“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 Alpenhäuser. 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.”