“Later,” said Bourne, throwing their suitcases on the bed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Marie sat in the armchair. She had reread the newspaper article again, selecting phrases, repeating them. Her concentration was absolute; she was consumed, more and more confident of her analysis.
“I’m right, Jason. Someone is sending us a message.”
“We’ll talk about it later; we’ve stayed here too long as it is. That newspaper’ll be all over this hotel in an hour, and the morning papers may be worse. It’s no time for modesty; you stand out in a hotel lobby, and you’ve been seen in this one by too many people. Get your things.”
Marie stood up, but made no other move. Instead, she held her place and forced him to look at her. “We’ll talk about several things later,” she said firmly. “You were leaving me, Jason, and I want to know why.”
“I told you I’d tell you,” he answered without evasion, “because you have to know and I mean that. But right now I want to get out of here. Get your things, goddamn it!”
She blinked, his sudden anger having its effect. “Yes, of course,” she whispered.
They took the elevator down to the lobby. As the worn marble floor came into view, Bourne had the feeling they were in a cage, exposed and vulnerable; if the machine stopped, they would be taken. Then he understood why the feeling was so strong. Below on the left was the front desk, the concierge sitting behind it, a pile of newspapers on the counter to his right. They were copies of the same tabloid Jason had put in the attaché case Marie was now carrying. The concierge had taken one; he was reading it avidly; poking a toothpick between his teeth, oblivious to everything but the latest scandal.
“Walk straight through,” said Jason. “Don’t stop, just go right to the door. I’ll meet you outside.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, seeing the concierge.
“I’ll pay him as quickly as I can.”
The sound of Marie’s heels on the marble floor was a distraction Bourne did not want. The concierge looked up as Jason moved in front of him, blocking his view.
“It’s been very pleasant,” he said in French, “but I’m in a great hurry. I have to drive to Lyon tonight. Just round out the figure to the nearest five hundred francs. I haven’t had time to leave gratuities.”
The financial distraction accomplished its purpose. The concierge reached his totals quickly; he presented the bill. Jason paid it and bent down for the suitcases, glancing up at the sound of surprise that exploded from the concierge’s gaping mouth. The man was staring at the pile of newspapers on his right, his eyes on the photograph of Marie St. Jacques. He looked over at the glass doors of the entrance; Marie stood on the pavement. He shifted his astonished gaze to Bourne; the connection was made, the man inhibited by sudden fear.
Jason walked rapidly toward the glass doors, angling his shoulder to push them open, glancing back at the front desk. The concierge was reaching for a telephone.
“Let’s go!” he cried to Marie. “Look for a cab!”
They found one on rue Lecourbe, five blocks from the hotel. Bourne feigned the role of an inexperienced American tourist, employing the inadequate French that had served him so well at the Valois Bank. He explained to the driver that he and his petite amie wanted to get out of central Paris for a day or so, someplace where they could be alone. Perhaps the driver could suggest several places and they would choose one.
The driver could and did. “There’s a small inn outside Issy-les-Moulineaux, called La Maison Carrée,” he said. “Another in Ivry sur Seine, you might like. It’s very private, monsieur. Or perhaps the Auberge du Coin in Montrouge; it’s very discreet.”
“Let’s take the first,” said Jason. “It’s the first that came to your mind. How long will it take?”
“No more than fifteen, twenty minutes, monsieur.”
“Good.” Bourne turned to Marie and spoke softly. “Change your hair.”
“What?”
“Change your hair. Pull it up or push it back, I don’t care, but change it. Move out of sight of his mirror. Hurry up!”
Several moments later Marie’s long auburn hair was pulled severely back, away from her face and neck, fastened with the aid of a mirror and hairpins from her purse into a tight chignon. Jason looked at her in the dim light.
“Wipe off your lipstick. All of it.”
She took out a tissue and did so. “All right?”
“Yes. Have you got an eyebrow pencil?”
“Of course.”
“Thicken your eyebrows; just a little bit. Extend them about a quarter of an inch; curve the ends down just a touch.”
Again she followed his instructions. “Now?” she asked.
