had been on the Ile de Port Noir, but without the doctor’s patience. For she “ did not have the time; she knew it and it drove her to the edges of stridency.
“When you read the newspapers, what strikes you?”
“The mess. Seems it’s universal.”
“Be serious. What’s familiar to you?”
“Most everything, but I can’t tell you why.”
“Give me an example.”
“This morning. There was a story about an American arms shipment to Greece and the subsequent debate in the United Nations; the Soviets protested. I understand the significance, the Mediterranean power struggle, the Mid East spillover.”
“Give me another.”
“There was an article about East German interference with the Bonn government’s liaison office in Warsaw. Eastern bloc, Western bloc; again I understood.”
“You see the relationship, don’t you? You’re politically—geo-politically—receptive.”
“Or I have a perfectly normal working knowledge of current events. I don’t think I was ever a diplomat. The money at the Gemeinschaft would rule out any kind of government employment.”
“I agree. Still, you’re politically aware. What about maps? You asked me to buy you maps. What comes to mind when you look at them?”
“In some cases names trigger images, just as they did in Zurich. Buildings, hotels, streets … sometimes faces. But never names. The faces don’t have any.”
“Still you’ve traveled a great deal.”
“I guess I have.”
“You know you have.”
“All right, I’ve traveled.”
“How did you travel?”
“What do you mean, how?”
“Was it usually by plane, or by car—not taxis but driving yourself?”
“Both, I think. Why?”
“Planes would mean greater distances more frequently. Did people meet you? Are there faces at airports, hotels?”
“Streets,” he replied involuntarily.
“Streets? Why streets?”
“I don’t know. Faces met me in the streets … and in quiet places. Dark places.”
“Restaurants? Cafés?”
“Yes. And rooms.”
“Hotel rooms?”
“Yes.”
“Not offices? Business offices?”
“Sometimes. Not usually.”
“All right People met you. Faces. Men? Women? Both?”
“Men mostly. Some women, but mostly men.”
“What did they talk about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try to remember.”
“I can’t. There aren’t any voices; there aren’t any words.”
“Were there schedules? You met with people, that means you had appointments. They expected to meet with you and you expected to meet with them. Who scheduled those appointments? Someone had to.”
“Cables. Telephone calls.”
“From whom? From where?”
“I don’t know. They would reach me.”
“At hotels?”
“Mostly, I imagine.”
“You told me the assistant manager at the Carillon said you did receive messages.”
“Then they came to hotels.”
“Something-or-other Seventy-One?”
“Treadstone.”
“Treadstone. That’s your company, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. I couldn’t find it.”
“Concentrate!”
“I am. It wasn’t listed. I called New York.”
“You seem to think that’s so unusual. It’s not.”
“Why not?”
“It could be a separate in-house division, or a blind subsidiary—a corporation set up to make purchases for a parent company whose name would push up a negotiating price. It’s done every day.”
“Whom are you trying to convince?”
“You. It’s entirely possible that you’re a roving negotiator for American financial interests. Everything points to it: funds set up for immediate capital, confidentiality open for corporate approval, which was never exercised. These facts, plus your own antenna for political shifts, point to a trusted purchasing agent, and quite probably a large shareholder or part owner of the parent company.”
“You talk awfully fast.”
“I’ve said nothing that isn’t logical.”
“There’s a hole or two.”
“Where?”
“That account didn’t show any withdrawals. Only deposits. I wasn’t buying, I was selling.”
“You don’t know that; you can’t remember. Payments can be made with shortfall deposits.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“A treasurer aware of certain tax strategies would. What’s the other hole?”
“Men don’t try to kill someone for buying something at a lower price. They may expose him; they don’t kill him.”
“They do if a gargantuan error has been made. Or if that person has been mistaken for someone else. What I’m trying to tell you is that you can’t be what you’re not! No matter what anyone says.”
“You’re that convinced.”
“I’m that convinced. I’ve spent three days with you. We’ve talked, I’ve listened. A terrible error has been made. Or it’s some kind of conspiracy.”
“Involving what? Against what?”
“That’s what you have to find out.”
“Thanks.”
“Tell me something. What comes to mind when you think of money?”
Stop it! Don’t do this! Can’t you understand? You’re wrong. When I think of money I think of killing.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m tired. I want to sleep. Send your cable in the morning. Tell Peter you’re flying back.”
It was well past midnight, the beginning of the fourth day, and still sleep would not come. Bourne stared at the ceiling, at the dark wood that reflected the light of the table lamp across the room. The light remained on during the nights; Marie simply left it on, no explanation sought, none offered.
In the morning she would be gone and his own plans had to crystallize. He would stay at the inn for a few more days, call the doctor in Wohlen and arrange to have the stitches removed. After that, Paris. The money was in Paris, and so was something else; he knew it, he felt it. A final answer; it was in Paris.
You are not helpless. You will find your way.
What would he find? A man named Carlos? Who was Carlos and what was he to Jason Bourne?
He heard the rustle of cloth from the couch against the wall. He glanced over, startled to see that Marie was not asleep. Instead, she was looking at him, staring at him really.
“You’re wrong, you know,” she said.
“About what?”
“What you’re thinking.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve seen that look in your eyes, seeing things you’re not sure are there, afraid that they may be.”
“They have been,” he replied. “Explain the Steppdeckstrasse. Explain a fat man at the Drei Alpenhäuser.”