Diplomats said to be linked with fugitive terrorist known as Carlos 27 страница

'Above all,' ran on Jason as if he had not heard her, 'not to contact the police, which under the circumstances would be the most logical thing in the world to do. In some ways, the only thing to do.'

'Yes, naturally..'

'Not naturally,' contradicted Bourne. 'Look, I'm just a relay, probably not much higher than you. I'm not here to convince you, I'm here to deliver a message. We ran a test on Dolbert; we fed her false information.'

'Janine?...' Monique Brielle's perplexity was compounded by mounting confusion, 'The things she said were incredible I As incredible as Claude's hysterical screaming – the things he said. But what she said was the opposite of what he said.'

'We know, it was done intentionally. She's been talking to Azur.'

'The House of Azur?'

'Check her out tomorrow. Confront her,"

'About what?'

'Just do it. It could be tied in.'

'With what?'

The trap. Azur could be working with Interpol.'

'Interpol? Traps? This is the same craziness! Nobody knows what you're talking about!'

'Lavier knows. Get in touch with her right away.' They approached the end of the block; Jason touched her arm. 'I'll leave you here at the corner. Go back to your hotel and call Jacqueline. Tell her it's far more serious than we thought. Everything's falling apart Worst of all, someone has turned. Not Dolbert, not one of the sales people but someone more highly placed. Someone who knows everything.'

"Turned? What does that mean?'

There's a traitor in Les Classiques. Tell her to be careful. Of everyone. If she isn't, it could be the end for all of us.' Bourne released her arm, then stepped off the kerb and crossed the street On the other side, he spotted a recessed doorway and quickly stepped inside.

He inched his face to the edge, and peered out, looking back at the corner. Monique Brielle was halfway down the block, rushing towards the entrance of the small hotel. The first panic of the second shock wave had begun. It was time to call Marie.

'I'm worried, Jason. It's tearing him apart He nearly broke down on the phone. What happens when he looks at her? What must he be feeling, thinking?'

'He'll handle it,' said Bourne, watching the traffic on the Champs Sly sees from inside the glass telephone box, wishing he felt more confident about Andrel Villiers. 'If he doesn't, I've killed him. I don't want it on my bead, but that's what I'll have done. I should have shut my goddamn mouth and taken her myself.'

'You couldn't have done that. You saw d'Anjou on the steps; you couldn't have gone inside.'

'I could have thought of something. As we've agreed, I'm resourceful – more than I like to think about'

'But you are doing something! You're creating panic, forcing those who carry out Carlos's orders to show themselves. Someone's got to stop the panic, and even you said you didn't think Jacqueline Lavier was high enough. Jason, you'll see someone and you'll know. You'll get him I You will!'

'I hope so; Christ, I hope so! I know exactly what I'm doing, but every now and then...' Bourne stopped. He hated saying it, but he had to – he had to say it to her. "I get confused. It's as if I'm split down the goddamn middle, one part of me saying "Save yourself", the other part... God help me... telling me to "Get Carlos".'

'It's what you've been doing from the beginning, isn't it?' said Marie softly.

'I don't care about Carlos!' shouted Jason, wiping away the sweat that had broken out on his hairline, aware, too, that he was cold. 'It's driving me crazy,' he added, not sure whether he had said the words out loud or to himself. 'Darling, come back.'

'What?' Bourne looked at the telephone, again not sure whether he had heard spoken words, or whether he had wanted to hear them, and so they were there. It was happening again. Things were and they were not. The sky was dark outside, out-side a telephone box on the Champs Sly sees. It had once been bright, so bright, so blinding. And hot, not cold. With screeching birds and screaming streaks of metal... 'Jason!' 'What?'

'Come back. Darling, please come back.' 'Why?'

'You're tired. You need rest.'

'I have to reach Trignon. Pierre Trignon. He's the bookkeeper.'

'Do it tomorrow. It can wait until tomorrow." 'No. Tomorrow's for the captains.' What was he saying? Captains. Troops. Figures colliding in panic. But it was the way, the only way. The chameleon was a... provocateur.

