“D’Anjou.”
“Delta? I wondered when … I think I’d know your voice anywhere.”
He had said it! The name had been spoken. The name that meant nothing to him, and yet somehow everything. D’Anjou knew. Philippe d’Anjou was part of the unremembered past. Delta. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain. Delta. Delta. Delta! He had known this man and this man had the answer! Alpha, Bravo, Cain, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot …
Medusa.
“Medusa,” he said softly, repeating the name that was a silent scream in his ears.
“Paris is not Tam Quan, Delta. There are no debts between us any longer. Don’t look for payment. We work for different employers now.”
“Jacqueline Lavier’s dead. Carlos killed her in Neuilly-sur-Seine less than thirty minutes ago.”
“Don’t even try. As of two hours ago Jacqueline was on her way out of France. She called me herself from Orly Airport. She’s joining Bergeron—”
“On a fabric search in the Mediterranean?” interrupted Jason.
D’Anjou paused. “The woman on the line asking for René. I thought as much. It changes nothing. I spoke with her; she called from Orly.”
“She was told to tell you that. Did she sound in control of herself?”
“She was upset, and no one knows why better than you. You’ve done a remarkable job down here, Delta. Or Cain. Or whatever you call yourself now. Of course she wasn’t herself. It’s why she’s going away for a while.”
“It’s why she’s dead. You’re next.”
“The last twenty-four hours were worthy of you. This isn’t.”
“She was followed; you’re being followed. Watched every moment.”
“If I am it’s for my own protection.”
“Then why is Lavier dead?”
“I don’t believe she is.”
“Would she commit suicide?”
“Never.”
“Call the rectory at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament in Neuilly-sur-Seine. Ask about the woman who killed herself while taking confession. What have you got to lose? I’ll call you back.”
Bourne hung up and left the booth. He stepped off the curb, looking for a cab. The next call to Philippe d’Anjou would be made a minimum of ten blocks away. The man from Medusa would not be convinced easily, and until he was, Jason would not risk electronic scanners picking up even the general location of the call.
Delta? I think I’d know your voice anywhere.… Paris is not Tam Quan. Tam Quan … Tam Quan, Tam Quan! Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain. Medusa!
Stop it! Do not think of things that … you cannot think about. Concentrate on what is. Now. You. Not what others say you are—not even what you may think you are. Only the now. And the now is a man who can give you answers.
We work for different employers.…
That was the key.
Tell me! For Christ’s sake, tell me! Who is it? Who is my employer, d’Anjou?
A taxi swerved to a stop perilously close to his kneecaps. Jason opened the door and climbed in. “Place Vendôme,” he said, knowing it was near Saint-Honoré. It was imperative to be as close as possible to put in motion the strategy that was rapidly coming into focus. He had the advantage; it was a matter of using it for a dual purpose. D’Anjou had to be convinced that those following him were his executioners. But what those men could not know was that another would be following them.
The Vendôme was crowded as usual, the traffic wild as usual. Bourne saw a telephone booth on the corner and got out of the taxi. He went inside the booth and dialed Les Classiques; it had been fourteen minutes since he had called from Neuilly-sur-Seine.
“D’Anjou?”
“A woman took her own life while at confession, that’s all I know.”
“Come on, you wouldn’t settle for that. Medusa wouldn’t settle for that.”
“Give me a moment to put the board on hold.” The line went dead for roughly four seconds. D’Anjou returned. “A middle-aged woman with silver and white hair, expensive clothing, and a St. Laurent purse. I’ve just described ten thousand women in Paris. How do I know you didn’t take one, kill her, make her the basis of this call?”
“Oh, sure. I carried her into the church like a pieta, blood dripping in the aisle from her open stigmata. Be reasonable, d’Anjou. Let’s start with the obvious. The purse wasn’t hers; she carried a white leather handbag. She’d hardly be likely to advertise a competing house.”
“Lending credence to my belief. It was not Jacqueline Lavier.”
“Lends more to mine. The papers in that purse identified her as someone else. The body will be claimed quickly; no one touches Les Classiques.”
“Because you say so?”
