“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.”
“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.”
“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 Sûreté was not involved. Her reply was extremely interesting. ‘He is beyond the Sûreté, 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 Sûreté, 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?”
“Merely an observation, monsieur; the woman was insistent. You must understand, I strenuously objected to any overt participation; that is not the nature of the fiche. She said there was no photograph of you. An obvious lie, of course.”