The lift rumbled and groaned its way up to the fourth floor. Jason breathed deeply and reached for the gate; above all he would avoid dramatics, no alarms raised by words or by looks. The chameleon had to merge with his quiet part of the forest, one in which no spoors could be found. He knew what to say; he had thought about it carefully, as he had the note he would write.
'Most of the night walking around,' he said, holding her, stroking her dark red hair, cradling her head against his shoulder... and aching, 'chasing cadaverous salesgirls, listening to animated nonsense and drinking coffee disguised as sour mud. Les Classiques was a waste of time; it's a zoo. The monkeys and the peacocks put on a hell of. a show, but I don't think anyone really knows anything. There's one outside possibility, but he could simply be a sharp Frenchman in search of an American mark.'
'He?' asked Marie, her trembling diminished.
'A man who operated the switchboard,' said Bourne, repelling images of blinding explosions and darkness and high winds as he pictured the face he did not know but he knew so well. That man now was only a device; he pushed the images away. 'I agreed to meet him around midnight at the bastringue on rue de Hautefeuille.'
'What did he say?'
'Very little, but enough to interest me. I saw him watching me while I was asking questions. The place was fairly crowded so I could move around pretty freely, talk to the employees.'
'Questions? What questions did you ask?'
'Anything I could think of. Mainly about the manager, or whatever she's called. Considering what happened this afternoon, if she were a direct relay to Carlos she should have been close to hysterics. I saw her. She wasn't; she behaved as if nothing had happened except a good day in the shop.'
'But she was a relay, as you call it. D'Amacourt explained that. The fiche.'
'Indirect. She gets a phone call and is told what to say before making another call herself.' Actually, Jason thought, the invented assessment was based on reality. Jacqueline Lavier was, indeed, an indirect relay.
'You couldn't just walk around asking questions without seeming suspicious,' protested Marie.
'You can," answered Bourne, 'if you're an American writer doing an article on the boutiques in Saint-Honoree for a national magazine.'
'That's very good, Jason.'
'It worked. No one wants to be left out.'
'What did you learn?'
'Like most of those kinds of places, Les Classiques has its own clientele, all wealthy, most known to each other and with the usual marital intrigues and adulteries that go with the scene. Carlos knew what he was doing; it's a regular answering service over there, but not the kind listed in a phone book.'
'People told you that?' asked Marie, holding his arms, watching his eyes.
'Not in so many words," he said, aware of the shadows of her disbelief. 'The accent was always on this Bergeron's talent, but one thing leads to another. You can get the picture. Everyone seems to gravitate to that manager. From what I've gathered, she's a font of social information, although she probably couldn't tell me anything except that she did someone a favour – an accommodation – and that someone will turn out to be someone else who did another favour for another someone. The source could be untraceable, but it's all I've got.'
'Why the meeting tonight at the bastringue?'
'He came over to me when I was leaving and said a very strange thing.' Jason did not have to invent this part of the lie. He had read the words on a note in an elegant restaurant in Argenteuil less than an hour ago. 'He said, "You may be who you say you are, and then again, you may not." That's when he suggested a drink later on, away from Saint-Honoree.' Bourne saw her doubts receding. He had done it; she accepted the tapestry of lies. And why not? He was a man of immense skill and extremely inventive. The appraisal was not loathsome to him; he was Cain.
'He may be the one, Jason. You said you only needed one; he could be it!'
'We'll see.' Bourne looked at his watch. The countdown to his departure had begun; he could not look back. 'We've got almost two hours. Where did you leave the attaché case?'
'At the Meurice, I'm registered there.'
'Let's pick it up and get some dinner. You haven't eaten, have you?'
'No...' Marie's expression was quizzical. 'Why not leave the case where it is? It's perfectly safe, we wouldn't have to worry about it.'
'We would if we had to get out of here in a hurry,' he said almost brusquely, going to the bureau. Everything was a question of degree now, traces of friction gradually slipping into speech, into looks, into touch. Nothing alarming, nothing based in false heroics; she would see through such tactics. Only enough so that later she would understand the truth when she read his words. 'It's over. I've found my arrows,..'
'What's the matter, darling?'
'Nothing.' The chameleon smiled. 'I'm just tired and probably a little discouraged.'
