Read Online The Bourne Identity by Robert Ludlum - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Ludlum
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clearly defined in his mind's eye and ear. He had hurled himself from a plane
... at night ... signals and metal and straps intrinsic to his leap. He had parachuted. Where? Why?
Stop crucifying yourself!
If for no other reason than to take his thoughts away from the madness, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the altered passport, and opened it. As might be expected, the name Washburn had been retained; it was common enough and its owner had explained that there were no flags out for it. The Geoffrey R ., however, had been changed to, George P ., the eliminations and spaceline blockage expertly accomplished. The photographic insertion was expert, too; it no longer resembled a cheap print from a machine in an amusement arcade.
The identification numbers, of course, were entirely different, guaranteed not to cause an alarm in an immigration computer. At least, up until the moment the bearer submitted the passport for its first inspection; from that time on it was the buyer's responsibility. One paid as much for this guarantee as he did for the artistry and the equipment, for it required connections within Interpol and the immigration clearing houses. Customs officials, computer specialists, and clerks throughout the European border networks were paid on a regular basis for this vital information; they rarely made mistakes. If and when they did, the loss of an eye or an arm was not out of the question--such were the brokers of false papers.
George P. Washburn . He was not comfortable with the name; the owner of the unaltered original had instructed him too well in the basics of projection and association. George P . was a sidestep from Geoffrey R ., a man who had been eaten away by a compulsion that had its roots in escape--escape from identity. That was the last thing the patient wanted; he wanted more than his life to know who he was.
Or did he?
No matter. The answer was in Zurich. In Zurich there was ...
" Mesdames et messieurs. Nous commencons notre descente pour l'aeroport de Zurich ."
He knew the name of the hotel: Carillon du Lac. He had given it to the taxi driver without thinking. Had he read it somewhere? Had the name been one of those listed in the Welcome-to-Zurich folders placed in the elasticized pockets in front of his seat in, the plane?
No. He knew the lobby; the heavy, dark, polished wood was familiar ... somehow. And the huge plate-glass windows that looked out over Lake Zurich. He had been here before ; he had stood where he was standing now--in front of the marble-topped counter--a long time ago. It was all confirmed by the words spoken by the clerk behind the desk. They had the impact of an explosion.
"It's good to see you again, sir. It's been quite a while since your last visit."
Page 37
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Has it? How long? Why don't you call me by my name? For God's sake. I don't know you! I don't know me! Help me! Please, help me!
"I guess it has," he said. "Do me a favor, will you? I sprained my hand; it's difficult to write. Could you fill in the registration and I'll do my damndest to sign it?" The patient held his breath. Suppose the polite man behind the counter asked him to repeat his name, or the spelling of his name?
"Of course." The clerk turned the card around and wrote. "Would you care to see the hotel doctor?"
"Later, perhaps. Not now." The clerk continued writing, then lifted up the card, reversing it for the guest's signature.
Mr. J. Bourne. New York, N.Y. U.S.A.
He stared at it, transfixed, mesmerized by the letters. He had a name--part of a name. And a country as well as a city of residence.
J. Bourne. John? James? Joseph? What did the J stand for?
"Is something wrong, Herr Bourne?" asked the clerk.
"Wrong? No, not at all." He picked up the pen, remembering to feign discomfort. Would he be expected to write out a first name? No; he would sign exactly as the clerk had printed. Mr. J. Bourne.
He
... at night ... signals and metal and straps intrinsic to his leap. He had parachuted. Where? Why?
Stop crucifying yourself!
If for no other reason than to take his thoughts away from the madness, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the altered passport, and opened it. As might be expected, the name Washburn had been retained; it was common enough and its owner had explained that there were no flags out for it. The Geoffrey R ., however, had been changed to, George P ., the eliminations and spaceline blockage expertly accomplished. The photographic insertion was expert, too; it no longer resembled a cheap print from a machine in an amusement arcade.
The identification numbers, of course, were entirely different, guaranteed not to cause an alarm in an immigration computer. At least, up until the moment the bearer submitted the passport for its first inspection; from that time on it was the buyer's responsibility. One paid as much for this guarantee as he did for the artistry and the equipment, for it required connections within Interpol and the immigration clearing houses. Customs officials, computer specialists, and clerks throughout the European border networks were paid on a regular basis for this vital information; they rarely made mistakes. If and when they did, the loss of an eye or an arm was not out of the question--such were the brokers of false papers.
George P. Washburn . He was not comfortable with the name; the owner of the unaltered original had instructed him too well in the basics of projection and association. George P . was a sidestep from Geoffrey R ., a man who had been eaten away by a compulsion that had its roots in escape--escape from identity. That was the last thing the patient wanted; he wanted more than his life to know who he was.
Or did he?
No matter. The answer was in Zurich. In Zurich there was ...
" Mesdames et messieurs. Nous commencons notre descente pour l'aeroport de Zurich ."
He knew the name of the hotel: Carillon du Lac. He had given it to the taxi driver without thinking. Had he read it somewhere? Had the name been one of those listed in the Welcome-to-Zurich folders placed in the elasticized pockets in front of his seat in, the plane?
No. He knew the lobby; the heavy, dark, polished wood was familiar ... somehow. And the huge plate-glass windows that looked out over Lake Zurich. He had been here before ; he had stood where he was standing now--in front of the marble-topped counter--a long time ago. It was all confirmed by the words spoken by the clerk behind the desk. They had the impact of an explosion.
"It's good to see you again, sir. It's been quite a while since your last visit."
Page 37
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Has it? How long? Why don't you call me by my name? For God's sake. I don't know you! I don't know me! Help me! Please, help me!
"I guess it has," he said. "Do me a favor, will you? I sprained my hand; it's difficult to write. Could you fill in the registration and I'll do my damndest to sign it?" The patient held his breath. Suppose the polite man behind the counter asked him to repeat his name, or the spelling of his name?
"Of course." The clerk turned the card around and wrote. "Would you care to see the hotel doctor?"
"Later, perhaps. Not now." The clerk continued writing, then lifted up the card, reversing it for the guest's signature.
Mr. J. Bourne. New York, N.Y. U.S.A.
He stared at it, transfixed, mesmerized by the letters. He had a name--part of a name. And a country as well as a city of residence.
J. Bourne. John? James? Joseph? What did the J stand for?
"Is something wrong, Herr Bourne?" asked the clerk.
"Wrong? No, not at all." He picked up the pen, remembering to feign discomfort. Would he be expected to write out a first name? No; he would sign exactly as the clerk had printed. Mr. J. Bourne.
He
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