They came to the enormous entrance of the Louvre. 'Pull in behind those other taxis,' said Jason.
'But they wait for fares. Monsieur. I have a fare; you are my fare. I will take you to the...'
'Just do as I say,' said Bourne dropping fifty francs over the seat.
The driver swerved into the line. The black saloon was twenty yards away on the right; the man on the radio had turned in the seat and was looking out of the left rear window. Jason followed his gaze and saw what he thought he might see. Several hundred feet to the west in the huge square was a grey car, the car that had followed Jacqueline Lavier and Villiers's wife to the Church of the Blessed Sacrament, and sped the latter away from Neuilly-sur-Seine after she had escorted Lavier to her final confession. Its antenna could be seen retracting down into its base. Over on the right, Carlos's soldier no longer held the microphone. The black saloon's antenna was also receding; contact had been made, visual sighting confirmed Four men. These were Carlos's executioners.
Bourne concentrated on the crowds in front of the Louvre entrance, spotting the elegantly dressed d'Anjou instantly. He was pacing slowly, cautiously, back and forth by the large block of white granite that flanked the marble steps on the left. Now. It was time to send the misinformation. 'Pull out,' ordered Jason. 'What, Monsieur?"
Two hundred francs if you do exactly what I tell you. Pull out and go to the front of the line, then make two left turns, heading back to the next aisle.' 'I don't understand, Monsieur!' 'You don't have to. Three hundred francs.' The driver swung right and proceeded to the head of the line, where he spun the wheel, sending the taxi to the left towards the row of parked cars. Bourne pulled the automatic from his belt, keeping it between his knees, and checked the silencer, twisting the cylinder taut.
'Where do you wish to go, Monsieur?' asked the bewildered driver as they entered the aisle leading back towards the entrance to the Louvre.
'Slow down!' said Jason. That large grey car up ahead, the one pointing to the Seine exit Do you see it?' 'But, of course."
'Go around it slowly, to the right.' Bourne slid over to the left side of the seat and rolled down the window, keeping his head and the weapon concealed. He would show both in a matter of seconds.
The taxi approached the saloon's boot, the driver spinning the wheel again. They were parallel. Jason thrust his head and his gun into view. He aimed for the grey car's right rear window and fired, five spits coming one after another, shattering the glass, stunning the two men who screamed at each other, lurching below the window frames to the floor of the front seat But they had seen him. That was the misinformation.
'Get out of here!' yelled Bourne to the terrified driver, as he threw three hundred francs over the seat and wedged his soft felt hat into the well of the rear window. The taxi shot ahead towards the stone gates of the Louvre. Now.
Jason slid back across the seat, opened the door, and rolled out on to the cobblestone pavement, shouting his last instructions to the driver. 'If you want to stay alive, get out of here!'
The taxi exploded forward, engine gunning, driver screaming. Bourne dived between two parked cars, now bidden from the grey saloon, and got up slowly, peering between the windows. Carlos's men were quick, professional, losing no moment in the pursuit. They had the taxi in view, the cab no match for the powerful saloon, and in that taxi was the target The man behind the wheel pulled the car into gear and raced ahead as his companion held the microphone, the antenna rising from its recess. Orders were being shouted to another sedan nearer the great stone steps. The speeding taxi swerved out into the street by the River Seine, the large grey car directly behind it. As they passed within feet of Jason, the expressions on the two men's faces said it all. They had Cain in their sights, the trap had closed, and they would earn their pay in a matter of minutes.
The reverse trap by the nature of its single complication must be swift and simpler still...
A matter of minutes... He had only a matter of moments if everything he believed was so. D'Anjou! The contact had played his role – his minor role – and was expendable – as Jacqueline Lavier had been expendable.
Bourne ran out from between the two cars towards the black saloon; it was no more than fifty yards ahead. He could see the two men; they were converging on Philippe d'Anjou, who was still pacing in front of the marble steps. One accurate shot from either man and d'Anjou would be dead, Treadstone Seventy-one gone with him. Jason ran faster, his hand inside his coat, gripping the heavy automatic.
Carlos's soldiers were only yards away, now hurrying themselves, the execution to be quick, the condemned man cut down before he understood what was happening.