“No. Because it’s the method used by Carlos in five kills I can name.” He could. That was the frightening thing. “A man is taken out, the police believing he’s one person, the death an enigma, killers unknown. Then they find out he’s someone else, by which time Carlos is in another country, another contract fulfilled. Lavier was a variation of that method, that’s all.”
“Words, Delta. You never said much, but when you did, the words were there.”
“And if you were in Saint-Honoré three or four weeks from now—which you won’t be—you’d see how it ends. A plane crash or a boat lost in the Mediterranean. Bodies charred beyond recognition or simply gone. The identities of the dead, however, clearly established. Lavier and Bergeron. But only one is really dead—Madame Lavier. Monsieur Bergeron is privileged—more than you ever knew. Bergeron is back in business. And as for you, you’re a statistic in the Paris morgue.”
“And you?”
“According to the plan I’m dead too. They expect to take me through you.”
“Logical. We’re both from Medusa, they know that—Carlos knows that. It’s to be assumed you recognized me.”
“And you me?”
D’Anjou paused. “Yes,” he said. “As I told you, we work for different employers now.”
“That’s what I want to talk about.”
“No talking, Delta. But for old times’ sake—for what you did for us all in Tam Quan—take the advice of a Medusan. Get out of Paris or you’re that dead man you just mentioned.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You should. If I have the opportunity I’ll pull the trigger myself and be well paid for it.”
“Then I’ll give you that opportunity.”
“Forgive me if I find that ludicrous.”
“You don’t know what I want or how much I’m willing to risk to get it.”
“Whatever you want you’ll take risks for it. But the real danger will be your enemy’s. I know you, Delta. And I must get back to the switchboard. I’d wish you good hunting but—”
It was the moment to use the only weapon he had left, the sole threat that might keep d’Anjou on the line. “Whom do you reach for instructions now that Parc Monceau is out?”
The tension was accentuated by d’Anjou’s silence. When he replied, his voice was a whisper. “What did you say?”
“It’s why she was killed, you know. Why you’ll be killed, too. She went to Parc Monceau and she died for it. You’ve been to Parc Monceau and you’ll die for it, too. Carlos can’t afford you any longer; you simply know too much. Why should he jeopardize such an arrangement? He’ll use you to trap me, then kill you and set up another Les Classiques. As one Medusan to another, can you doubt it?”
The silence was longer now, more intense than before. It was apparent that the older man from Medusa was asking himself several hard questions. “What do you want from me? Except me. You should know hostages are meaningless. Yet you provoke me, astonish me with what you’ve learned. I’m no good to you dead or alive, so what is it you want?”
“Information. If you have it, I’ll get out of Paris tonight and neither Carlos nor you will ever hear from me again.”
“What information?”
“You’ll lie if I ask for it now. I would. But when I see you, you’ll tell me the truth.”
“With a wire around my throat?’
“In the middle of a crowd?”
“A crowd? Daylight?”
“An hour from now. Outside the Louvre. Near the steps. At the taxi stand.”
“The Louvre? Crowds? Information you think I have that will send you away? You can’t reasonably expect me to discuss my employer.”
“Not yours. Mine.”
He knew. Philippe d’Anjou had the answer. Remain calm. Don’t let your anxiety show.
“Seventy-One,” completed Jason. “Just a simple question and I’ll disappear. And when you give me the answer—the truth—I’ll give you something in exchange.”
“What could I possibly want from you? Except you?”
“Information that may let you live. It’s no guarantee, but believe me when I tell you, you won’t live without it. Parc Monceau, d’Anjou.”
Silence again. Bourne could picture the gray-haired former Medusan staring at his switchboard, the name of the wealthy Paris district echoing louder and louder in his mind. There was death from Parc Monceau and d’Anjou knew it as surely as he knew the dead woman in Neuilly-sur-Seine was Jacqueline Lavier.
“What might that information be?” asked d’Anjou.
“The identity of your employer. A name and sufficient proof to have sealed in an envelope and given to an attorney, to be held throughout your natural life. But if your life were to end unnaturally, even accidentally, he’d be instructed to open the envelope and reveal the contents. It’s protection, d’Anjou.”
