There was a second, ground floor entrance to the general’s home, to the right of the steps, beyond a gate, where deliveries were made to the downstairs kitchen. Villiers had agreed to leave the gate and the door unlatched. Bourne had not bothered to tell the old soldier that it did not matter; that he would get inside in any event, a degree of damage intrinsic to his strategy. But first there was the risk that Villiers’ house was being watched, there being good reasons for Carlos to do so, and equally good reasons not to do so. All things considered, the assassin might decide to stay as far away from Angélique Villiers as possible, taking no chance that one of his men could be picked up, thus proving his connection, the Parc Monceau connection. On the other hand, the dead Angélique was his cousin and lover … the only person on earth he cares about. Philippe d’Anjou.
D’Anjou! Of course there’d be someone watching—or two or ten! If d’Anjou had gotten out of France, Carlos could assume the worst; if the man from Medusa had not, the assassin would know the worst. The colonial would be broken, every word exchanged with Cain revealed. Where? Where were Carlos’ men? Strangely enough, thought Jason, if there was no one posted in Parc Monceau on this particular night, his entire strategy was worthless.
It was not; they were there. In a sedan—the same sedan that had raced through the gates of the Louvre twelve hours ago, the same two men—killers who were the backups of killers. The car was fifty feet down the street on the left-hand side, with a clear view of Villiers’ house. But were those two men slumped down in the seat, their eyes awake and alert, all that were there? Bourne could not tell; automobiles lined the curbs on both sides of the street. He crouched in the shadows of the corner building, diagonally across from the two men in the stationary sedan. He knew what had to be done, but he was not sure how to do it. He needed a diversion, alarming enough to attract Carlos’ soldiers, visible enough to flush out any others who might be concealed in the street or on a rooftop, or behind a darkened window.
Fire. Out of nowhere. Sudden, away from Villiers’ how. yet close enough and startling enough to send vibrations throughout the quiet, deserted, tree-lined street. Vibrations ... sirens; explosive ... explosions. It could be done. It was merely a question of equipment.
Bourne crept back behind the corner building into the intersecting street and ran silently to the nearest doorway, where he stopped and removed his jacket and topcoat. Then he took off his shirt, ripping the cloth from collar to waist; he put both coats on again, pulling up the lapels, buttoning the topcoat, the shirt under his arm. He peered into the night rain, scanning the automobiles in the street. He needed gasoline, but this was Paris and most fuel tanks would be locked. Most, but not all; there had to be an unsecured top among the line of cars at the curb.
And then he saw what he wanted to see directly up ahead on the pavement, chained to an iron gate. It was a motorbike, larger than a street scooter, smaller than a cycle, its gas tank a metal bubble between handlebars and seat. The top would have a chain attached, but it was unlikely to have a lock. Eight liters of fuel was not forty; the risk of any theft had to be balanced against the proceeds, and two gallons of gas was hardly worth a 500 franc fine.
Jason approached the bike. He looked up and down the street; there was no one, no sounds other than the quiet spattering of the rain. He put his hand on the gas tank top and turned it; it unscrewed easily. Better yet, the opening was relatively wide, the gas level nearly full. He replaced the top; he was not yet ready to douse his shirt. Another piece of equipment was needed.
He found it at the next corner, by a sewer drain: A partially dislodged cobblestone, forced from its recess by a decade of careless drivers jumping the curb. He pried it loose by kicking his heel into the slice that separated it from its jagged wall. He picked it up along with a smaller fragment and started back toward the motorbike, the fragment in his pocket, the large brick in his hand. He tested its weight ... tested his arm. It would do; both would do.
Three minutes later he pulled the drenched shirt slowly out of the gas tank, the fumes mingling with the rain, the residue of oil covering his hands. He wrapped the cloth around the cobblestone, twisting and crisscrossing the sleeves, tying them firmly together, holding his missile in place. He was ready.
