“In what sense?”
“He was the coldest man I ever saw, the most dangerous, and utterly unpredictable. I thought at the time it was a strange war for him; he was a Savonarola, but without religious principle, only his own odd morality which was centered about himself. All men were his enemies—the leaders in particular and he cared not one whit for either side.” The middle-aged man paused again, his eyes on the drafting board, his mind obviously thousands of miles away and back in time. “Remember, Medusa was filled with diverse and desperate men. Many were paranoid in their hatred of Communists. Kill a Communist and Christ smiled—odd examples of Christian teaching. Others—such as myself—had fortunes stolen from us by the Viet Minh; the only path to restitution was if the Americans won the war. France had abandoned us at Dienbienphu. But there were dozens who saw that fortunes could be made from Medusa. Pouches often contained fifty to seventy-five thousand American dollars. A courier siphoning off half during ten, fifteen runs, could retire in Singapore or Kuala Lumpur or set up his own narcotics network in the Triangle. Beyond the exorbitant pay—and frequently the pardoning of past crimes—-the opportunities were unlimited. It was in this group that I placed that very strange man. He was a modern-day pirate in the purest sense.”
Bergeron unlocked his hands. “Wait a minute. You used the phrase, ‘a mission he commanded.’ There were military men in Medusa; are you sure he wasn’t an American officer?”
“American, to be sure, but certainly not army.”
“Why?”
“He hated all aspects of the military. His scorn for Command Saigon was in every decision he made; he considered the army fools and incompetents. At one point orders were radioed to us in Tam Quan. He broke off the transmission and told a regimental general to have sex with himself—he would not obey. An army officer would hardly do that.”
“Unless he was about to abandon his profession,” said the designer. “As Paris abandoned you, and you did the best you could, stealing from Medusa, setting up your own hardly patriotic activities—wherever you could.”
“My country betrayed me before I betrayed her, René.”
“Back to Cain. You say Bourne was not the name he used. What was it?”
“I don’t recall. As I said, for many, surnames were not relevant. He was simply ‘Delta’ to me.”
“Mekong?”
“No, the alphabet, I think.”
“‘Alpha, Bravo, Charlie … Delta,’” said Bergeron pensively in English. “But in many operations the code word ‘Charlie’ was replaced by ‘Cain’ because ‘Charlie’ had become synonymous with the Cong. ‘Charlie’ became ‘Cain.’”
“Quite true. So Bourne dropped back a letter and assumed ‘Cain.’ He could have chosen ‘Echo’ or ‘Foxtrot’ or ‘Zulu.’ Twenty-odd others. What’s the difference? What’s your point?”
“He chose Cain deliberately. It was symbolic. He wanted it clear from the beginning.”
“Wanted what clear?”
“That Cain would replace Carlos. Think. ‘Carlos’ is Spanish for Charles—Charlie. The code word ‘Cain’ was substituted for ‘Charlie’—Carlos. It was his intention from the start. Cain would replace Carlos. And he wanted Carlos to know it.”
“Does Carlos?”
“Of course. Word goes out in Amsterdam and Berlin, Geneva and Lisbon, London and right here in Paris. Cain is available; contracts can be made, his price lower than Carlos’ fee. He erodes! He constantly erodes Carlos’ stature.”
“Two matadors in the same ring. There can only be one.”
“It will be Carlos. We’ve trapped the puffed-up sparrow. He’s somewhere within two hours of Saint-Honoré.”
“But where?”
“No matter. We’ll find him. After all, he found us. He’ll come back; his ego will demand it. And then the eagle will sweep down and catch the sparrow. Carlos will kill him.”
The old man adjusted his single crutch under his left arm, parted the black drape and stepped into the confessional booth. He was not well; the pallor of death was on his face, and he was glad the figure in the priest’s habit beyond the transparent curtain could not see him clearly. The assassin might not give him further work if he looked too worn to carry it out; he needed work now. There were only weeks remaining and he had responsibilities. He spoke.
