The Bourne Identity (26 page)

Ahead was a cafe, 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 ... etes 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 cafe was in some ways a miniature version of Zurich's Drei Alpenhauser. The booths were deep, the partitions between them high, and the light dim. From there, however, the appearances veered; the cafe on rue Madeleine was totally French, carafes of wine replacing steins of beer. Bourne asked for a booth in the corner; the waiter accommodated.

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"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
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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."

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"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."

"Which means you have the answer. How
did
I get it? If it ever comes up."

"In Zurich. You paid a very high price for someone to break not only the strictest regulation on the Bahnhofstrasse, but also the laws of Switzerland."

"I've got just the man," said Bourne, the face of Koenig coming into focus. "He's already committed the crime."

"At the Gemeinschaft? Are you joking?"

"Not one bit. His name is Koenig; his desk is on the second floor."

"I'll remember that."

"I'm sure you will. The number?" D'Amacourt gave it to him. Jason wrote it on a paper napkin. "How do I know this is accurate?"

"You have a reasonable guarantee. I have not been paid."

"Good enough."

"And as long as value is intrinsic to our discussion, I should tell you that it is the second telephone number; the first was canceled."

"Explain that."

D'Amacourt leaned forward. "A photostat of the original
fiche
arrived with accounts-courier. It was sealed in a black case, accepted and signed for by the senior keeper-of-records. The card inside was validated by a partner of the Gemeinschaft, countersigned by the usual Swiss notary; the instructions were simple, quite clear. In all matters pertaining to the account of Jason C. Bourne, a transatlantic call to the United States was to be placed immediately, the details relayed. ... Here the card was altered, the number in New York deleted, one in Paris inserted and initialed."

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"New York?" interrupted Bourne. "How do you know it was New York?"

"The telephone area code was parenthetically included, spaced in front of the number itself; it remained intact. It was 212. As first vice-president, Foreign Services, I place such calls daily."

"The alteration was pretty sloppy."

"Possibly. It could have been made in haste, or not thoroughly understood. On the other hand, there was no way to delete the body of the instructions without renotarization. A minor risk considering the number of telephones in New York. At any rate, the substitution gave me the latitude to ask a question or two. Change is a banker's anathema." D'Amacourt sipped what remained of his drink.

"Care for another?" asked Jason.

"No, thank you. It would prolong our discussion."

"You're the one who stopped."

"I'm thinking, monsieur. Perhaps you should have in mind a vague figure before I proceed."

Bourne studied the man. "it could be five," he said. "Five what?"

"Five figures."

"I shall proceed. I spoke to a woman--"

"A woman? How did you begin?"

"Truthfully. I was the vice-president of the Valois, and was following instructions from the Gemeinschaft in Zurich. What else was there to say?"

"Go on."

"I said I had been in communication with a man claiming to be Jason Bourne. She asked me how recently, to which I replied a few minutes. She was then most anxious to know the substance of our conversation. It was at this point that I voiced my own concerns. The
fiche
specifically stated that a call should be made to New York, not Paris. Naturally, she said it was
not
my concern, and that the change was authorized by signature, and did I care for Zurich to be informed that an officer of the Valois refused to follow the Gemeinschaft instructions?"

"Hold it," interrupted Jason. "Who was she?"

"I have no idea."

"You mean you were talking all this time and she didn't tell you? You didn't ask?"

"That is the nature of the
fiche
. If a name is proffered, well and good. If it is not, one does not inquire."

"You didn't hesitate to ask about the telephone number."

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"Merely a device; I wanted information. You transferred four and a half million francs, a sizable amount, and were therefore a powerful client with, perhaps,
more
powerful strings attached to him. ... One balks, then agrees, then balks again only to agree again; that is the way one learns things. Especially if the party one is talking with displays anxiety. I can assure you, she did."

"What did you learn?"

"That you should be considered a dangerous man."

"In what way?"

"The definition was left open. But the fact that the term was used was enough for me to ask why the Surete was not involved. Her reply was extremely interesting. 'He is beyond the Surete, beyond Interpol'

she said."

"What did that tell you?"

"That it was a highly complicated matter for any number of possibilities, all best left private. Since our talk began, however, it now tells me something else."

"What's that?"

"That you really should pay me well, for I must be extremely cautious. Those who look for you, are also, perhaps, beyond the Surete, beyond Interpol."

"We'll get to that. You told this woman I was on my way to your office?"

"Within the quarter hour. She asked me to remain on the telephone for a few moments, that she would be right back. Obviously she made another call. She returned with her final instructions. You were to be detained in my office until a man came to my secretary inquiring about a matter from Zurich. And when you left you were to be identified by a nod or a gesture; there could be no error. The man came, of course, and, of course, you never arrived, so he waited by the tellers' cages with an associate. When you phoned and said you were on your way to London, I left my office to find the man. My secretary pointed him out and I told him. The rest you know."

"Didn't it strike you as odd that I had to be identified?"

"Not so odd as intemperate. A
fiche
is one thing--telephone calls, faceless communications--but to be involved directly, in the open, as it were, is something else again. I said as much to the woman."

"What did she say to you?"

D'Amacourt cleared his throat. "She made it clear that the party she represented--whose stature was, indeed, confirmed by the
fiche
itself--would remember my cooperation. You see, I withhold nothing. ... Apparently they don't know what you look like."

"A man was at the bank who saw me in Zurich."

"Then his associates do not trust his eyesight. Or, perhaps, what he thinks he saw."

"Why do you say that?"

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