The grey Citroen had proceeded beyond the taxi and was now pulling to the kerb. Neither man got out, but a thin metal rod, reflecting the glare of the sun, began rising out of the boot.
The radio antenna was being activated, codes sent over a guarded frequency. Jason was mesmerized, not by the sight and the knowledge of what was being done, but by something else. Words came to him, from where he did not know but they were there.
Delta to Almanac, Delia to Almanac. We will not respond.
Repeat, negative, brother.
Almanac to Delta. You will respond as ordered. Abandon, abandon. That is final.
Delta to Almanac. You're final, brother. Co fuck yourself. Delta out, equipment damaged.
Suddenly the darkness was all around him, the sunlight gone. There were no soaring towers of a church reaching for the sky; instead there were black shapes of irregular foliage shivering beneath the light of iridescent clouds. Everything was moving, everything was moving, he had to move with the movement. To remain immobile was to die! Move! For Christ's sake, move!
And take them out. One by one. Crawl in closer; overcome the fear – the terrible fear – and reduce the numbers. That was all there was to it! Reduce the numbers! The Monk had made that clear! Knife, wire, knee, thumb; you know the points of damage. Of death.
Death is a statistic for the computers. For you it is survival.
The Monk.
The Monk!
The sunlight came again, blinding him for a moment, his foot on the pavement, his gaze on the grey Citroen a hundred yards away. But it was difficult to see; why was it so difficult? Haze, mist... not darkness now but impenetrable mist. He was hot; no, he was cold. Cold! He jerked his head up, suddenly aware of where he was and what he was doing. His face had been pressed against the window; his breath had fogged the glass.
'I'm getting out for a few minutes,' said Bourne. 'Stay here.'
'All day, if you wish, Monsieur.'
Jason pulled up the lapels of his overcoat, pushed his hat forward and put on the tortoise-shell glasses. He walked alongside a couple towards a religious pavement stall, breaking away to stand behind a mother and child at the counter. He had a clear view of the grey Citroen, the taxi which had been summoned to Pare Monceau was no longer there, dismissed by Villiers's wife. It was a curious decision on her part, thought Bourne; cabs were not that readily available.
Three minutes later, the reason was clear... and disturbing. Villiers's wife came striding out of the church, walking rapidly, her tall statuesque figure drawing admiring glances from passers-by. She went directly to the Citroen, spoke directly to the men in front, then opened the rear door.
The bag. A white bag! Villiers's wife was carrying the bag that only minutes ago had been clutched in the hands of Jacqueline Lavier. She climbed into the Citroen's back seat and pulled the door shut. The car's engine was switched on and gunned, the prelude to a quick and sudden departure. As the vehicle rolled away, the shiny metal rod that was the vehicle's antenna became shorter and shorter, retracting into its base.
Where was Jacqueline Lavier? Why had she given her bag to Villiers's wife? Bourne started to move, then stopped, instinct warning him. A trap? If Lavier was followed, those following her might also be trailed – and not by him.
He looked up and down the street, studying the pedestrians on the pavement, then each car, each driver and passenger, watching for a face that did not belong, as Villiers had said the two men in the Citroen had not belonged in Pare Monceau.
There were no breaks in the parade, no darting eyes or hands concealed in outsized pockets. He was being over cautious; Neuilly-sur-Seine was not a trap for him. He moved away from the stall and started for the church.
He stopped, his feet suddenly clamped to the pavement. A priest was coming out of the church, a priest in a black suit, a starched white collar and a black hat that partially covered his face. He had seen him before. Not long ago, not in a forgotten past, but recently. Very recently. Weeks, days... hours, perhaps. Where was it? Where? He knew him! It was in the walk, in the tilt of his head, in the wide shoulders that seemed to glide in place above the fluid movement of his body. He was a man with a gun! Where was it?
Zurich? The Carillon du Lac? Two men breaking through the crowds, converging, brokering death. One wore gold-rimmed glasses; it was not he. That man was dead. Was it that other man in the Carillon du Lac? Or on the Guisan Quai? An animal, grunting, wild-eyed in rape. Was it he? Or someone else. A dark-coated man in the corridor at the Auberge du Coin where the lights had shorted, the spill from the staircase illuminating the trap. A reverse trap where that man had fired his weapon in darkness at shapes he thought were human. Was it that man?