'Good heavens, why? A man wants to meet you confidentially late at night, a man who operates a switchboard. He could lead you somewhere! And you're convinced you've narrowed Carlos's contact down to this woman; she's bound to be able to tell you something – whether she wants to or not. In a macabre way, I'd think you'd be elated.'
'I'm not sure I can explain it,' said Jason, now looking at her reflection in the mirror. 'You'd have to understand what I found there."
'What you found?' A question.
'What I found.' A statement. 'It's a different world," continued Bourne, reaching for the bottle of Scotch and a glass, 'different people. It's soft and beautiful and frivolous, with lots of tiny spotlights and dark velvet. Nothing's taken seriously except gossip and indulgence. Any one of those giddy people – including that woman – could be a relay for Carlos and never know it, never even suspect it. A man like Carlos would use such people; anyone like him would, including me... That's what I found. It's discouraging.'
'And unreasonable. Whatever you believe, those people make very conscious decisions. That indulgence you talk of demands it; they think. And you know what I think? I think you are tired, and hungry, and need a drink or two. I wish you could put off tonight; you've been through enough for one day.'
'I can't do that,' he said sharply.
'All right, you can't,' she answered defensively.
'Sorry, I'm edgy.'
'Yes. I know.' She started for the bathroom. I'll freshen up and we can go... Pour yourself a stiff one, darling. Your teeth are showing."
'Marie?"
'Yes?'
Try to understand. What I found there upset me. I thought it would be different. Easier."
'While you were looking, I was waiting, Jason. Not knowing. That wasn't easy either.'
'I thought you were going to call Canada. Didn't you?.'
She held her place for a moment. 'No,' she said. 'It was too late.'
The bathroom door closed; Bourne walked to the desk across the room. He opened the drawer, took out stationery, picked up the ballpoint pen, and wrote the words.
It's over. I've found my arrows. Go back to Canada and say nothing for both our sakes. I know where to reach you,
He folded the stationery, inserted it into an envelope, holding the flap open as he reached for his wallet. He took out both the French and the Swiss notes, slipping them behind the folded paper, and sealed the envelope. He wrote on the front:
Marie.
He wanted so desperately to add:
My love, my dearest love.
He did not. He could not.
The bathroom door opened. He put the envelope in his jacket pocket. That was quick,' he said.
'Was it? I didn't think so. What are you doing?'
'I wanted a pen,' he answered, picking up the ballpoint. 'If that fellow has anything to tell me I want to be able to write it down.'
Marie was by the bureau; she glanced at the dry, empty glass. 'You didn't have your drink.'
'I didn't use the glass.'
'I see. Shall we go?'
They waited in the corridor for the rumbling lift, the silence between them awkward, in a real sense unbearable. He reached for her hand. At the touch she gripped his, staring at him, her eyes telling him that her control was being tested and she did not know why. Quiet signals had been sent and received, not loud enough or abrasive enough to be alarms, but they were there and she heard them. It was part of the countdown, rigid, irreversible, prelude to his departure.
Oh, God, I love you so. You are next to me and we are touching and I am dying. But you cannot die with me. You must not. I am Cain.
'We'll be fine,' he said.
The metal cage vibrated noisily into its recessed perch. Jason pulled the brass grille open, then suddenly swore under his breath.
'Oh, Christ, I forgot!'
'What?'
'My wallet. I left it in the bureau drawer this afternoon in case there was any trouble in Saint-Honoree. Wait for me in the lobby.' He gently swung her through the gate, pressing the button with his free hand. 'I'll be right down.' He closed the grille; the brass latticework cutting off the sight of her startled eyes. He turned away and walked rapidly back towards the room.
Inside, he took the envelope out of his pocket and placed it against the base of the lamp on the bedside table. He stared down at it, the ache unendurable.
'Good-bye, my love,' he whispered.
Bourne waited in the drizzle outside the Hotel Meurice on the rue de Rivoli, watching Marie through the glass doors of the entrance. She was at the front desk, having signed for the attaché case which had been handed to her over the counter. She was now obviously asking a mildly astonished clerk for her bill, about to pay for a room that had been occupied less than six hours. Two minutes passed before the bill was presented. Reluctantly; it was no way for a guest at the Meurice to behave. Indeed, all Paris shunned such inhibited visitors.