'Listen to me,' said Marie, her voice insistent. 'Something's happening to you. It's happened before; we both know that, my darling. And when it does, you have got to stop, we know that, too. Come back to the hotel. Please.'

Bourne closed his eyes, the sweat was drying and the sounds of the traffic outside the box replaced the screeching in his ears. He could see the stars in the cold night sky, no more blinding sunlight, no more unbearable heat. It had passed, whatever it was. 'I'm all right. Really, I'm okay now. A couple of bad moments, that's all.'

'Jason?' Marie spoke slowly, forcing him to listen. 'What caused them?'

'I don't know,'

'You just saw the Brielle woman. Did she say something to you? Something that made you think of something else?'

'I'm not sure. I was too busy figuring out what to say myself.'

' darling!'

Bourne closed his eyes, trying to remember. Had there been something? Something spoken casually or so rapidly that it was lost at the moment 'She called me a provocateur' said Jason, not understanding why the word came back to him. 'But then, that's what I am, aren't I? That's what I'm doing.'

'Yes,' agreed Marie.

'I've got to get going,' continued Bourne. 'Trignon's place is only a couple of blocks from here. I want to reach him before ten.'

'Be careful.' Marie spoke as if her thoughts were elsewhere.

'I will. I love you.'

'I believe in you, said Marie St Jacques.

The street was quiet, the block, that odd mixture of shops and flats indigenous to the centre of Paris, bustling with activity during the day, deserted at night.

Jason reached the small apartment house listed in the telephone directory as Pierre Trignon's residence. He climbed the steps and walked into the neat, dimly lit foyer. A row of brass letterboxes was on the right, each one above a small spoked circle through which a caller raised his voice loud enough to identify himself. Jason ran his finger along the printed names below the slots. M. Pierre Trignon. App. 42. He pushed the tiny black button twice; ten seconds later there was a crackling of static.

'Oui?'

'Monsieur Trignon, s'il vous plait?'

'Id.'

'Telegramme, monsieur. Je ne laisse pas ma bicyclette.'

'Telegramme? Pour minit?'

Pierre Trignon was not a man who often received telegrams; it was in his astonished tone. The rest of his words were barely distinguishable, but a female voice in the background registered shock, equating a telegram with all manner of horrendous disasters.

Bourne waited outside the frosted glass door that led to the apartment house interior. In seconds he heard the rapid clatter of footsteps growing louder as someone – obviously Ninon came rushing down the staircase. The door swung open, concealing Jason, a balding, heavyset man, unnecessary braces creasing the flesh beneath a bulging white shirt, walked to the row of letterboxes, stopping at number 42.

'Monsieur Trignon?'

The heavy-set man spun round, his cherubic face set in an expression of helplessness. 'A telegram! I have a telegram,' he cried. 'Did you bring me a telegram?

'I apologize for the ruse, Trignon, but it was for your own benefit I didn't think you wanted to be questioned in front of your wife and family.'

'Questioned?' exclaimed the bookkeeper, his thick, protruding lips curled, his eyes frightened. 'Me? What about? What is this? Why are you here at my home? I'm a law-abiding citizen!'

'You work in Saint-Honoree"? For a firm called Les Classiques?'

'I do. Who are you?'

'If you prefer, we can go down to my office,' said Bourne.

'Who are you?'

'I'm a special investigator for the Bureau of Taxation and Records, Division of Fraud and Conspiracy. Come along, my official car is outside.'

'Outside? Come along?... I have no jacket, no coat, my wife. She's upstairs expecting me to bring back a telegram. A telegram!'

'You can send her one, if you like. Come along now. I've been at this all day and I want to get it over with.'

'Please, Monsieur,' protested Trignon. 'I do not insist on going anywhere! You said you had questions. Ask your questions and let me go back upstairs. I have no wish to go to your office.'

'It might take a few minutes,' said Jason.

I'll ring through to my wife and tell her it's a mistake. The telegram's for old Gravel; he lives here on the first floor and can barely read. She will understand.'