'Medusa!' roared Bourne, not knowing why he shouted the name rather than d'Anjou's own. 'Medusa, Medusa’.'
D'Anjou's head snapped up, shock on his face. The driver of the black saloon had spun round, his weapon levelled at Jason, while his companion moved towards d'Anjou, his gun aimed at the former Medusan. Bourne dived to his right, the automatic extended, steadied by his left hand. He fired in mid-air, his aim accurate; the man closing in on d'Anjou arched backwards as his stiffened legs were caught in an instant of paralysis; he collapsed on the cobblestones. Two spits exploded over Jason's head, the bullets impacting into metal behind him. He rolled to his left, his gun again steady, directed at the second man. He pulled the trigger twice; the driver screamed, an eruption of blood spreading across his face as he fell.
Hysteria swept through the crowds. Men and women screamed, parents threw themselves over children, others ran up the steps through the great doors of the Louvre as guards tried to get outside. Bourne rose to his feet, looking for d'Anjou. The older man had lunged behind the block of white granite, his great figure now crawling awkwardly in terror out of his sanctuary. Jason raced through the panicked crowd, shoving the automatic into his belt, separating the hysterical bodies that stood between himself and the man who could give him the answers. Treadstone! Treadstone!
He reached the grey-haired Medusan. 'Get up!' he ordered. 'Let's get out of here!'
'Delta!... It was Carlos's man! I know him, I've used him! He was going to kill me!'
'I know. Come on! Quickly! Others'll be coming back; they'll be looking for us. Come on!'
A patch of black fell across Bourne's eyes, at the corner of his eyes. He spun around, instinctively shoving d'Anjou down as four rapid shots came from a gun held by a dark figure standing by the line of taxis. Fragments of granite and marble exploded all around them. It was him! The wide, heavy shoulders that floated in space, the tapered waist outlined by a form-fitting black suit... the dark-skinned face encased in a white silk scarf below the narrow-brimmed black hat Carlos! Get Carlos! Trap Carlos! Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain! False!
Find Treadstone! Find a message; find a man! Find Jason Bourne!
He was going mad! Blurred images from the past converged with the terrible reality of the present, driving him insane. The doors of his mind opened and closed, crashing open, crashing shut; light streaming out one moment, darkness the next. The pain returned to his temples with sharp, jarring notes of deafening thunder. He started after the man in the black suit with the white silk scarf wrapped around his face. Then he saw the eyes and the barrel of the gun, three dark orbs zeroed in on him like black laser beams. Bergeron?... Was it Bergeron? Was it? Or Zurich... or... No time!
He feigned to his left then dived to the right, out of the line of fire. Bullets splattered into stone, the screeches of ricochets following each explosion. Jason spun under a stationary car, he could see the figure in black racing away between the wheels. The pain remained, but the thunder stopped. He crawled out on the cobblestones, rose to his feet and ran back towards the steps of the Louvre.
What had he done? D'Anjou was gone.' How had it happened? The reverse trap was no trap at all! His own strategy had been used against him, permitting the only man who could give him the answers to escape. He had followed Carlos's soldiers, but Carlos bad followed him since Saint-Honoreee. It was all for nothing, a sickening hollowness spread through him.
And then he heard the words, spoken from behind a nearby car. Philippe d'Anjou came cautiously into view.
Tam Quan's never far away it seems. Where shall we go, Delta? We can't stay here.'
They sat inside a curtained booth in a crowded cafe on the rue Visage, a back street that was hardly more than an alley in Montmartre. D'Anjou sipped his double brandy, his voice low, pensive.
'I shall return to Asia,' he said. To Singapore or Hong Kong or even the Seychelles, perhaps. France was never very good for me; now it's deadly.'
'You may not have to,' said Bourne, swallowing the whisky, the warm liquid spreading quickly, inducing a brief, spatial calm. 'I meant what I said. You tell me what I want to know. I'll give you..." He stopped, the doubts sweeping over him; no, he would say it. 'I'll give you Carlos's identity.'
'I'm not remotely interested,' replied the former Medusan, watching Jason closely. 'I'll tell you whatever I can. Why should I withhold anything? Obviously, I won't go to the authorities, but if I have information that could help you take
Carlos, the world would be a safer place for me, wouldn't it? Personally, however, I wish no involvement'
'You're not even curious?'