Bourne did not know, he only knew that he had seen the priest before, but not as a priest. As a man with a gun.
The killer in the priestly dark suit reached the end of the stone-path and turned right at the base of a concrete saint, his face briefly caught in the sunlight. Jason froze; the skin. The killer's skin was dark, not tanned by the sun but by birth, A Latin skin, its hue tempered generations ago when ancestors lived beside the Mediterranean Forebears who migrated across the globe... across the seas.
Bourne stood paralysed by the shock of his own certainty. He was looking at Ilyich Ramirez Sanchez.
Get Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain.
Jason tore at the front of his coat, his right hand grasping the handle of the gun in his belt. He started running on the pavement, colliding with the backs and chests of strollers, shouldering a pavement vendor out of his way, lurching past a beggar digging into a wire rubbish... The beggar I The beggar's hand surged into his pocket: Bourne spun in time to see the barrel of an automatic emerge from the threadbare coat, the sun's rays bouncing off the metal. The beggar had a gun! His gaunt hand raised it, weapon and eyes steady. Jason lunged into the street, careening off the side of a small car. He heard the spits of the bullets above him and around him, piercing the air with sickening finality. Screams, shrill and in pain, came from unseen people on the pavement. Bourne ducked between two cars and raced through the traffic to the other side of the street. The beggar was running away; an old man with eyes of steel was racing into the crowds, into oblivion.
Get Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is...!
Jason spun again and lurched again, propelling himself forward, throwing everything in his path out of his path, racing in the direction of the assassin. He stopped, breathless, confusion and anger welling in his chest, sharp bolts of pain returning to his temples. Where was he? Where was Carlos? And then he saw him; the killer had climbed behind the wheel of a large black saloon. Bourne ran back into the traffic, slamming bonnets and boots as he threaded his way insanely towards the assassin. Suddenly he was blocked by two cars that had collided. He spread his hands on a glistening chrome grille and leaped sideways over the impacted bumpers. He stopped again, his eyes searing with pain, knowing it was pointless to go on. He was too late. The large black car had found a break in the traffic and Ilyich Ramirez Sanchez sped away.
Jason crossed back to the far pavement as the shrieking of police whistles turned heads everywhere. Pedestrians had been grazed or wounded or killed; a beggar with a gun had shot them.
Lavier! Bourne broke into a run again, not back towards the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. He reached the stone path under the eye of the concrete saint and spun left, racing towards the arched, sculptured doors and the marble steps. He ran up and entered the Gothic church, facing racks of flickering candles, fused rays of coloured light streaming down from the stained-glass windows high in the dark stone walls. He walked down the centre aisle, staring at the worshippers, looking for streaked silver hair and a mask of a face laminated in white.
The Lavier woman was nowhere to be seen, yet she had not left; she was somewhere in the church. Jason turned, glancing up the aisle; there was a tall priest walking casually past the rack of candles. Bourne sidestepped his way through a cushioned row, emerged on the far right aisle and intercepted him.
'Excuse me, Father,' he said. 'I'm afraid I've lost someone.'
'No one is lost in the house of God, sir," replied the cleric, smiling.
'She may not be in spirit, but if I don't find the rest of her, she'll be very upset. There's an emergency at her place of business. Have you been here long, Father?"
'I greet those of our flock who seek assistance, yes. I've been here for the better part of an hour.'
Two women came in a few minutes ago. One was extremely tall, quite striking, wearing a light-coloured coat, and I think a dark kerchief over her hair. The other was an older lady, not so tall, and obviously not in good health. Did you by any chance see them?'
The priest nodded. 'Yes. There was sorrow in the older woman's face; she was pale and grieving.'
'Do you know where she went? I gather her younger friend left.'
'A devoted friend, may I say. She escorted the poor dear to confession, helping her inside the booth. The cleansing of the soul gives us all strength during the desperate times.'
To confession?'
'Yes, the second booth from the right She has a compassionate father confessor, I might add. A visiting priest from the archdiocese of Barcelona. A remarkable man, too; I'm sorry to say this is his last day. He returns to Spain..." The tall priest frowned. 'Isn't that odd? A few moments ago I thought I saw Father Manuel leave. I imagine he was replaced for a while. No matter, the dear lady is in good hands.'