“That’s better,” he replied, studying her. The changes were minor but the effect major. She had been subtly transformed from a softly elegant, striking woman into a harsher image. At the least, she was not on first sight the woman in the newspaper photograph and that was all that mattered.
“When we reach Moulineaux,” he whispered, “get out quickly and stand up. Don’t let the driver see you.”
“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
“Just do as I say.”
Listen to me. I am a chameleon called Cain and I can teach you many things I do not care to teach you, but at the moment I must. I can change my color to accommodate any backdrop in the forest, I can shift with the wind by smelling it. I can find my way through the natural and the manmade jungles. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta.… Delta is for Charlie and Charlie is for Cain. I am Cain. I am death. And I must tell you who I am and lose you.
“My darling, what is it?”
“What?”
“You’re looking at me; you’re not breathing. Are you all right?”
“Sorry,” he said, glancing away, breathing again. “I’m figuring out our moves. I’ll know better what to do when we get there.”
They arrived at the inn. There was a parking lot bordered by a post-and-rail fence on the right; several late diners came out of the lattice-framed entrance in front. Bourne leaned forward in the seat.
“Let us off inside the parking area, if you don’t mind,” he ordered, offering no explanation for the odd request.
“Certainly, monsieur,” said the driver, nodding his head, then shrugging, his movements conveying the fact that his passengers were, indeed, a cautious couple. The rain had subsided, returning to a mistlike drizzle. The taxi drove off. Bourne and Marie remained in the shadows of the foliage at the side of the inn until it disappeared. Jason put the suitcases down on the wet ground. “Wait here,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
“To phone for a taxi.”
The second taxi took them into the Montrouge district. This driver was singularly unimpressed by the stern-faced couple who were obviously from the provinces, and probably seeking cheaper lodgings. When and if he picked up a newspaper and saw a photograph of a French-Canadiènne involved with murder and theft in Zurich, the woman in his back seat now would not come to mind.
The Auberge du Coin did not live up to its name. It was not a quaint village inn situated in a secluded nook of the countryside. Instead, it was a large, flat, two-story structure a quarter of a mile off the highway. If anything, it was reminiscent of motels the world over that blighted the outskirts of cities; commerciality guaranteeing the anonymity of their guests. It was not hard to imagine various appointments by the scores that were best left to erroneous registrations.
So they registered erroneously and were given a plastic room where every accessory worth over twenty francs was bolted into the floor or attached with headless screws to lacquered formica. There was, however, one positive feature to the place; an ice machine down the hall. They knew it worked because they could hear it. With the door closed.
“All right, now. Who would be sending us a message?” asked Bourne, standing, revolving the glass of whiskey in his hand.
“If I knew, I’d get in touch with them,” she said, sitting at the small desk, chair turned, legs crossed, watching him closely. “It could be connected with why you were running away.”
“If it was, it was a trap.”
“It was no trap. A man like Walther Apfel didn’t do what he did to accommodate a trap.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Bourne walked to the single plastic armchair and sat down. “Koenig did; he marked me right there in the waiting room.”
“He was a bribed foot-soldier, not an officer of the bank. He acted alone. Apfel couldn’t.”
Jason looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Apfel’s statement had to be cleared by his superiors. It was made in the name of the bank.”
“If you’re so sure, let’s call Zurich.”
“They don’t want that. Either they haven’t the answer or they can’t give it. Apfel’s last words were that they would have no further comment. To anyone. That, too, was part of the message. We’re to contact someone else.”
Bourne drank; he needed the alcohol, for the moment was coming when he would begin the story of a killer named Cain. “Then we’re back to whom?” he said. “Back to the trap.”
“You think you know who it is, don’t you?” Marie reached for her cigarettes on the desk. “It’s why you were running, isn’t it?”
“The answer to both questions is yes.” The moment had come. The message was sent by Carlos. I am Cain and you must leave me. I must lose you. But first there is Zurich and you have to understand. “That article was planted to find me.”
“I won’t argue with that,” she broke in, surprising him with the interruption. “I’ve had time to think; they know the evidence is false—so patently false it’s ridiculous. The Zurich police fully expect me to get in touch with the Canadian Embassy now—” Marie stopped, the unlit cigarette in her hand. “My God, Jason, that’s what they want us to do!”