'Academically, perhaps, for your expression tells me I'll be shocked. So ask your questions, and then astonish me.'
'You'll be shocked.'
Without warning d'Anjou said the name quietly. 'Bergeron?’
Jason did not move; speechless, he stared at the older man. D'Anjou continued.
'I've thought about it over and over again. Whenever we talk I look at him and wonder. Each time, however, I reject the idea.'
'Why?' Bourne interrupted, refusing to acknowledge the Medusan's accuracy.
'Mind you, I'm not sure, I just feel it's wrong. Perhaps because I've learned more about Carlos from Roue" Bergeron than anyone else. He's obsessed by Carlos; he's worked for him for years, takes enormous pride in the confidence. My problem is that he talks too much about him.'
"The ego speaking through the assumed second party?'
'It's possible, I suppose, but inconsistent with the extraordinary precautions Carlos takes, the literally impenetrable wall of secrecy he's built around himself. I'm not certain, of course, but I doubt it's Bergeron.'
'You said the name. I didn't.'
D'Anjou smiled. 'You have nothing to be concerned about, Delta. Ask your questions.'
'I thought it was Bergeron. I'm sorry.'
'Don't be, for he may be. I told you, it doesn't matter to me. In a few days, I'll be back in Asia, following the franc, or the dollar, or the yen. We Medusans were always resourceful, weren't we?'
Jason was not sure why, but the haggard face of Andrel Villiers came to his mind's eye. He had promised himself to learn what he could for the old soldier. He would not get the opportunity again.
'Where does Villiers's wife fit in?'
D'Anjou's eyebrows arched. 'Angelique?' he asked. 'But of course, you said Pare Monceau, didn't you? How?...'
The details aren't important now.'
'Certainly not to me,' agreed the Medusan.
'What about her?' pressed Bourn’.
'Have you looked at her closely?' asked d'Anjou. 'The skin?'
'I've been close enough. She's tanned. Very tall and very tanned.'
'She keeps her skin that way. The Riviera, the Greek Isles, Costa del Sol, Gstaad; she is never without a sun-drenched skin.'
'It's very becoming.'
'It's also a successful device. It covers what she is. For her there is no autumn or winter pallor, no lack of colour in her face or arms or very long legs. The attractive hue of her skin is always there, because it would be there in any event. With or without St Tropez or the Costa Brava or the Alps.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Although the stunning Angelique Villiers is presumed to be Parisian, she's not. She's Hispanic. Venezuelan, to be precise.'
'Sanchez,' whispered Bourne. 'Ilyich Ramirez Sanchez.'
'Yes. Among the very few who speak of such things, it is said she is Carlos's first cousin, his lover since the age of fourteen. It is rumoured – among those very few people -that beyond himself she is the only person on earth he cares about.'
'And Villiers is the unwitting drone?'
'Words from Medusa, Delta?' d'Anjou nodded. 'Yes, Villiers is the drone. Carlos's brilliantly conceived wire into many of the most sensitive departments of the French government, including the files on Carlos himself.'
'Brilliantly conceived,' said Jason, remembering. 'Because it's unthinkable.'
Totally.'
Bourne leaned forward, the interruption abrupt. 'Tread-stone,' he said, both hands gripping the glass in front of him. Tell me about Treadstone Seventy-one.'
'What can / tell you?'
'Everything they know. Everything Carlos knows.'
'I don't think I'm capable of doing that. I hear things, piece things together, but except where Medusa's concerned, I'm hardly a consultant, much less a confidant.'
It was all Jason could do to control himself, curb himself from asking about Medusa, about Delta and Tarn Quan; the winds in the night sky and the darkness and the explosions of light that blinded him whenever he heard the words. He could not; certain things had to be assumed, his own loss passed over, no indication given. The priorities. Treadstone. Treadstone Seventy-one!
'What have you heard? What have you pieced together?’
'What I heard and what I pieced together were not always compatible. Still, obvious facts were apparent to me.'
'Such as?'
'When I saw it was you, I knew. Delta had made a lucrative agreement with the Americans. Another lucrative agreement, a different kind than before, perhaps.'
'Spell that out, please.'