“I see,” said the Medusan softly. “But you say men watch me, follow me.”
“Cover yourself,” said Jason. “Tell them the truth. You’ve got a number to call, haven’t you?”
“Yes, there’s a number, a man.” The older man’s voice rose slightly in astonishment.
“Reach him, tell him exactly what I said … except for the exchange, of course. Say I contacted you, want a meeting with you. It’s to be outside the Louvre in an hour. The truth.”
“You’re insane.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“You usually did. You’re creating your own trap, mounting your own execution.”
“In which event you may be amply rewarded.”
“Or executed myself, if what you say is so.”
“Let’s find out if it is. I’ll make contact with you one way or another, take my word for it. They have my photograph; they’ll know it when I do. Better a controlled situation than one in which there’s no control at all.”
“Now I hear Delta,” said d’Anjou. “He doesn’t create his own trap; he doesn’t walk in front of a firing squad and ask for a blindfold.”
“No, he doesn’t,” agreed Bourne. “You don’t have a choice, d’Anjou. One hour. Outside the Louvre.”
The success of any trap lies in its fundamental simplicity. The reverse trap by the nature of its single complication must be swift and simpler still.
The words came to him as he waited in the taxi in Saint-Honoré down the street from Les Classiques. He had asked the driver to take him around the block twice, an American tourist whose wife was shopping in the strip of haute couture. Sooner or later she would emerge from one of the stores and he would find her.
What he found was Carlos’ surveillance. The rubber-capped antenna on the black sedan was both the proof and the danger signal. He would feel more secure if that radio transmitter were shorted out, but there was no way to do it. The alternative was misinformation. Sometime during the next forty-five minutes Jason would do his best to make sure the wrong message was sent over that radio. From his concealed position in the back seat, he studied the two men in the car across the way. If there was anything that set them apart from a hundred other men like them in Saint-Honoré, it was the fact that they did not talk.
Philippe d’Anjou walked out onto the pavement, a gray homburg covering his gray hair. His glances swept the street, telling Bourne that the former Medusan had covered himself. He had called a number; he had relayed his startling information; he knew there were men in a car prepared to follow him.
A taxi, apparently ordered by phone, pulled up to the curb. D’Anjou spoke to the driver and climbed inside. Across the street an antenna rose ominously out of its cradle; the hunt was on.
The sedan pulled out after d’Anjou’s taxi; it was the confirmation Jason needed. He leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “I forgot,” he said irritably. “She said it was the Louvre this morning, shopping this afternoon. Christ, I’m half an hour late! Take me to the Louvre, will you please?”
“Mais oui, monsieur, le Louvre.”
Twice during the short ride to the monumental façade that overlooked the Seine, Jason’s taxi passed the black sedan, only to be subsequently passed by it. The proximity gave Bourne the opportunity to see exactly what he needed to see. The man beside the driver in the sedan spoke repeatedly into the hand-held radio microphone. Carlos was making sure the trap had no loose spikes; others were closing in on the execution ground.
They came to the enormous entrance of the Louvre. “Get in line behind those other taxis,” said Jason.
“But they wait for fares, monsieur. I have a fare; you are my fare. I will take you to the—”
“Just do as I say,” said Bourne, dropping fifty francs over the seat.
The driver swerved into the line. The black sedan was twenty yards away on the right; the man on the radio had turned in the seat and was looking out the left rear window. Jason followed his gaze and saw what he thought he might see. Several hundred feet to the west in the huge square was a gray automobile, the car that had followed Jacqueline Lavier and Villiers’ wife to the Church of the Blessed Sacrament and sped the latter away from Neuilly-sur-Seine after she had escorted Lavier to her final confession. Its antenna could be seen retracting down into its base. Over on the right, Carlos’ soldier no longer held the microphone. The black sedan’s antenna was also receding; contact had been made, visual sighting confirmed. Four men. These were Carlos’ executioners.
Bourne concentrated on the crowds in front of the Louvre entrance, spotting the elegantly dressed d’Anjou instantly. He was pacing slowly, cautiously, back and forth by the large block of white granite that flanked the marble steps on the left.
