Bourne held her in the close confines of the glass booth, gently lowering her to the seat that protruded from the narrow wall. She was shaking, breathing in swallows and gasps, her eyes glazed, coming into focus as she looked at him.
“They killed him. They killed him! My God, what did I do? Peter!”
“You didn’t do it! If anyone did it, I did. Not you. Get that through your head.”
“Jason, I’m frightened. He was half a world away … and they killed him!”
“Treadstone?”
“Who else? There were two phone calls, Washington … New York. He went to the airport to meet someone and he was killed.”
“How?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ …” Tears came to Marie’s eyes. “He was shot. In the throat,” she whispered.
Bourne suddenly felt a dull ache; he could not localize it, but it was there, cutting off air. “Carlos,” he said, not knowing why he said it.
“What?” Marie stared up at him. “What did you say?”
“Carlos,” he repeated softly. “A bullet in the throat. Carlos.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know.” He took her arm. “Let’s get out of here. Are you all right? Can you walk?”
She nodded, closing her eyes briefly, breathing deeply. “Yes.”
“We’ll stop for a drink; we both need it. Then we’ll find it.”
“Find what?”
“A bookstore on Saint-Germain.”
There were three back issues of magazines under the “Carlos” index. A three-year-old copy of the international edition of Potomac Quarterly and two Paris issues of Le Globe. They did not read the articles inside the store; instead they bought all three and took a taxi back to the hotel in Montparnasse. There they began reading, Marie on the bed, Jason in the chair by the window. Several minutes passed, and Marie bolted up.
“It’s here,” she said, fear in both her face and voice.
“Read it.”
“ ‘A particularly brutal form of punishment is said to be inflicted by Carlos and/or his small band of soldiers. It is death by a gunshot in the throat, often leaving the victim to die in excruciating pain. It is reserved for those who break the code of silence or loyalty demanded by the assassin, or others who have refused to divulge information.…’ ” Marie stopped, incapable of reading further. She lay back and closed her eyes. “He wouldn’t tell them and he was killed for it. Oh, my God …”
“He couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know,” said Bourne.
“But you knew!” Marie sat up again, her eyes open. “You knew about a gunshot in the throat! You said it!”
“I said it. I knew it. That’s all I can tell you.”
“How?”
“I wish I could answer that. I can’t.”
“Certainly.” Jason got up and went to the bureau. He poured two short glasses of whiskey and looked over at her. “Do you want me to call for some ice? Hervé’s on; it’ll be quick.”
“No. It won’t be quick enough.” She slammed the magazine down on the bed and turned to him—on him, perhaps. “I’m going crazy!”
“Join the party of two.”
“I want to believe you; I do believe you. But I … I …”
“You can’t be sure,” completed Bourne. “Any more than I can.” He brought her the glass. “What do you want me to say? What can I say? Am I one of Carlos’ soldiers? Did I break the code of silence or loyalty? Is that why I knew the method of execution?”
“Stop it!”
“I say that a lot to myself. ‘Stop it.’ Don’t think; try to remember, but somewhere along the line put the brakes on. Don’t go too far, too deep. One lie can be exposed, only to raise ten other questions intrinsic to that lie. Maybe it’s like waking up after a long drunk, not sure whom you fought with or slept with, or … goddamn it … killed.”
“No …” Marie drew out the word. “You are you. Don’t take that away from me.”
“I don’t want to. I don’t want to take it away from myself.” Jason went back to the chair and sat down, his face turned to the window. “You found … a method of execution. I found something else. I knew it, just as I knew about Howard Leland. I didn’t even have to read it.”
“Read what?”
Bourne reached down and picked up the three-year-old issue of Potomac Quarterly. The magazine was folded open to a page on which there was a sketch of a bearded man, the lines rough, inconclusive, as if drawn from an obscure description. He held it out for her.
“Read it,” he said. “It starts with the upper left, under the heading ‘Myth or Monster.’ Then I want to play a game.”
“A game?”
“Yes. I’ve read only the first two paragraphs; you’ll have to take my word for that.”
“All right.” Marie watched him, bewildered. She lowered the magazine into the light and read.
MYTH OR MONSTER
For over a decade, the name “Carlos” has been whispered in the back streets of such diverse cities as Paris, Teheran, Beirut, London, Cairo, and Amsterdam. He is said to be the supreme terrorist in the sense that his commitment is to murder and assassination in themselves, with no apparent political ideology. Yet there is concrete evidence that he has undertaken profitable executions for such extremist radical groups as the PLO and Baader-Meinhof, both as teacher and profiteer. Indeed, it is through his infrequent gravitation to, and the internal conflicts within, such terrorist organizations that a clearer picture of “Carlos” is beginning to emerge. Informers are coming out of the bloodied spleens and they talk.
