“What will it serve?”
   “She’ll be telling you where she is. Maybe where Carlos is. If not Carlos, certainly others closer to him. Then reach me. I’ll give you a hotel and a room number. The name on the registry is meaningless, don’t bother about it.”
   “Why don’t you give me your real name?”
   “Because if you ever mentioned it--consciously or unconsciously--you’d be dead.”
   “I’m not senile.”
   “No, you’re not. But you’re a man who’s been’ hurt very badly. As badly as a person can be hurt, I think. You may risk your life; I won’t.”
   “You’re a strange man, monsieur.”
   “Yes. If I’m not there when you call, a woman will answer. She’ll know where I am. We’ll set up timing for messages.”
   “A woman?” the general drew back. “You’ve said nothing about a woman, or anyone else.”
   “There is no one else. Without her I wouldn’t be alive. Carlos is hunting both of us; he’s tried to kill both of us.”
   “Does she know about me?”
   “Yes. She’s the one who said it couldn’t be true. That you couldn’t be allied with Carlos. I thought you were.”
   “Perhaps I’ll meet her.”
   “Not likely. Until Carlos is taken--if he can be taken--we can’t be seen with you. Of all people, not you. Afterwards--if there is an afterwards--you may not want to be seen with us. With me. I’m being honest with you.”
   “I understand that and I respect it In any event, thank this woman for me. Thank her for thinking I could be no part of Carlos.”
   Bourne nodded. “Can you be sure your private line isn’t tapped?”
   “Absolutely. It is swept on a regular basis; all the telephones restricted by the Conseiller are.”
   “Whenever you expect a call from me, answer the phone and clear your throat twice. I’ll know it’s you. If for any reason you can’t talk, tell me to call your secretary in the morning. I’ll call back in ten minutes. What’s the number?”
   Villiers gave it to him. “Your hotel?” asked the general.
   “The Terrasse. Rue de Maistre, Montmartre. Room 420.”
   “When will you begin?”
   “As soon as possible. Noon, today.”
   “Be like a wolfpack,” said the old soldier, leaning forward, a commander instructing his officer corps. “Strike swiftly.”

27
   “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 surintendanthad 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 surintendantdo?
   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 Javier 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 a lways 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 unforgivable. 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.
   Arrêtez ça immédiatentent!”
   “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.

28
   Bourne saw her at the corner, walking under the spill of the streetlight toward the small hotel that was her home. Monique Brielle, Jacqueline Lavier’s number one girl, was a harder, more sinewy version of Janine Dolbert; he remembered seeing her at the shop. There was an assurance about her, her stride the stride of a confident woman, secure in the knowledge of her expertise. Very unflappable. Jason could understand why she was Lavier’s number one. Their confrontation would be brief, the impact of the message startling, the threat inherent. It was time for the start of the second shock wave. He remained motionless and let her pass on the sidewalk, her heels clicking martially on the pavement. The street was not crowded, but neither was it deserted; there were perhaps a half dozen people on the block. It would be necessary to isolate her, then steer her out of earshot of any who might overhear the words, for they were words that no messenger would risk being heard. He caught up with her no more than thirty feet from the entrance to the small hotel; he slowed his pace to hers, staying at her side.
   “Get in touch with Lavier right away,” he said in French, staring straight ahead.
   “Pardon? What did you say? Who are you, monsieur?”
   “Don’t stop! Keep walking. Past the entrance.”
   “You know where I live?”
   “There’s very little we don’t know.”
   “And if I go straight inside? There’s a doorman--“
   “There’s also Lavier,” interrupted Bourne. “You’ll lose your job and you won’t be able to find another in Saint-Honoré. And I’m afraid that will be the least of your problems.”
   “Who are you?”
   “Not your enemy.” Jason looked at her. “Don’t make me one.”
   “You. The American! Janine ... Claude Oreale!”
   “Carlos,” completed Bourne.
   “Carlos? What is this madness? All afternoon, nothing but Carlos! And numbers! Everyone has a number no one’s heard of! And talk of traps and men with guns! It’s crazy!”
   “It’s happening. Keep walking. Please. For your own sake.”
   She did, her stride less sure, her body stiffened, a rigid marionette uncertain of its strings.