He crept back to the edge of the building at the corner of Villiers’ street. The two men in the sedan were still low in the front seat, their concentration still on Villiers’ house. Behind the sedan were three other cars, a small Mercedes, a dark brown limousine and a Bentley. Directly across from Jason, beyond the Bentley, was a white stone building, its windows outlined in black enamel. An inside hallway light spilled over to the casement bay windows on either side of the staircase, the left, was obviously a dining room; he could see chairs and a long table in the additional light of a rococo sideboard mirror. The windows of that dining room with their splendid view of the quaint, rich Parisian street would do.
Bourne reached into his pocket and pulled out the rock; it was barely one-fourth the size of the gas-drenched brick, but it would serve the purpose. He inched around the corner of the building, cocked his arm and threw the stone as far as he could above and beyond the sedan.
The crash echoed throughout the quiet street. It was followed by a series of cracks as the rock clattered across the hood of a car and dropped to the pavement. The two men in the sedan bolted up. The man next to the driver opened his door, his foot plunging down to the pavement, a gun in his hand. The driver lowered the window, then switched on the headlights. The beams shot forward, bouncing back in blinding reflection off the metal and the chrome of the automobile in front. It was a patently stupid act, serving only to point up the fear of the men stationed in Parc Monceau.
Now. Jason raced across the street, his attention on the two men, whose hands were covering their eyes, trying to see through the glare of the reflected light. He reached the trunk of the Bentley, the cobblestone brick under his arm, a matchbook in his left hand, a cluster of torn-off matches in his right. He crouched, struck the matches, lowered the brick to the ground, then picked it up by an extended sleeve. He held the burning matches beneath the gas-soaked cloth; it burst instantly into flame.
He rose quickly, swinging the brick by the sleeve, and dashed over the curb, hurling his missile toward the bulging framework of the casement window with all his strength, racing beyond the edge of the building as impact was made.
The crash of shattering glass was a sudden intrusion on the rain-soaked stillness of the street. Bourne raced to his left across the narrow avenue, then back toward Villiers’ block, again finding the shadows he needed. The fire spread, fanned by the wind from the broken window, leaping up into the willowy backing of the drapes. Within thirty seconds the room was a flaming oven, the fire magnified by the huge sideboard mirror. Shouts erupted, windows lighted up nearby, then farther down the street. A minute passed and the chaos grew. The door of the flaming house was yanked open and figures appeared—an elderly man in a nightshirt, a woman in a negligée and one slipper—both in panic.
Other doors opened, other figures emerged, adjusting from sleep to chaos, some racing toward the fire-swept residence—a neighbor was in trouble. Jason ran diagonally across the intersection, one more running figure in the rapidly gathering crowd. He stopped where he had started only minutes before, by the edge of the corner building, and stood motionless, trying to spot Carlos’ soldiers.
He had been right; the two men were not the only guards posted in Parc Monceau. There were four men now, huddling by the sedan, talking rapidly, quietly. No, five. Another walked swiftly up the pavement, joining the four.
He heard sirens. Growing louder, drawing nearer. The five men were alarmed. Decisions had to be made; they could not all remain where they were. Perhaps there were arrest records to consider.
Agreement. One man would stay—the fifth man. He nodded and walked rapidly across the street to Villiers’ side. The others climbed into the sedan, and as a fire engine careened up the street, the se
dan curved out of its parking place and sped past the red behemoth racing in the opposite direction.
One obstacle remained: the fifth man. Jason rounded the building, spotting him halfway between the corner and Villiers’ house. It was now a question of timing and shock. Bourne broke into a loping run, similar to that used by the people heading toward the fire, his head angled back toward the corner, running partially backward, a figure melting into the surrounding pattern, only the direction in conflict. He passed the man; he had not been noticed—but he would be noticed if he continued to the downstairs gate of Villiers’ house and opened it. The man was glancing back and forth, concerned, bewildered, perhaps frightened by the fact that now he was the only patrol in the street. He was standing in front of a low railing; another gate, another downstairs entrance to another expensive house in Parc Monceau.
