The Bourne Identity Read Online Free PDF

you function the very best you can at that appointment. My interests are extremely selfish, no remissions permitted."
    "I'm ready."
    "On the surface, yes. But take my word for it, it's vital that you spend prolonged periods of time on the water, some of it at night. Not under controlled conditions, not as a passenger, but subjected to reasonably harsh conditions--the harsher the better, in fact."
    "Another test?"
    "Every single one I can devise in this primitive Menningers of Port Noir. If I could conjure up a storm and a minor shipwreck for you, I would. On the other hand, Lamouche is something of a storm himself; he's a difficult man. The swelling in his leg will go down and he'll resent you. So will others; you'll have to replace someone."
    "Thanks a lot."
    "Don't mention it. We're combining two stresses. At least one or two nights on the water, if Lamouche keeps to schedule--that's the hostile environment which contributed to your hysteria--and exposure to resentment and suspicion from men around you--symbolic of the initial stress situation."
    "Thanks again. Suppose they decide to throw me overboard? That'd be your ultimate test, I suppose, but I don't know how much good it would do if I drowned."
    "Oh, there'll be nothing like that," said Washburn, scoffing.
    "I'm glad you're so confident. I wish I were."
    "You can be. You have the protection of my presence. I may not be Christiaan Barnard or Michael De Bakey, but I'm all these people have. They need me; they won't risk losing me."
    "But you want to leave. I'm your passport out."
    "In ways unfathomable, my dear patient. Come on, now. Lamouche wants you down at the dock so you can familiarize yourself with his equipment. You'll be starting out at four o'clock tomorrow morning. Consider how beneficial a week at sea will be. Think of it as a cruise."

    There had never been a cruise like it. The skipper of the filthy, oil-soaked fishing boat was a foul-mouthed rendering of an insignificant Captain Bligh; the crew a quartet of misfits who were undoubtedly the only men in Port Noir willing to put up with Claude Lamouche. The regular fifth member Page 21
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    was a brother of the chief netman, a fact impressed on the man called Jean-Pierre within minutes after leaving the harbor at four o'clock in the morning.
    "You take food from my brother's table!" whispered the netman angrily between rapid puffs on an immobile cigarette. "From the stomachs of his children!"
    "It's only for a week," protested Jean-Pierre. It would have been easier--far easier--to offer to reimburse the unemployed brother from Washburn's monthly stipend, but the doctor and his patient had agreed to refrain from such compromises.
    "I hope you're good with the nets!"
    He was not.
    There were moments during the next seventy-two hours when the man called Jean-Pierre thought the alternative of financial appeasement was warranted. The harassment never stopped, even at night--especially at night. It was as though eyes were trained on him as he lay on the infested deck mattress, waiting for him to reach the brink of sleep.
    "You! Take the watch! The mate is sick. You fill in."
    "Get up! Philippe is writing his memoirs! He can't be disturbed."
    "On your feet! You tore a net this afternoon. We won't pay for your stupidity. We've all agreed. Fix it now!"
    The nets.
    If two men were required for one flank, his two arms took the place of four. If he worked beside one man, there were abrupt hauls and releases that left him with the full weight, a sudden blow from an adjacent, shoulder sending him crashing into the gunnel and nearly over the side. And Lamouche. A limping maniac who measured each kilometer of water by the fish he had lost. His voice was a grating, static-prone bullhorn. He addressed no one without an obscenity preceding his name, a habit the patient found increasingly maddening. But Lamouche did not touch Washburn's patient; he was