“Angelus Domini.”
“Angelus Domini, child of God,” came the whisper. “Are your days comfortable?”
“They draw to an end, but they are made comfortable.”
“Yes. I think this will be your last job for me. It is of such importance, however, that your fee will be five times the usual. I hope it will be of help to you.”
“Thank you, Carlos. You know, then.”
“I know. This is what you must do for it, and the information must leave this world with you. There can be no room for error.”
“I have always been accurate. I will go to my death being accurate now.”
“Die in peace, old friend. It’s easier… You will go to the Vietnamese Embassy and ask for an attaché named Phan Loc. When you are alone, say the following words to him: ‘Late March 1968 Medusa, the Tam Quan sector. Cain was there. Another also.’ Have you got that?”
“‘Late March 1968 Medusa, the Tam Quan sector. Cain was there. Another also.’”
“He’ll tell you when to return. It will be in a matter of hours.”
17
“I think it’s time we talked about a fiche confidentielle out of Zurich.”
“My God!”
“I’m not the man you’re looking for.”
Bourne gripped the woman’s hand, holding her in place, preventing her from running into the aisles of the crowded, elegant restaurant in Argenteuil, a few miles outside of Paris. The pavane was over, the gavotte finished. They were alone; the velvet booth a cage.
“Who are you?” The Lavier woman grimaced, trying to pull her hand away, the veins in the cosmeticized neck pronounced.
“A rich American who lives in the Bahamas. Don’t you believe that?”
“I should have known,” she said, “no charges, no check—only cash. You didn’t even look at the bill.”
“Or the prices before that. It’s what brought you over to me.”
“I was a fool. The rich always look at prices, if only for the pleasure of dismissing them.” Lavier spoke while glancing around, looking for a space in the aisles, a waiter she might summon. Escape.
“Don’t,” said Jason, watching her eyes. “It’d be foolish. We’d both be better off if we talked.” The woman stared at him, the bridge of hostile silence accentuated by the hum of the large, dimly lit, candelabraed room and the intermittent eruptions of quiet laughter from the nearby tables. “I ask you again,” she said. “Who are you?”
“My name isn’t important. Settle for the one I gave you.”
“Briggs? It’s false.”
“So’s Larousse, and that’s on the lease of a rented car that picked up three killers at the Valois Bank. They missed there. They also missed this afternoon at the Pont Neuf. He got away.”
“Oh, God!” she cried, trying to break away.
“I said don’t!” Bourne held her firmly, pulling her back.
“If I scream, monsieur?” The powdered mask was cracked with lines of venom now, the bright red lipstick defining the snarl of an aging, cornered rodent.
“I’ll scream louder,” replied Jason. “We’d both be thrown out, and once outside I don’t think you’ll be unmanageable. Why not talk? We might learn something from each other. After all, we’re employees, not employers.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Then I’ll start. Maybe you’ll change your mind.” He lessened his grip cautiously. The tension remained on her white, powdered face, but it, too, was lessened as the pressure of his fingers was reduced. She was ready to listen. “You paid a price in Zurich. We paid, too. Obviously more than you did. We’re after the same man; we know why we want him.” He release
d her. “Why do you?” She did not speak for nearly half a minute, instead, studying him in silence, her eyes angry yet frightened. Bourne knew he had phrased the question accurately; for Jacqueline Lavier not to talk to him would be a dangerous mistake. It could cost her her life if subsequent questions were raised.
“Who is ‘we?’” she asked.
“A company that wants its money. A great deal of money. He has it.”
“He did not earn it, then?”
Jason knew he had to be careful; he was expected to know far more than he did. “Let’s say there’s a dispute.”
“How could there be? Either he did or he did not, there’s hardly a middle ground.”
“It’s my turn,” said Bourne. “You answered a question with a question and I didn’t avoid you. Now, let’s go back. Why do you want him? Why is the private telephone of one of the better shops in Saint-Honoré put on a fiche in Zurich?”