Marie walked out onto the pavement, joining him in the shadows and the mist-like drizzle to the left of the canopy. She gave him the attaché case, a forced smile on her lips, a slight breathless quality in her voice.
'That man didn't approve of me. I'm sure he's convinced I used the room for a series of quick tricks.'
'What did you tell him?' asked Bourne.
'That my plans had changed, that's all."
'Good, the less said the better. Your name's on the registration card. Think up a reason why you were there.'
'Think up?... I should think up a reason?' She studied his eyes, the smile gone.
'I mean we'll think up a reason. Naturally.'
'Naturally.'
'Let's go.' They started walking towards the corner, the traffic noisy in the street, the drizzle in the air fuller, the mist denser, the promise of heavy rain imminent. He took her arm – not to guide her, not even out of courtesy – only to touch her, to hold a part of her. There was so little time.
I am Cain. I am death,
'Can we slow down?' asked Marie sharply.
'What?' Jason realized he had been practically running; for a few seconds he had been in the labyrinth, racing through it, careening, feeling, and not feeling. He looked up ahead and found an answer. At the corner an empty cab had stopped by a garish news-stand, the driver shouting through an open window to the dealer. 'I want to catch that taxi,' said Bourne, without breaking stride. 'It's going to rain like hell.'
They reached the corner, both breathless as the empty cab pulled away, swinging left into rue de Rivoli. Jason looked up into the night sky, feeling the wet pounding on his face, unnerved. The rain had arrived. He looked at Marie in the gaudy lights of the news-stand; she was wincing in the sudden downpour. No. She was not wincing; she was staring at something... staring in disbelief, in shock. In horror. Without warning, she screamed, her face contorted, the fingers of her right hand pressed against her mouth. Bourne grabbed her, pulling her head into the damp cloth of his overcoat; she would not stop screaming.
He turned, trying to find the cause of her hysterics. Then he saw it, and in that unbelievable split half-second he knew the countdown was aborted. He had committed the final crime; he could not leave her. Not now, not yet.
On the first ledge of the news-stand was an early morning tabloid, black headlines electrifying under the circles of light:
Slayer in Paris
Woman Sought in Zurich Killings
Suspect in Rumoured Theft of Millions
Under the screaming words was a photograph of Marie St Jacques.
'Stop it!' whispered Jason, using his body to cover her face from the curious newsdealer, reaching into his pocket for coins. He threw the money on the counter, grabbed two papers, and propelled her down the dark, rain-soaked street
They were both in the labyrinth now.
Bourne opened the door, and led Marie inside. She stood motionless, looking at him, her face pale and frightened, her breathing erratic, an audible mixture of fear and anger. 'I'll get you a drink,' said Jason, going to the bureau. As he poured, his eyes strayed to the minor and he had an overpowering urge to smash the glass, so despicable was his own image to him. What the hell had he done! Oh God!
I am Coin. I am death.
He heard her gasp and span around, too late to stop her, too far away to lunge and tear the awful thing from her hand. Oh, Christ, he had forgotten! She had found the envelope on the bedside table, and was reading his note. Her single scream was a searing, terrible cry of pain.
'Jasonunn!...'
'Please! No!' He raced from the bureau and grabbed her. 'It doesn't matter! It doesn't count any more!' He shouted helplessly, seeing the tears welling in her eyes, streaking down her face. 'Listen to me! That was before, not now.'
'You were leaving! My God, -you were leaving me!' Her eyes went blank, two blind circles of panic. 'I knew it! I felt it!'
'I made you feel it!' he said, forcing her to look at him. 'But it's over now. I won't leave you. Listen to me. I won't leave you!'
She screamed again. 'I couldn't breathe!... It was so cold!'
He pulled her to him, enveloping her. 'We have to begin again. Try to understand. It's different now – and I can't change what was – but I won't leave you. Not like this.'
She pushed her hands against his chest, her tear-stained face angled back, begging, 'Why, Jason? Why?'
'Later. Not now. Don't say anything for a while. lust hold me; let me hold you.'
