“Naturally. All passports have photographs. Where is the immigration officer who cannot be bought or duped? Ten seconds in a passport-control room, a photograph of a photograph; arrangements can be made. No, they committed a serious oversight.”
“I guess they did.”
“And you,” continued d’Amacourt, “just told me something else. Yes, you really must pay me very well.”
“What did I just tell you?”
“That your passport does not identify you as Jason Bourne. Who are you, monsieur?” Jason did not at first answer; he revolved his glass again. “Someone who may pay you a lot of money,” he said.
“Entirely sufficient. You are simply a client named Bourne. And I must be cautious.”
“I want that telephone number in New York. Can you get it for me? There’d be a sizable bonus.”
“I wish I could. I see no way.”
“It might be raised from the fiche card. Under a low-power scope.”
“When I said it was deleted, monsieur, I did not mean it was crossed out. It was deleted--it was cut out.”
“Then someone has it in Zurich.”
“Or it has been destroyed.”
“Last question,” said Jason, anxious now to leave. “It concerns you, incidentally. It’s the only way you’ll get paid.”
“The question will be tolerated, of course. What is it?”
“If I showed up at the Valois without calling you, without telling you I was coming, would you be expected to make another telephone call?”
“Yes. One does not disregard the fiche; it emanates from powerful boardrooms. Dismissal would follow.”
“Then how do we get our money?”
D’Amacourt pursed his lips. “There is a way. Withdrawal in absentia. Forms filled out, instructions by letter, identification confirmed and authenticated by an established firm of attorneys. I would be powerless to interfere.”
“You’d still be expected to make the call, though.”
“It’s a matter of timing. Should an attorney with whom the Valois has had numerous dealings call me requesting that I prepare, say, a number of cashiers checks drawn upon a foreign transfer he has ascertained to have been cleared, I would do so. He would state that he was sending over the completed forms, the checks, of course, made out to ‘Bearer,’ not an uncommon practice in these days of excessive taxes. A messenger would arrive with the letter during the most hectic hours of activity, and my secretary--an esteemed, trusted employee of many years--would simply bring in the forms for my countersignature and the letter for my initialing.”
“No doubt,” interrupted Bourne, “along with a number of other papers you were to sign.”
“Exactly. I would then place my call, probably watching the messenger leave with his briefcase as I did so.”
“You wouldn’t, by any remote chance, have in mind the name of a law firm in Paris, would you?
Or a specific attorney?”
“As a matter of fact, one just occurred to me.”
“How much will he cost?”
“Ten thousand francs.”
“That’s expensive.”
“Not at all. He was a judge on the bench, an honored man.”
“What about you? Let’s refine it.”
“As I said, I’m reasonable, and the decision should be yours. Since you mentioned five figures, let us be consistent with your words. Five figures, commencing with five. Fifty thousand francs.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“So is whatever you’ve done, Monsieur Bourne.”
“Une fiche confidentielle,” said Marie, sitting in the chair by the window, the late afternoon sun bouncing off the ornate buildings of the boulevard Montparnasse outside. “So that’s the device they’ve used.”
“I can impress you--I know where it comes from.” Jason poured a drink from the bottle on the bureau and carried it to the bed; he sat down, facing her. “Do you want to hear?”
“I don’t have to,” she answered, gazing out the window, preoccupied. “I know exactly where it comes from and what it means. It’s a shock, that’s all.”
“Why? I thought you expected something like this.”
“The results, yes, not the machinery. A fiche is an archaic stab at legitimacy, almost totally restricted to private banks on the Continent. American, Canadian, and UK laws forbid its use.” Bourne recalled‘ d’Amacourt’s words; he repeated them. “ ‘It emanates from powerful boardrooms’--that’s what he said.”
“He was right.” Marie looked over at him. “Don’t you see? I knew that a flag was attached to your account. I assumed that someone had been bribed to forward information. That’s not unusual; bankers aren’t in the front ranks for canonization. But this is different. That account in Zurich was established--at the very beginning--with the fiche as part of its activity. Conceivably with your own knowledge.”
“Treadstone Seventy-One,” said Jason.
“Yes. The owners of the bank had to work in concert with Treadstone. And considering the latitude of your access, it’s possible you were aware that they did.”
“But someone was bribed. Koenig. He substituted one telephone number for another.”
“He was well paid, I can assure you. He could face ten years in a Swiss prison.”
“Ten? That’s pretty stiff.”
“So are the Swiss laws. He had to be paid a small fortune.”
“Carlos,” said Bourne. “Carlos ... Why? What am I to him? I keep asking myself. I say the name over and over and over again! I don’t get anything, nothing at all. Just a ... a ... I don’t know.
Nothing.”
“But there’s something, isn’t there?” Marie sat forward. “What is it, Jason? What are you thinking of?”
“I’m not thinking ... I don’t know.”