“She was so charming, I simply must do something for her,” cried Marie in ebullient French into the telephone. “Also for the sweet young man; he was of such help. I tell you, the dress was a succès fou! I’m so grateful.”
“From your descriptions, madame,” replied the cultured male voice on the switchboard at Les Classiques, “I’m sure you mean Janine and Claude.”
“Yes, of course. Janine and Claude, I remember now. I’ll drop each a note with a token of my thanks. Would you by any chance know their last names? I mean, it seems so crass to address envelopes simply to ‘Janine’ and ‘Claude.’ Rather like sending missives to servants, don’t you think? Could you ask Jacqueline?”
“It’s not necessary, madame. I know them. And may I say that madame is as sensitive as she is generous. Janine Dolbert and Claude Oreale.”
“Janine Dolbert and Claude Oreale,” repeated Marie, looking at Jason. “Janine is married to that cute pianist, isn’t she?”
“I don’t believe Mademoiselle Dolbert is married to anyone.”
“Of course. I’m thinking of someone else.”
“If I may, madame, I didn’t catch your name.”
“How silly of me!” Marie thrust the phone away and raised her voice. “Darling, you’re back, and so soon! That’s marvelous. I’m talking to those lovely people at Les Classiques.… Yes, right away, my dear.” She pulled the phone to her lips. “Thank you so much. You’ve been very kind.” She hung up. “How’d I do?”
“If you ever decide to get out of economics,” said Jason, poring through the Paris telephone book, “go into sales. I bought every word you said.”
“Were the descriptions accurate?”
“To a cadaver and a very limp wrist. Nice touch, the pianist.”
“It struck me that if she were married, the phone would be in her husband’s name.”
“It isn’t,” interrupted Bourne. “Here it is. Dolbert, Janine, rue Losserand.” Jason wrote down the address. “Oreale, that’s with an O, like the bird, isn’t it? Not Au.”
“I think so.” Marie lit a cigarette. “You’re really going to go to their homes?”
Bourne nodded. “If I picked them up in Saint-Honoré, Carlos will have it watched.”
“What about the others? Lavier, Bergeron, whoever-he-is on the switchboard.”
“Tomorrow. Today’s for the groundswell.”
“The what?”
“Get them all talking. Running around saying things that shouldn’t be said. By closing time, word will be spread through the store by Dolbert and Oreale. I’ll reach two others tonight; they’ll call Lavier and the man at the switchboard. We’ll have the first shock wave, and then the second. The general’s phone will start ringing this afternoon. By morning the panic should be complete.”
“Two questions,” said Marie, getting up from the edge of the bed and coming toward him. “How are you going to get two clerks away from Les Classiques during store hours? And what people will you reach tonight?”
“Nobody lives in a deep freeze,” replied Bourne, looking at his watch. “Especially in haute couture. It’s 11:15 now; I’ll get to Dolbert’s apartment by noon and have the superintendent reach her at work. He’ll tell her to come home right away. There’s an urgent, very personal problem she’d better deal with.”
“What problem?”
“I don’t know, but who hasn’t got one?”
“You’ll do the same with Oreale?”
“Probably even more effective.”
“You’re outrageous, Jason.”
“I’m deadly serious,” said Bourne, his finger once again sliding down a column of names. “Here he is. Oreale, Claude Giselle. No comment. Rue Racine. I’ll reach him by three; when I’m finished he’ll head right back to Saint-Honoré and start screaming.”
“What about the other two? Who are they?”
“I’ll get names from either Oreale or Dolbert, or both. They won’t know it, but they’ll be giving me the second shock wave.”
Jason stood in the shadows of the recessed doorway, in rue Losserand. He was fifteen feet from the entrance to Janine Dolbert’s small apartment house where moments before a bewildered and suddenly richer surintendant had obliged a well-spoken stranger by calling Mademoiselle Dolbert at work and telling her that a gentleman in a chauffeured limousine had been around twice asking for her. He was back again; what should the surintendant do?
A small black taxi pulled up to the curb, and an agitated, cadaverous Janine Dolbert literally jumped out. Jason rushed from the doorway, intercepting her on the pavement, only feet from the entrance.
“That was quick,” he said, touching her elbow. “So nice to see you again. You were very helpful the other day.”
