Marie resumed breathing. 'And they want to help us?'
'By us,' replied Corbelier, 'you're saying he's with you, then?'
Bourne's face was next to hers, his head angled to hear Corbelier's words. He nodded.
'Yes,' she answered. 'We're together, but he's out for a few minutes. It's all lies; they told you that, didn't they?'
'All they said was that you had to be found, protected. They do want to help you; they want to send a car for you. One of ours. Diplomatic.'
'Who are they?'
'I don't know them by name: I don't have to. I know their rank.'
'Rank?'
'Specialists, FS-Five. You don't get much higher than that'
'You trust them?'
'My God, yes! They reached me through Ottawa. Their orders came from Ottawa!'
"They're at the embassy now?'
'No, they're out-posted.' Corbelier paused, obviously exasperated. 'Jesus Christ, Marie, where are you?'
Bourne nodded again, she spoke.
'We're at the Auberge du Coin in Montrouge. Under the name of Briggs.'
I'll get that car to you right away.'
'No, Dennis!' protested Marie, watching Jason, his eyes telling her to follow his instructions. 'Send one in the morning.
First thing in the morning - four hours from now, if you like.'
'I can't do that I For your own sake.*
'You have to; you don't understand. He was trapped into doing something and he's frightened: he wants to run. If he knew I called you, he'd be running now. Give me time. I can persuade him to turn himself in. Just a few more hours. He's confused, but underneath he knows I'm right.' Marie said the words looking at Bourne.
'What kind of a son of a bitch is he?'
'A terrified one,' she answered. 'One who's being manipulated. I need the time. Give it to me.'
'Marie ,.. ?' Corbelier stopped. 'All right, first thing in the morning. Say ... six o'clock. And, Marie, they want to help you. They can help you.'
'I know. Good night'
'Good night
Marie hung up. 'Now, we'll wait,' Bourne said.
'I don't know what you're proving. Of course he'll call the FS-Fives, and of course they'll show up here. What do you expect? He as much as admitted what he was going to do, what he thinks he has to do.'
'And these diplomatic FS-Fives are the ones sending us the message?'
'My guess is they'll take us to whoever is. Or if those sending it are too far away, they'll put us in touch with them. I've never been surer of anything in my professional life.'
Bourne looked at her. 'I hope you're right, because it's your whole life that concerns me. If the evidence against you in Zurich isn't part of any message, if it was put there by experts to find me - if the Zurich police believe it - then I'm that terrified man you spoke about to Corbelier. No one wants you to be right more than I do. But I don't think you are.'
At three minutes past two, the lights in the motel corridor flickered and went out, leaving the long hallway in relative darkness, the spill from the stairwell the only source of illumination. Bourne stood by the door of their room, pistol in hand, the lights turned off, watching the corridor through a crack between the door's edge and the frame. Marie was behind him, peering over his shoulder; neither spoke.
The footsteps were muffled, but there. Distinct, deliberate, two sets of shoes cautiously climbing the staircase. In seconds, the figures of two men could be seen emerging out of the dim light. Marie gasped involuntarily; Jason reached over his shoulder, his hand gripping her mouth harshly. He understood; she had recognized one of the two men, a man she had seen only once before. In Zurich's Steppdeckstrasse, minutes before another had ordered her execution. It was the blond man they had sent up to Bourne's room, the expendable scout brought now to Paris to spot the target he had missed. In his left hand was a small pencil light, in his right a long-barrelled gun, swollen by a silencer.
His companion was shorter, more compact, his walk not unlike an animal's tread, shoulders and waist moving fluidly with his legs. The lapels of his overcoat were pulled up, his head covered by a narrow-brimmed hat, shading his unseen face. Bourne stared at this man; there was something familiar about him, about the figure, the walk, the way he carried his head. What was it? What was it? He knew him.
But there was not time to think about it; the two men were approaching the door of the room reserved in the name of Mr and Mrs Briggs. The blond man held his pencil light on the numbers, then swept the beam down towards the knob and the lock.
What followed was mesmerizing in its efficiency. The stocky man held a ring of keys in his right hand, placing it under the beam of light, his fingers selecting a specific key. In his left hand he gripped a weapon, its shape in the spill revealing an out-sized silencer for a heavy-calibred automatic, not unlike the powerful German Sternlicht Luger favoured by the Gestapo in World War Two. It could cut through webbed steel and concrete, its sound no more than a romantic cough, ideal for taking enemies of the state at night in quiet neighbourhoods, nearby residents unaware of any disturbances, only of disappearance in the morning.
The shorter man inserted the key, turned it silently, then lowered the barrel of the gun to the lock. Three rapid coughs accompanied three flashes of light; the wood surrounding any bolts shattered. The door fell free; the two killers rushed inside.
There were two beats of silence, then an eruption of muffled
gunfire, spits and white flashes from the darkness. The door was slammed shut; it would not stay closed, falling back as louder sounds of thrashing and collision came from within the room. Finally, a light was found; it was snapped on briefly, then shot out in fury, a lamp sent crashing to the floor, glass shattering. A cry of frenzy exploded from the throat of an infuriated man.
The two killers rushed out, weapons levelled, prepared for a trap, bewildered that there was none. They reached the staircase and raced down as a door to the right of the invaded room opened. A blinking guest peered out, then shrugged and went back inside. Silence returned to the darkened hallway. Bourne held his place, his arm around Marie St Jacques. She was trembling, her head pressed into his chest, sobbing quietly, hysterically in disbelief. He let the minutes pass, until the trembling subsided and deep breaths replaced the sobs. He could not wait any longer; she had to see for herself. See completely, the impression indelible; she had to finally understand. I am Cain. I am death. 'Come on,' he whispered.
He led her out into the hall, guiding her firmly towards the room that was now his ultimate proof. He pushed the broken door open and they walked inside.
She stood motionless, both repelled and hypnotized by the sight In an open doorway on the right was the dim silhouette of a figure, the light behind it so muted only the outline could be seen, and only when the eyes adjusted to the strange admixture of darkness and glow. It was the figure of a woman in a long gown, the fabric moving gently in the breeze of an open window.
Window. Straight ahead was a second figure, barely visible
but there, its shape an obscure blot indistinctly outlined by
the wash of light from the distant highway. Again, it seemed
to move, brief, spastic flutterings of cloth - of arms.