Ten years ago, the rumours from Saigon were that the ice-cold Delta was the highest paid Medusan of us all. Surely, you were the most capable / knew, so I assumed you drove a hard bargain. You must have driven an infinitely harder one to do what you're doing now."
'Which is? From what you've heard."
"What we know. It was confirmed in New York. The Monk confirmed it before he died, that much I was told. It was consistent with the pattern since the beginning.'
Bourne held the glass, avoiding d'Anjou's eyes. The Monk. The Monk. Do not ask. The Monk is dead, whoever and whatever he was. He is not pertinent now. 'I repeat,' said Jason, 'what is it they think they know I'm doing?'
'Come, Delta, I'm the one who's leaving. It's pointless to..."
'Please,' interrupted Bourne.
'Very well. You agreed to become this Cain. This mythical killer with an unending list of contracts that never existed, each created out of whole cloth, given substance by all manner of reliable sources. Purpose. To challenge Carlos – "eroding his stature at every turn" was the way Bergeron phrased it – to undercut his prices, spread the word of his deficiencies, your own superiority. In essence, to draw out Carlos and take him. This was your agreement with the Americans.'
Rays of his own personal sunlight burst into the dark corners of Jason's mind. In the distance, doors were opening, but they were still too far away and opened only partially. But there was light where before there was only darkness.
Then the Americans are...' Bourne did not finish the statement, hoping in brief torment that d'Anjou would finish it for him.
'Yes,' said the Medusan. Treadstone Seventy-one. The most controlled unit of American intelligence since the State Department's Consular Operations Created by the same man who built Medusa. David Abbott
'The Monk,' said Jason softly, instinctively, another door in the distance partially open.
'Of course. Who else would he approach to play the role of Cain but the man from Medusa known as Delta? As I say, the instant I saw you, I knew it.'
'A role...' Bourne stopped, the sunlight growing brighter, warm not blinding.
D'Anjou leaned forward. 'It's here, of course, that what I heard and what I pieced together were incompatible. It was said that Jason Bourne accepted the assignment for reasons I knew were not true. I was there, they were not; they could not know.' 'What did they say? What did you hear?' That you were an American intelligence officer, possibly military. Can you imagine? You. Delta! The man filled with contempt for so much, not the least of which was for most things American. I told Bergeron it was impossible, but I'm not sure he believed me.' 'What did you tell him?'
'What I believed. What I still believe. It wasn't money – no amount of money could have made you do it – it had to be something else. I think you did it for the same reason so many others agreed to Medusa ten years ago. To clean a slate somewhere, to be able to return to something you had before that was barred to you. I don't know, of course, and I don't expect you to confirm it, but that's what I think.'
'It's possible you're right,' said Jason, holding his breath, the cool winds of release blowing into the mists. It made sense. A message was sent. This could be it. Find the message! Find the sender! Treadstone!
'Which leads us back," continued d'Anjou, 'to the stories about Delta. Who was he? What was he? This educated, oddly quiet man who could transform himself into a lethal weapon in the jungles. Who stretched himself and others beyond endurance for no cause at all. We never understood.' 'It was never required. Is there anything else you can tell me?... Do they know the precise location of Treadstone?'
'Certainly. I learned it from Bergeron. A residence in New York City, on East Seventy-first Street. Number One-forty. Isn't that correct?'
'Possibly... Anything else?'
'Only what you obviously know, the strategy of which I admit eludes me.'
'Which is?'
'That the Americans think you turned. Better phrased, they want Carlos to believe they think you turned.'
'Why?' He was closer. It was here!
The story is a long period of silence, six months to be exact. Coinciding with Cain's inactivity. Plus stolen funds, but mainly the silence.'
That was it. The message. The silence. The months in Port Noir. The madness in Zurich, the insanity in Paris. No one could possibly know what had happened. He was being told to come in. To surface. You were right, Marie, my love, my dearest love. You were right from the beginning!
'Nothing else, then?’ asked Bourne, trying to control the impatience in his voice, anxious now beyond any anxiety he had known to get back to Marie.
'It's all I know, but please understand, I was never told that much. I was brought in because of my knowledge of Medusa -and it was established that Cain was from Medusa – but I was never part of Carlos's inner circle.'