“It was an accommodation, monsieur.”
“For whom?”
“Are you mad?”
“All right, I’ll pass on that for now. We think we know anyway.”
“Impossible!”
“Maybe, maybe not. So it was an accommodation … to kill a man?”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Yet a minute ago when I mentioned the car, you tried to run. That’s saying something.”
“A perfectly natural reaction.” Jacqueline Lavier touched the stem of her wineglass. “I arranged for the rental. I don’t mind telling you that because there’s no evidence that I did so. Beyond that I know nothing of what happened.” Suddenly she gripped the glass, her mask of a face a mixture of controlled fury and fear. “Who are you people?”
“I told you. A company that wants its money back.”
“You’re interfering! Get out of Paris! Leave this alone!”
“Why should we? Were the injured party; we want the balance sheet corrected. We’re entitled to that.”
“You’re entitled to nothing!” spat Mme. Lavier. “The error was yours and you’ll pay for it!”
“Error?” He had to be very careful. It was here—right below the hard surface—the eyes of the truth could be seen beneath the ice. “Come off it. Theft isn’t an error committed by the victim.”
“The error was in your choice, monsieur. You chose the wrong man.”
“He stole millions from Zurich,” said Jason. “But you know that. He took millions, and if you think you’re going to take them from him—which is the same as taking them from us—you’re very much mistaken.”
“We want no money!”
“I’m glad to know it. Who’s ‘we?’”
“I thought you said you knew.”
“I said we had an idea. Enough to expose a man named Koenig in Zurich; d’Amacourt here in Paris. If we decide to do that, it could prove to be a major embarrassment, couldn’t it?”
“Money? Embarrassment? These are not issues. You are consumed with stupidity, all of you! I’ll say it again. Get out of Paris. Leave this alone. It is not your concern any longer.”
“We don’t think it’s yours. Frankly, we don’t think you’re competent.”
“Competent?” repeated Lavier, as if she did not believe what she had heard.
“That’s right.”
“Have you any idea what you’re saying? Whom you’re talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter. Unless you back off, my recommendation is that we come out loud and clear. Mock up charges—not traceable to us, of course. Expose Zurich, the Valois. Call in the Sûreté, Interpol … anyone and anything to create a manhunt—a massive manhunt.”
“You are mad. And a fool.”
“Not at all. We have friends in very important positions; we’ll get the information first. We’ll be waiting at the right place at the right time. We’ll take him.”
“You won’t take him. He’ll disappear again! Can’t you see that? He’s in Paris and a network of people he cannot know are looking for him. He may have escaped once, twice; but not a third time! He’s trapped now. We’ve trapped him!”
“We don’t want you to trap him. That’s not in our interests.” It was almost the moment, thought Bourne. Almost, but not quite; her fear had to match her anger. She had to be detonated into revealing the truth. “Here’s our ultimatum, and we’re holding you responsible for conveying it—otherwise you’ll join Koenig and d’Amacourt. Call off your hunt tonight. If you don’t we’ll move first thing in the morning; we’ll start shouting. Les Classiques’ll be the most popular store in Saint-Honoré, but I don’t think it’ll be the right people.”
The powdered face cracked. “You wouldn’t dare! How dare you? Who are you to say this?!”
He paused, then struck. “A group of people who don’t care much for your Carlos.” The Lavier woman froze, her eyes wide, stretching the taut skin into scar tissue. “You do know,” she whispered. “And you think you can oppose him? You think you’re a match for Carlos?”
“In a word, yes.”
“You’re insane. You don’t give ultimatums to Carlos.”
“I just did.”
“Then you’re dead. You raise your voice to anyone and you won’t last the day. He has men everywhere; they’ll cut you down in the street.”
“They might if they knew whom to cut down,” said Jason. “You forget. No one does. But they know who you are. And Koenig, and d’Amacourt. The minute we expose you, you’d be eliminated. Carlos couldn’t afford you any longer. But no one knows me.”
“You forget, monsieur. I do.”
