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

'Again, my privilege. Whatever assistance or advice I can render, I shall be happy to do so.'

Bourne reached for the glass of Perrier.

The steel door of Apfel's office closed behind him; within seconds he would walk out of the tasteful ante-room cell, into the reception room and over to the lifts. Within minutes he would be on the Bahnhofstrasse with a name, a great deal of money and little else but fear and confusion.

He had done it Dr Geoffrey Washburn had been paid far in excess of the value of the life he had saved. A teletype transfer in the amount of 3,000,000 Swiss francs had been sent to a bank in Marseilles, deposited to a Coded account that would find its way to lie de Port Noir's only doctor, without Wash-burn's name ever being used or revealed. All Washburn had to do was to get to Marseilles, recite the Codes, and the money was his. Bourne smiled to himself, picturing the expression on Wash-burn's face when the account was turned over to him. The eccentric, alcoholic doctor would have been overjoyed with ten or fifteen thousand pounds; he had more than a million dollars. It would either ensure his recovery or his destruction; that was his choice, his problem.

A second transfer of 4,000,000 francs was sent to a bank in Paris on the rue Madeleine, deposited in the name of Jason C. Bourne. The transfer was expedited by the Gemeinschaft's twice-weekly pouch to Paris, signature cards in triplicate sent with the documents. Herr Koenig had assured both his superior and the client that the papers would reach Paris in three days.

The final transaction was minor by comparison. One hundred thousand francs in large bills were brought to Apfel's office, the withdrawal slip signed in the account holder's numerical signature.

Remaining on deposit in the Gemeinschaft Bank were 3,215 Swiss francs, a not inconsequential sum by any standard. How? Why? From where?

The entire business had taken an hour and twenty minutes, only one discordant note intruding on the smooth proceedings. In character, it had been delivered by Koenig, his expression a mixture of solemnity and minor triumph. He had rung Apfel, was admitted, and had brought a small, black-bordered envelope to his superior. 'Une fiche,' he had said in French.

The banker had opened the envelope, removed a card, studied the contents, and had returned both to Koenig. 'Procedures will be followed,' he had said. Koenig had left.

'Did that concern me?' Bourne had asked. 'Only in terms of releasing such large amounts. Merely house policy.' The banker had smiled reassuringly.

The lock clicked. Bourne opened the frosted glass door and walked out into Herr Koenig's personal fiefdom. Two other men had arrived, seated at opposite ends of the reception room. Since they were not in separate cells behind opaque glass windows, Bourne presumed that neither had a three-zero account He wondered if they had signed names or written out a series of numbers, but he stopped wondering the instant he reached the lift and pressed the button.

Out of the corner of his eye he perceived movement, Koenig had shifted his head, nodding at both men. They rose as the lift door opened. Bourne turned; the man on the right had taken a small radio out of his overcoat pocket; he spoke into it - briefly, quickly.

The man on the left had his right hand concealed beneath the cloth of his raincoat. When he pulled it out he was holding a gun, a black .38 calibre automatic pistol with a perforated cylinder attached to the barrel. A silencer.

Both men converged on Bourne as he backed into the deserted lift. The madness began.

5

The lift doors started to close; the man with the hand-held radio was already inside, the shoulders of his armed companion angling between the moving panels, the weapon aimed at Bourne's head.

Jason leaned to his right - a sudden gesture of fear - then abruptly, without warning, swept his left foot off the floor, pivoting, his heel plunging into the armed man's hand, sending the gun upwards, reeling the man backwards out of the enclosure. Two muted gunshots preceded the closing of the doors, the bullets embedding themselves in the thick wood of the ceiling. Bourne completed his pivot, his shoulder crashing into the second man's stomach, his right hand surging into the chest, his left pinning the hand with the radio. He hurled the man into the wall. The radio flew across the lift; as it fell words came out of its speaker.

'Henri! гa va? Maintenant, rascenseur?

The image of another Frenchman came to Jason's mind. A man on the edge of hysteria, disbelief in his eyes; a would-be killer who had raced out of Le Bouc de Mer into the shadows of the rue Sarasin less than twenty-four hours ago. That man had wasted no time sending his message to Zurich: the one they thought was dead was alive. Very much alive. Kill him!

Bourne grabbed the Frenchman in front of him now, his left arm around the man's throat, his right hand tearing at the man's left ear. 'How many!' he asked in French. 'How many are there down there? Where are they?'

'Find out, pig!'

The lift was halfway to the ground-floor lobby. Jason angled the man's face down, ripping the ear half out of its roots, smashing the man's head into the wall. The Frenchman screamed, sinking to the floor. Bourne rammed his knee into the man's chest; he could feel the holster. He yanked the overcoat open, reached in, and pulled out a short-barrelled revolver. For an instant, it occurred to him that someone had deactivated the scanning machinery in the lift. Koenig. He would remember; there'd be no amnesia where Herr Koenig was concerned. He jammed the gun into the Frenchman's open mouth.

Tell me or I'll blow the back of your skull off! The man expunged a cry; the weapon was withdrawn, the barrel now pressed into his cheek.

Two. One by the lifts, one outside on the pavement, by the car.'

'What type of car?' 'Peugeot'