“Who wants us to do?”
“Whoever’s sending us the message. They know I have no choice but to call the embassy, get the protection of the Canadian government. I didn’t think of it because I’ve already spoken to the embassy, to what’s his name—Dennis Corbelier—and he had absolutely nothing to tell me. He only did what I asked him to do; there was nothing else. But that was yesterday, not today, not tonight.” Marie started for the telephone on the bedside table.
Bourne rose quickly from the chair and intercepted her, holding her arm. “Don’t” he said firmly.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re wrong.”
“I’m right, Jason! Let me prove it to you.”
Bourne moved in front of her. “I think you’d better listen to what I have to say.”
“No!” she cried, startling him. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now!”
“An hour ago in Paris it was the only thing you wanted to hear. Hear it!”
“No! An hour ago I was dying. You’d made up your mind to run. Without me. And I know now it will happen over and over again until it stops for you. You hear words, you see images, and fragments of things come back to you that you can’t understand, but because they’re there you condemn yourself. You always will condemn yourself until someone proves to you that whatever you were … there are others using you, who will sacrifice you. But there’s also someone else out there who wants to help you, help us. That’s the message! I know I’m right. I want to prove it to you. Let me!”
Bourne held her arms in silence, looking at her face, her lovely face filled with pain and useless hope, her eyes pleading. The terrible ache was everywhere within him. Perhaps it was better this way; she would see for herself, and her fear would make her listen, make her understand. There was nothing for them any longer. I am Cain … “All right, you can make the call, but it’s got to be done my way.” He released her and went to the telephone; he dialed the Auberge du Coin’s front desk. “This is room 341. I’ve just heard from friends in Paris; they’re coming out to join us in a while. Do you have a room down the hall for them? Fine. Their name is Briggs, an American couple. I’ll come down and pay in advance and you can let me have the key. Splendid. Thank you.”
“What are you doing?”
“Proving something to you,” he said. “Get me a dress,” he continued. “The longest one you’ve got.”
“What?”
“If you want to make your call, you’ll do as I tell you.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’ve admitted that,” he said, taking trousers and a shirt from his suitcase. “The dress, please.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Briggs’ room, six doors away and across the hall from room 341, was in readiness. The clothes had been properly placed, selected lights left on, others not functioning because the bulbs had been removed.
Jason returned to their room; Marie was standing by the telephone. “We’re set.”
“What have you done?”
“What I wanted to do; what I had to do. You can make the call now.”
“It’s very late. Suppose he isn’t there?”
“I think he will be. If not, they’ll give you his home phone. His name was in the telephone logs in Ottawa; it had to be.”
“I suppose it was.”
“Then he will have been reached. Have you gone over what I told you to say?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter; it’s not relevant. I know I’m not wrong.”
“We’ll see. Just say the words I told you. I’ll be right beside you listening. Go ahead.”
She picked up the phone and dialed. Seven seconds after she reached the embassy switchboard, Dennis Corbelier was on the line. It was quarter past one in the morning.
“Christ almighty, where are you?”
“You were expecting me to call, then?”
“I was hoping to hell you would! This place is in an uproar. I’ve been waiting here since five o’clock this afternoon.”
“So was Alan. In Ottawa.”
“Alan who? What are you talking about? Where the hell are you?”
“First I want to know what you have to tell me.”
“Tell you?”
“You have a message for me, Dennis. What is it?”
“What is what? What message?”
Marie’s face went pale. “I didn’t kill anyone in Zurich. I wouldn’t …”
“Then for God’s sake,” interrupted the attaché, “get in here! We’ll give you all the protection we can. No one can touch you here!”
“Dennis, listen to me! You’ve been waiting there for my call, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Someone told you to wait, isn’t that true?”
A pause. When Corbelier spoke, his voice was subdued. “Yes, he did. They did.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That you need our help. Very badly.”
Marie resumed breathing. “And they want to help us?”
“By us,” replied Corbelier, “you’re saying he’s with you, then?”
Bourne’s face was next to hers, his head angled to hear Corbelier’s words. He nodded.
“Yes,” she answered. “We’re together, but he’s out for a few minutes. It’s all lies; they told you that, didn’t they?”