'You were close enough. Thank you.' Jason put several notes on the table and started to slide across the booth.
There's one thing,' said d'Anjou. "I'm not sure it's relevant now, but they know your name is not Jason Bourne.'
'What?'
'March twenty-fifth. Don't you remember, Delta? It's only two days from now, and the date's very important to Carlos. Word has been spread. He wants your corpse on the twenty-fifth. He wants to deliver it to the Americans on that day.'
'What are you trying to say?'
'On 25 March 1968, Jason Bourne was executed at Tarn Quan. You executed him.'
She opened the door and for a moment he stood looking at her, seeing the large brown eyes that roamed his face, eyes that were afraid yet curious. She knew. Not the answer, but that there was an answer, and he had come back to tell her what it was. He walked into the room; she closed the door.
'It happened,' she said.
'It happened.' Bourne turned and reached for her. She came to him and they held each other, the silence of the embrace saying more than any spoken words. 'You were right,' he whispered finally, his lips against her soft hair. 'There's a great deal I don't know – may never know – but you were right. I'm not Cain because there is no Cain, there never was. Not the Cain they talk about; he never existed. He's a myth invented to draw out Carlos. I'm that creation. A man from Medusa called Delta agreed to become a lie named Cain. I'm that man.'
She pulled back, still holding him.' "Cain is for Charlie..."' She said the words quietly.
' "And Delta is for Cain",' completed Jason. 'You've heard me say it?'
Marie nodded. 'Yes. One night in the room in Switzerland, you shouted it in your sleep. You never mentioned Carlos; just Cain... Delta. I said something to you in the morning about it, but you didn't answer me. You just looked out of the window.'
'Because I didn't understand. I still don't, but I accept it It explains so many things.'
She nodded again. 'The provocateur. The code words you use, the strange phrases, the perceptions. But why? Why you?'
'To clean a slate somewhere." That's what he said.'
'Who said?'
'D'Anjou.'
The man on the steps in Pare Monceau? The switchboard operator?'
The man from Medusa. I knew him in Medusa.'
'What did he say?'
Bourne told her. And as he did, he could see in her the relief he had felt in himself. There was a light in her eyes, and a muted throbbing in her neck, sheer joy bursting from her throat. It was almost as if she could barely wait for him to finish so she could hold him again.
'Jason!' she cried, taking his face in her hands. 'Darling, my darling! My friend has come back to me! It's everything we knew, everything we felt I ‘
'Not quite everything,' he said, touching her cheek. 'I'm Jason to you, Bourne to me, because that's the name I was given, and have to use it because I don't have any other. But it's not mine.'
'An invention?'
'No, he was real. They say I killed him in a place called Tarn Quan.'
She took her hands away from his face, sliding them to his shoulders, not letting him go. "There must have been a reason.'
'I hope so. I don't know. Maybe it's the slate I'm trying to clean.'
'It doesn't matter' she said, releasing him. 'It's in the past, ten years ago. All that matters now is that you reach the men at Treadstone, because they're trying to reach you.'
'D'Anjou said word was out that the Americans think I've turned. No word from me in over six months, millions taken out of Zurich. They must think I'm the most expensive miscalculation on record.'
'You can explain what happened. You haven't knowingly broken your agreement; on the other hand you can't go on. It's impossible. All the training you received means nothing to you. It's there only in fragments – images and phrases that you can't relate to anything. People you're supposed to know, you don't know. They're faces without names, without reasons for being where they are, or what they are.'
Bourne took off his coat and pulled the automatic from his belt He studied the cylinder – the ugly, perforated extension of the barrel that guaranteed to reduce the decibel count of a gunshot to a spit. It sickened him. He walked to the bureau, put the weapon inside and pushed the drawer shut. He held onto the knobs for a moment, his eyes straying to the mirror, to the face in the glass that had no name.