Madame Trignon did not understand, but her shrill objections were stilled by a shriller Monsieur Trignon. There, you see,' said the bookkeeper, coming away from the letterbox, the strings of hair on his bald scalp matted with sweat. There's no reason to go anywhere. What's a few minutes of a man's life? The television shows will be repeated in a month or two... Now, what in God's name is this, Monsieur? My books are immaculate, totally 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. Frankly, it will not be permitted.'

'Surely you're joking, Monsieur!'

'Surely I'm not.'

'I have no reason to leave Paris – nor the money to do so -but to say such a thing to me is unbelievable. What have I done?'

The Bureau will sequester your books in the morning. Be prepared.'

'Sequester... For what cause? Prepared for what?'

'Payments to so-called suppliers whose invoices are fraudulent. The merchandise was never received – was never meant to be received – the payments, instead, routed to a bank in Zurich.'

'Zurich? I don't know what you're talking about! I've prepared no cheques for Zurich.'

'Not directly, we know that. But how easy it was for you to prepare them for nonexistent firms, the monies paid, then wired to Zurich."

'Every invoice is initialled by Madame Lavier! I pay nothing on my own! '

Jason paused, frowning. 'Now it's you who are joking,' he said.

'On my word! It's the house policy. Ask anyone! Les Classiques does not pay a sou unless authorized by Madame.'

'What you're saying, then, is that you take your orders directly from her.'

'But naturally!'

'Whom does she take orders from?'

Trignon grinned. 'It is said from God, when not the other way round. Of course, that's a joke, Monsieur.'

'I trust you can be more serious. Who are the specific owners of Les Classiques?"

'It is a partnership, Monsieur. Madame Lavier has many wealthy friends; they have invested in her abilities. And, of course, the talents of Rend Bergeron.'

'Do these investors meet frequently? Do they suggest policy? Perhaps advocate firms with which to do business?'

'I wouldn't know. Monsieur. Naturally, everyone has friends."

'We may have concentrated on the wrong people," interrupted Bourne. 'It's quite possible that you and Madame Lavier – as the two directly involved with day-to-day finances -are being used."

'Used for what?"

'To funnel money into Zurich. To the account of one of the most vicious killers in Europe."

Trignon convulsed, his large stomach quivering as he fell back against the wall. 'In the name of God, what are you saying!'

'Prepare yourselves. Especially you. You prepared the cheques, no one else."

'Only upon approval! '

'Did you ever check the merchandise against the invoices?"

'It's not my job!'

'So, in essence you issued payments for supplies you never saw.'

'I never see anything! Only invoices that have been initialled. I pay only on those!'

'You'd better find every one. You and Madame Lavier had better start digging up every authorization in your files. Because the two of you – especially you – will face the charges."

'Charges? What charges?"

For lack of a specific writ, let's call it accessory to multiple homicide."

'Multiple...?'

'Assassination. The account in Zurich belongs to the assassin known as Carlos. You. Pierre Trignon, and your current employer, Madame Jacqueline Lavier, are directly implicated in financing the most sought-after killer in Europe. Ilyich Ramirez Sanchez. Alias Carlos.'

'Aughhhh!..." Trignon slid down to the foyer floor, his eyes in shock, his puffed features twisted out of shape. 'All afternoon..." be whispered. 'People running around, hysterical meetings in the aisles, looking at me strangely, passing my cubicle and turning their heads. Oh, my God.'

'If I were you, I wouldn't waste a moment. Morning will be here soon, and with it possibly the most difficult day of your life." Jason walked to the outside door and stopped, his hand on the knob. 'It's not my place to advise you, but, if I were you, I'd reach Madame Lavier at once. Start preparing your joint defence, it may be all you have. A public execution is not out of the question.'

The chameleon opened the door and stepped outside, the cold night air whipping across his face.

Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain.

False!

Find a number in New York. Find Treadstone. Find the meaning of a message. Find the sender.

Find Jason Bourne.

Sunlight burst through the stained-glass windows as the cleanshaven old man in the dated suit rushed down the aisle of the church in Neuilly-sur-Seine. The tall priest standing by the rack of novena candles watched him, struck by a feeling of familiarity. For a moment the cleric thought he had seen the man before, but could not place him. There had been a dishevelled beggar yesterday, about the same size, the same... No, this old man's shoes were shiny, his white hair combed neatly, and the clothes, although from another decade, were of good quality.

