The Bourne Identity Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Robert Ludlum
this process takes place, your skills and talents will come back to you. You'll remember certain behavior patterns; you may live them out quite naturally, your surface reactions instinctive. But there's a gap and everything in those pages tell me it's irreversible." Washburn stopped and went back to his chair and his glass. He sat down and drank, closing his eyes in weariness.
"Go on ," whispered the man.
The doctor opened his eyes, leveling them at his patient. "We return to the head, which we've labeled the brain. The physical brain with its millions upon millions of cells and interacting components. You've read the books; the fornix and the limbic system, the hippocampus fibers and the thalamus; the callosum and especially the lobotomic surgical techniques. The slightest alteration can cause dramatic changes. That's what happened to you. The damage was physical . It's as though blocks were rearranged, the physical structure no longer what it was." Again Washburn stopped. Page 19
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" And ," pressed the man.
"The recessed psychological pressures will allow-- are allowing--your skills and talents to come back to you. But I don't think you'll ever be able to relate them to anything in your past."
"Why? Why not?"
"Because the physical conduits that permit and transmit those memories have been altered. Physically rearranged to the point where they no longer function as they once did. For all intents and purposes, they've been destroyed."
The man sat motionless. "The answer's in Zurich," he said.
"Not yet. You're not ready; you're not strong enough."
"I will be."
"Yes, you will."
The weeks passed; the verbal exercises continued as the pages grew and the man's strength returned. It was midmorning of the nineteenth week, the day bright, the Mediterranean calm and glistening. As was the man's habit he had run for the past hour along the waterfront and up into the hills; he had stretched the distance to something over twelve miles daily, the pace increasing daily, the rests less frequent. He sat in the chair by the bedroom window, breathing heavily, sweat drenching his undershirt. He had come in through the back door, entering the bedroom from the dark hallway that passed the living room. It was simply easier; the living room served as Washburn's waiting area and there were still a few patients with cuts and gashes to be repaired. They were sitting in chairs looking frightened, wondering what le docteur's condition would be that morning. Actually, it wasn't bad. Geoffrey Washburn still drank like a mad Cossack, but these days he stayed on his horse. It was as if a reserve of hope had been found in the recesses of his own destructive fatalism. And the man with no memory understood; that hope was tied to a bank in Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse. Why did the street come so easily to mind?
The bedroom door opened and the doctor burst in, grinning, his white coat stained with his patient's blood.
"I did it!" he said, more triumph in his words than clarification. "I should open my own hiring hall and live on commissions. It'd be steadier."
"What are you talking about?"
"As we agreed, it's what you need. You've got to function on the outside, and as of two minutes ago Monsieur Jean-Pierre No-Name is gainfully employed! At least for a week."
"How did you do that? I thought there weren't any openings."
"What was about to be opened was Claude Lamouche's infected leg. I explained that my supply of local anesthetic was very, very limited. We negotiated; you were the bartered coin."
Page 20
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"A week?"
"If you're any good, he may keep you on." Washburn paused. "Although that's not terribly important, is it?"
"I'm not sure any of this is. A month ago, maybe, but not now. I told you. I'm ready to leave. I'd think you'd want me to. I have an appointment in Zurich."
"And I'd prefer
"Go on ," whispered the man.
The doctor opened his eyes, leveling them at his patient. "We return to the head, which we've labeled the brain. The physical brain with its millions upon millions of cells and interacting components. You've read the books; the fornix and the limbic system, the hippocampus fibers and the thalamus; the callosum and especially the lobotomic surgical techniques. The slightest alteration can cause dramatic changes. That's what happened to you. The damage was physical . It's as though blocks were rearranged, the physical structure no longer what it was." Again Washburn stopped. Page 19
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
" And ," pressed the man.
"The recessed psychological pressures will allow-- are allowing--your skills and talents to come back to you. But I don't think you'll ever be able to relate them to anything in your past."
"Why? Why not?"
"Because the physical conduits that permit and transmit those memories have been altered. Physically rearranged to the point where they no longer function as they once did. For all intents and purposes, they've been destroyed."
The man sat motionless. "The answer's in Zurich," he said.
"Not yet. You're not ready; you're not strong enough."
"I will be."
"Yes, you will."
The weeks passed; the verbal exercises continued as the pages grew and the man's strength returned. It was midmorning of the nineteenth week, the day bright, the Mediterranean calm and glistening. As was the man's habit he had run for the past hour along the waterfront and up into the hills; he had stretched the distance to something over twelve miles daily, the pace increasing daily, the rests less frequent. He sat in the chair by the bedroom window, breathing heavily, sweat drenching his undershirt. He had come in through the back door, entering the bedroom from the dark hallway that passed the living room. It was simply easier; the living room served as Washburn's waiting area and there were still a few patients with cuts and gashes to be repaired. They were sitting in chairs looking frightened, wondering what le docteur's condition would be that morning. Actually, it wasn't bad. Geoffrey Washburn still drank like a mad Cossack, but these days he stayed on his horse. It was as if a reserve of hope had been found in the recesses of his own destructive fatalism. And the man with no memory understood; that hope was tied to a bank in Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse. Why did the street come so easily to mind?
The bedroom door opened and the doctor burst in, grinning, his white coat stained with his patient's blood.
"I did it!" he said, more triumph in his words than clarification. "I should open my own hiring hall and live on commissions. It'd be steadier."
"What are you talking about?"
"As we agreed, it's what you need. You've got to function on the outside, and as of two minutes ago Monsieur Jean-Pierre No-Name is gainfully employed! At least for a week."
"How did you do that? I thought there weren't any openings."
"What was about to be opened was Claude Lamouche's infected leg. I explained that my supply of local anesthetic was very, very limited. We negotiated; you were the bartered coin."
Page 20
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
"A week?"
"If you're any good, he may keep you on." Washburn paused. "Although that's not terribly important, is it?"
"I'm not sure any of this is. A month ago, maybe, but not now. I told you. I'm ready to leave. I'd think you'd want me to. I have an appointment in Zurich."
"And I'd prefer
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