Whereas tales of his exploits give rise to images of a world filled with violence and conspiracy, high explosives and higher intrigues, fast cars and faster women, the facts would seem to indicate at least as much Adam Smith as Ian Fleming. “Carlos” is reduced to human proportions and in the compression a truly frightening man comes into focus. The sadoromantic myth turns into a brilliant, blood-soaked monster who brokers assassination with the expertise of a market analyst, fully aware of wages, costs, distribution, and the divisions of underworld labor. It is a complicated business and “Carlos” is the master of its dollar value.
The portrait starts with a reputed name, as odd in its way as the owner’s profession. Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. He is said to be a Venezuelan, the son of a fanatically devoted but not very prominent Marxist attorney (the Ilich is the father’s salute to Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and partially explains “Carlos’ ” forays into extremist terrorism) who sent the young boy to Russia for the major part of his education, which included espionage training at the Soviet compound in Novgorod. It is here that portrait fades briefly, rumor and speculation now the artists. According to these, one or another committee of the Kremlin that regularly monitors foreign students for future infiltration purposes saw what they had in Ilich Sanchez and wanted no part of him. He was a paranoid, who saw all solutions in terms of a well-placed bullet or bomb; the recommendation was to send the youth back to Caracas and disassociate any and all Soviet ties with the family. Thus rejected by Moscow, and deeply antithetical to western society, Sanchez went about building his own world, one in which he was the supreme leader. What better way to become the apolitical assassin whose services could be contracted for by the widest range of political and philosophical clients?
The portrait becomes clearer again. Fluent in numerous languages including his native Spanish as well as Russian, French, and English, Sanchez used his Soviet training as a springboard for refining his techniques. Months of concentrated study followed his expulsion from Moscow, some say under the tutelage of the Cubans, Che Guevera in particular. He mastered the science and handling of all manner of weaponry and explosives; there was no gun he could not break down and reassemble blindfolded, no explosive he could not analyze by smell and touch and know how to detonate in a dozen different ways. He was ready; he chose Paris as his base of operations and the word went out. A man was for hire who would kill where others dared not.
Once again the portrait dims as much for lack of birth records as anything else. Just how old is “Carlos”? How many targets can be attributed to him and how many are myth—self-proclaimed or otherwise? Correspondents based in Caracas have been unable to unearth any birth certificates anywhere in the country for an Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. On the other hand, there are thousands upon thousands of Sanchezes in Venezuela, hundreds with Ramirez attached; but none with an Ilich in front. Was it added later, or is the omission simply further proof of “Carlos’ ” thoroughness? The consensus is that the assassin is between thirty-five and forty years of age. No one really knows.
A GRASSY KNOLL IN DALLAS?
But one fact not disputed is that the profits from his first several kills enabled the assassin to set up an organization that might be envied by an operations analyst of General Motors. It is capitalism at its most efficient, loyalty and service extracted by equal parts fear and reward. The consequences of disloyalty are swift in coming—death—but so, too, are the benefits of service—generous bonuses and huge expense allowances. The organization seems to have hand-picked executives everywhere; and this well-founded rumor leads to the obvious question. Where did the profits initially come from? Who were the original kills?
The one most often speculated upon took place thirteen years ago in Dallas. No matter how many times the murder of John F. Kennedy is debated, no one has ever satisfactorily explained a burst of smoke from a grassy knoll three hundred yards away from the motorcade. The smoke was caught on camera; two open police radios on motorcycles recorded noise(s). Yet neither shell casings nor footprints were found. In fact, the only information about the so-called grassy knoll at that moment was considered so irrelevant that it was buried in the FBI-Dallas investigation and never included in the Warren Commission Report. It was provided by a bystander, K. M. Wright of North Dallas, who when questioned made the following statement:
“Hell, the only son of bitch near there was old Burlap Billy, and he was a couple of hundred yards away.”
The “Billy” referred to was an aged Dallas tramp seen frequently panhandling in the tourist areas; the “Burlap” defined his penchant for wrapping his shoes in coarse cloth to play upon the sympathies of his marks. According to our correspondents, Wright’s statement was never made public.
Yet six weeks ago a captured Lebanese terrorist broke under questioning in Tel Aviv. Pleading to be spared execution he claimed to possess extraordinary information about the assassin “Carlos.” Israeli intelligence forwarded the report to Washington; our capitol correspondents obtained excerpts.