“All they said was that you had to be found, protected. They do want to help you: they want to send a car for you. One of ours. Diplomatic.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know them by name; I don’t have to. I know their rank.”
“Rank?”
“Specialists, FS-Five. You don’t get much higher than that.”
“You trust them?”
“My God, yes! They reached me through Ottawa. Their orders came from Ottawa.”
“They’re at the embassy now?’
“No, they’re outposted.” Corbelier paused, obviously exasperated. “Jesus Christ, Marie—where are you?”
Bourne nodded again, she spoke.
“We’re at the Auberge du Coin in Montrouge. Under the name of Briggs.”
“I’ll get that car to you right away.”
“No, Dennis!” protested Marie, watching Jason, his eyes telling her to follow his instructions. “Send one in the morning. First thing in the morning—four hours from now, if you like.”
“I can’t do that! For your own sake.”
“You have to; you don’t understand. He was trapped into doing something and he’s frightened; he wants to run. If he knew I called you, he’d be running now. Give me time. I can convince him to turn himself in. Just a few more hours. He’s confused, but underneath he knows I’m right.” Marie said the words, looking at Bourne.
“What kind of a son of a bitch is he?”
“A terrified one,” she answered. “One who’s being manipulated. I need the time. Give it to me.”
“Marie …?” Corbelier stopped. “All right, first thing in the morning. Say … six o’clock. And, Marie, they want to help you. They can help you.”
“I know. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Marie hung up.
“Now, we’ll wait,” Bourne said.
“I don’t know what you’re proving. Of course he’ll call the FS-Fives, and of course they’ll show up here. What do you expect? He as much as admitted what he was going to do, what he thinks he has to do.”
“And these diplomatic FS-Fives are the ones sending us the message?”
“My guess is they’ll take us to who is. Or if those sending it are too far away, they’ll put us in touch with them. I’ve never been surer of anything in my professional life.”
Bourne looked at her. “I hope you’re right, because it’s your whole life that concerns me. If the evidence against you in Zurich isn’t part of any message, if it was put there by experts to find me—if the Zurich police believe it—then I’m that terrified man you spoke about to Corbelier. No one wants you to be right more than I do. But I don’t think you are.”
At three minutes past two, the lights in the motel corridor flickered and went out, leaving the long hallway in relative darkness, the spill from the stairwell the only source of illumination. Bourne stood by the door of their room, pistol in hand, the lights turned off, watching the corridor through a crack between the door’s edge and the frame. Marie was behind him, peering over his shoulder; neither spoke.
The footsteps were muffled, but there. Distinct, deliberate, two sets of shoes cautiously climbing the staircase. In seconds, the figures of two men could be seen emerging out of the dim light. Marie gasped involuntarily; Jason reached over his shoulder, his hand gripping her mouth harshly. He understood; she had recognized one of the two men, a man she had seen only once before. In Zurich’s Steppdeckstrasse, minutes before another had ordered her execution. It was the blond man they had sent up to Bourne’s room, the expendable scout brought now to Paris to spot the target he had missed. In his left hand was a small pencil light, in his right a long-barreled gun, swollen by a silencer.
His companion was shorter, more compact, his walk not unlike an animal’s tread, shoulders and waist moving fluidly with his legs. The lapels of his topcoat were pulled up, his head covered by a narrow-brimmed hat, shading his unseen face. Bourne stared at this man; there was something familiar about him, about the figure, the walk, the way he carried his head. What was it? What was it? He knew him.
But there was not time to think about it; the two men were approaching the door of the room reserved in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Briggs. The blond man held his pencil light on the numbers, then swept the beam down toward the knob and the lock.
What followed was mesmerizing in its efficiency. The stocky man held a ring of keys in his right hand, placing it under the beam of light, his fingers selecting a specific key. In his left hand he gripped a weapon, its shape in the spill revealing an outsized silencer for a heavy-calibered automatic, not unlike the powerful Sternlicht Luger favored by the Gestapo in World War Two. It could cut through webbed steel and concrete, its sound no more than a rheumatic cough, ideal for taking enemies of the state at night in quiet neighborhoods, nearby residents unaware of any disturbance, only of disappearance in the morning.
