“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 wrote the name as naturally as he could, letting his mind fall free, allowing whatever thoughts or images that might be triggered come through. None did; he was merely signing an unfamiliar name. He felt nothing.
“You had me worried, mein Herr,” said the clerk. “I thought perhaps I’d made a mistake. It’s been a busy week, a busier day. But then, I was quite certain.” And if he had? Made a mistake? Mr. J. Bourne of New York City, U.S.A., did not care to think about the possibility. “It never occurred to me to question your memory ... Herr Stossel,” replied the patient, glancing up at the On-Duty sign on the left wall of the counter; the man behind the desk was the Carillon du Lac’s assistant manager.
“You’re most kind.” The assistant manager leaned forward. “I assume you’ll require the usual conditions of your stay with us?”
“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. Page--hierher, bitte!”
As the patient followed the page 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 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 billfold and the Seiko chronograph. He put the billfold 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 Burkli Platz, the square that overlooked the Zurichsee, 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 center 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.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Vous désirez ...?” The man asking the question was dressed in a cutaway, the red
boutonnière 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 elevator to your left, second floor. The receptionist will assist you.” The receptionist referred to was a middle-aged man with close-cropped hair and tortoise-shell 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.
“I do.”
“Your signature, please,” said the official, holding out a sheet of Gemeinschaft stationery with two blank lines centered in the middle of the page.
The client understood; no name was required. The handwritten numbers take the place of a name ... they
constitute the signature of the account holder. Standard procedure. Washburn.
The patient wrote out the numbers, relaxing his hand so the writing would be free. He handed the stationery back to the receptionist, who studied it, rose from the chair, and gestured to a row of narrow doors with frosted glass panels. “If you’ll wait in the fourth room, sir, someone will be with you shortly.”
“The fourth room?”
“The fourth door from the left. It will lock automatically.”
“Is that necessary?”
The receptionist glanced at him, startled. “It is in line with your own request, sir,” he said politely, an undertone of surprise beneath his courtesy. “This is a three-zero account. It’s customary at the Gemeinschaft for holders of such accounts to telephone in advance so that a private entrance can be made available.”
“I know that,” lied Washburn’s patient with a casualness he did not feel. “It’s just that I’m in a hurry.”
“I’ll convey that to Verifications, sir.”
“Verifications?” Mr. J. Bourne of New York City, U.S.A., could not help himself; the word had the sound of an alarm.
“Signature Verifications, sir.” The man adjusted his glasses; the movement covered his taking a step nearer his desk, his lower hand inches from a console. “I suggest you wait in Room Four, sir.” The suggestion was not a request; it was an order, the command in the praetorian’s eyes.
“Why not? Just tell them to hurry, will you?” The patient crossed to the fourth door, opened it and walked inside. The door closed automatically; he could hear the click of the lock. J. Bourne looked at the frosted panel; it was no simple pane of glass, for there was a network of thin wires webbed beneath the surface. Undoubtedly if cracked, an alarm would be triggered; he was in a cell, waiting to be summoned.
The rest of the small room was paneled and furnished tastefully, two leather armchairs next to one another, across from a miniature couch flanked by antique tables. At the opposite end was a second door, startling in its contrast; it was made of gray steel. Up-to-date magazines and newspapers in three languages were on the tables. The patient sat down and picked up the Paris edition of the Herald-Tribune. He read the printed words but absorbed nothing. The summons would come any moment now; his mind was consumed by thoughts of maneuver. Maneuver without memory, only by instinct.
Finally, the steel door opened, revealing a tall, slender man with aquiline features and meticulously groomed gray hair. His face was patrician, eager to serve an equal who needed his expertise. He extended his hand, his English refined, mellifluous under his Swiss intonation.
“So very pleased to meet you. Forgive the delay; it was rather humorous, in fact.”