Now. It was time to send the misinformation.
“Pull out of the line,” ordered Jason.
“What, monsieur?”
“Two hundred francs if you do exactly what I tell you. Pull out and go to the front of the line, then make two left turns, heading back up the next aisle.”
“I don’t understand, monsieur!”
“You don’t have to. Three hundred francs.”
The driver swung right and proceeded to the head of the line, where he spun the wheel, sending the taxi to the left toward the row of parked cars. Bourne pulled the automatic from his belt, keeping it between his knees. He checked the silencer, twisting the cylinder taut.
“Where do you wish to go, monsieur?” asked the bewildered driver as they entered the aisle heading back toward the entrance to the Louvre.
“Slow down,” said Jason. “That large gray car up ahead, the one pointing to the Seine exit. Do you see it?”
“But of course.”
“Go around it slowly, to the right.” Bourne slid over to the left side of the seat and rolled down the window, keeping his head and the weapon concealed. He would show both in a matter of seconds.
The taxi approached the sedan’s trunk, the driver spinning the wheel again. They were parallel. Jason thrust his head and his gun into view. He aimed for the gray sedan’s right rear window and fired, five spits coming one after another, shattering the glass, stunning the two men, who screamed at each other, lurching below the window frames to the floor of the front seat. But they had seen him. That was the misinformation.
“Get out of here!” yelled Bourne to the terrified driver, as he threw three hundred francs over the seat and wedged his soft felt hat into the well of the rear window. The taxi shot ahead toward the stone gates of the Louvre.
Jason slid back across the seat, opened the door and rolled out to the cobblestone pavement, shouting his last instructions to the driver. “If you want to stay alive, get out of here!”
The taxi exploded forward, engine gunning, driver screaming. Bourne dove between two parked cars, now hidden from the gray sedan, and got up slowly, peering between the windows. Carlos’ men were quick, professional, losing no moment in the pursuit They had the taxi in view, the cab no match for the powerful sedan, and in that taxi was the target. The man behind the wheel pulled the car into gear and raced ahead as his companion held the microphone, the antenna rising from its recess. Orders were being shouted to another sedan nearer the great stone steps. The speeding taxi swerved out into the street by the Seine, the large gray car directly behind it. As they passed within feet of Jason, the expressions on the two men’s faces said it all. They had Cain in their sights, the trap had closed and they would earn their pay in a matter of minutes.
The reverse trap by the nature of its single complication must be swift and simpler still.…
A matter of minutes.… He had only a matter of moments if everything he believed was so. D’Anjou! The contact had played his role—his minor role—and was expendable—as Jacqueline Lavier had been expendable.
Bourne ran out from between the two cars toward the black sedan; it was no more than fifty yards ahead. He could see the two men; they were converging on Philippe d’Anjou, who was still pacing in front of the short flight of marble steps. One accurate shot from either man and d’Anjou would be dead, Treadstone Seventy-One gone with him. Jason ran faster, his hand inside his coat, gripping the heavy automatic.
Carlos’ soldiers were only yards away, now hurrying themselves, the execution to be quick, the condemned man cut down before he understood what was happening.
“Medusa!” roared Bourne, not knowing why he shouted the name rather than d’Anjou’s own. “Medusa—Medusa!”
D’Anjou’s head snapped up, shock on his face. The driver of the black sedan had spun around, his weapon leveled at Jason, while his companion moved toward d’Anjou, his gun aimed at the former Medusan. Bourne dove to his right, the automatic extended, steadied by his left hand. He fired in midair, his aim accurate; the man closing in on d’Anjou arched backward as his stiffened legs were caught in an instant of paralysis; he collapsed on the cobblestones. Two spits exploded over Jason’s head, the bullets impacting into metal behind him. He rolled to his left, his gun again steady, directed at the second man. He pulled the trigger twice; the driver screamed, an eruption of blood spreading across his face as he fell.
