The Bourne Identity

You're wrong. That's where it began. For me.

'I see," said Bourne, trying again to infuse naturalness into his voice. 'Our information's different naturally. We made a choice on what we thought we knew.'

'The wrong choice, Monsieur. What I've told you is the truth.'

'Yes, I know.'

'Do we have our compromise, then?'

'Why not?'

'Bien.' Relieved, the woman lifted the wine glass to her lips. 'You'll see, it will be better for everyone.'

'It... doesn't really matter now.' He could barely be heard, and he knew it. What did he say? What had he just said? Why did he say it? ... The mists were closing in again, the thunder getting louder; the pain had returned to his temples. 'I mean ... I mean, as you say, it's better for everyone.' He-could feel -see - the Lavier woman's eyes on him, studying him. 'It's a reasonable solution."

'Of course it is ... You are not feeling well?"

'I said it was nothing; it'll pass.'

'I'm relieved. Now, would you excuse me for a moment?'

'No!' Jason grabbed her arm.

'S'il vous plait, monsieur. The powder room, that is all. If you care to, stand outside the door.'

'We'll leave. You can stop on the way.' Bourne signalled the waiter for the bill. 'As you wish,' she said, watching him.

He stood in the darkened corridor between the spills of light that came from recessed lamps in the ceiling. Across the way was the ladies room, denoted by small, uncapitalized letters of gold that read les femmes. Beautiful people - stunning women, handsome men - kept passing by; the orbit was similar to that of Les Classiques. Jacqueline Lavier was at home.

She had also been in the ladies' room for nearly ten minutes, a fact that would have disturbed Jason had he been able to concentrate on the time. He could not; he was on fire. Noise and pain consumed him, every nerve ending raw, exposed, the fibres swelling, terrified of puncture. He stared straight ahead, a history of dead men behind him. The past was in the eyes of the truth; they had sought him out and he had seen them. Cain ... Cain ... Cain!

He shook his head and looked up at the black ceiling. He had to function; he could not allow himself to keep falling, plunging into the abyss filled with darkness and high wind. There were decisions to make ... No, they were made; it was a question now of implementing them.

Marie. Marie? Oh, God, my love, we've been so wrong! He breathed deeply and glanced at his watch - the chronometer he had traded for a thin gold piece of jewellery belonging to a marquis in the south of France. He is a man of immense skill, extremely inventive ... There was no joy in that appraisal. He looked across at the ladies' room.

Where was Jacqueline Lavier? Why didn't she come out? What could she hope to accomplish remaining inside? He had had the presence of mind to ask the maitre if there was a telephone in the ladies' room; the man had replied negatively, pointing to a box by the entrance. The Lavier woman had been at his side; she heard the answer, understanding the inquiry.

There was a blinding flash of light. He lurched backwards recoiling into the wall, his hands in front of his eyes. The pain! Oh, Christ! His eyes were on fire!

And then he heard the words, spoken through the polite laughter of well-dressed men and women walking casually about the corridor.

'In memory of your dinner at Roget's, Monsieur," said an animated hostess, holding a press camera by its vertical flash-bar. 'The photograph will be ready in a few minutes. Compliments of Roget.'

Bourne remained rigid, knowing that he could not smash the camera, the fear of another realization sweeping over him. 'Why me?' he asked.

'Your fiancee requested it, Monsieur,' replied the girl, nodding her head towards the ladies' room. 'We talked inside. You are most fortunate, she is a lovely lady. She asked me to give you this.' The hostess held out a folded note; Jason took it as she pranced away towards the restaurant entrance.

Your illness disturbs me, as I'm sure it does you, my new friend. You may be what you say you are, and then again you may not. I shall have the answer in a half hour or so. A telephone call was made by a sympathetic diner, and that photograph is on its way to Paris. You cannot stop it any more than you can stop those driving now to Argenteuil. If we, indeed, have our compromise, neither will disturb you - as your illness disturbs me - and we shall talk again when my associates arrive.

It is said that Cain is a chameleon, appearing in various guises, and most convincing. It is also said that he is prone to violence and to fits of temper. These are an illness, no?

He ran down the dark street in Argenteuil after the receding roof light of the taxi; it turned the corner and disappeared. He stopped, breathing heavily, looking in all directions for another; there was none. The doorman at Roget's had told him a cab would take ten to fifteen minutes to arrive; why had not Monsieur requested one earlier? The trap was set and he had walked into it

Up ahead! A light, another taxi! He broke into a run. He had to stop it; he had to get back to Paris. To Marie.

He was back in a labyrinth, racing blindly, knowing, finally, there was no escape. But the race would be made alone; that decision was irrevocable. There would be no discussion, no debate, no screaming back and forth - arguments based on love and uncertainty. For the certainty had been made clear. He knew who he was ... what he had been; he was guilty as charged - as suspected.

An hour or two saying nothing. Just watching, talking quietly about anything but the truth. Loving. And then he would leave; she would never know when and he could never tell her why. He owed her that; it would hurt deeply for a while, but the ultimate pain would be far less than that caused by the stigma of Cain.

Cain!

Marie. Marie! What have I done?

'Taxi! Taxi!'

18

Get out of Paris! Now! Whatever you're doing, stop it and get out!... Those are orders from your government... They want you out of there. They want him isolated.

Marie crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table, her eyes falling on the four-year-old issue of Time, her thoughts briefly on the terrible game Jason had forced her to play.

'I won't listen!' she said to herself out loud, startled at the sound of her own voice in the empty room. She walked to the window, the same window he had faced, looking out, frightened, trying to make her understand.

I have to know certain things... enough to make a decision but maybe not everything. A part of me has to be able ...to run, disappear. I have to be able to say to myself, what was isn't any longer, and there's a possibility that it never was because I have no memory of it. What a person can't remember didn't exist,.. for him.

'My darling, my darling. Don't let them do this to you!' Her spoken words did not startle now, for it was as though he were there in the room, listening, heeding his own words, willing to run, disappear ... with her. But at the core of her understanding, she knew he could not do that; he could not settle for a half-truth, or three-quarters of a lie.

They want him isolated.

Who were they! The answer was in Canada and Canada was cut off, another trap.

Jason was right about Paris; she felt it, too. Whatever it .was was here. If they could find one person to lift the shroud and let him see for himself he was being manipulated, then other questions might be manageable, the answers no longer pushing him towards self-destruction. If he could be convinced that whatever unremembered crimes he had committed, he was a pawn for a much greater single crime, he might be able to walk away, disappear with her. Everything was relative. What the man she loved had to be able to say to himself was not that the past no longer existed, but that it had, and he could live with it, and put it to rest. That was the rationalization he needed, the conviction that whatever he had been was far less than his enemies wanted the world to believe, for they would not use him otherwise. He was the Judas goat, his death to take the place of another's. If he could only see that; if she could only convince him. And if she did not, she would lose him. They would take him; they would kill him.