   “Jacqueline spoke to us,” she said, her voice intense. “She told us it was all insane, that it--you-– were out to ruin Les Classiques. That one of the other houses must have paid you to ruin us.”
   “What did you expect her to say?”
   “You are a hired provocateur. She told us the truth.”
   “Did she also tell you to keep your mouth shut? Not to say a word about any of this to anyone?”
   “Of course.”
   “Above all,” ran on Jason as if he had not heard her, “not to contact the police, which under the circumstances would be the most logical thing in the world to do. In some ways, the only thing to do.”
   “Yes, naturally ...”
   “Not naturally,” contradicted Bourne. “Look, I’m just a relay, probably not much higher than you. I’m not here to convince you, I’m here to deliver a message. We ran a test on Dolbert; we fed her false information.”
   “Janine?” Monique Brielle’s perplexity was compounded by mounting confusion. “The things she said were incredible! As incredible as Claude’s hysterical screaming--the things he said. But what she said was the opposite of what he said.”
   “We know; it was done intentionally. She’s been talking to Azur.”
   “The House of Azur?”
   “Check her out tomorrow. Confront her.”
   “Confront her?”
   “Just do it. It could be tied in.”
   “With what?”
   “The trap. Azur could be working with Interpol.”
   “Interpol? Traps? This is the same craziness! Nobody knows what you’re talking about!”
   “Lavier knows. Get in touch with her right away.” They approached the end of the block; Jason touched her arm. “I’ll leave you here at the corner. Go back to your hotel and call Jacqueline. Tell her it’s far more serious than we thought. Everything’s falling apart. Worst of all, someone has turned. Not Dolbert, not one of the clerks, but someone more highly placed. Someone who knows everything.”
   “Turned? What does that mean?”
   “There’s a traitor in Les Classiques. Tell her to be careful. Of everyone. If she isn’t, it could be the end for all of us.” Bourne released her arm, then stepped off the curb and crossed the street. On the other side he spotted a recessed doorway and quickly stepped inside.
   He inched his face to the edge and peered out, looking back at the corner. Monique Brielle was halfway down the block, rushing toward the entrance of her hotel. The fast panic of the second shock wave had begun. It was time to call Marie.

   “I’m worried, Jason. It’s tearing him apart. He nearly broke down on the phone. What happens when he looks at her? What must he be feeling, thinking?”
   “He’ll handle it,” said Bourne, watching the traffic on the Champs-Elysées from inside the glass telephone booth, wishing he felt more confident about André Villiers. “If he doesn’t, I’ve killed him.
   I don’t want it on my head, but that’s what I’ll have done. I should have shut my goddamn mouth and taken her myself.”
   “You couldn’t have done that. You saw d’Anjou on the steps; you couldn’t have gone inside.”
   “I could have thought of something. As we’ve agreed, I’m resourceful--more than I like to think about.”
   “But you are doing something! You’re creating panic, forcing those who carry out Carlos’ orders to show themselves. Someone’s got to stop the panic, and even you said you didn’t think Jacqueline Lavier was high enough. Jason, you’ll see someone and you’ll know. You’ll get him! You will!”
   “I hope so; Christ, I hope so! I know exactly what I’m doing, but every now and then ...” Bourne stopped. He hated saying it, but he had to-he had to say it to her. “I get confused. It’s as if I’m split down the middle, one part of me saying ‘Save yourself,’ the other part ... God help me ... telling me to ‘Get Carlos.’ “ “It’s what you’ve been doing from the beginning, isn’t it?” said Marie softly.
   “I don’t care about Carlos!” shouted Jason, wiping away the sweat that had broken out on his hairline, aware, too, that he was cold. “It’s driving me crazy,” he added, not sure whether he had said the words out loud or to himself.
   “Darling, come back.”
   “What?” Bourne looked at the telephone, again not sure whether he had heard spoken words, or whether he had wanted to hear them, and so they were there. It was happening again. Things were and they were not. The sky was dark outside, outside a telephone booth on the Champs-Elysées. It had once been bright, so bright, so blinding. And hot, not cold. With screeching birds and screaming streaks of metal ...