'I'm sure of it,' said Bourne. Thank you, Father. I'll wait for her.' Jason walked down the aisle towards the row of confessional booths, his eyes on the second, where a small strip of white fabric proclaimed occupancy; a soul was being cleansed. He sat down in the front row, then knelt forward, angling his head slowly round so he could see the rear of the church. The tall priest stood at the entrance, his attention on the disturbance in the street. Outside, sirens could be heard wailing in the distance, drawing closer.
Bourne got up and walked to the second booth. He parted the curtain and looked inside, seeing what he expected to see. Only the method had remained in question.
Jacqueline Lavier was dead, her body slumped forward, rolled to the side, supported by the prayer stall, her mask of a face upturned, her eyes wide, staring in death at the ceiling. Her coat was open, the cloth of her dress drenched in blood. The weapon was a long, thin letter opener, plunged in above her left breast. Her fingers were curled around the handle, her lacquered nails the colour of her blood.
At her feet was a bag – not the white one she had clutched in her hands ten minutes ago, but a fashionable Yves St Laurent, the precocious initials stamped on the fabric an escutcheon of haute couture. The reason for it was clear to Jason. Inside were papers identifying this tragic suicide, this overwrought woman so burdened with grief she took her own life while seeking absolution in the eyes of God. Carlos was thorough, brilliantly thorough.
Bourne closed the curtain and stepped away from the booth.
From somewhere high in a tower, the bells of the morning Angelus rang splendidly.
The taxi wandered aimlessly through the streets of Neuilly-sur-Seine, Jason in the back seat, his mind racing.
It was pointless to wait, perhaps deadly to do so. Strategies changed as conditions changed, and they had taken a deadly turn. Jacqueline Lavier had been followed, her death inevitable but out of sequence. Too soon; she was still valuable. Then Bourne understood. She had not been killed because she had been disloyal to Carlos, rather because she had disobeyed him. She had gone to Pare Monceau, that was her indefensible error.
There was another known relay at Les Classiques, a grey-haired switchboard operator named Philippe d'Anjou, whose face evoked images of violence and darkness and shattering flashes of light and sound. He had been in Bourne's past, of that Jason was certain, and because of that, the hunted had to be cautious; he could not know what that man meant to him. But he was a relay, and he, too, would be watched, as Lavier had been watched, additional bait for another trap, dispatch demanded when the trap closed.
Were these the only two? Were there others? An obscure, faceless clerk, perhaps, who was not a clerk at all but someone else? A supplier who spent hours in Saint-Honore legitimately pursuing the cause of haute couture, but with another cause far more vital to him. Or her. Or the muscular designer, Rene Bergeron, whose movements were so quick and... fluid.
Bourne suddenly stiffened, his neck pressed back against the seat, a recent memory triggered. Bergeron. The darkly-tanned skin, the wide shoulders accentuated by tightly rolled up sleeves... shoulders that floated in place above a tapered waist, beneath which strong legs moved swiftly, like an animal's, a cat's.
Was it possible? Were the other conjectures merely phantoms, compounded fragments of familiar images he had convinced himself might be Carlos? Was the assassin – unknown to his relays – deep inside his own apparatus, controlling and shaping every move? Was it Bergeron?
He had to get to a telephone right away. Right away! Every minute he lost was a minute removed from the answer, and too many meant there would be no answer at all. But he could not make the call himself; the sequence of events had been too rapid, he had to hold back, store his own information.
'The first telephone box you see, pull over,' he said to the driver, who was still shaken by the chaos at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament.
'As you wish, Monsieur. But if Monsieur will please try to understand, it is past the time when I should report to the fleet garage. Way past the time!'
'I understand.'
There's a telephone!'
'Good. Pull over.'
The red telephone box, its quaint panes of glass glistening in the sunlight, looked like a large doll's house from the outside and smelled of urine on the inside. Bourne dialled the Terrasse, inserted the coins and asked for room Four-twenty. Marie answered.
'What happened?'