The shorter man inserted the key, turned it silently, then lowered the barrel of the gun to the lock. Three rapid coughs accompanied three flashes of light; the wood surrounding any bolts shattered. The door fell free; the two killers rushed inside.
There were two beats of silence, then an eruption of muffled gunfire, spits and white flashes from the darkness. The door was slammed shut; it would not stay closed, falling back as louder sounds of thrashing and collision came from within the room. Finally a light was found; it was snapped on briefly, then shot out in fury, a lamp sent crashing to the floor, glass shattering. A cry of frenzy exploded from the throat of an infuriated man.
The two killers rushed out, weapons leveled, prepared for a trap, bewildered that there was none. They reached the staircase and raced down as a door to the right of the invaded room opened. A blinking guest peered out, then shrugged and went back inside. Silence returned to the darkened hallway.
Bourne held his place, his arm around Marie St. Jacques. She was trembling, her head pressed into his chest, sobbing quietly, hysterically, in disbelief. He let the minutes pass, until the trembling subsided and deep breaths replaced the sobs. He could not wait any longer; she had to see for herself. See completely, the impression indelible; she had to finally understand. I am Cain. I am death.
“Come on,” he whispered.
He led her out into the hallway, guiding her firmly toward the room that was now his ultimate proof. He pushed the broken door open and they walked inside.
She stood motionless, both repelled and hypnotized by the sight. In an open doorway on the right was the dim silhouette of a figure, the light behind it so muted only the outline could be seen, and only then when the eyes adjusted to the strange admixture of darkness and glow. It was the figure of a woman in a long gown, the fabric moving gently in the breeze of an open window.
Window. Straight ahead was a second figure, barely visible but there, its shape an obscure blot indistinctly outlined by the wash of light from the distant highway. Again, it seemed to move, brief, spastic flutterings of cloth—of arms.
“Oh, God,” said Marie, frozen. “Turn on the lights, Jason.”
“None of them work,” he replied. “Only two table lamps; they found one.” He walked across the room cautiously and reached the lamp he was looking for; it was on the floor against the wall. He knelt down and turned it on; Marie shuddered.
Strung across the bathroom door, held in place by threads torn from a curtain, was her long dress, rippling from an unseen source of wind. It was riddled with bullet holes.
Against the far window, Bourne’s shirt and trousers had been tacked to the frame, the panes by both sleeves smashed, the breeze rushing in, causing the fabric to move up and down. The white cloth of the shirt was punctured in a half-dozen places, a diagonal line of bullets across the chest.
“There’s your message,” said Jason. “Now you know what it is. And now I think you’d better listen to what I have to say.”
Marie did not answer him. Instead, she walked slowly to the dress, studying it as if not believing what she saw. Without warning, she suddenly spun around, her eyes glittering, the tears arrested. “No! It’s wrong! Something’s terribly wrong! Call the embassy.”
“What?”
“Do as I say. Now!”
“Stop it, Marie. You’ve got to understand.”
“No, goddamn you! You’ve got to understand! It wouldn’t happen this way. It couldn’t.”
“It did.”
“Call the embassy! Use that phone over there and call it now! Ask for Corbelier. Quickly, for God’s sake! If I mean anything to you, do as I ask!”
Bourne could not deny her. Her intensity was killing both herself and him. “What do I tell him?” he asked, going to the telephone.
“Get him first! That’s what I’m afraid of … oh, God, I’m frightened!”
“What’s the number?”
She gave it to him; he dialed, holding on interminably for the switchboard to answer. When it finally did, the operator was in panic, her words rising and falling, at moments incomprehensible. In the background he could hear shouts, sharp commands voiced rapidly in English and in French. Within seconds he learned why.
Dennis Corbelier, Canadian attaché, had walked down the steps of the embassy on the avenue Montaigne at 1:40 in the morning and had been shot in the throat. He was dead.
“There’s the other part of the message, Jason,” whispered Marie, drained, staring at him. “And now I’ll listen to anything you have to say. Because there is someone out there trying to reach you, trying to help you. A message was sent, but not to us, not to me. Only to you, and only you were to understand it.”