“Never.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
“I’ve no reason to! Please. Let me stop. Let me go!”
“How long have you been here?”
“A week. The conference was for a week.”
“Then you’ve had time to get around, do some sightseeing.”
“I barely left the hotel. There wasn’t time.”
“The schedule I saw on the board didn’t seem very crowded. Only two lectures for the entire day.”
“They were guest speakers; there were never more than two a day. The majority of our work was done in conference ... small conferences. Ten to fifteen people from different countries, different interests.”
“You’re from Canada?”
“I work for the Canadian government Treasury Board, Department of National Revenue.”
“The ‘doctor’s’ not medical then.”
“Economics. McGill University. Pembroke College, Oxford.”
“I’m impressed.”
Suddenly, with controlled stridency, she added, “My superiors expect me to be in contact with them. Tonight. If they don’t hear from me, they’ll be alarmed. They’ll make inquiries; they’ll call the Zurich police.”
“I see,” he said. “That’s something to think about, isn’t it?” It occurred to Bourne that throughout the shock and the violence of the last half hour, the St. Jacques woman had not let her purse out of her hand. He leaned forward, wincing as he did so, the pain in his chest suddenly acute again. “Give me your purse.”
“What?” She moved her hand quickly from the wheel, grabbing the purse in a futile attempt to keep it from him.
He thrust his right hand over the seat, his fingers grasping the leather. “Just drive, Doctor,” he said as he lifted the purse off the seat and leaned back again.
“You have no right ...” She stopped, the foolishness of her remark apparent.
“I know that,” he replied, opening the purse, turning on the sedan’s reading lamp, moving the handbag into its spill. As befitted the owner, the purse was well organized. Passport, wallet, a change purse, keys, and assorted notes and messages in the rear pockets. He looked for a specific message; it
was in a yellow envelope given her by the clerk at the Carillon du Lac’s front desk. He found it, lifted the flap, and took out the folded paper. It was a cablegram from Ottawa.
DAILY REPORTS FIRST RATE. LEAVE GRANTED. WILL MEET YOU AT AIRPORT WEDNESDAY 26. CALL OR CABLE FLIGHT. IN LYON DO NOT MISS BELLE MEUNIERE. CUISINE SUPERB. LOVE PETER
Jason put the cable back in the purse. He saw a small book of matches, the cover a glossy white, scroll writing on the front. He picked it out and read the name. Kronenhalle. A restaurant ... A restaurant. Something bothered him; he did not know what it was, but it, was there. Something about a restaurant. He kept the matches, closed the purse, and leaned forward, dropping it on the front seat. “That’s all I wanted to see,” he said, settling back into the corner, staring at the matches.
“I seem to remember your saying something about ‘word from Ottawa.’ You got it; the twenty-sixth is over a week away.”
“Please ...”
The supplication was a cry for help; he heard it for what it was but could not respond. For the next hour or so he needed this woman, needed her as a lame man needed a crutch, or more aptly, as one who could not function behind a wheel needed a driver. But not in this car.
“Turn around,” he ordered. “Head back to the Carillon.”
“To the ... hotel?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes on the matches, turning them over and over in his hand under the light of the reading lamp. “We need another car.”
“We? No, you can’t! I won’t go any--“ Again she stopped before the statement was made, before the thought was completed. Another thought had obviously struck her, she was abruptly silent as she swung the wheel until the sedan was facing the opposite direction on the dark lakeshore road.
She pressed the accelerator down with such force that the car bolted; the tires spun under the sudden burst of speed. She depressed the pedal instantly, gripping the wheel, trying to control herself.
Bourne looked up from the matches at the back of her head, at the long dark red hair that shone in the light. He took the gun from his pocket and once more leaned forward directly behind her. He raised the weapon, moving his hand over her shoulder, turning the barrel and pressing it against her cheek.
“Understand me clearly. You’re going to do exactly as I tell you. You’re going to be right at my side and this gun will be in my pocket. It will be aimed at your stomach, just as its aimed at your head right now. As you’ve seen, I’m running for my life, and I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. I want you to understand.”
“I understand.” Her reply was a whisper. She breathed through her parted lips, her terror complete. Jason removed the barrel of the gun from her cheek; he was satisfied.
Satisfied and revolted.
Let your mind fall free. ... The matches. What was it about the matches? But it was not the matches, it was the restaurant--not the Kronenhalle, but a restaurant. Heavy beams, candlelight, black ...
triangles on the outside. White stone and black triangles. Three? ... Three black triangles.
Someone was there ... at a restaurant with three triangles in front. The image was so clear, so vivid ... so disturbing. What was it? Did such a place even exist?
Specifics may come to you ... certain repressed conduits ... prodded into functioning.
Was it happening now? Oh, Christ, I can’t stand it!
He could see the lights of the Carillon du Lac several hundred yards down the road. He had not fully thought out his moves, but was operating on two assumptions. The first was that the killers had not remained on the premises. On the other hand, Bourne was not about to walk into a trap of his own making. He knew two of the killers; he would not recognize others if they had been left behind.
The main parking area was beyond the circular drive, on the left side of the hotel. “Slow down,” Jason ordered. “Turn into the first drive on the left.”
“It’s an exit,” protested the woman, her voice strained. “We’re going the wrong way.”
“No one’s coming out. Go on! Drive into the parking lot, past the lights.”
The scene at the hotel’s canopied entrance explained why no one paid attention to them. There were four police cars lined up in the circular drive, their roof lights revolving, conveying the aura of emergency. He could see uniformed police, tuxedoed hotel clerks at their sides, among the crowds
of excited hotel guests; they were asking questions as well as answering them, checking off names of those leaving in automobiles.
Marie St. Jacques drove across the parking area beyond the floodlights and into an open space on the right. She turned off the engine and sat motionless, staring straight ahead.
“Be very careful,” said Bourne, rolling down his window. “And move slowly. Open your door and get out, then stand by mine and help me. Remember, the window’s open and the gun’s in my hand. You’re only two or three feet in front of me; there’s no way I could miss if I fired.” She did as she was told, a terrified automaton. Jason supported himself on the frame of the window and pulled himself to the pavement. He shifted his weight from one foot to another; mobility was returning. He could walk. Not well, and with a limp, but he could walk.
“What are you going to do?” asked the St. Jacques woman, as if she were afraid to hear his answer.