Statement: “Carlos was in Dallas in November 1963. He pretended to be Cuban and programmed Oswald. He was the back-up. It was his operation.”
Question: “What proof do you have?”
Statement: “I heard him say it. He was on a small embankment of grass beyond a ledge. His rifle had a wire shell-trap attached.”
Question: “It was never reported; why wasn’t he seen?”
Statement: “He may have been, but no one would have known it. He was dressed as an old man, with a shabby overcoat, and his shoes were wrapped in canvas to avoid footprints.”
A terrorist’s information is certainly not proof, but neither should it always be disregarded. Especially when it concerns a master assassin, known to be a scholar of deception, who has made an admission that so astonishingly corroborates an unknown unpublished statement about a moment of national crisis never investigated. That, indeed, must be taken seriously. As so many others associated—even remotely—with the tragic events in Dallas, “Burlap Billy” was found dead several days later from an overdose of drugs. He was known to be an old man drunk consistently on cheap wine; he was never known to use narcotics. He could not afford them.
Was “Carlos” the man on the grassy knoll? What an extraordinary beginning for an extraordinary career! If Dallas really was his “operation” how many millions of dollars must have been funneled to him? Certainly more than enough to establish a network of informers and soldiers that is a corporate world unto itself.
The myth has too much substance; Carlos may well be a monster of flesh and too much blood.
Marie put down the magazine. “What’s the game?”
“Are you finished?” Jason turned from the window.
“Yes.”
“I gather a lot of statements were made. Theory, supposition, equations.”
“Equations?”
“If something happened here, and there was an effect over there, a relationship existed.”
“You mean connections,” said Marie.
“All right, connections. It’s all there, isn’t it?”
“To a degree, you could say that. It’s hardly a legal brief; there’s a lot of speculation, rumor, and secondhand information.”
“There are facts, however.”
“Data.”
“Good. Data. That’s fine.”
“What’s the game?” Marie repeated.
“It’s got a simple title. It’s called ‘Trap.’ ”
“Trap whom?”
“Me.” Bourne sat forward. “I want you to ask me questions. Anything that’s in there. A phrase, the name of a city, a rumor, a fragment of … data. Anything. Let’s hear what my responses are. My blind responses.”
“Darling, that’s no proof of—”
“Do it!” ordered Jason.
“All right.” Marie raised the issue of Potomac Quarterly. “Beirut,” she said.
“Embassy,” he answered. “CIA station head posing as an attaché. Gunned down in the street. Three hundred thousand dollars.”
Marie looked at him. “I remember—” she began.
“I don’t!” interrupted Jason. “Go on.”
She returned his gaze, then went back to the magazine. “Baader-Meinhof.”
“Stuttgart. Regensburg. Munich. Two kills and a kidnapping, Baader accreditation. Fees from—” Bourne stopped, then whispered in astonishment, “U.S. sources. Detroit … Wilmington, Delaware.”
“Jason, what are—”
“Go on. Please.”
“The name, Sanchez.”
“The name is Ilich Ramirez Sanchez,” he replied. “He is … Carlos.”
“Why the Ilich?”
Bourne paused, his eyes wandering. “I don’t know.”
“It’s Russian, not Spanish. Was his mother Russian?”
“No … yes. His mother. It had to be his mother … I think. I’m not sure.”
“Novgorod.”
“Espionage compound. Communications, ciphers, frequency traffic. Sanchez is a graduate.”
“Jason, you read that here!”
“I did not read it! Please. Keep going.”
Marie’s eyes swept back to the top of the article. “Teheran.”
“Eight kills. Divided accreditation—Khomeini and PLO. Fee, two million. Source: Southwest Soviet sector.”
“Paris,” said Marie quickly.
“All contracts will be processed through Paris.”
“The contracts … Kills.”
“Whose kills? Whose contracts?”
“Sanchez … Carlos.”
“Carlos? Then they’re Carlos’ contracts, his kills. They have nothing to do with you.”
“Carlos’ contracts,” said Bourne, as if in a daze. “Nothing to do with … me,” he repeated, barely above a whisper.
“You just said it, Jason. None of this has anything to do with you!”
“No! That’s not true!” Bourne shouted, lunging up from the chair, holding his place, staring down at her. “Our contracts,” he added quietly.
“You don’t know what you’re saying!”
“I’m responding! Blindly! It’s why I had to come to Paris!” He spun around and walked to the window, gripping the frame. “That’s what the game is all about,” he continued. “We’re not looking for a lie, we’re looking for the truth, remember? Maybe we’ve found it; maybe the game revealed it.”