Jason stopped, taking two rapid sidesteps toward the man, then pivoted, his balance on his left foot, his right lashing out at the fifth man’s midsection, pummeling him backward over the iron rail. The man shouted as he fell down into the narrow concrete corridor. Bourne leaped over the railing, the knuckles of his right hand rigid, the heels of both feet pushed forward. He landed on the man’s chest, the impact breaking the ribs beneath him, his knuckles smashing into the man’s throat. Carlos’ soldier went limp. He would regain consciousness long after someone removed him to a hospital. Jason searched the man; there was a single gun strapped to his chest. Bourne took it out and put it into his topcoat pocket. He would give it to Villiers.
Villiers. The way was clear.
He climbed the staircase to the third floor. Halfway up the steps he could see a line of light at the bottom of the bedroom door, beyond that door was an old man who was his only hope. If ever in his life—remembered and unremembered—he had to be convincing, it was now. And his conviction was real—there was no room for the chameleon now. Everything he believed was based on one fact. Carlos had to come after him. It was the truth. It was the trap.
He reached the landing and turned to his left toward the bedroom door. He paused for a moment, trying to dismiss the echo in his chest; it was growing louder, the pounding more rapid. Part of the truth, not all of it. No invention, simply omission.
An agreement ... a contract ... with a group of men—honorable men—who were after Carlos. That was all Villiers had to know; it was what he had to accept. He could not be told he was dealing with an amnesiac, for in that loss of memory might be found a man of dishonor. The legend of Saint-Cyr, Algeria and Normandy would not accept that; not now, here, at the end of his life.
Oh, God, the balance was tenuous! The line between belief and disbelief so thin ... as thin as it was for the man-corpse whose name was not Jason Bourne.
He opened the door and stepped inside, into an old man’s private hell. Outside, beyond draped windows, the sirens raged and the crowds shouted. Spectators in an unseen arena, jeering the unknown, oblivious to its unfathomable cause.
Jason closed the door and stood motionless. The large room was filled with shadows, the only light a bedside table lamp. His eyes greeted by a sight he wished he did not have to see. Villiers had dragged a high-backed desk chair across the room and was sitting on it at the foot of the bed, staring at the dead woman sprawled over the covers. Angélique Villiers’ bronzed head was resting on the pillow, her eyes wide, bulging out of their sockets. Her throat was swollen, the flesh a reddish purple, the massive bruise having spread throughout her neck. Her body was still twisted, in contrast to the upright head, contorted in furious struggle, her long bare legs stretched out, her hips turned, the negligée torn, her breasts bursting out of the silk—even in death, sensual. There had been no attempt to conceal the whore.
The old soldier sat like a bewildered child, punished for an insignificant act, the meaningful crime having escaped his tormentor’s reasoning, and perhaps his own. He pulled his eyes away from the dead woman and looked at Bourne.
“What happened outside?” he asked in a monotone.
“Men were watching your house. Carlos’ men, five of them. I started a fire up the block; no one was hurt. All but one man left; I took him out.”
“You’re resourceful, Monsieur Bourne.”
“I’m resourceful,” agreed Jason. “But they’ll be back. The fire’ll be out and they’ll come back; before then, if Carlos puts it together, and I think he will. If he does, he’ll send someone in here. He won’t come himself, of course, but one of his guns will be here. When that man finds you ... and her ... he’ll kill you, Carlos loses her, but he still wins. He wins a second time; he’s used you through her and at the end he kills you. He walks away and you’re dead. People can draw whatever conclusions they like, but I don’t think they’ll be flattering.”
“You’re very precise. Assured of your judgment.”
“I know what I’m talking about. I’d prefer not to say what I’m going to say, but there’s no time for your feelings.”
“I have none left. Say what you will.”
“Your wife told you she was French, didn’t she?”
“Yes. From the south. Her family was from Loures Barouse, near the Spanish border. She came to Paris years ago. Lived with an aunt. What of it?”
“Did you ever meet her family?”
“No.”