Hysteria swept through the crowds. Men and women screamed, parents threw themselves over children, others ran up the steps through the great doors of the Louvre, as guards tried to get outside. Bourne got to his feet, looking for d’Anjou. The older man had lunged behind the block of white granite, his gaunt figure now crawling awkwardly in terror out of his sanctuary. Jason raced through the panicked crowd, shoving the automatic into his belt, separating the hysterical bodies that stood between himself and the man who could give him the answers. Treadstone. Treadstone!
He reached the gray-haired Medusan. “Get up!” he ordered. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Delta!… It was Carlos’ man! I know him, I’ve used him! He was going to kill me!”
“I know. Come on! Quickly! Others’ll be coming back; they’ll be looking for us. Come on!”
A patch of black fell across Bourne’s eyes, at the corner of his eyes. He spun around, instinctively shoving d’Anjou down as four rapid shots came from a gun held by a dark figure standing by the line of taxis. Fragments of granite and marble exploded all around them. It was him! The wide, heavy shoulders that floated in space, the tapered waist outlined by a form-fitting black suit … the dark-skinned face encased in a white silk scarf below the narrow-brimmed black hat. Carlos!
Get Carlos! Trap Carlos! Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain!
False!
Find Treadstone! Find a message; for a man! Find Jason Bourne!
He was going mad! Blurred images from the past converged with the terrible reality of the present, driving him insane. The doors of his mind opened and closed, crashing open, crashing shut; light streaming out one moment, darkness the next. The pain returned to his temples with sharp, jarring notes of deafening thunder. He started after the man in the black suit with the white silk scarf wrapped around his face. Then he saw the eyes and the barrel of the gun, three dark orbs zeroed in on him like black laser beams. Bergeron?… Was it Bergeron? Was it? Or Zurich … or … No time!
He feigned to his left, then dove to the right, out of the line of fire. Bullets splattered into stone, the screeches of richochets following each explosion. Jason spun under a stationary car; between the wheels he could see the figure in black racing away. The pain remained but the thunder stopped. He crawled out on the cobblestones, rose to his feet and ran back toward the steps of the Louvre.
What had he done? D’Anjou was gone! How had it happened? The reverse trap was no trap at all. His own strategy had been used against him, permitting the only man who could give him the answers to escape. He had followed Carlos’ soldiers, but Carlos had followed him! Since Saint-Honoré. It was all for nothing; a sickening hollowness spread through him.
And then he heard the words, spoken from behind a nearby automobile. Philippe d’Anjou came cautiously into view.
“Tam Quan’s never far away, it seems. Where shall we go, Delta? We can’t stay here.”
They sat inside a curtained booth in a crowded café on the rue Pilon, a back street that was hardly more than an alley in Montmartre. D’Anjou sipped his double brandy, his voice low, pensive.
“I shall return to Asia,” he said. “To Singapore or Hong Kong or even the Seychelles, perhaps. France was never very good for me; now it’s deadly.”
“You may not have to,” said Bourne, swallowing the whiskey, the warm liquid spreading quickly, inducing a brief, spatial calm. “I meant what I said. You tell me what I want to know. I’ll give you—” He stopped, the doubts sweeping over him; no, he would say it. “I’ll give you Carlos’ identity.”
“I’m not remotely interested,” replied the former Medusan, watching Jason closely. “I’ll tell you whatever I can. Why should I withhold anything? Obviously I won’t go to the authorities, but if I have information that could help you take Carlos, the world would be a safer place for me, wouldn’t it? Personally, however, I wish no involvement.”
“You’re not even curious?”
“Academically, perhaps, for your expression tells me I’ll be shocked. So ask your questions and then astonish me.”
“You’ll be shocked.”
Without warning d’Anjou said the name quietly. “Bergeron?”
Jason did not move; speechless, he stared at the older man. D’Anjou continued.
“I’ve thought about it over and over again. Whenever we talk I look at him and wonder. Each time, however, I reject the idea.”
“Why?” Bourne interrupted, refusing to acknowledge the Medusan’s accuracy.
“Mind you, I’m not sure—I just feel it’s wrong. Perhaps because I’ve learned more about Carlos from René Bergeron than anyone else. He’s obsessed by Carlos; he’s worked for him for years, takes enormous pride in the confidence. My problem is that he talks too much about him.”