Janine Dolbert stared at him, her lips parted in recollection, then astonishment. “You. The American,” she said in English. “Monsieur Briggs, isn’t it? Are you the one who—”
“I told my chauffeur to take an hour off. I wanted to see you privately.”
“Me? What could you possibly wish to see me about?”
“Don’t you know? Then why did you race back here?”
The wide eyes beneath the short, bobbed hair were fixed on his, her pale face paler in the sunlight. “You’re from the House of Azur, then?” she asked tentatively.
“I could be.” Bourne applied a bit more pressure to her elbow. “And?”
“I’ve delivered what I promised. There will be nothing more, we agreed to that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t be an idiot! You don’t know Paris couture. Someone will get furious with someone else and make bitchy comments in your own studio. What strange deviations! And when the fall line comes out, with you parading half of Bergeron’s designs before he does, how long do you think I can stay at Les Classiques? I’m Lavier’s number two girl, one of the few who has access to her office. You’d better take care of me as you promised. In one of your Los Angeles shops.”
“Let’s take a walk,” said Jason, gently propelling her. “You’ve got the wrong man, Janine. I’ve never heard of the House of Azur, and haven’t the slightest interest in stolen designs—except where the knowledge can be useful.”
“Oh, my God …”
“Keep walking.” Bourne gripped her arm. “I said I wanted to talk to you.”
“About what? What do you want from me? How did you get my name?” The words came rapidly now, the phrases overlapping. “I took an early lunch hour and must return at once; we’re very busy today. Please—you’re hurting my arm.”
“Sorry.”
“What I said; it was foolishness. A lie. On the floor, we’ve heard rumors; I was testing you. That’s what I was doing, I was testing you!”
“You’re very convincing. I’ll accept that.”
“I’m loyal to Les Classiques. I’ve always been loyal.”
“It’s a fine quality, Janine. I admire loyalty. I was saying that the other day to … what’s his name?… that nice fellow on the switchboard. What is his name? I forget.”
“Philippe,” said the salesclerk, frightened, obsequious. “Philippe d’Anjou.”
“That’s it. Thank you.” They reached a narrow, cobblestone alleyway between two buildings. Jason guided her into it. “Let’s step in here for a moment, just so we’re off the street. Don’t worry, you won’t be late. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.” They walked ten paces into the narrow enclosure. Bourne stopped; Janine Dolbert pressed her back against the brick wall. “Cigarette?” he asked, taking a pack from his pocket.
“Thank you, yes.”
He lighted it for her, noting that her hand trembled. “Relaxed now?”
“Yes. No, not really. What do you want, Monsieur Briggs?”
“To begin with, the name’s not Briggs, but I think you should know that.”
“I don’t. Why should I?”
“I was sure Lavier’s number one girl would have told you.”
“Monique?”
“Use last names, please. Accuracy’s important.”
“Brielle, then,” said Janine frowning curiously. “Does she know you?”
“Why not ask her?”
“As you wish. What is it, monsieur?”
Jason shook his head. “You really don’t know, do you? Three-quarters of the employees at Les Classiques are working with us and one of the brightest wasn’t even contacted. Of course it’s possible someone thought you were a risk; it happens.”
“What happens? What risk? Who are you?”
“There isn’t time now. The others can fill you in. I’m here because we’ve never received a report from you, and yet you speak to prime customers all day long.”
“You must be clearer, monsieur.”
“Let’s say I’m the spokesman for a group of people—American, French, English, Dutch—closing in on a killer who’s murdered political and military leaders in each of our countries.”
“Murdered? Military, political …” Janine’s mouth gaped, the ash of her cigarette breaking off, spilling over her rigid hand. “What is this? What are you talking about? I’ve heard none of this!”
“I can only apologize,” said Bourne softly, sincerely. “You should have been contacted several weeks ago. It was an error on the part of the man before me. I’m sorry; it must be a shock to you.”
“It is a shock, monsieur,” whispered the salesclerk, her concave body tensed, a bent, lacquered reed against the brick. “You speak of things beyond my understanding.”
“But now I understand,” interrupted Jason. “Not a word from you about anyone. Now it’s clear.”
“It’s not to me.”
“We’re closing in on Carlos. The assassin known as Carlos.”
“Carlos?” The cigarette fell from Dolbert’s hand, the shock complete.