'I haven't time to explain. I want you to call Les Classiques and ask for Rend Bergeron. D'Anjou will probably be on the switchboard, make up a name and tell him you've been trying to reach Bergeron on Lavier's private line for the past hour or so. Say it's urgent, you've got to talk to him.'
'When he comes on, what do I say?'
'I don't think he will, but if he does, just hang up. And if d'Anjou comes on the line again, ask him when Bergeron's expected. I'll call you back in three minutes.'
'Darling, are you all right?'
'I've had a profound religious experience. I'll tell you about it later.'
Jason kept his eyes on his watch, the infinitesimal jumps of the thin, delicate sweep hand too agonizingly slow. He began his own personal count down at thirty seconds, calculating the heartbeat that echoed in his throat as somewhere around two and a half per second. He started dialling at ten seconds, inserted the coins at four, and spoke to the Terrasse's switchboard at minus-five. Marie picked up the phone the instant it began to ring.
'What happened?' he asked. 'I thought you might still be talking.'
'It was a very short conversation. I think d'Anjou was wary.
He may have a list of names of those who've been given the private number, I don't know. But he sounded withdrawn, hesitant.'
"What did he say?'
'Monsieur Bergeron is on a fabric search in the Mediterranean. He left this morning and isn't expected back for several weeks.'
'It's possible I may have just seen him eight hundred miles from the Mediterranean.'
'Where?'
'In church. If it was Bergeron, he gave absolution with the point of a very sharp instrument.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Lavier's dead.'
'Oh, my God! What are you going to do?'
'Talk to a man I think I knew. If he's got a brain in his head, he'll listen. He's marked for extinction.'
'D'Anjou.'
'Delta? I wondered when... I think I'd know your voice anywhere.'
He had said it! The name had been spoken! The name that meant nothing to him, and yet somehow, everything. D'Anjou knew. Philippe d'Anjou was part of the unremembered past Delta. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain! Delta. Delta. Delta! He had known this man and this man had the answer! Alpha, Bravo, Cain, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot...
Medusa!
'Medusa,' he said softly, repeating the name that was a silent scream in his ears.
'Paris is not Tarn Quan, Delta. There are no debts between us any longer. Don't look for payment We work for different employers now.'
'Jacqueline Lavier's dead. Carlos killed her in Neuilly-sur-Seine less than thirty minutes ago.'
'Don't even try. As of two hours ago Jacqueline was on her way out of France. She called me herself from Orly Airport. She's joining Monsieur Bergeron...'
'On a fabric search in the Mediterranean?' interrupted Jason.
D'Anjou paused. 'The woman on the line asking for Ben... I thought as much. It changes nothing. I spoke with her; she called from Orly."
'She was told to tell you that. Did she sound in control of herself?'
'She was upset and no one knows why better than you. You've done a remarkable job down here. Delta. Or Cain. Or whatever you call yourself now. Of course she wasn't herself. It's why she's going away for a while.'
'It's why she's dead. You're next.'
'The last twenty-four hours were worthy of you. This isn't.'
'She was followed, you're being followed. Watched every moment.'
'If I am it's for my own protection."
'Then why is Lavier dead?"
'I don't believe she is.'
'Would she commit suicide?'
'Never.'
'Call the rectory at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament in Neuilly-sur-Seine. Ask about the woman who killed herself while making confession. What have you got to lose? I'll call you back.'
Bourne hung up and left the box. He stepped off the kerb, looking for a cab. The next call to Philippe d'Anjou would be made a minimum of ten blocks away. The man from Medusa would not be convinced easily and, until he was, Jason would not risk electronic scanners picking up even the general location of the call.
Delta? I think I'd know your voice anywhere. Paris is not Tarn Quan. Tarn Quan... Tarn Quan, Tarn Quan! Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain. Medusa!
Stop it! Do not think of things that... you cannot think about. Concentrate on what is. Now. You. Not what others say you are – not even what you may think you are. Only the now. And the now is a man who can give you answers.
We work for different employers...
That was the key.
Tell me! For Christ's sake, tell me! Who is it? Who is my employer, d'Anjou?
A taxi swerved to a stop perilously close to his kneecaps. Jason opened the door and climbed in. 'Place Vendome,' he said, knowing it was near Saint-Honoree". He must be as close as possible to put in motion the strategy that was rapidly coming into focus. He had the advantage; it was a matter of using it for a dual purpose. D'Anjou had to be convinced that those following him were his executioners. But what those men could not know was that another would be following them.
