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 an odd mixture of shops and flats indigenous to the center 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 mailboxes was on the right, each one above a small spoked circle through which a caller raised his voice loudly enough to identify himself. Jason ran his finger along the printed names below the slots: M. PIERRE TRIGNON—42. He pushed the tiny black button twice; ten seconds later there was a crackling of static.
“Oui?”
“Monsieur Trignon, s’il vous plaît?”
“Ici.”
“Télégramme, monsieur. Je ne peux pas quitter ma bicyclette.”
“Télégramme? Pour moi?”
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 was in 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 Trignon—came rushing down the staircase. The door swung open, concealing Jason; a balding, heavy-set man, unnecessary suspenders creasing the flesh beneath a bulging white shirt, walked to the row of mailboxes, stopping at number 42.
“Monsieur Trignon?”
The heavy-set man spun around, 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-Honoré? 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 Gravet; 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 mailslot, 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 subpoena your books in the morning. Be prepared.”
“Subpoena? 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 checks 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 initialed 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 around. 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 René Bergeron.”
“Do these investors meet frequently? Do they suggest policy? Perhaps advocate certain 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 the 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 checks, 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 initialed. I pay only on those!”
“You’d better find every one. You and Madame Lavier had better start digging up every backup in your files. Because the two of you—especially you—will face the charges.”
“Charges? What charges?”
“For a 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. Ilich 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 ...” he 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 defense—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.
Get Carlos. 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 clean-shaven old man in the dated suit of clothes 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 disheveled beggar yesterday, about the same size, the same ... No, this old man’s shoes were shined, his white hair combed neatly, and the suit of 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-Honoré?”
“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 Parc 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 Parc Monceau?”
“That would be impossible. But. for the time being you will relay my final 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 the moment—and followed—even now at the moment.”
The once-bespoken beggar laughed softly. “In accord with your last instructions, I took the liberty of hiring a friend, a friend with a sound automobile. 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 Parc Monceau was eliminated, I had no telephone number to give them but my own, which as you know, is a rundown café in the Quarter. The owner and I were friends in the old days, the better days. I could reach him every five minutes for messages and he would never object. I know where he got the money to pay for his business, and whom 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 Parc 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 imposter’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 420?”
“Go ahead, General.”
“The telephone calls have stopped. She’s no longer being contacted—not at least by telephone. 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 chemists with a prescription and a journalist requesting an interview. She couldn’t have known either.”
“Did you get the impression she was trying to throw you off by having you take the calls?”
Villiers paused, his reply laced with anger. “It was there, the effect less than subtle insofar as she mentioned she might be having lunch out She said she had a reservation at the George 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 parlor, but it was enough. The woman was in panic.”
“Describe her.”
Villiers did.
“Jacqueline Lavier,” said Jason.
“I thought it might be. From the looks 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 automobile 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?”
“Citroën. Gray. The first three letters of the license plate are NYR.”
“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 out there before Lavier leaves. Do what you can to help me. Interrupt your wife, say you have to speak with 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 Parc 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 topcoat 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 Bahnhofstrasse and the Carillon du Lac; the Drei Alpenhäuser and the Löwenstrasse; a filthy boardinghouse on the Steppdeckstrasse. The gun symbolized them all, for it had once nearly taken his life in Zurich.
The Bourne Identity Page 44