“This is no valid test! It’s a painful exercise in incidental recollection. If a magazine like Potomac Quarterly printed this, it would have been picked up by half the newspapers in the world. You could have read it anywhere.”
“The fact is I retained it.”
“Not entirely. You didn’t know where the Ilich came from, that Carlos’ father was a Communist attorney in Venezuela. They’re salient points, I’d think. You didn’t mention a thing about the Cubans. If you had, it would have led to the most shocking speculation written here. You didn’t say a word about it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dallas,” she said. “November 1963.”
“Kennedy,” replied Bourne.
“That’s it? Kennedy?”
“It happened then.” Jason stood motionless.
“It did, but that’s not what I’m looking for.”
“I know,” said Bourne, his voice once again flat, as if speaking in a vacuum. “A grassy knoll … Burlap Billy.”
“You read this!”
“No.”
“Then you heard it before, read it before.”
“That’s possible, but it’s not relevant, is it?”
“Stop it, Jason!”
“Those words again. I wish I could.”
“What are you trying to tell me? You’re Carlos?”
“God, no. Carlos wants to kill me, and I don’t speak Russian, I know that.”
“Then what?”
“What I said at the beginning. The game. The game is called Trap-the-Soldier.”
“A soldier?”
“Yes. One who defected from Carlos. It’s the only explanation, the only reason I know what I know. In all things.”
“Why do you say defect?”
“Because he does want to kill me. He has to; he thinks I know as much about him as anyone alive.”
Marie had been crouching on the bed; she swung her legs over the side, her hands at her sides. “That’s a result of defecting. What about the cause? If it’s true, then you did it, became … became—” She stopped.
“All things considered, it’s a little late to look for a moral position,” said Bourne, seeing the pain of acknowledgment on the face of the woman he loved. “I could think of several reasons, clichés. How about a falling out among thieves … killers.”
“Meaningless!” cried Marie. “There’s not a shred of evidence.”
“There’s buckets of it and you know it. I could have sold out to a higher bidder or stolen huge sums of money from the fees. Either would explain the account in Zurich.” He stopped briefly, looking at the wall above the bed, feeling, not seeing. “Either would explain Howard Leland, Marseilles, Beirut, Stuttgart … Munich. Everything. All the unremembered facts that want to come out. And one especially. Why I avoided his name, why I never mentioned him. I’m frightened. I’m afraid of him.”
The moment passed in silence; more was spoken of than fear. Marie nodded. “I’m sure you believe that,” she said, “and in a way I wish it were true. But I don’t think it is. You want to believe it because it supports what you just said. It gives you an answer … an identity. It may not be the identity you want, but God knows it’s better than wandering blindly through that awful labyrinth you face every day. Anything would be, I guess.” She paused. “And I wish it were true because then we wouldn’t be here.”
“What?”
“That’s the inconsistency, darling. The number or symbol that doesn’t fit in your equation. If you were what you say you were, and afraid of Carlos—and heaven knows you should be—Paris would be the last place on earth you’d feel compelled to go to. We’d be somewhere else; you said it yourself. You’d run away; you’d take the money from Zurich and disappear. But you’re not doing that; instead, you’re walking right back into Carlos’ den. That’s not a man who’s either afraid or guilty.”
“There isn’t anything else. I came to Paris to find out; it’s as simple as that.”
“Then run away. We’ll have the money in the morning; there’s nothing stopping you—us. That’s simple, too.” Marie watched him closely.
Jason looked at her, then turned away. He walked to the bureau and poured himself a drink. “There’s still Treadstone to consider,” he said defensively.
“Why any more than Carlos? There’s your real equation. Carlos and Treadstone. A man I once loved very much was killed by Treadstone. All the more reason for us to run, to survive.”
“I’d think you’d want the people who killed him exposed,” said Bourne. “Make them pay for it.”
“I do. Very much. But others can find them. I have priorities, and revenge isn’t at the top of the list. We are. You and I. Or is that only my judgment? My feelings.”
“You know better than that.” He held the glass tighter in his hand and looked over at her. “I love you,” he whispered.
“Then let’s run!” she said, raising her voice almost mechanically, taking a step toward him. “Let’s forget it all, really forget, and run as fast as we can, as far away as we can! Let’s do it!”
“I … I,” Jason stammered, the mists interfering, infuriating him. “There are … things.”
“What things? We love each other, we’ve found each other! We can go anywhere, be anyone. There’s nothing to stop us, is there?”
“Only you and me,” he repeated softly, the mists now closing in, suffocating him. “I know. I know. But I’ve got to think. There’s so much to learn, so much that has to come out.”