“He’s one of your most frequent customers, all the evidence points to it. We’ve narrowed the probabilities down to eight men. The trap is set for sometime in the next several days, and we’re taking every precaution.”
“Precaution …?”
“There’s always the danger of hostages, we all know that. We anticipate gunfire, but it will be kept to a minimum. The basic problem will be Carlos himself. He’s sworn never to be taken alive; he walks the streets wired up to explosives calculated to be in excess of a thousand-pound bomb. But we can handle that. Our marksmen will be on the scene; one clean shot to the head and it’ll be all over.”
“Une seule balle …”
Suddenly Bourne looked at his watch. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. You’ve got to get back to the shop and I have to get back to my post. Remember, if you see me outside, you don’t know me. If I come into Les Classiques, treat me as you would any rich client. Except if you’ve spotted a customer you think may be our man; then don’t waste time telling me. Again, I’m sorry about all this. It was a breakdown in communications, that’s all. It happens.”
“Une rupture …?”
Jason nodded, turned in place, and began walking rapidly out of the alleyway toward the street. He stopped and glanced back at Janine Dolbert. She was comatose against the wall; for her the elegant world of haute couture was spinning wildly out of orbit.
Philippe d’Anjou. The name meant nothing to him, but Bourne could not help himself. He kept repeating it silently trying to raise an image … as the face of the gray-haired switchboard operator gave rise to such violent images of darkness and flashes of light. Philippe d’Anjou. Nothing. Nothing at all. Yet there had been something, something that caused Jason’s stomach to knot, the muscles taut and inflexible, a flat panel of hard flesh constricted … by the darkness.
He sat by the front window and the door of a coffee shop on the rue Racine, prepared to get up and leave the moment he saw the figure of Claude Oreale arrive at the doorway of the ancient building across the street. His room was on the fifth floor, in a flat he shared with two other men, reached only by climbing a worn, angular staircase. When he did arrive, Bourne was sure he would not be walking.
For Claude Oreale, who had been so effusive with Jacqueline Lavier on another staircase in Saint-Honoré, had been told by a toothless landlady over the phone to get his sale gueule back to rue Racine and put a stop to the screaming and smashing of furniture that was taking place in his fifth-floor flat. Either he would stop it or the gendarmes would be called; he had twenty minutes to show up.
He did so in fifteen. His slight frame, encased in a Pierre Cardin suit—rear flap fluttering in the headwind—could be seen racing up the sidewalk from the nearby Métro exit. He avoided collisions with the agility of an out-of-shape broken-field runner trained by the Ballets Russe. His thin neck was thrust forward several inches in front of his vested chest, his long dark hair a flowing mane parallel to the pavement. He reached the entrance and gripped the railing, leaping up the steps and plunging into the shadows of the foyer.
Jason walked rapidly out of the coffee shop and raced across the street. Inside, he ran to the ancient staircase then started up the cracked steps. From the fourth floor landing, he could hear the pounding on the door above.
“Ouvrez! Ouvrez! Vite, nom de Dieu!” Oreale stopped, the silence within perhaps more frightening than anything else.
Bourne climbed the remaining steps until he could see Oreale between the bars of the railing and the floor. The clerk’s frail body was pressed into the door, his hands on either side, fingers spread, his ear against the wood, his face flushed. Jason shouted in guttural, bureaucratic French, as he rushed up into view. “Sûreté! Stay exactly where you are, young man. Let’s not have any unpleasantness. We’ve been watching you and your friends. We know about the darkroom.”
“No!” screamed Oreale. “It has nothing to do with me, I swear it! Darkroom?”
Bourne raised his hand. “Be quiet. Don’t shout so!” He immediately followed his commands by leaning over the railing and looking below.
“You can’t involve me!” continued the salesclerk. “I’m not involved! I’ve told them over and over again to get rid of it all! One day they’ll kill themselves. Drugs are for idiots! My God, it’s quiet. I think they’re dead!”
Jason stood up from the railing and approached Oreale, his palms raised. “I told you to shut up,” he whispered harshly. “Get inside there and be quiet! This was all for the benefit of that old bitch downstairs.”
The salesclerk was transfixed, his panic suspended in silent hysteria. “What?”
“You’ve got a key,” said Bourne. “Open up and get inside.”
“It’s bolted,” replied Oreale. “It’s always bolted during these times.”