The minutes passed, hysteria ran its course and the outlines of reality came back into focus. Bourne led her to the chair; she caught the sleeve of her dress on the frayed lace. They both smiled as he knelt beside her, holding her hand in silence.
'How about that drink?' he said finally.
'I think so,' she replied, briefly tightening her grip on his hand as he got up from the floor. 'You poured it quite a while ago.'
'It won't go flat.' He went to the bureau and returned with two glasses half filled with whisky. She took hers. 'Feeling better?' he asked.
'Calmer. Still confused... frightened, of course. Maybe
angry, too, I'm not sure. I'm too afraid to think about that.' She drank, closing her eyes, her head pressed back against the chair. 'Why did you do it, Jason?'
'Because I thought I had to. That's the simple answer.'
'And no answer at all. I deserve more than that.'
'Yes, you do, and I'll give it to you. I have to now because you have to hear it; you have to understand. You have to protect yourself.'
'Protect...?'
He held up his hand, interrupting her. 'It'll come later. All of it, if you like. But the first thing we have to do is know what happened – not to me, but to you. That's where we have to begin. Can you do it?'
'The newspaper?'
'Yes.'
'God knows, I'm interested,' she said, smiling weakly.
'Here.' Jason went to the bed where he had dropped the two papers. 'We'll both read it.'
'No games?"
'No games.'
They read the long article in silence, an article that told of death and intrigue in Zurich. Every now and then Marie gasped, shocked at what she was reading; at other times she shook her head in disbelief. Bourne said nothing. He saw the hand of Ilyich Ramirez Sanchez. Carlos will follow Cain to the ends of the earth. Carlos will kill him. Marie St Jacques was expendable, a baited decoy that would die in the trap that caught Cain.
I am Cain. I am death.
The article was, in fact, two articles – an odd mixture of fact and conjecture, speculations taking over where evidence came to an end. The first part indicted a Canadian government employee, a female economist, Marie St Jacques. She was placed at the scene of three murders, her fingerprints confirmed by the Canadian government. In addition, police found a hotel key from the Carillon du Lac, apparently lost during the violence on the Guisan Quai. It was the key to Marie St Jacques' room, given to her by the hotel clerk who remembered her well – remembered what appeared to him to be a guest in a highly disturbed state of anxiety. The final piece of evidence was a handgun discovered not far from the Steppdeckstrasse, in an alley close by the scene of two other killings. Ballistics held it to be the murder weapon, and again there were fingerprints, again confirmed by the Canadian government. They belonged to the woman, Marie St Jacques.
It was at this point that the article veered from fact. It spoke of rumours along the Bahnhofstrasse that a multi-million-dollar theft had taken place by means of a computer manipulation dealing with a numbered, confidential account belonging to an American corporation called Treadstone Seventy-one. The bank was also named; it was of course the Gemeinschaft But everything else was clouded, obscure, more speculation than fact.
According to 'unnamed sources', an American male holding the proper codes transferred millions to a bank in Paris, assigning the new account to specific individuals who were to assume rights of possession. The assignees were waiting in Paris and, upon clearance, withdrew the millions and disappeared. The success of the operation was traced to the American's obtaining the accurate codes to the Gemeinschaft account, a feat made possible by penetrating the bank's numerical sequence related to year, month and day of entry, standard procedure for confidential holdings. Such an analysis could only be made through the use of sophisticated computer techniques and a thorough knowledge of Swiss banking practices. When questioned, an officer of the bank, Herr Walther Apfel, acknowledged that there was an on-going investigation into matters pertaining to the American company, but pursuant to Swiss law, 'the bank would make no further comment. To anyone.'
Here the connection with Marie St. Jacques was clarified. She was described as a government economist extensively schooled in international banking procedures, as well as a skilled computer programmer. She was suspected of being an accomplice, her expertise necessary to the massive theft. And there was a male suspect; she was reported to have been seen in his company at the Carillon du Lac.
Marie finished the article first and let the paper drop to the floor. At the sound, Bourne looked over from the edge of the bed. She was staring at the wall, a strange pensive serenity having come over her. It was the last reaction he expected. He finished reading quickly, feeling depressed and hopeless – for a moment, speechless. Then he found his voice and spoke.