“Why is it so important?”
“It … just is.”
“Don’t you know?”
“Yes … No, I’m not sure. Don’t ask me now.”
“If not now, when? When can I ask you? When will it pass? Or will it ever?!”
“Stop it!” he suddenly roared, slamming the glass down on the wooden tray. “I can’t run! I won’t! I’ve got to stay here! I’ve got to know!”
Marie rushed to him, putting her hands first on his shoulders, then on his face, wiping away the perspiration. “Now you’ve said it. Can you hear yourself, darling? You can’t run because the closer you get, the more maddening it is for you. And if you did run, it would only get worse. You wouldn’t have a life, you’d live a nightmare. I know that.”
He reached for her face, touching it, looking at her. “Do you?”
“Of course. But you had to say it, not me.” She held him, her head against his chest. “I had to force you to. The funny thing is that I could run. I could get on a plane with you tonight and go wherever you wanted, disappear, and not look back, happier than I’ve ever been in my life. But you couldn’t do that. What is—or isn’t—here in Paris would eat away at you until you couldn’t stand it anymore. That’s the crazy irony, my darling. I could live with it but you couldn’t.”
“You’d just disappear?” asked Jason. “What about your family, your job—all the people you know?”
“I’m neither a child nor a fool,” she answered quickly. “I’d cover myself somehow, but I don’t think I’d take it very seriously. I’d request an extended leave for medical and personal reasons. Emotional stress, a breakdown; I could always go back, the department would understand.”
“Peter?”
“Yes.” She was silent for a moment. “We went from one relationship to another, the second more important to both of us, I think. He was like an imperfect brother you want to succeed in spite of his flaws, because underneath there was such decency.”
“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.”
She looked up at him. “You have the same decency. When you do the kind of work I do decency becomes very important. It’s not the meek who are inheriting the earth, Jason, it’s the corrupters. And I have an idea that the distance between corruption and killing is a very short step.”
“Treadstone Seventy-One?”
“Yes. We were both right. I do want them exposed, I want them to pay for what they’ve done. And you can’t run away.”
He brushed his lips against her cheek and then her hair and held her. “I should throw you out,” he said. “I should tell you to get out of my life. I can’t do it, but I know damned well I should.”
“It wouldn’t make any difference if you did. I wouldn’t go, my love.”
The attorney’s suite of offices was on the boulevard de la Chapelle, the book-lined conference room more a stage setting than an office; everything was a prop, and in its place. Deals were made in that room, not contracts. As for the lawyer himself, a dignified white goatee and silver pince-nez above an aquiline nose could not conceal the essential graft in the man. He even insisted on conversing in poor English, for which, at a later date, he could claim to have been misunderstood.
Marie did most of the talking, Bourne deferring, client to adviser. She made her points succinctly, altering the cashiers checks to bearer bonds, payable in dollars, in denominations ranging from a maximum of twenty thousand dollars to a minimum of five. She instructed the lawyer to tell the bank that all series were to be broken up numerically in threes, the international guarantors changed with every fifth lot of certificates. Her objective was not lost on the attorney; she so complicated the issuing of the bonds that tracing them would be beyond the facilities of most banks or brokers. Nor would such banks or brokers take on the added trouble or expense; payments were guaranteed.
When the irritated, goateed lawyer had nearly concluded his telephone conversation with an equally disturbed Antoine d’Amacourt, Marie held up her hand.
“Pardon me, but Monsieur Bourne insists that Monsieur d’Amacourt also include two hundred thousand francs in cash, one hundred thousand to be included with the bonds and one hundred to be held by Monsieur d’Amacourt. He suggests that the second hundred thousand be divided as follows. Seventy-five thousand for Monsieur d’Amacourt and twenty-five thousand for yourself. He realizes that he is greatly in debt to both of you for your advice and the additional trouble he has caused you. Needless to say, no specific record of breakdown is required.”
Irritation and disturbance vanished with her words, replaced by an obsequiousness not seen since the court of Versailles. The arrangements were made in accordance with the unusual—but completely understandable—demands of Monsieur Bourne and his esteemed adviser.
A leather attaché case was provided by Monsieur Bourne for the bonds and the money; it would be carried by an armed courier who would leave the bank at 2:30 in the afternoon and meet Monsieur Bourne at 3:00 on the Pont Neuf. The distinguished client would identify himself with a small piece of leather cut from the shell of the case and which, when fitted in place, would prove to be the missing fragment. Added to this would be the words: “Herr Koenig sends greeting from Zurich.”