The Vendome was crowded as usual, the traffic wild as usual Bourne saw a telephone box on the corner and got out of the taxi. He went inside and dialled Les Classiques: it had been fourteen minutes since he had called from Neuilly-sur-Seine.
'D'Anjou?'
'A woman took her own life while at confession, that's all I know.'
'Come on, you wouldn't settle for that.., Medusa wouldn't settle for that.'
'Give me a moment to put the board on hold.' The line went dead for roughly four seconds. D'Anjou returned. 'A middle-aged woman with silver and white hair, expensive clothing, and a St Laurent bag. I've just described ten thousand women in Paris. How do I know you didn't take one, kill her, make her the basis of this call?'
'Oh, sure, I carried her into the church like a pieta, blood dripping in the aisles from her open stigmata. Be reasonable, d'Anjou. Let's start with the obvious. The bag wasn't hers; she carried a white leather handbag. She'd hardly be likely to advertise a competing house.'
'Lending credence to my belief. It was not Jacqueline Lavier.'
'Lends more to mine. The papers in that bag identified her as someone else. The body will be claimed quickly; no one touches Les Classiques.'
'Because you say so?'
'No. Because it's the method used by Carlos in five kills I can name." He could. That was the frightening thing. 'A man is taken out, the police believing he's one person, the death an enigma, killers unknown. Then they find out he's someone else, by which time Carlos is in another country, another contract fulfilled. Lavier was a variation of that method, that's all.'
'Words, Delta. You never said much, but when you did, the words were there.'
'And if you were in Saint-Honoree three or four weeks from now – which you won't be – you'd see how it ends. A plane crash, or a boat lost in the Mediterranean. Bodies charred beyond recognition, or simply gone. The identities of the dead, however, clearly established. Lavier and Bergeron. But only one is really dead, Mme Lavier. Monsieur Bergeron is privileged – more than you ever knew. Bergeron is back in business. And as for you, you're a statistic in the Paris morgue.'
'And you?'
'According to the plan I'm dead too. They expect to take me through you."
'Logical. We're both from Medusa, they know that – Carlos knows that. It's to be assumed you recognized me.'
'And you me?'
D'Anjou paused. 'Yes,’ he said. 'As I told you, we work for different employers now.'
'That's what I want to talk about.'
'No talking. Delta. But for old times' sake – for what you did for us all in Tam Quan – take the advice of a Medusan. Get out of Paris, or you're that dead man you just mentioned.'
'I can't do that.'
'You should. If I have the opportunity, I'll pull the trigger myself and be well paid for it’
Then I'll give you that opportunity.'
'Forgive me if I find that ludicrous."
'You don't know what I want, or how much I'm willing to risk to get it.'
'Whatever you want you'll take risks for it. But the real danger will be your enemy's. I know you, Delta. And I must get back to the switchboard. I'd wish you good hunting but...'
It was the moment to use the only weapon he had left, the sole threat that might keep d'Anjou on the line. 'Whom do you call for instructions now that Pare Monceau is out?'
The tension was accentuated by d'Anjou's silence. When he replied, his voice was a whisper. 'What did you say?'
'It's why she was killed, you know. Why you'll be killed, too. She went to Pare Monceau and she died for it. You've been to Pare Monceau and you'll die for it, too. Carlos can't afford you any longer; you simply know too much. Why should he jeopardize such an arrangement? He'll use you to trap me. then kill you, and set up another Les Classiques. As one Medusan to another, can you doubt it?'
The silence was longer now, more intense than before. It was apparent that the older man from Medusa was asking himself several hard questions. 'What do you want from me? Except me. You should know hostages are meaningless. Yet you provoke me, astonish me with what you've learned. I'm no good to you dead or alive; so what is it you want?
'Information. If you have it, I'll get out of Paris tonight and neither Carlos nor you will ever hear from me again.'
'What information?'
'You'll lie if I ask for it now. I would. But when I see you, you'll tell me the truth.'
'With a wire around my throat?'
'In the middle of a crowd?'
'A crowd? Daylight?'