'Angelus Domini," said the old man as he parted the curtains of the confessional booth.

'Enough!' whispered the silhouetted figure behind the scrim. 'What have you learned in Saint-Honoree?"

'Little of substance, but respect for his methods.'

'Is there a pattern?"

'Random, it would appear. He selects people who know absolutely nothing and instigates chaos through them. I would suggest no further activity at Les Classiques.'

'Naturally,' agreed the silhouette. 'But what's his purpose?'

'Beyond the chaos?' asked the old man. 'I'd say it was to spread distrust among those who do know something. The Brielle woman used the words. She said the American told her to tell Lavier there was "a traitor" inside, a patently false statement. Which of them would dare? Last night was insane, as you know. The bookkeeper, Trignon, went crazy. Waiting until two in the morning outside Lavier's house, literally assaulting her when she returned from Brielle's hotel, screaming and crying in the street.'

'Lavier herself did not behave much better. She was barely in control when she called Pare Monceau; she was told not to call again. No one is to call there... ever again. Ever.'

'We received the word. The few of us who know the number have forgotten it."

'Be sure you have.' The silhouette moved suddenly; there was a ripple in the curtain. 'Of course to spread distrust! It follows chaos. There's no question about it now. He'll pick up the contacts, try to force information from them and, when one fails, throw him to the Americans and go on to the next. But he'll make the approaches alone; it's part of his ego. He is a madman. And obsessed.'

'He may be both,' countered the old man, 'but he's also a professional. He'll make sure the names are delivered to his superiors in the event he does fail. So regardless of whether you take him or not, they will be taken.'

They will be dead,' said the assassin. 'But not Bergeron. He's far too valuable. Tell him to head for Athens, he'll know where."

'Am I to assume I'm taking the place of Pare Monceau?'

'That would be impossible. But for the time being you will relay my decisions to whomever they concern.'

'And the first person I reach is Bergeron. To Athens.'

'Yes.'

'So Lavier and the colonial, d'Anjou, are marked, then?'

'They are marked. Bait rarely survives, and they will not. You may also relay another message, to the two teams covering Lavier and d'Anjou. Tell them I'll be watching them – all the time. There can be no mistakes.'

It was the old man's turn to pause, to bid silently for attention. 'I've saved the best for last, Carlos. The Renault was found an hour and a half ago in a garage in Montmartre. It was brought in last night.'

In the stillness the old man could hear the slow, deliberate breathing of the figure beyond the cloth. 'I assume you've taken measures to have it watched – even now at this moment – and followed – even now at this moment'

The one-time beggar laughed softly. 'In accordance with your last instructions, I took the liberty of hiring a friend, a friend with a sound car. He in turn has employed three acquaintances, and together they are on four six-hour shifts on the street outside the garage. They know nothing, of course, except that they are to follow the Renault at any hour of day or night.'

'You do not disappoint me.'

'I can't afford to... And since Pare Monceau was eliminated, I had no telephone number to give them but my own, which as you know, is a run-down cafe in the Quarter. The owner and I were friends in the old days, the better days. I could contact him every five minutes for messages and he would never object. I know where he got the money to pay for his business, and who he had to kill to get it.'

'You've behaved well, you have value.'

'I also have a problem, Carlos. As none of us are to call Pare Monceau, how can I reach you? In the event I must say, for instance, the Renault'

'Yes, I'm aware of the problem. Are you aware of the burden you ask for?'

'I would much prefer not to have it My only hope is that when this is over and Cain is dead you will remember my contributions and, rather than killing me, change the number.'

'You do anticipate.'

"In the old days, it was my means of survival.'

The assassin whispered seven figures. 'You are the only man alive who has this number. Naturally, it is untraceable.'

'Naturally. Who would expect an old beggar to have it?'

'Every hour brings you closer to a better standard of living. The net is closing; every hour brings him nearer to one of several traps. Cain will be caught, and an impostor's body will be thrown back to the bewildered strategists who created him. They counted on a monstrous ego and he gave it to them. At the end, he was only a puppet, an expendable puppet. Everyone knew it but him.'