So much for the details. Except for one, which was made clear by Monsieur Bourne’s adviser.
“We recognize that the demands of the fiche must be carried out to the letter, and fully expect Monsieur d’Amacourt to do so,” said Marie St. Jacques. “However, we also recognize that the timing can be advantageous to Monsieur Bourne, and would expect no less than that advantage. Were he not to have it, I’m afraid that I, as a certified—if for the present, anonymous—member of the International Banking Commission, would feel compelled to report certain aberrations of banking and legal procedures as I have witnessed them. I’m sure that won’t be necessary; we’re all very well paid, n’est-ce pas, monsieur?”
“C’est vrai, madame! In banking and law … indeed, as in life itself … timing is everything. You have nothing to fear.”
“I know,” said Marie.
Bourne examined the grooves of the silencer, satisfied that he had removed the particles of dust and lint that had gathered with nonuse. He gave it a final, wrenching turn, depressed the magazine release and checked the clip. Six shells remained; he was ready. He shoved the weapon into his belt and buttoned his jacket.
Marie had not seen him with the gun. She was sitting on the bed, her back to him, talking on the telephone with the Canadian Embassy attaché, Dennis Corbelier. Cigarette smoke curled up from an ashtray next to her notebook; she was writing down Corbelier’s information. When he had finished, she thanked him and hung up the phone. She remained motionless for two or three seconds, the pencil still in her hand.
“He doesn’t know about Peter,” she said, turning to Jason. “That’s odd.”
“Very,” agreed Bourne. “I thought he’d be one of the first to know. You said they looked over Peter’s telephone logs; he’d placed a call to Paris, to Corbelier. You’d think someone would have followed up on it.”
“I hadn’t even considered that. I was thinking about the newspapers, the wire services. Peter was … was found eighteen hours ago, and regardless of how casual I may have sounded, he was an important man in the Canadian government. His death would be news in itself, his murder infinitely more so.… It wasn’t reported.”
“Call Ottawa tonight. Find out why.”
“I will.”
“What did Corbelier tell you?”
“Oh, yes.” Marie shifted her eyes to the notebook. “The license in rue Madeleine was meaningless, a car rented at De Gaulle Airport to a Jean-Pierre Larousse.”
“John Smith,” interrupted Jason.
“Exactly. He had better luck with the telephone number d’Amacourt gave you, but he can’t see what it could possibly have to do with anything. Neither can I, as a matter of fact.”
“It’s that strange?”
“I think so. It’s a private line belonging to a fashion house on Saint-Honoré. Les Classiques.”
“A fashion house? You mean a studio?”
“I’m sure it’s got one, but it’s essentially an elegant dress shop. Like the House of Dior, or Givenchy. Haute couture. In the trade, Corbelier said, it’s known as the House of René. That’s Bergeron.”
“Who?”
“René Bergeron, a designer. He’s been around for years, always on the fringes of a major success. I know about him because my little lady back home copies his designs.”
“Did you get the address?”
Marie nodded. “Why didn’t Corbelier know about Peter? Why doesn’t everybody?”
“Maybe you’ll learn when you call. It’s probably as simple as time zones; too late for the morning editions here in Paris. I’ll pick up the afternoon paper.” Bourne went to the closet for his topcoat, conscious of the hidden weight in his belt. “I’m going back to the bank. I’ll follow the courier to the Pont Neuf.” He put on the coat, aware that Marie was not listening. “I meant to ask you, do these fellows wear uniforms?”
“Who?”
“Bank couriers.”
“That would account for the newspapers, not the wire services.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The difference in time. The papers might not have picked it up, but the wire services would have known. And embassies have teletypes; they would have known about it. It wasn’t reported, Jason.”
“You’ll call tonight,” he said. “I’m going.”
“You asked about the couriers. Do they wear uniforms?”
“I was curious.”
“Most of the time, yes. They also drive armored vans, but I was specific about that. If a van was used it was to be parked a block from the bridge, the courier to proceed on foot.”
“I heard you, but I wasn’t sure what you meant. Why?”
“A bonded courier’s bad enough, but he’s necessary; bank insurance requires him. A van is simply too obvious; it could be followed too easily. You won’t change your mind and let me go with you?”
“No.”
“Believe me, nothing will go wrong; those two thieves wouldn’t permit it.”
“Then there’s no reason for you to be there.”
“You’re maddening.”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“I know. And you move faster without me.” Marie got up and came to him. “I do understand.” She leaned into him, kissing him on the lips, suddenly aware of the weapon in his belt. She looked into his eyes. “You are worried, aren’t you?”