'Lies,' he said, 'and they were made because of me, because of who and what I am. Smoke you out, they find me. I'm sorry, sorrier than I can ever tell you.'
Marie shifted her eyes from the wall and looked at him. 'It goes much deeper than lies, Jason,' she said. "There's too much truth for lies alone.'
'Truth? The only truth is that you were in Zurich! You never touched a gun, you were never in an alley near the Steppdeckstrasse, you didn't lose a hotel key, and you never went near the Gemeinschaft.'
'Agreed, but that's not the truth I'm talking about.'
Then what is?'
'The Gemeinschaft, Treadstone Seventy-one, Apfel. Those are true and the fact that any of them were mentioned – especially Apfel's acknowledgment – is incredible. Swiss bankers are cautious men. They don't defy the law, not this way; the sentences are too severe. The statutes pertaining to banking confidentiality are among the most sacrosanct in Switzerland. Apfel could go to prison for years for saying what he did, for even alluding to such an account, much less confirming it by name. Unless he was ordered to say what he did by an authority powerful enough to contravene the laws.' She stopped, her eyes straying to the wall again. 'Why? Why was the Gemeinschaft or Treadstone or Apfel ever made part of the story?'
'I told you. They want me and they know we're together. Carlos knows we're together. Find you, he finds me.'
'No, Jason, it goes beyond Carlos. You really don't understand the laws in Switzerland. Not even a Carlos could cause them to be flouted this way.' She looked at him, but her eyes did not see him; she was peering through her own mists. This isn't one story, it's two. Both are constructed out of lies, the first connected to the second by tenuous speculation – public speculation – on a banking crisis that would never be made public, unless and until a thorough and private investigation proved the facts. And that second story – the patently false statement that millions were stolen from the Gemeinschaft was tacked on to the equally false story that I'm wanted for killing three men in Zurich. It was added. Deliberately.' 'Explain that, please.'
'It's there, Jason. Believe me when I tell you that; it's right in front of us.' 'What is?' 'Someone's trying to send us a message.'
The heavy army car sped south on Manhattan's East River Drive, headlights illuminating the swirling remnants of a March snowfall. The major in the back seat dozed, his long body angled into the corner, his legs stretched out diagonally across the floor. In his lap was a briefcase, a thin nylon cord attached to the handle by a metal clamp, the cord itself strung through his right sleeve and down his inner tunic to his belt. The security device had been removed only twice in the past nine hours. Once during the major's departure from Zurich, and again with his arrival at Kennedy Airport. In both places, however, U. S. government personnel had been watching the customs clerks more precisely, watching the briefcase. They were not told why; they were simply ordered to observe the inspections, and at the slightest deviation from normal procedures – which meant any undue interest in the briefcase – they were to intervene. With weapons, if necessary.
There was a sudden, quiet ringing; the major snapped his eyes open and brought his left hand up in front of his face. The sound was a wrist alarm; he pressed the button on his watch and squinted at the second radium dial of his two-zoned instrument. The first was on Zurich time; the second, New York; the alarm had been set twenty-four hours ago, when the officer had received his cabled orders. The transmission would come within the next three minutes. That is, thought the major, it would come if Iron Ass was as precise as he expected his subordinates to be. The officer stretched, awkwardly balancing the briefcase, and leaned forward, speaking to the driver.
'Sergeant, turn on your scrambler to fourteen-thirty megahertz, will you please?'
'Yes, sir.' The sergeant flipped two switches on the radio panel beneath the dashboard, then twisted the dial to the 1430 frequency. "There it is, Major.'
Thanks. Will the microphone reach back here?'
'I don't know. Never tried it, sir.' The driver pulled the small plastic microphone from its cradle and stretched the spiral cord over the seat. 'Guess it does,' he concluded.
Static erupted from the speaker, the scrambling transmitter electronically scanning and jamming the frequency. The message would follow in seconds. It did.
Treadstone? Treadstone, confirm, please.'
Treadstone receiving,' said Major Gordon Webb. 'You're clear. Go ahead.'
'What's your position?'
'About a mile south of the Triboro, East River Drive,' said the major.