   “Jason!”
   “What?”
   “Come back. Darling, please come back.”
   “Why?”
   “You’re tired. You need rest.”
   “I have to reach Trignon. Pierre Trignon. He’s the bookkeeper.”
   “Do it tomorrow. It can wait until tomorrow.”
   “No. Tomorrow’s for the captains.” What was he saying? Captains. Troops. Figures colliding in panic. But
   it was the only way, the only way. The chameleon was a ... provocateur.
   “Listen to me,” said Marie, her voice insistent. “Something’s happening to you. It’s happened before; we both know that, my darling. And when it does, you have got to stop, we know that, too. Come back to the hotel. Please.”
   Bourne closed his eyes, the sweat was drying and the sounds of the traffic outside the booth replaced the screeching in his ears. He could see the stars in the cold night sky, no more blinding sunlight, no more unbearable heat. It had passed, whatever it was.
   “I’m all right. Really, I’m okay now. A couple of bad moments, that’s all.”
   “Jason?” Marie spoke slowly, forcing him to listen. “What caused them?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “You just saw the Brielle woman. Did she say something to you? Something that made you think of something else?”
   “I’m not sure. I was too busy figuring out what to say myself.”
   “Think, darling!”
   Bourne closed his eyes, trying to remember. Had there been something? Something spoken casually or so rapidly that it was lost at the moment? “She called me a provocateur,” said Jason, not understanding why the word came back to him. “But then, that’s what I am, aren’t I? That’s what I’m doing.”
   “Yes,” agreed Marie.
   “I’ve got to get going,” continued Bourne. “Trignon’s place is only a couple of blocks from here.
   I want to reach him before ten.”
   “Be careful.” Marie spoke as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
   “I will. I love you.”
   “I believe in you,” said Marie St. Jacques.
   The street was quiet, the block an odd mixture of shops and flats indigenous to the center of Paris, bustling with activity during the day, deserted at night.
   Jason reached the small apartment house listed in the telephone directory as Pierre Trignon’s residence. He climbed the steps and walked into the neat, dimly lit foyer. A row of brass mailboxes was on the right, each one above a small spoked circle through which a caller raised his voice loudly enough to identify himself. Jason ran his finger along the printed names below the slots: M. PIERRE TRIGNON --42. He pushed the tiny black button twice; ten seconds later there was a crackling of static.
   “Oui?”
   “Monsieur Trignon, s’il vous plaît?”
   “Ici.”
   “Télégramme, monsieur. Je ne peux pas quitter ma bicyclette.”
   “Télégramme? Pour moi?”
   Pierre Trignon was not a man who often received telegrams; it was in his astonished tone. The rest of his words were barely distinguishable, but a female voice in the background was in shock, equating a telegram with all manner of horrendous disasters.
   Bourne waited outside the frosted glass door that led to the apartment house interior. In seconds he heard the rapid clatter of footsteps growing louder as someone--obviously Trignon--came rushing down the staircase. The door swung open, concealing Jason; a balding, heavy-set man, unnecessary suspenders creasing the flesh beneath a bulging white shirt, walked to the row of mailboxes, stopping at number 42.
   “Monsieur Trignon?”
   The heavy-set man spun around, his cherubic face set in an expression of helplessness. “A telegram! I have a telegram!” he cried. “Did you bring me a telegram?”
   “I apologize for the ruse, Trignon, but it was for your own benefit. I didn’t think you wanted to be questioned in front of your wife and family.”
   “Questioned?” exclaimed the bookkeeper, his thick, protruding lips curled, his eyes frightened.
   “Me? What about? What is this? Why are you here at my home? I’m a law-abiding citizen!”
   “You work in Saint-Honoré? For a firm called Les Classiques?”
   “I do. Who are you?”
   “If you prefer, we can go down to my office,” said Bourne.
   “Who are you?”
   “I’m a special investigator for the Bureau of Taxation and Records, Division of Fraud and Conspiracy. Come along--my official car is outside.”
   “Outside? Come along? I have no jacket, no coat! My wife. She’s upstairs expecting me to bring back a telegram. A telegram!”
   “You can send her one if you like. Come along now. I’ve been at this all day and I want to get it over with.”