“Just cautious.” He smiled, touching her chin. “It’s an awful lot of money. It may have to keep us for a long time.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“The money?”
“No. Us.” Marie frowned. “A safety deposit box.”
“You keep talking in non sequiturs.”
“You can’t leave negotiable certificates worth over a million dollars in a Paris hotel room. You’ve got to get a deposit box.”
“We can do it tomorrow.” He released her, turning for the door. “While I’m out, look up Les Classiques in the phone book and call the regular number. Find out how late it’s open.” He left quickly.
Bourne sat in the back seat of a stationary taxi, watching the front of the bank through the windshield. The driver was humming an unrecognizable tune, reading a newspaper, content with the fifty-franc note he had received in advance. The cab’s motor, however, was running; the passenger had insisted upon that.
The armored van loomed in the right rear window, its radio antenna shooting up from the center of the roof like a tapered bowsprit. It parked in a space reserved for authorized vehicles directly in front of Jason’s taxi. Two small red lights appeared above the circle of bulletproof glass in the rear door. The alarm system had been activated.
Bourne leaned forward, his eyes on the uniformed man who climbed out of the side door and threaded his way through the crowds on the pavement toward the entrance of the bank. He felt a sense of relief; the man was not one of the three well-dressed men who had come to the Valois yesterday.
Fifteen minutes later the courier emerged from the bank, the leather attaché case in his left hand, his right covering an unlatched holster. The jagged rip on the side of the case could be seen clearly. Jason felt the fragment of leather in his shirt pocket; if nothing else it was the primitive combination that made a life beyond Paris, beyond Carlos, possible. If there was such a life and he could accept it without the terrible labyrinth from which he could find no escape.
But it was more than that. In a manmade labyrinth one kept moving, running, careening off walls, the contact itself a form of progress, if only blind. His personal labyrinth had no walls, no defined corridors through which to race. Only space, and swirling mists in the darkness that he saw so clearly when he opened his eyes at night and felt the sweat pouring down his face. Why was it always space and darkness and high winds? Why was he always plummeting through the air at night? A parachute. Why? Then other words came to him; he had no idea where they were from, but they were there and he heard them.
What’s left when your memory’s gone? And your identity, Mr. Smith?
Stop it!
The armored van swung into the traffic on rue Madeleine. Bourne tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Follow that truck, but keep at least two cars between us,” he said in French.
The driver turned, alarmed. “I think you have the wrong taxi, monsieur. Take back your money.”
“I’m with the armored-car company, you imbecile. It’s a special assignment.”
“Regrets, monsieur. We will not lose it.” The driver plunged diagonally forward into the combat of traffic.
The van took the quickest route to the Seine, going down sidestreets. Turning left on the Quai de la Rapée toward the Pont Neuf. Then, within what Jason judged to be three or four blocks of the bridge, it slowed down, hugging the curb as if the courier had decided he was too early for his appointment. But, if anything, Bourne thought, he was running late. It was six minutes to three, barely enough time for the man to park and walk the one prescribed block to the bridge. Then why had the van slowed down? Slowed down? No, it had stopped; it wasn’t moving! Why?
The traffic?… Good God, of course—the traffic!
“Stop here,” said Bourne to the driver. “Pull over to the curb. Quickly!”
“What is it, monsieur?”
“You’re a very fortunate man,” said Jason. “My company is willing to pay you an additional one hundred francs if you simply go to the front window of that van and say a few words to the driver.”
“What, monsieur?”
“Frankly, we’re testing him. He’s new. Do you want the hundred?”
“I just go to the window and say a few words?”
“That’s all. Five seconds at the most, then you can go back to your taxi and drive off.”
“There’s no trouble? I don’t want trouble.”
“My firm’s among the most respectable in France. You’ve seen our trucks everywhere.”
“I don’t know …”
“Forget it!” Bourne reached for the door handle.
“What are the words?”
Jason held out the hundred francs. “Just these: ‘Herr Koenig. Greetings from Zurich.’ Can you remember those?”
“ ‘Koenig. Greetings from Zurich.’ What’s so difficult?”
“You? Behind me?”
“That’s right.” They walked rapidly toward the van, hugging the right side of their small alley in the traffic as cars and trucks passed them in starts and stops on their left. The van was Carlos’ trap, thought Bourne. The assassin had bought his way into the ranks of the armed couriers. A single name and a rendezvous revealed over a monitored radio frequency could bring an underpaid messenger a great deal of money. Bourne. Pont Neuf. So simple. This particular courier was less concerned with being prompt than in making sure the soldiers of Carlos reached the Pont Neuf in time. Paris traffic was notorious; anyone could be late. Jason stopped the taxi driver, holding in his hand four additional two-hundred franc notes; the man’s eyes were riveted on them.