“The least of my worries. Find me … after the damage is done and before the decision is made regarding your own future. It won’t be long.”
“This is madness. You come out of nowhere and talk like a madman. You cannot do this!”
“Are you suggesting a compromise?”
“It’s conceivable,” said Jacqueline Lavier. “Anything is possible.”
“Are you in a position to negotiate it?”
“I’m in a position to convey it … far better than I can an ultimatum. Others will relay it to the one who decides.”
“What you’re saying is what I said a few minutes ago: we can talk.”
“We can talk, monsieur,” agreed Mme. Lavier, her eyes fighting for her life.
“Then let’s start with the obvious.”
“Which is?”
Now. The truth.
“What’s Bourne to Carlos? Why does he want him?”
“What’s Bourne—” The woman stopped, venom and fear replaced by an expression of absolute shock. “You can ask that?”
“I’ll ask it again,” said Jason, hearing the pounding echoes in his chest. “What’s Bourne to Carlos?”
“He’s Cain! You know it as well as we do. He was your error, your choice! You chose the wrong man!”
Cain. He heard the name and the echoes erupted into cracks of deafening thunder. And with each crack, pain jolted him, bolts searing one after another through his head, his mind and body recoiling under the onslaught of the name. Cain. Cain. The mists were there again. The darkness, the wind, the explosions.
Alpha, Bravo, Cain, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot… Cain, Delta. Delta, Cain. Delta … Cain.
Cain is for Charlie.
Delta is for Cain!
“What is it? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” Bourne had slipped his right hand over his left wrist, gripping it, his fingers pressed into his flesh with such pressure he thought his skin might break. He had to do something; he had to stop the trembling, lessen the noise, repulse the pain. He had to clear his mind. The eyes of the truth were staring at him; he could not look away. He was there, he was home, and the cold made him shiver. “Go on,” he said, imposing a control on his voice that resulted in a whisper; he could not help himself.
“Are you ill? You’re very pale and you’re—”
“I’m fine,” he interrupted curtly. “I said, go on.”
“What’s there
to tell you?”
“Say it all. I want to hear it from you.”
“Why? There’s nothing you don’t know. You chose Cain. You dismissed Carlos; you think you can dismiss him now. You were wrong then and you are wrong now.”
I will kill you. I will grab your throat and choke the breath out of you. Tell me! For Christ’s sake, tell me! At the end, there is only my beginning! I must know it.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “If you are looking for a compromise—if only to save your life—tell me why we should listen. Why is Carlos so adamant … so paranoid … about Bourne? Explain it to me as if I hadn’t heard it before. If you don’t, those names that shouldn’t be mentioned will be spread all over Paris, and you’ll be dead by the afternoon.” Lavier was rigid, her alabaster mask set. “Carlos will follow Cain to the ends of the earth and kill him.”
“We know that. We want to know why.”
“He has to. Look to yourself. To people like you.”
“That’s meaningless. You don’t know who we are.”
“I don’t have to. I know what you’ve done.”
“Spell it out!”
“I did. You picked Cain over Carlos—that was your error. You chose the wrong man. You paid the wrong assassin.”
“The wrong … assassin.”
“You were not the first, but you will be the last. The arrogant pretender will be killed here in Paris, whether there is a compromise or not.”
“We picked the wrong assassin …” The words floated in the elegant, perfumed air of the restaurant. The deafening thunder receded, angry still but far away in the storm clouds; the mists were clearing, circles of vapor swirling around him. He began to see, and what he saw was the outlines of a monster. Not a myth, but a monster. Another monster. There were two.
“Can you doubt it?” asked the woman. “Don’t interfere with Carlos. Let him take Cain; let him have his revenge.” She paused, both hands slightly off the table; Mother Rat. “I promise nothing, but I will speak for you, for the loss your people have sustained. It’s possible … only possible, you understand … that your contract might be honored by the one you should have chosen in the first place.”
“The one we should have chosen… Because we chose the wrong one.”
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