The Bourne Identity: A Novel (Jason Bourne)
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His memory is a blank. His bullet-ridden body was fished from the Mediterranean Sea. His face has been altered by plastic surgery. A frame of microfilm has been surgically implanted in his hip. Even his name is a mystery. Marked for death, he is racing for survival through a bizarre world of murderous conspirators—led by Carlos, the world’s most dangerous assassin. Who is Jason Bourne? The answer may kill him.
himself to the drainpipe, each muscle aching. Pain, too, had to be erased. He had to reach a deserted stretch of road in the moonlight and trap a broker of death. 25 Bourne waited in the Renault, two hundred yards east of the restaurant entrance, the motor running, prepared to race ahead the instant he saw Villiers drive out. Several others had already left, all in separate cars. Conspirators did not advertise their association, and these old men were conspirators in the truest sense. They
immaculate! Of course I cannot be responsible for the accountant’s work. That’s a separate firm; he’s a separate firm. Frankly, I’ve never liked him; he swears a great deal, if you know what I mean. But then, who am I to say?’ Trignon’s hands were held out palms up, his face pinched in an obsequious smile. “To begin with,” said Bourne, dismissing the protestations, “do not leave the city limits of Paris. If for any reason, personal or professional, you are called upon to do so, notify us.
obscured, blurred. He was rolling in space. Away ... away. But then he saw the one thing he did not want to see. Rigid shoulders that floated above a tapered waist raced out of the room and down the dimly lit corridor. Carlos. His screams had sprung the trap open! He had reversed it! In the chaos he had trapped the stalkers. He was escaping! “Carlos ...” Bourne knew he could not be heard; what emerged from his bleeding throat was a whisper. He tried again, forcing the sound from his stomach.
released him, frowning, her alert mind questioning. “You can’t be sure. They were there; they did see you.” Change your hair. ... you change your face. Geoffrey Washburn, Ile de Port Noir. “I repeat, they saw a dark-haired man in shadows. How good are you with a weak solution of peroxide?” “I’ve never used it.” “Then I’ll find a shop in the morning. The Montparnasse is the place for it. Blonds have more fun, isn’t that what they say?” She studied his face. “I’m trying to imagine what you’ll
what happened!” “That’s just it—we don’t know. He didn’t tell any of us what he was doing. All we know is that he got two phone calls this morning from the States—one from Washington, the other from New York. Around noon he told Lisa he was going to the airport to meet someone flying up. He didn’t say who. The police found him an hour ago in one of those tunnels used for freight. It was terrible; he was shot. In the throat ... Marie? Marie?” The old man with the hollow eyes and the stubble of