The Bourne Identity by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Ludlum
report will have to be made, the circumstances described. I'm not so sure that's such a good idea. I think you'd be better off waiting for that fellow to pick you up later this afternoon. I heard him say he was going to get you past the marquise into the stables. All things considered, I honestly believe that's what you should Page 31
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
do. I'm sure you can come up with a better story than what really happened here. I won't contradict you."
The unknown thief left the room, closing the damaged door behind him.
You are not helpless. You will find your way. So far he had and it was a little frightening. What had Washburn said? That his skills and talents would come back ... but I don't think you'll ever be able to relate them to anything in your past . The past. What kind of past was it that produced the skills he had displayed during the past twenty-four hours? Where had he learned to maim and cripple with lunging feet, and fingers entwined into hammers?
How did he know precisely where to deliver the blows? Who had taught him to play upon the criminal mind, provoking and evoking a reluctant commitment? How did he zero in so quickly on mere implications, convinced beyond doubt that his instincts were right? Where had he learned to discern instant extortion in a casual conversation overheard in a butcher shop? More to the point, perhaps, was the simple decision to carry out the crime. My God, how could he?
The more you fight it, the more you crucify yourself, the worse it will be. He concentrated on the road and on the mahogany dashboard of the Marquis de Chamford's Jaguar. The array of instruments was not familiar; his past did not include extensive experience with such cars. He supposed that told him something.
In less than an hour he crossed a bridge over a wide canal and knew he had reached Marseilles. Small square houses of stone, angling like blocks up from the water; narrow streets and walls everywhere--the outskirts of the old harbor. He knew it all, and yet he did not know it. High in the distance, silhouetted on one of the surrounding hills, were the outlines of a cathedral, a statue of the Virgin seen clearly atop its steeple. Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde. The name came to him; he had seen it before--and yet he had not seen it.
Oh, Christ! Stop it!
Within minutes he was in the pulsing center of the city, driving along the crowded Canebiere, with its proliferation of expensive shops, the rays of the afternoon sun bouncing off expanses of tinted glass on either side, and on either side enormous sidewalk cafes. He turned left, toward the harbor, passing warehouses and small factories and fenced off lots that contained automobiles prepared for transport north to the showrooms of Saint-Etienne, Lyons and Paris. And to points south across the Mediterranean.
Instinct. Follow instinct . For nothing could be disregarded. Every resource had an immediate use; there was value in a rock if it could be thrown, or a vehicle if someone wanted it. He chose a lot where the cars were both new and used, but all expensive; he parked at the curb and got out. Beyond the fence was a small cavern of a garage, mechanics in overalls laconically wandering about carrying tools. He walked casually around inside until he spotted a man in a thin, pin-striped suit whom instinct told him to approach.
It took less than ten minutes, explanations kept to a minimum, a Jaguar's disappearance to North Africa guaranteed with the filing of engine numbers.
Page 32
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
The silver monogrammed keys were exchanged for six thousand francs, roughly one-fifth the value of Chamford's automobile. Then Dr. Washburn's patient found a taxi, and asked to be taken to a pawnbroker--but not an establishment that asked too many questions. The message was clear; this was Marseilles. And a half hour later the gold Girard
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
do. I'm sure you can come up with a better story than what really happened here. I won't contradict you."
The unknown thief left the room, closing the damaged door behind him.
You are not helpless. You will find your way. So far he had and it was a little frightening. What had Washburn said? That his skills and talents would come back ... but I don't think you'll ever be able to relate them to anything in your past . The past. What kind of past was it that produced the skills he had displayed during the past twenty-four hours? Where had he learned to maim and cripple with lunging feet, and fingers entwined into hammers?
How did he know precisely where to deliver the blows? Who had taught him to play upon the criminal mind, provoking and evoking a reluctant commitment? How did he zero in so quickly on mere implications, convinced beyond doubt that his instincts were right? Where had he learned to discern instant extortion in a casual conversation overheard in a butcher shop? More to the point, perhaps, was the simple decision to carry out the crime. My God, how could he?
The more you fight it, the more you crucify yourself, the worse it will be. He concentrated on the road and on the mahogany dashboard of the Marquis de Chamford's Jaguar. The array of instruments was not familiar; his past did not include extensive experience with such cars. He supposed that told him something.
In less than an hour he crossed a bridge over a wide canal and knew he had reached Marseilles. Small square houses of stone, angling like blocks up from the water; narrow streets and walls everywhere--the outskirts of the old harbor. He knew it all, and yet he did not know it. High in the distance, silhouetted on one of the surrounding hills, were the outlines of a cathedral, a statue of the Virgin seen clearly atop its steeple. Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde. The name came to him; he had seen it before--and yet he had not seen it.
Oh, Christ! Stop it!
Within minutes he was in the pulsing center of the city, driving along the crowded Canebiere, with its proliferation of expensive shops, the rays of the afternoon sun bouncing off expanses of tinted glass on either side, and on either side enormous sidewalk cafes. He turned left, toward the harbor, passing warehouses and small factories and fenced off lots that contained automobiles prepared for transport north to the showrooms of Saint-Etienne, Lyons and Paris. And to points south across the Mediterranean.
Instinct. Follow instinct . For nothing could be disregarded. Every resource had an immediate use; there was value in a rock if it could be thrown, or a vehicle if someone wanted it. He chose a lot where the cars were both new and used, but all expensive; he parked at the curb and got out. Beyond the fence was a small cavern of a garage, mechanics in overalls laconically wandering about carrying tools. He walked casually around inside until he spotted a man in a thin, pin-striped suit whom instinct told him to approach.
It took less than ten minutes, explanations kept to a minimum, a Jaguar's disappearance to North Africa guaranteed with the filing of engine numbers.
Page 32
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
The silver monogrammed keys were exchanged for six thousand francs, roughly one-fifth the value of Chamford's automobile. Then Dr. Washburn's patient found a taxi, and asked to be taken to a pawnbroker--but not an establishment that asked too many questions. The message was clear; this was Marseilles. And a half hour later the gold Girard
Similar Books
Dragon Heat (Dragons of Perralt Book 2)
Sher Dillard
Dragonseed
James Maxey
The Last Ride of Caleb O'Toole
Eric Pierpoint
The Trauma of Everyday Life
Mark Epstein
Farthest Space: The Wrath of Jan
Ellen Fisher
The Burning Glass
Lillian Stewart Carl
Celestial Matters
Richard Garfinkle
My Accidental Jihad
Krista Bremer