Madame.' The receptionist held her hand over the telephone, rushing her words in French, 'Can I help you?"
Again Marie pronounced the name with her lips - now a courteous client late for an appoinI'ment and not wishing to be a further burden to a busy employee. 'Monsieur d'Amacourt. I'm afraid I'm late. I'll just go and see his secretary.' She continued up the aisle towards the secretary's desk.
'Please, Madame,' called out the receptionist. 'I must announce .. .!
The hum of electric typewriters and subdued conversations drowned her words. Marie approached the stern-faced secretary, who looked up, as bewildered as the receptionist.
'Yes? May I help you?'
'Monsieur d'Amacourt, please."
'I'm afraid he's in conference, Madame. Do you have an appoinI'ment?'
'Oh, yes, of course,' said Marie, opening her bag again.
The secretary looked at the typed schedule on her desk. 'I'm afraid I don't have anyone listed for this time.'
'Oh, my word!' exclaimed the confused client of the Valois Bank. 'I just noticed. It's for tomorrow, not today! I'm so sorry.'
She turned and walked rapidly back to the gate. She had seen what she wanted to see, the last fragment of evidence. A single button was lighted on d'Amacourt's telephone; he had bypassed his secretary and was making an outside call. The account belonging to Jason Bourne had specific, confidential instructions attached to it which were not to be revealed to the account holder.
Bourne looked at his watch in the shade of the canopy; it was eleven minutes to three. Marie would be back by the telephone at the front of the bank, a pair of eyes inside. The next few minutes would give them the answer; perhaps she already knew it.
He edged his way to the left side of the shop window, keeping the bank's entrance in view. A clerk inside smiled at him, reminding him that all attention should be avoided. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and looked at his watch again. Eight minutes to three.
And then he saw them. Him. Three well-dressed men walking rapidly up rue Madeleine, talking to one another, their eyes, however, directed straight ahead. They passed the slower pedestrians in front of them, excusing themselves with a courtesy that was not entirely Parisian. Jason concentrated on the man in the middle. It was him. A man named Johann!
Signal Johann to go inside. We'll come back for them. A tall gaunt man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles had said the words in the Steppdeckstrasse. Johann. They had sent him here from Zurich; he had seen Jason Bourne. And that told him something: There were no photographs.
The three men reached the entrance. Johann and the man on his right went inside; the third man stayed by the door. Bourne started back to the telephone box; he would wait four minutes and place his last call to Antoine d'Amacourt.
He dropped his cigarette outside the box, crushed it under his foot, and opened the door.
'Regarded' A voice came from behind.
Jason spun around, holding his breath. A nondescript man with a stubble of a beard pointed at the box. 'Pardon?'
'Le telephone. II n'opere pas. La corde est en noeud.'
'Oh? Merci. Maintenant, fessayerais. Merci bien.'
Book 2 Chapter Eighteen
The man shrugged and left Bourne stepped inside; the four minutes were up. He took the coins from his pocket - enough for two calls - and dialled the first.
'La Banque de Valois. Bonjaur.'
Ten seconds later d'Amacourt was on the phone, his voice strained. 'It is you, Monsieur Bourne? I thought you to say you were on your way to my office.'
'A change of plans, I'm afraid. I'll have to call you tomorrow.' Suddenly, through the glass panel of the booth, Jason saw a car swing into a space across the street in front of the bank. The third man who was standing by the entrance nodded to the driver.
'... I can do?' d'Amacourt had asked a question.
'I beg your pardon?'
'I asked if there was anything I can do. I have your account; everything is in readiness for you here."
I'm sure it is, Bourne thought; the ploy was worth a try. 'Look, I have to get over to London this afternoon. I'm taking one of the shuttle flights, but I'll be back tomorrow. Keep everything with you, all right?"
To London, Monsieur?'
'I'll call you tomorrow. I have to find a cab to Orly.' He hung up and watched the entrance of the bank. In less than half a minute, Johann and his companion came running out; they spoke to the third man, then all three climbed