Bourne picked up the telephone. 'Yes?'

'Room Four-twenty?'

'Go ahead. General.'

'The telephone calls have stopped. She's no longer being contacted, not at least by telephone.'

'What do you mean?'

'Our couple was out and the phone rang twice. Both times she asked me to answer it. She really wasn't up to talking.'

'Who called?'

'The chemist about a prescription and a journalist requesting an interview. She couldn't have known either.'

'Did you get the impression she was trying to put you off by asking you to take the calls?'

Villiers paused, his reply laced with anger. 'It was there, the effect less than subtle in so far as she mentioned she might be having lunch out She said she had a reservation at the Georges Cinq, and I could reach her there if she decides to go.'

'If she does, I want to get there first.'

'I'll let you know.'

'You said she's not being contacted by phone. "Not at least by telephone," I think you said. Did you mean something by that?'

'Yes. Thirty minutes ago a woman came to the house. My wife was reluctant to see her but, nevertheless, did so. I only saw her face for a moment in the parlour, but it was enough. The woman was in panic.'

'Describe her.'

Villiers did.

'Jacqueline Lavier,' said Jason.

'I thought it might be. From the look of her, the wolfpack was eminently successful; it was obvious she had not slept. Before taking her into the library, my wife told me she was an old friend in a marriage crisis. A fatuous lie; at her age there are no crises left in marriage, only acceptance and extraction."

'I can't understand her going to your house. It's too much of a risk. It doesn't make sense... Unless she did it on her own, knowing that no further calls were to be made.'

These things occurred to me,' said the soldier. 'So I felt the need of a little air, a stroll around the block. My aide accompanied me – a doddering old man taking his limited constitutional under the watchful eye of an escort. But my eyes, too, were watchful. Lavier was followed. Two men were seated in a car four houses away, the vehicle equipped with a radio. Those men did not belong to the street. It was in their faces, in the way they watched my house.'

'How do you know she didn't come with them?"

'We live on a quiet street. When Lavier arrived, I was in the sitting-room having coffee and heard her running up the steps. I went to the window in time to see a taxi drive away. She came in a taxi; she was followed.'

'When did she leave?'

'She hasn't. And the men are still outside.'

'What kind of car are they in?'

'Citroen. Grey. The first three letters of the licence plate are

N.Y.R.'

'Birds in the air, following a contact. Where do the birds come from?'

'I beg your pardon. What did you say?'

Jason shook his head. 'I'm not sure. Never mind... I'm going to try to get to your house before Lavier leaves. Do what you can to help me. Interrupt your wife, say you have to speak to her for a few minutes. Insist her "old friend" stay; say anything, just make sure she doesn't leave.'

'I will do my best.'

Bourne hung up and looked at Marie, standing by the window across the room. 'It's working. They're starting to distrust each other. Lavier went to Pare Monceau and she was followed. They're beginning to suspect their own.'

'Birds in the air,"' said Marie. 'What did you mean?'

'I don't know; it's not important. There isn't time."

'I think it is important, Jason.'

'Not now.' Bourne walked to the chair where he had dropped his overcoat and hat. He put them on quickly and went to the bureau, opened the drawer and took out the gun. He looked at it for a moment, remembering. The images were there, the past that was his whole yet not his whole at all. Zurich. The Bahn-hofstrasse and the Carillon du Lac; the Drei Alpenhauser and the Lowenstrasse; a filthy boarding house on Steppdeckstrasse and the Guisan Quai. The gun symbolized them all, for it had once nearly taken his life in Zurich.

But this was Paris. And everything started in Zurich was in motion.

Find Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain.

False! Goddamn you, false!

Find Treadstone! Find a message! Find a man!

Jason remained in the far corner of the back seat as the taxi entered Villiers's block in Pare Monceau. He scanned the cars lining the kerb; there was no grey Citroen, no licence plate with the letters NYR.

But there was Villiers. The old soldier was standing alone on the pavement, four doors away from his house.

Two men... in a car four houses away.

Villiers was standing now where that car had stood; it was a signal.

'Arretez, s'il vous plait' said Bourne to the driver. 'Le vieux Horace. Je demande a lui.' He rolled down the window and leaned forward. 'Monsieur?'