   “Please, monsieur,” protested Trignon. “I do not insist on going anywhere! You said you had questions. Ask your questions and let me go back upstairs. I have no wish to go to your office.”
   “It might take a few minutes,” said Jason.
   “I’ll ring through to my wife and tell her it’s a mistake. The telegram’s for old Gravet; he lives here on the first floor and can barely read. She will understand.” Madame Trignon did not understand, but her shrill objections were stilled by a shriller Monsieur Trignon. “There, you see,” said the bookkeeper, coming away from the mailslot, the strings of hair on his bald scalp matted with sweat. “There’s no reason to go anywhere. What’s a few minutes of a man’s life? The television shows will be repeated in a month or two. Now, what in God’s name is this, monsieur? My books are immaculate, totally immaculate! Of course I cannot be responsible for the accountant’s work. That’s a separate firm; he’s a separate firm. Frankly, I’ve never liked him; he swears a great deal, if you know what I mean. But then, who am I to say?’ Trignon’s hands were held out palms up, his face pinched in an obsequious smile.
   “To begin with,” said Bourne, dismissing the protestations, “do not leave the city limits of Paris.
   If for any reason, personal or professional, you are called upon to do so, notify us. Frankly, it will not be permitted.”
   “Surely you’re joking, monsieur!”
   “Surely I’m not.”
   “I have no reason to leave Paris--nor the money, to do so--but to say such a thing to me is unbelievable. What have I done?”
   “The Bureau will subpoena your books in the morning. Be prepared.”
   “Subpoena? For what cause? Prepared for what?”
   “Payments to so-called suppliers whose invoices are fraudulent. The merchandise was never received--was never meant to be received--the payments, instead, routed to a bank in Zurich.”
   “Zurich? I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve prepared no checks for Zurich.”
   “Not directly, we know that. But how easy it was for you to prepare them for nonexistent firms, the monies paid, then wired to Zurich.”
   “Every invoice is initialed by Madame Lavier! I pay nothing on my own!”
   Jason paused, frowning. “Now it’s you who are joking,” he said.
   “On my word! It’s the house policy. Ask anyone! Les Classiques does not pay a sou unless authorized by Madame.”
   “What you’re saying, then, is that you take your orders directly from her.”
   “But naturally!”
   “Whom does she take orders from?”
   Trignon grinned. “It is said from God, when not the other way around. Of course, that’s a joke, monsieur.”
   “I trust you can be more serious. Who are the specific owners of Les Classiques?”
   “It is a partnership, monsieur. Madame Lavier has many wealthy friends; they have invested in her abilities. And, of course, the talents of René Bergeron.”
   “Do these investors meet frequently? Do they suggest policy? Perhaps advocate certain firms with which to do business?”
   “I wouldn’t know, monsieur. Naturally, everyone has friends.”
   “We may have concentrated on the wrong people,” interrupted Bourne. “It’s quite possible that you and Madame Lavier--as the two directly involved with the day-to-day finances--are being used.”
   “Used for what?”
   “To funnel money into Zurich. To the account of one of the most vicious killers in Europe.” Trignon convulsed, his large stomach quivering as he fell back against the wall “In the name of God, what are you saying?”
   “Prepare yourselves. Especially you. You prepared the checks, no one else.”
   “Only upon approval!”
   “Did you ever check the merchandise against the invoices?”
   “It’s not my job!”
   “So, in essence you issued payments for supplies you never saw.”
   “I never see anything! Only invoices that have been initialed. I pay only on those!”
   “You’d better find every one. You and Madame Lavier had better start digging up every backup in your files. Because the two of you--especially you--will face the charges.”
   “Charges? What charges?”
   “For a lack of a specific writ, let’s call it accessory to multiple homicide.”
   “Multiple--“
   “Assassination. The account in Zurich belongs to the assassin known as Carlos. You, Pierre Trignon, and your current employer, Madame Jacqueline Lavier, are directly implicated in financing the most sought-after killer in Europe. Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. Alias Carlos.”
   “Aughhhh! ...” Trignon slid down to the foyer floor, his eyes in shock, his puffed features twisted out of shape. “All afternoon ...” he whispered. “People running around, hysterical meetings in the aisles, looking at me strangely, passing my cubicle and turning their heads. Oh, my God.”