“The ego speaking through the assumed second party?”
“It’s possible, I suppose, but inconsistent with the extraordinary precautions Carlos takes, the literally impenetrable wall of secrecy he’s built around himself. I’m not certain, of course, but I doubt it’s Bergeron.”
“You said the name. I didn’t.”
D’Anjou smiled. “You have nothing to be concerned about, Delta. Ask your questions.”
“I thought it was Bergeron. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, for he may be. I told you, it doesn’t matter to me. In a few days I’ll be back in Asia, following the franc, or the dollar, or the yen. We Medusans were always resourceful, weren’t we?”
Jason was not sure why, but the haggard face of André Villiers came to his mind’s eye. He had promised himself to learn what he could for the old soldier. He would not get the opportunity again.
“Where does Villiers’ wife fit in?”
D’Anjou’s eyebrows arched. “Angélique? But of course—you said Parc Monceau, didn’t you? How—”
“The details aren’t important now.”
“Certainly not to me.”
“What about her?” pressed Bourne.
“Have you looked at her closely? The skin?”
“I’ve been close enough. She’s tanned. Very tall and very tanned.”
“She keeps her skin that way. The Riviera, the Greek Isles, Costa del Sol, Gstaad; she is never without a sun-drenched skin.”
“It’s very becoming.”
“It’s also a successful device. It covers what she is. For her there is no autumn or winter pallor, no lack of color in her face or arms or very long legs. The attractive hue of her skin is always there, because it would be there in any event. With or without Saint-Tropez or the Costa Brava or the Alps.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Although the stunning Angélique Villiers is presumed to be Parisian, she’s not. She’s Hispanic. Venezuelan, to be precise.”
“Sanchez,” whispered Bourne. “Ilich Ramirez Sanchez.”
“Yes. Among the very few who speak of such things, it is said she is Carlos’ first cousin, his lover since the age of fourteen. It is rumored—among those very few people—that beyond himself, she is the only person on earth he cares about.”
“And Villiers is the unwitting drone?”
“Words from Medusa, Delta?” D’Anjou nodded. “Yes, Villiers is the drone. Carlos’ brilliantly conceived wire into many of the most sensitive departments of the French government, including the files on Carlos himself.”
“Brilliantly conceived,” said Jason, remembering. “Because it’s unthinkable.”
“Totally.”
Bourne leaned forward, the interruption abrupt. “Treadstone,” he said, both hands gripping the glass in front of him. “Tell me about Treadstone Seventy-One.”
“What can I tell you?”
“Everything they know. Everything Carlos knows.”
“I don’t think I’m capable of doing that. I hear things, piece things together, but except where Medusa’s concerned, I’m hardly a consultant, much less a confidant.”
It was all Jason could do to control himself, curb himself from asking about Medusa, about Delta and Tam Quan; the winds in the night sky and the darkness and the explosions of light that blinded him whenever he heard the words. He could not; certain things had to be assumed, his own loss passed over, no indication given. The priorities. Treadstone. Treadstone Seventy-One …
“What have you heard? What have you pieced together?”
“What I heard and what I pieced together were not always compatible. Still, obvious facts were apparent to me.”
“Such as?”
“When I saw it was you, I knew. Delta had made a lucrative agreement with the Americans. Another lucrative agreement, a different kind than before, perhaps.”
“Spell that out, please.”
“Eleven years ago, the rumors out of Saigon were that the ice-cold Delta was the highest-paid Medusan of us all. Surely, you were the most capable I knew, so I assumed you drove a hard bargain. You must have driven an infinitely harder one to do what you’re doing now.”
“Which is? From what you’ve heard.”
“What we know. It was confirmed in New York. The Monk confirmed it before he died, that much I was told. It was consistent with the pattern since the beginning.”
Bourne held the glass, avoiding d’Anjou’s eyes. The Monk. The Monk. Do not ask. The Monk is dead, whoever and whatever he was. He is not pertinent now. “I repeat,” said Jason, “what is it they think they know I’m doing?”