“You damn fool, we had to reach you! We had to get you here without anyone knowing why. Open that door. Quickly!”
Like the terrified rabbit he was, Claude Oreale fumbled in his pocket and found the key. He unlocked the door and pushed it open as a man might entering a storage vault filled with mutilated corpses. Bourne propelled him through the doorframe, stepped inside and closed the door.
What could be seen of the flat belied the rest of the building. The fair-sized living room was filled with sleek, expensive furniture, dozens of red and yellow velvet pillows scattered about on couches, chairs and the floor. It was an erotic room, a luxurious sanctuary in the midst of debris.
“I’ve only got a few minutes,” said Jason. “No time for anything but business.”
“Business?” asked Oreale, his expression flat-out paralyzed. “This … this darkroom? What darkroom?”
“Forget it. You had something better going.”
“What business?”
“We received word from Zurich and we want you to get it to your friend Lavier.”
“Madame Jacqueline? My friend?”
“We can’t trust the phones.”
“What phones? The word? What word?”
“Carlos is right.”
“Carlos? Carlos who?”
“The assassin.”
Claude Oreale screamed. He brought his hand up to his mouth, bit the knuckle of his index finger and screamed. “What are you saying?”
“Be quiet!”
“Why are you saying it to me?”
“You’re number five. We’re counting on you.”
“Five what? For what?”
“To help Carlos escape the net. They’re closing in. Tomorrow, the next day, perhaps the day after that. He’s to stay away; he’s got to stay away. They’ll surround the shop, marksmen every ten feet. The crossfire will be murderous; if he’s in there it could be a massacre. Every one of you. Dead.”
Oreale screamed again, his knuckle red. “Will you stop this! I don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re a maniac and I won’t hear another word—I haven’t heard anything. Carlos, crossfire … massacres! God, I’m suffocating … I need air!”
“You’ll get money. A lot of it, I imagine. Lavier will thank you. Also d’Anjou.”
“D’Anjou? He loathes me! He calls me a peacock, insults me every chance he gets.”
“It’s his cover, of course. Actually, he’s very fond of you—perhaps more than you know. He’s number six.”
“What are these numbers? Stop talking numbers!”
“How else can we distinguish between you, allocate assignments? We can’t use names.”
“Who can’t?”
“All of us who work for Carlos.”
The scream was ear-shattering, as the blood trickled from Oreale’s finger. “I won’t listen! I’m a couturier, an artist!”
“You’re number five. You’ll do exactly as we say or you’ll never see this passion pit of yours again.”
“Aunghunn!”
“Stop screaming! We appreciate you; we know you’re all under a strain. Incidentally, we don’t trust the bookkeeper.”
“Trignon?”
“First names only. Obscurity’s important.”
“Pierre, then. He’s hateful. He deducts for telephone calls.”
“We think he’s working for Interpol.”
“Interpol?”
“If he is, you could all spend ten years in prison. You’d be eaten alive, Claude.”
“Aunghunn!”
“Shut up! Just let Bergeron know what we think. Keep your eyes on Trignon, especially during the next two days. If he leaves the store for any reason, watch out. It could mean the trap’s closing.” Bourne walked to the door, his hand in his pocket. “I’ve got to get back, and so do you. Tell numbers one through six everything I told you. It’s vital the word be spread.”
Oreale screamed again, hysterically again. “Numbers! Always numbers! What number? I’m an artist, not a number!”
“You won’t have a face unless you get back there as fast as you got here. Reach Lavier, d’Anjou, Bergeron. As quickly as you can. Then the others.”
“What others?”
“Ask number two.”
“Two?”
“Dolbert. Janine Dolbert.”
“Janine. Her, too?”
“That’s right. She’s two.”
The salesclerk flung his arms wildly above him in helpless protest.
“This is madness! Nothing makes sense!”
“Your life does, Claude,” said Jason simply. “Value it. I’ll be waiting across the street. Leave here in exactly three minutes. And don’t use the phone; just leave and get back to Les Classiques. If you’re not out of here in three minutes I’ll have to return.” He took his hand out of his pocket. In it was his gun.
Oreale expunged a lungful of air, his face ashen as he stared at the weapon.
Bourne let himself out and closed the door.