'What do I say to them?' he asked. 'This is Jason Bourne calling. Of course, I know that's not my name because I killed a man named Jason Bourne, but it's the one you gave me... I'm sorry, gentlemen, but something happened to me on the way to Marseilles. I lost something – nothing you can put a price on – just my memory. Now, I gather we've got an agreement, but I don't remember what it is, except for crazy phrases like "Get Carlos!" and "Trap Carlos!" and something about Delta being Cain and Cain is supposed to replace Charlie and Charlie is really Carlos. Things like that, which may lead you to think I do remember. You might even say to yourselves "we've got one prime bastard here. Let's put him away for a couple of decades in a very tight stockade. He not only took us, but worse, he could prove to be one hell of an embarrassment."' Bourne turned from the mirror and looked at Marie. 'I'm not kidding. What do I say?'
The truth,' she answered. They'll accept it. They've sent you a message; they're trying to reach you. As far as the six months is concerned, wire Washburn in Port Noir. He kept records -extensive, detailed records.'
'He may not answer. We had our own agreement. For putting me back together he was to receive a third of Zurich, untraceable to him. I sent him over a million American dollars.'
'Do you think that would stop him from helping you?'
Jason paused. 'He may not be able to help himself. He's got a problem; he's a drunk. Not a drinker. A drunk. The worst kind; he knows it and likes it. How long can he live with a million dollars? More to the point, how long do you think those waterfront pirates will let him live once they find out?'
'You can still prove you were there. For six months you were ill, isolated. You weren't in contact with anyone.'
'How can the men at Treadstone be sure? From their view I'm a walking encyclopaedia of official secrets. I had to be to do what I've done. How can they be certain I haven't talked to the wrong people?'
Tell them to send a team to Port Noir.'
'It'll be greeted with blank stares and silence. I left that island in the middle of the night with half the waterfront after me with hooks. If anyone down there made any money out of Washburn, he'll see the connection and walk the other way.'
'Jason, I don't know what you're driving at! You've got your answer, the answer you've been looking for since you woke up that morning in Port Noir. What more do you want?'
'I want to be careful, that's all!' said Bourne abrasively. 'I want to "look before I leap" and make damn sure the "stable door is shut" and Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candle stick – but for Christ's sake don't fall into the fire!" How's that for remembering.' He was shouting; he stopped.
Marie walked across the room and stood in front of him. 'It's very good. But that's not it, is it? Being careful I mean;'
Jason shook his head. 'No, it isn't,’ he said. 'With each step I've been afraid, afraid of the things I've learned. Now, at the end, I'm more frightened than ever. If I'm not Jason Bourne, who am I really? What have I left back there? Has that occurred to you?"
'In all its ramifications, my darling. In a way, I'm far more afraid than you. But I don't think that can stop us. I wish to God it could, but I know it can't.'
The attaché at the American Embassy on the Avenue Gabriel walked into the office of the First Secretary and closed the door. The man at the desk looked up.
'You're sure it's him?'
'I'm only sure he used the key words,’ said the attaché crossing to the desk, a red-bordered index card in his hand. 'Here's the flag,' he continued, handing the card to the First Secretary. 'I've checked off the words he used, and if that flag's accurate, I'd say he's genuine.'
The man behind the desk studied the card. 'When did he use the name Treadstone?'
'Only after I convinced him that he wasn't going to talk with anyone in U. S. Intelligence unless or until he gave me a damn good reason. I think he thought it'd blow my mind when he said he was Jason Bourne. When I simply asked him what I could do for him, he seemed stuck, almost as if he might hang up on me.'
'Didn't he say there was a flag out for him?' 'I was waiting for it but he never said it According to that eight-word sketch – "Experienced field officer. Possible defection or enemy detention" – he could have just said the word "flag" and he would have been in sync. He didn't," Then maybe he's not genuine.'
The rest fits, though. He did say D. C.'s been looking for him for more than six months. That was when he used the name Treadstone. He was from Treadstone; that's supposed to be the explosive. He also told me to relay the code words "Delta", "Cain", and "Medusa". The first two are on the flag, I checked them off... I don't know what "Medusa" means.'
'I don't know what any of this means,' said the First Secretary. 'Except that my orders are to high-tail it down to communications, clear all scrambler traffic to Langley, and get a sterile patch to a spook named Conklin. Him I've heard of: a mean son of a bitch who got his foot blown off ten or twelve years ago in 'Nam. He pushes very strange buttons over at the Company. Also he survived the purges, which leads me to think he's one man they don't want roaming the streets looking for a job. Or a publisher.'
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