'Your timing is acceptable,' came the voice from the speaker. 'Glad to hear-it. It makes my day... sir.' There was a brief pause, the major's comment not appreciated. 'Proceed to one-four-zero, Seven-one East. Confirm by repeat.'
'One-four-zero, East Seventy-first.' 'Keep your vehicle out of the area. Approach on foot.' 'Understood.' 'Out.'
'Out.' Webb snapped the transmission button in place and handed the microphone back to the driver. 'Forget that address, Sergeant. Your name's on a very short file now.'
'Gotcha, Major. Nothing but static on that thing anyway. But since I don't know where it is and these wheels aren't supposed to go there, where do you want to be dropped off?"
Webb smiled. 'No more than two blocks away. I'd go to sleep in the gutter if I had to walk any further than that.' 'How about Lex and Seventy-second?' 'Is that two blocks?' 'No more than three.' 'If it's three you're a private.'
Then I couldn't pick you up later, Major. Privates aren't cleared for this duty.'
'Whatever you say, Captain.' Webb closed his eyes. After two years, he was about to see Treadstone Seventy-one for himself. He knew he should feel a sense of anticipation; he did not. He felt only a sense of weariness, of futility. What had happened?
The incessant hum of the tyres on the tarmac below was hypnotic, but the rhythm was broken by sharp intrusions where concrete and wheels were not compatible. The sounds evoked memories of long ago, of screeching jungle noises woven into a single tone. And then the night – that night – when blinding lights and staccato explosions were all around him, telling him he was about to die. But he did not die; a miracle wrought by a man had given his life back to him... and the years went on, that night, those days never to be forgotten. What the hell had happened?
'Here we are, Major.'
Webb opened his eyes, his hand wiping the sweat that had formed on his forehead. He looked at his watch, gripped his briefcase and reached for the handle of the door.
I'll be here between twenty-three-hundred and twenty-three-thirty hours. Sergeant. If you can't park, just cruise around and I'll find you."
'Yes, sir.' The driver turned in his seat. 'Could the major tell me if we're going to be driving any distance later?'
'Why? Have you got another fare?'
'Come on, sir. I'm assigned to you until you say otherwise, you know that. But these heavy-plated trucks use gas like the old-time Shermans. If we're going far I'd better fill it."
'Sorry.' The major paused. 'Okay. You'll have to find out where it is, anyway, because I don't know. We're going to a private airfield in Madison, New Jersey. I have to be there no later than one-hundred hours.'
'I've got a vague idea,' said the driver. 'At twenty-three-thirty, you're cutting it pretty close, sir.'
'Twenty-three-hundred, then. And thanks.' Webb got out of the car, closed the door, and waited until the brown vehicle entered the flow of traffic on Seventy-second Street He stepped off the kerb and headed south to Seventy-first.
Four minutes later he stood in front of a well-kept brownstone house, its muted, rich design in concert with those around it in the tree-lined street. It was a quiet street, a monied street -old money. It was the last place in Manhattan a person would suspect of housing one of the most sensitive intelligence operations in the country. And as of twenty minutes ago, Major Gordon Webb was one of only eight or ten people in the country who knew of its existence.
Treadstone Seventy-one.
He climbed the steps, aware that the pressure of his weight on the iron grids embedded in the stone beneath him triggered electronic devices that in turn activated cameras, producing his image on screens inside. Beyond this, he knew little, except that Treadstone Seventy-one never closed; it was operated and monitored twenty-four hours a day by a select few, identities unknown.
He reached the top step and rang the bell, an ordinary bell, but not for an ordinary door, the major could see that. The heavy wood was riveted to a steel plate behind it, the decorative iron designs in actuality the rivets, the large brass knob disguising a hot-plate that caused a series of steel bolts to shoot across into steel receptacles at the touch of a human hand when the alarms were on. Webb glanced up at the windows. Each pane of glass, he knew, was an inch thick, capable of withstanding the impact of.30 calibre shells. Treadstone Seventy-one was a fortress.
The door opened and the major involuntarily smiled at the figure standing there, so totally out of place did she seem. She was a petite, elegant-looking, grey-haired woman with soft aristocratic features and a bearing that bespoke monied gentility. Her voice confirmed the appraisal; it was mid-Atlantic, refined in the better finishing schools and at innumerable polo matches.
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