'In English,' replied Villiers, walking towards the taxi, an old man summoned by a stranger.

'What happened?' asked Jason.

'I could not detain them.'

Them?'

'My wife left with the Lavier woman. I was adamant, however. I told her to expect my call at the Georges Cinq. It was a matter of the utmost importance and I required her council.'

'What did she say?'

That she wasn't sure she'd be at the Georges Cinq. That her friend insisted on seeing a priest in Neuilly-sur-Seine, at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. She said she felt obliged to accompany her.'

'Did you object?'

'Strenuously. And for the first time in our life together, she stated the thoughts in my own mind. She said, "If it's your desire to check up on me, Andrel, why not call the parish? I'm sure someone might recognize me and bring me to a telephone." Was she testing me?'

Bourne tried to think. 'Perhaps. Someone would see her there, she'd make sure of it. But bringing her to a phone might be something else again. When did they leave?'

'Less than five minutes ago. The two men in the Citroen followed them.'

'Were they in your car?'

'No. My wife called a taxi.

'I'm going out there,' said Jason.

'I thought you might,' said Villiers. 'I looked up the address of the church.'

Bourne dropped a fifty-franc note over the back of the front seat. The driver grabbed it. 'It's important to me to reach Neuilly-sur-Seine as fast as possible,' said Jason, 'to the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. Do you know where it is?'

'But of course, Monsieur. It is the most beautiful church in the district.'

'Get there quickly and there'll be another fifty francs.'

'We shall fly on the wings of blessed angels, Monsieur!'

They flew, the flight plan jeopardizing most of the traffic in their path.

There are the spires of the Blessed Sacrament, Monsieur,' said the victorious driver twelve minutes later, pointing at three soaring towers of stone through the windscreen. 'Another minute, perhaps two if the idiots who should be taken off the streets will permit...'

'Slow down,' interrupted Bourne, his attention not on the spires of the church but on a car several vehicles ahead. They had taken a corner and he had seen it during the turn; it was a grey Citroen, two men in the front seat.

They came to a traffic light; the cars stopped. Jason dropped a second fifty-franc note over the seat and opened the door. 'I'll be right back. If the light changes, drive forward slowly and I'll jump in.'

Bourne got out, keeping his body low, and rushed between the cars until he saw the letters. NYR; the numbers following 768, but for the moment they were inconsequential. The taxi driver had earned his money.

The light changed and the row of vehicles lurched forward like an elongated insect pulling its shelled parts together. The taxi drew alongside; Jason opened the door and climbed in. 'You do good work,' he said to the driver.

'I'm not sure I know the work I am doing.'

'An affair of the heart One must catch the betrayer in the act.'

'In church, Monsieur? The world moves too swiftly for me.'

'Not in traffic,' said Bourne. They approached the final corner before the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. The Citroen made the turn, a single car between it and a taxi, the passengers indistinguishable. Something bothered Jason. The surveillance on the part of the two men was too open, far too obvious. It was as if Carlos's soldiers wanted someone in that taxi to know they were there.

Of course! Madame Villiers was in that cab. With Jacque-line Lavier. And the two men in the Citroen wanted Villiers's wife to know they were behind her.

There is the Blessed Sacrament,' said the driver, entering the street where the church rose in minor medieval splendour in the centre of a manicured lawn criss-crossed by stone paths and dotted with statuary. 'What shall I do, Monsieur?'

'Pull into that space,' ordered Jason, gesturing at a break in the line of parked cars. The taxi with Villiers's wife and the Lavier woman stopped in front of a path guarded by a concrete saint. Villiers's stunning wife got out first, extending her hand for Jacqueline Lavier, who emerged ashen on the pavement. She wore large, orange-rimmed sunglasses and carried a white bag, but she was no longer elegant. Her crown of silver-streaked hair fell in straight, disassociated lines down the sides of her death-white mask of a face, and her stockings were torn. She was at least three hundred feet away but Bourne felt he could hear the erratic gasping for breath that accompanied the hesitant movements of the once-regal figure stepping forward in the sunlight

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04