“They didn’t come up for your marriage?”
“All things considered, we thought it would be best not to ask them. The disparity of our ages would have disturbed them.”
“What about the aunt here in Paris?”
“She died before I met Angélique. What’s the point of all this?”
“Your wife wasn’t French. I doubt there was even an aunt in Paris, and her family didn’t come from Loures Barouse, although the Spanish border has a certain relevance. It could cover a lot, explain a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was Venezuelan. Carlos’ first cousin, his lover since she was fourteen. They were a team, have been for years. I was told she was the only person on earth he cared about.”
“A whore.”
“An assassin’s instrument. I wonder how many targets she set up. How many valuable men are dead because of her.”
“I cannot kill her twice.”
“You can use her. Use her death.”
“The insanity you spoke of?”
“The only insanity is if you throw your life away. Carlos wins it all; he goes on using his gun ... and sticks of dynamite ... and you’re one more statistic. Another kill added to a long list of distinguished corpses. That’s insane.”
“And you’re the reasonable man? You assume the guilt for a crime you did not commit? For the death of a whore? Hunted for a killing that was not yours?”
“That’s part of it. The essential part, actually.”
“Don’t talk to me of insanity, young man. I beg you, leave. What you’ve told me gives me the courage to face Almighty God. If ever a death was justified, it was hers by my hand. I will look into the eyes of Christ and swear it.”
“You’ve written yourself out, then,” said Jason, noticing for the first time the bulge of a weapon in the old man’s jacket pocket.
“I will not stand trial, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh, that’s perfect, General! Carlos himself couldn’t have come up with anything better. Not a wasted motion on his part; he doesn’t even have to use his own gun. But those who count will know he did it; he caused it.”
“Those who count will know nothing. Une affaire de coeur ... une grave maladie ... I am not concerned with the tongues of killers and thieves.”
“And if I told the truth? Told why you killed her?”
“Who would listen? Even should you live to speak. I’m not a fool, Monsieur Bourne. You are running from more than Carlos. You are hunted by many, not just one. You as much as told me so. You would not tell me your name ... for my own safety, you claimed. When and if this was over, you said, it was I who might not care to be seen with you. Those ar
e not the words of a man in whom much trust is placed.”
“You trusted me.”
“I told you why,” said Villiers, glancing away, staring at his dead wife. “It was in your eyes.”
“The truth?”
“The truth.”
“Then look at me now. The truth is still there. On that road to Nanterre, you told me you’d listen to what I had to say because I gave you your life. I’m trying to give it to you again. You can walk away free, untouched, go on standing for the things you say are important to you, were important to your son. You can win! ... Don’t mistake me, I’m not being noble. Your staying alive and doing what I ask is the only way I can stay alive, the only way I’ll ever be free.”
The old soldier looked up. “Why?”
“I told you I wanted Carlos because something was taken from me—something very necessary to my life, my sanity—and he was the cause of it. That’s the truth—I believe it’s the truth—but it’s not the whole truth. There are other people involved, some decent, some not; and my agreement with them was to get Carlos, trap Carlos. They want what you want. But something happened that I can’t explain—I won’t try to explain—and those people think I betrayed them. They think I made a pact with Carlos, that I stole millions from them and killed others who were my links to them. They have men everywhere, and the orders are to execute me on sight. You were right: I’m running from more than Carlos. I’m hunted by men I don’t know and can’t see. For all the wrong reasons. I didn’t do the things they say I did, but no one wants to listen. I have no pact with Carlos—you know I don’t.”
“I believe you. There’s nothing to prevent me from making a call on your behalf. I owe you that.”
“How? What are you going to say? The man known to me as Jason Bourne has no pact with Carlos. I know this because he exposed Carlos’ mistress to me, and that woman was my wife, the wife I choked to death so as not to bring dishonor to my name. I’m about to call the Sûreté and confess my crime—although, of course, I won’t tell them why I killed her. Or why I’m going to kill myself.’ ... Is that it, General? Is that what you’re going to say?”
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