"Ludlum, Robert - Bourne 01 - The Bourne Identity" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ludlum Robert)

'Some may have changed,' said J. Bourne. 'How did you understand them before?'

'Whoever telephones or inquires at the desk is to be told you're out of the hotel, whereupon you're to be informed immediately. The only exception is your firm in New York. The Treadstone Seventy-one Corporation, if I remember correctly.'

Another name! One he could trace with an overseas call. Fragmentary shapes were falling into place. The exhilaration began to return.

'That'll do. I won't forget your efficiency.'

'This is Zurich,' replied the polite man, shrugging. 'You've always been exceedingly generous, Herr Bourne. Vorwarts! SchneW

As the patient followed the bell boy into the elevator, several things were clearer. He had a name and he understood why that name came so quickly to the Carillon du Lac's assistant manager. He had a country and a city and a firm that employed him - had employed him, at any rate. And whenever he came to Zurich certain precautions were implemented to protect him from unexpected, or unwanted visitors. That was what he could not understand. One either protected oneself thoroughly or one did not bother to protect oneself at all. Where was any real advantage in a screening process that was so loose, so vulnerable to penetration? It struck him as second-rate, without value, as if a small child were playing hide-and-seek. Where am I? Try and find me. I'll say something out loud and give you a hint.

It was not professional, and if he had learned anything about himself during the past forty-eight hours it was that he was a professional. Of what he had no idea, but the status was not debatable.

The voice of the New York operator faded sporadically over the line. Her conclusion, however, was irritatingly clear. And final.

'There's no listing for any such company, sir. I've checked the latest directories as well as the private telephones and there's no Treadstone Corporation - and nothing even resembling Treadstone with numbers following the name.'

'Perhaps they were dropped to shorten ...'

'There's no firm or company with that name, sir. I repeat, if you have a first or second name, or the type of business the firm's engaged in, I might be of further help.'

'I don't. Only the name, Treadstone Seventy-one, New York City.!

'It's an odd name, sir. I'm sure if there were a listing it would be a simple matter to find it I'm sorry.'

"Thanks very much for your trouble,' said J. Bourne, replacing the phone. It was pointless to go on; the name was a Code of some sort, words relayed by a caller that gained him immediate access to a hotel guest not so readily accessible. And the words could be used by anyone regardless of where he had placed the call; therefore the location of New York might well be meaningless. According to an operator five thousand miles away it was.

The patient walked to the bureau where he had placed the Louis Vuitton wallet and the Seiko chronograph. He put the wallet in his pocket and the watch on his wrist; he looked in the mirror and spoke quietly.

'You are J. Bourne, citizen of the United States, resident of New York City, and it's entirely possible that the numbers "zero-seven - seventeen-twelve - zero-fourteen - twenty-six-zero" are the most important things in your life.'

The sun was bright, filtering through the trees along the elegant Bahnhofstrasse, bouncing off the windows of the shops and creating blocks of shadows where the great banks intruded on its rays. It was a street where solidity and money, security and

arrogance, determination and a touch of frivolity all coexisted; and Dr Washburn's patient had walked along its pavements before.

He strolled into the Burkliplatz, the square that overlooked the Ziirichsee, with its numerous quays along the waterfront bordered by gardens that in the heat of summer became circles of bursting flowers. He could picture them in his mind's eye; images were coming to him. But no thoughts, no memories.

He doubled back into the Bahnhofstrasse, instinctively knowing that the Gemeinschaft Bank was a nearby building of off-white stone; it had been on the opposite side of the street on which he had just walked; he had passed it deliberately. He approached the heavy glass doors and pushed the centre plate forward. The right-hand door swung open easily and he was standing on a floor of brown marble; he had stood on it before, but the image was not as strong as others. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the Gemeinschaft was to be avoided.

It was not to be avoided now.

'Puis-je vous aider, monsieur? The man asking the question was dressed in a cutaway, the red boutonniere his symbol of authority. The use of French was explained by the client's clothes; even the subordinate gnomes of Zurich were observant.

'I have personal and confidential business to discuss,! replied J. Bourne in English, once again mildly startled by the words he spoke so naturally. The reason for the English was twofold: he wanted to watch the gnome's expression at his error, and he wanted no possible misinterpretation of anything said during the next hour.

'Pardon, sir,' said the man, his eyebrows arched slightly, studying the client's topcoat. 'The lift to your left, first floor. The receptionist will assist you."

The receptionist referred to was a middle-aged man with close-cropped hair and tortoiseshell glasses; his expression was set, his eyes rigidly curious. 'Do you currently have personal and confidential business with us, sir?' he asked, repeating the new arrival's words.