'An hour from now. Outside the Louvre. Near the steps. At the taxi stand.'
'The Louvre? Crowds? Information you think I have that will send you away?... You can't reasonably expect me to discuss my employer.'
'Not yours. Mine.'
Treadstone?
He knew! Philippe d'Anjou had the answer! Remain calm. Don't let your anxiety show.
'Seventy-one,' completed Jason. 'Just a simple question and I'll disappear. And when you give me the answer – the truth – I'll give you something in exchange.'
'What could I possibly want from you? Except you?'
'Information that may let you live. It's no guarantee, but believe me when I tell you, you won't live without it. Pare Monceau, d'Anjou.'
Silence again. Bourne could picture the grey-haired former Medusan staring at his switchboard, the name of the wealthy Paris district echoing louder and louder in his mind. There was death from Pare Monceau and d'Anjou knew it as surely as he knew the dead woman in Neuilly-sur-Seine was Jacqueline Lavier.
'What might that information be?' asked d'Anjou.
'The identity of your employer. A name and sufficient proof to have sealed in an envelope and given to a lawyer, to be held throughout your natural life. But if your life were to end unnaturally, even accidentally, he'd be instructed to open the envelope and reveal the contents. It's protection, d'Anjou.'
'I see,' said the Medusan softly. 'But you say men watch me, follow me.'
'Cover yourself,' said Jason. 'Tell them the truth. You've got a number to call, haven't you?'
'Yes, there's a number, a man.' The older man's voice rose slightly in astonishment
'Reach him, tell him exactly what I said.. except for the exchange, of course. Say I contacted you, want a meeting with you. It's to be outside the Louvre in an hour. The truth.'
'You're insane.'
'I know what I'm doing.'
'You usually did... You're creating your own trap, mounting your own execution.'
'In which event you may be amply rewarded."
'Or executed myself, if what you say is so.'
'Let's find out if it is. I'll make contact with you one way or another, take my word for it. They have my photographs; they'll know it when I do. Better a controlled situation than one in which there's no control at all.'
'Now I hear Delta,' said d'Anjou. 'He doesn't create his own trap; he doesn't walk in front of a firing squad and ask for a blindfold.'
'No, he doesn't,' agreed Bourne. 'You don't have a choice, d'Anjou. One hour. Outside the Louvre.'
The success of any trap lies in its fundamental simplicity. The reverse trap by the nature of its single complication must be swift and simpler still.
The words came to him as he waited in the taxi in Saint-Honoreee, down the street from Les Classiques. He had asked the driver to take him round the block twice, an American tourist whose wife was shopping in the strip of haute couture. Sooner or later she would emerge from one of the stores and he would find her.
What he found was Carlos's surveillance. The rubber-capped antenna on the black saloon was both the proof and the danger signal. He would feel more secure if that radio transmitter were shorted out, but there was no way to do it. The alternative was misinformation. Some time during the next forty-five minutes Jason would do his best to make sure the wrong message was sent over that radio. From his concealed position in the back seat, he studied the two men in the car across the way. If there was anything that set them apart from a hundred other men like them in Saint-Honoreee, it was the fact that they did not talk.
Philippe d'Anjou walked out onto the pavement, a grey Homburg covering his grey hair. His glances swept the street, telling Bourne that the former Medusan had covered himself. He had called a number; he had relayed his startling information; he knew there were men in a car prepared to follow him.
A taxi, apparently ordered by phone, pulled up to the kerb. D'Anjou spoke to the driver and climbed inside. Across the street an antenna rose ominously out of its cradle; the hunt was on.
The saloon pulled out after d'Anjou's taxi; it was the confirmation Jason needed. He leaned forward and spoke to the driver. 'I forgot,' he said irritably. 'She said it was the Louvre this morning, shopping this afternoon. Christ, I'm a half an hour late. Take me to the Louvre, will you please?'
'Mais out, monsieur, le Louvre.'
Twice during the short ride to the monumental facade that overlooked the Seine, Jason's taxi passed the black saloon, only to be subsequently passed by it. The proximity gave Bourne the opportunity to see exactly what he needed to see. The man beside the driver spoke repeatedly into the hand-held radio microphone. Carlos was making sure the trap had no loose spikes; others were closing in on the execution ground.
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