“Come, Delta, I’m the one who’s leaving. It’s pointless to—”
“Please,” interrupted Bourne.
“Very well. You agreed to become Cain. The mythical killer with an unending list of contracts that never existed, each created out of whole cloth, given substance by all manner of reliable sources. Purpose. To challenge Carlos—‘eroding his stature at every turn’ was the way Bergeron phrased it—to undercut his prices, spread the word of his deficiencies, your own superiority. In essence, to draw out Carlos and take him. This was your agreement with the Americans.”
Rays of his own personal sunlight burst into the dark corners of Jason’s mind. In the distance, doors were opening, but they were still too far away and opened only partially. But there was light where before there was only darkness.
“Then the Americans are—” Bourne did not finish the statement, hoping in brief torment that d’Anjou would finish it for him.
“Yes,” said the Medusan. “Treadstone Seventy-One. The most controlled unit of American intelligence since the State Department’s Consular Operations. Created by the same man who built Medusa. David Abbott.”
“The Monk,” said Jason softly, instinctively, another door in the distance partially open.
“Of course. Who else would he approach to play the role of Cain but the man from Medusa known as Delta? As I say, the instant I saw you, I knew it.”
“A role—” Bourne stopped, the sunlight growing brighter, warm not blinding.
D’Anjou leaned forward. “It’s here, of course, that what I heard and what I pieced together was incompatible. It was said that Jason Bourne accepted the assignment for reasons I knew were not true. I was there, they were not; they could not know.”
“What did they say? What did you hear?”
“That you were an American intelligence officer, possibly military. Can you imagine? You. Delta! The man filled with contempt for so much, not the least of which was for most things American. I told Bergeron it was impossible, but I’m not sure he believed me.”
“What did you tell him?”
“What I believed. What I still believe. It wasn’t money—no amount of money could have made you do it—it had to be something else. I think you did it for the same reason so many others agreed to Medusa eleven years ago. To clean a slate somewhere, to be able to return to something you had before, that was barred to you. I don’t know, of course, and I don’t expect you to confirm it, but that’s what I think.”
“It’s possible you’re right,” said Jason, holding his breath, the cool winds of release blowing into the mists. It made sense. A message was sent. This could be it. Find the message. Find the sender. Treadstone!
“Which leads us back,” continued d’Anjou, “to the stories about Delta. Who was he? What was he? This educated, oddly quiet man who could transform himself into a lethal weapon in the jungles. Who stretched himself and others beyond endurance for no cause at all. We never understood.”
“It was never required. Is there anything else you can tell me? Do they know the precise location of Treadstone?”
“Certainly. I learned it from Bergeron. A residence in New York City, on East Seventy-first Street. Number 139. Isn’t that correct?”
“Possibly … Anything else?”
“Only what you obviously know, the strategy of which I admit eludes me.”
“That the Americans think you turned. Better phrased, they want Carlos to believe they think you turned.”
“Why?” He was closer. It was here!
“The story is a long period of silence coinciding with Cain’s inactivity. Plus stolen funds, but mainly the silence.”
That was it. The message. The silence. The months in Port Noir. The madness in Zurich, the insanity in Paris. No one could possibly know what had happened. He was being told to come in. To surface. You were right, Marie, my love, my dearest love. You were right from the beginning.
“Nothing else, then?” asked Bourne, trying to control the impatience in his voice, anxious now beyond any anxiety he had known to get back to Marie.
“It’s all I know—but please understand, I was never told that much. I was brought in because of my knowledge of Medusa—and it was established that Cain was from Medusa—but I was never part of Carlos’ inner circle.”
“You were close enough. Thank you.” Jason put several bills on the table and started to slide across the booth.
“There’s one thing,” said d’Anjou. “I’m not sure it’s relevant at this point, but they know your name is not Jason Bourne.”
“What?”
“March 25. Don’t you remember, Delta? It’s only two days from now, and the date’s very important to Carlos. Word has been spread. He wants your corpse on the twenty-fifth. He wants to deliver it to the Americans on that day.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“On March 25, 1968, Jason Bourne was executed at Tam Quan. You executed him.”