“Monsieur?”
“My company’s going to be very generous. This man must be disciplined for gross infractions.”
“What, monsieur?”
“After you say ‘Herr Koenig. Greetings from Zurich,’ simply add, ‘The schedule’s changed. There’s a fare in my taxi who must see you.’ Have you got that?”
The driver’s eyes returned to the franc notes. “What’s difficult?” He took the money.
They edged their way along the side of the van, Jason’s back pressed against the wall of steel, his right hand concealed beneath his topcoat, gripping the gun in his belt. The driver approached the window and reached up, tapping the glass.
“You inside! Herr Koenig! Greetings from Zurich!” he yelled.
The window was rolled down, no more than an inch or two. “What is this?” a voice yelled back. “You’re supposed to be at the Pont Neuf, monsieur!”
The driver was no idiot; he was also anxious to leave as rapidly as possible. “Not me, you jackass!” he shouted through the din of the surrounding, perilously close traffic. “I’m telling you what I was told to say! The schedule’s been changed. There’s a man back there who says he has to see you!”
“Tell him to hurry,” said Jason, holding a final fifty-franc note in his hand, beyond sight of the window.
The driver glanced at the money, then back up at the courier. “Be quick about it! If you don’t see him right away you’ll lose your job!”
“Now, get out of here!” said Bourne. The driver turned and ran past Jason, grabbing the franc note as he raced back to his taxi.
Bourne held his place, suddenly alarmed by what he heard through the cacaphony of pounding horns and gunning engines in the crowded street. There were voices from inside the van, not one man shouting into a radio, but two shouting at each other. The courier was not alone; there was another man with him.
“Those were the words. You heard them.”
“He was to come up to you. He was to show himself.”
“Which he will do. And present the piece of leather, which must fit exactly! Do you expect him to do that in the middle of a street filled with traffic?”
“I don’t like it!”
“You paid me to help you and your people find someone. Not to lose my job. I’m going!”
“It must be the Pont Neuf!”
“Kiss my ass!”
There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the metal floorboards. “I’m coming with you!”
The panel door opened; Jason spun behind it, his hand still under his coat. Below him a child’s face was pressed against the glass of a car window, the eyes squinting, the young features contorted into an ugly mask, fright and insult the childish intent. The swelling sound of angry horns, blaring in counterpoint, filled the street; the traffic had come to a standstill.
The courier stepped off the metal ledge, the attaché case in his left hand. Bourne was ready; the instant the courier was on the street, he slammed the panel back into the body of the second man, crashing the heavy steel into a descending kneecap and an outstretched hand. The man screamed, reeling backward inside the van. Jason shouted at the courier, the jagged scrap of leather in his free hand.
“I’m Bourne! Here’s your fragment! And you keep that gun in its holster or you won’t just lose your job, you’ll lose your life, you son of a bitch!”
“I meant no harm, monsieur! They wanted to find you! They have no interest in your delivery, you have my word on it!”
The door crashed open; Jason slammed it again with his shoulder, then pulled it back to see the face of Carlos’ soldier, his hand on the weapon in his belt.
What he saw was the barrel of a gun, the black orifice of its opening staring him in the eyes. He spun back, aware that the split-second delay in the gunshot that followed was caused by the burst of a shrill ringing that exploded out of the armored van. The alarm had been tripped, the sound deafening, riding over the dissonance in the street; the gunshot seemed muted by comparison, the eruption of asphalt below not heard.
Once more Jason hammered the panel. He heard the impact of metal against metal; he had made contact with the gun of Carlos’ soldier. He pulled his own from his belt, dropped to his knees in the street, and pulled the door open.
He saw the face from Zurich, the killer they had called Johann, the man they had brought to Paris to recognize him. Bourne fired twice; the man arched backward, blood spreading across his forehead.
The courier! The attaché case!
Jason saw the man; he had ducked below the tailgate for protection, his weapon in his hand, screaming for help. Bourne leaped to his feet and lunged for the extended gun, gripping the barrel, twisting it out of the courier’s hand. He grabbed the attaché case and shouted.
“No harm, right? Give me that, you bastard!” He threw the man’s gun under the van, got up and plunged into the hysterical crowds on the pavement.
He ran wildly, blindly, the bodies in front of him the movable walls of his labyrinth. But there was an essential difference between this gauntlet and one he lived in every day. There was no darkness; the afternoon sun was bright, as blinding as his race through the labyrinth.