"Of course."

"Your eyesights perfectly normal; you have no need of gla.s.ses."

"I didnt think I did."

"Then why is there evidence of prolonged use of contact lenses about your retinas and lids?"

"I dont know. It doesnt make sense."

"May I suggest a possible explanation?"

"Id like to hear it."

"You may not." The doctor returned to the window and peered absently outside. "Certain types of contact lenses are designed to change the color of the eyes. And certain types of eyes lend themselves more readily than others to the device. Usually those that have a gray or bluish hue; yours are a cross. Hazel-gray in one light, blue in another. Nature favored you in this regard; no altering was either possible or required."

"Required for what?"

"For changing your appearance. Very professionally, Id say. Visas, pa.s.sport, drivers licenses-switched at will. Hair: brown, blond, auburn. Eyes-cant tamper with the eyes-green, gray, blue? The possibilities are far-ranging, wouldnt you say? All within that recognizable category in which the faces are blurred with repet.i.tion."

The man got out of the chair with difficulty, pushing himself up with his arms, holding his breath as he rose. "Its also possible that youre reaching. You could be way out of line."

"The traces are there, the markings. Thats evidence."

"Interpreted by you, with a heavy dose of cynicism thrown in. Suppose I had an accident and was patched up? That would explain the surgery."

"Not the kind you had. Dyed hair and the removal of clefts and moles arent part of a restoration process."

"You dont know that!" said the unknown man angrily. "There are different kinds of accidents, different procedures. You werent there; you cant be certain."

"Good! Get furious with me. You dont do it half often enough. And while youre mad, think. What were you? What are you?"

"A salesman ... an executive with an international company, specializing in the Far East. That could be it. Or a teacher ... of languages. In a university somewhere. Thats possible, too."

"Fine. Choose one. Now!"

"I... I cant." The mans eyes were on the edge of helplessness.

"Because you dont believe either one."

The man shook his head. "No. Do you?"

"No," said Washburn. "For a specific reason. Those occupations are relatively sedentary and you have the body of a man whos been subjected to physical stress. Oh, I dont mean a trained athlete or anything like that; youre no jock, as they say. But your muscle tones firm, your arms and hands used to strain and quite strong. Under other circ.u.mstances, I might judge you to be a laborer, accustomed to carrying heavy objects, or a fisherman, conditioned by hauling in nets all day long. But your range of knowledge, I daresay your intellect, rules out such things."

"Why do I get the idea that youre leading up to something? Something else."

"Because weve worked together, closely and under pressure, for several weeks now. You spot a pattern."

"Im right then?"

"Yes. I had to see how youd accept what Ive just told you. The previous surgery, the hair, the contact lenses."

"Did I pa.s.s?"

"With infuriating equilibrium. Its time now; theres no point in putting it off any longer. Frankly, I havent the patience. Come with me." Washburn preceded the man through the living room to the door in the rear wall that led to the dispensary. Inside, he went to the corner and picked up an antiquated projector, the sh.e.l.l of its thick round lens rusted and cracked. "I had this brought in with the supplies from Ma.r.s.eilles," he said, placing it on the small desk and inserting the plug into the wall socket. "Its hardly the best equipment, but it serves the purpose. Pull the blinds, will you?"

The man with no name or memory went to the window and lowered the blind; the room was dark. Washburn snapped on the projectors light; a bright square appeared on the white wall. He then inserted a small piece of celluloid behind the lens.

The square was abruptly filled with magnified letters.

GEMEINSCHAFT BANK BAHNHOFSTRa.s.sE. ZURICH.

ZERO-SEVEN-SEVENTEEN-TWELVE-ZERO-.

FOURTEEN-TWENTY-SIX-ZERO.

"What is it?" asked the nameless man.

"Look at it. Study it. Think."

"Its a bank account of some kind."

"Exactly. The printed letterhead and address is the bank, the handwritten numbers take the place of a name, but insofar as they are written out, they const.i.tute the signature of the account holder. Standard procedure."

"Where did you get it?"

"From you. This is a very small negative, my guess would be half the size of a thirty-five millimeter film. It was implanted-surgically implanted-beneath the skin above your right hip. The numbers are in your handwriting; its your signature. With it you can open a vault in Zurich."

Bantam Books by Robert Ludlum.

Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed.

THE APOCALYPSE WATCH.

THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION.

THE BOURNE IDENt.i.tY.

THE BOURNE SUPREMACY.

THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM.

THE CHANCELLOR Ma.n.u.sCRIPT.

THE CRY OF THE HALIDON.

THE GEMINI CONTENDERS.

THE HOLCROFT COVENANT.

THE ICARUS AGENDA.

THE MATARESE CIRCLE.

THE MATARESE COUNTDOWN.

THE MATLOCK PAPER.

THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND.

THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC.

THE RHINEMANN EXCHANGE.

THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA.

THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE.

THE SCORPIO ILLUSION.

TREVAYNE.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

ROBERT LUDLUM is the author of twenty-one novels published in thirty-two languages and forty countries, with worldwide sales in excess of 200 million copies. His works include The Scarlatti Inheritance, The Osterman Weekend, The Matlock Paper, The Rhinemann Exchange, The Gemini Contenders, The Chancellor Ma.n.u.script, The Road to Gandolfo, The Holcroft Covenant, The Matarese Circle, The Bourne Ident.i.ty, The Parsifal Mosaic, The Aquitaine Progression, The Bourne Supremacy, The Icarus Agenda, Trevayne, The Bourne Ultimatum, The Road to Omaha, The Scorpio Illusion, The Apocalypse Watch, The Cry of the Halidon, and The Matarese Countdown. He lives in Florida.

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