The telephone rang on the bedside table. Marie looked at her watch; it was 8:15 and for a moment she felt a sharp jolt of fear. Jason had said he would call at 9:00. He had left La Terrasse after dark, around 7:00, to intercept a salesclerk named Monique Brielle. The schedule was precise, to be interrupted only in emergency. Had something happened?
“Is this room 420?” asked the deep male voice on the line.
Relief swept over Marie; the man was André Villiers. The general had called late in the afternoon to tell Jason that panic had spread through Les Classiques; his wife had been summoned to the phone no less than six times over the span of an hour and a half. Not once, however, had he been able to listen to anything of substance; whenever he had picked up the phone, serious conversation had been replaced by innocuous banter.
“Yes,” said Marie. “This is 420.”
“Forgive me, we did not speak before.”
“I know who you are.”
“I’m also aware of you. May I take the liberty of saying thank you.”
“I understand. You’re welcome.”
“To substance. I’m telephoning from my office, and, of course, there’s no extension for this line. Tell our mutual friend that the crisis has accelerated. My wife has taken to her room, claiming nausea, but apparently she’s not too ill to be on the phone. On several occasions, as before, I picked up only to realize that they were alert for any interference. Each time I apologized rather gruffly, saying I expected calls. Frankly, I’m not at all sure my wife was convinced, but of course she’s in no position to question me. I’ll be blunt, mademoiselle. There is unspoken friction building between us, and beneath the surface, it is violent. May God give me strength.”
“I can only ask you to remember the objective,” broke in Marie. “Remember your son.”
“Yes,” said the old man quietly. “My son. And the whore who claims to revere his memory. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’ll convey what you’ve told me to our friend. He’ll be calling within the hour.”
“Please,” interrupted Villiers. “There’s more. It’s the reason I had to reach you. Twice while my wife was on the telephone the voices held meaning for me. The second I recognized; a face came to mind instantly. He’s on a switchboard in Saint-Honoré.”
“We know his name. What about the first?”
“It was strange. I did not know the voice, there was no face to go with it, but I understood why it was there. It was an odd voice, half whisper, half command, an echo of itself. It was the command that struck me. You see, that voice was not having a conversation with my wife; it had issued an order. It was altered the instant I got on the line, of course; a prearranged signal for a swift goodbye, but the residue remained. That residue, even the tone, is well known to any soldier; it is his means of emphasis. Am I being clear?”
“I think so,” said Marie gently, aware that if the old man was implying what she thought he was, the strain on him had to be unbearable.
“Be assured of it, mademoiselle,” said the general, “it was the killer pig.” Villiers stopped, his breathing audible, the next words drawn out, a strong man close to weeping.
“He was … instructing … my … wife …” The old soldier’s voice cracked. “Forgive me the unforgiveable. I have no right to burden you.”
“You have every right,” said Marie, suddenly alarmed. “What’s happening has to be terribly painful for you, made worse because you have no one to talk to.”
“I am talking to you, mademoiselle. I shouldn’t, but I am.”
“I wish we could keep talking. I wish one of us could be with you. But that’s not possible and I know you understand that. Please try to hold on. It’s terribly important that no connection be made between you and our friend. It could cost you your life.”
“I think perhaps I have lost it.”
“Ça, c’est absurde,” said Marie sharply, an intended slap in the old soldier’s face. “Vous êtes un soldat. Arrétez ça immédiatement!”
“C’est l’institutrice qui corrige le mauvais élève. Vous avez bien raison.”
“On dit que vous êtes un géant. Je le crois.” There was silence on the line; Marie held her breath. When Villiers spoke she breathed again.
“Our mutual friend is very fortunate. You are a remarkable woman.”
“Not at all. I just want my friend to come back to me. There’s nothing remarkable about that.”
“Perhaps not. But I should also like to be your friend. You reminded a very old man of who and what he is. Or who and what he once was, and must try to be again. I thank you for a second time.”
“You’re welcome … my friend.” Marie hung up, profoundly moved and equally disturbed. She was not convinced Villiers could face the next twenty-four hours, and if he could not, the assassin would know how deeply his apparatus had been penetrated. He would order every contact at Les Classiques to run from Paris and disappear. Or there would be a bloodbath in Saint-Honoré, achieving the same results.
If either happened, there would be no answers, no address in New York, no message deciphered, nor the sender found. The man she loved would be returned to his labyrinth. And he would leave her.