   “If I were you, I wouldn’t waste a moment. Morning will be here soon, and with it possibly the most difficult day of your life.” Jason walked to the outside door and stopped, his hand on the knob.
   “It’s not my place to advise you, but if I were you, I’d reach Madame Lavier at once. Start preparing your joint defense--it may be all you have. A public execution is not out of the question.” The chameleon opened the door and stepped outside, the cold night air whipping across his face.
   Get Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain.
   False!
   Find a number in New York. Find Treadstone. Find the meaning of a message. Find the sender.
   Find Jason Bourne.

   Sunlight burst through the stained-glass windows as the clean-shaven old man in the dated suit of clothes rushed down the aisle of the church in Neuilly-sur-Seine. The tall priest standing by the rack of novena candles watched him, struck by a feeling of familiarity. For a moment the cleric thought he had seen the man before, but could not place him. There had been a disheveled beggar yesterday, about the same size, the same ... No, this old man’s shoes were shined, his white hair combed neatly, and the suit of clothes, although from another decade, were of good quality.
   “Angelus Domini,” said the old man, as he parted the curtains of the confessional booth.
   “Enough!” whispered the silhouetted figure behind the scrim. “What have you learned in Saint-Honoré?”
   “Little of substance, but respect for his methods.”
   “Is there a pattern?”
   “Random, it would appear. He selects people who know absolutely nothing and instigates chaos through them. I would suggest no further activity at Les Classiques.”
   “Naturally,” agreed the silhouette. “But what’s his purpose?”
   “Beyond the chaos?” asked the old man. “I’d say it was to spread distrust among those who do know something. The Brielle woman used the words. She said the American told her to tell Lavier there was ‘a traitor’ inside, a patently false statement. Which of them would dare? Last night was insane, as you know. The bookkeeper, Trignon, went crazy. Waiting until two in the morning outside Lavier’s house, literally assaulting her when she returned from Brielle’s hotel, screaming and crying in the street.”
   “Lavier herself did not behave much better. She was barely in control when she called Parc Monceau; she was told not to call again. No one is to call there ... ever again. Ever.”
   “We received the word. The few of us who know the number have forgotten it.”
   “Be sure you have.” The silhouette moved suddenly; there was a ripple in the curtain. “Of course to spread distrust! It follows chaos. There’s no question about it now. He’ll pick up the contacts, try to force information from them and when one fails, throw him to the Americans and go on to the next. But he’ll make the approaches alone; it’s part of his ego. He is a madman. And obsessed.”
   “He may be both,” countered the old man, “but he’s also a professional. He’ll make sure the names are delivered to his superiors in the event he does fail. So regardless of whether you take him or not, they will be taken.”
   “They will be dead,” said the assassin. “But not Bergeron. He’s far too valuable. Tell him to head for Athens; he’ll know where.”
   “Am I to assume I’m taking the place of Parc Monceau?”
   “That would be impossible. But. for the time being you will relay my final decisions to whomever they concern.”
   “And the first person I reach is Bergeron. To Athens.”
   “Yes.”
   “So Lavier and the colonial, d’Anjou, are marked, then?”
   “They are marked. Bait rarely survives, and they will not. You may also relay another message, to the two teams covering Lavier and d’Anjou. Tell them I’ll be watching them--all the time. There can be no mistakes.”
   It was the old man’s turn to pause, to bid silently for attention. “I’ve saved the best for last, Carlos. The Renault was found an hour and a half ago in a garage in Montmartre. It was brought in last night.”
   In the stillness the old man could hear the slow, deliberate breathing of the figure beyond the cloth. “I assume you’ve taken measures to have it watched--even now at the moment--and followed--even now at the moment.”
   The once-bespoken beggar laughed softly. “In accord with your last instructions, I took the liberty of hiring a friend, a friend with a sound automobile. He in turn has employed three acquaintances, and together they are on four six-hour shifts on the street outside the garage. They know nothing, of course, except that they are to follow the Renault at any hour of day or night.”
   “You do not disappoint me.”
   “I can’t afford to. And since Parc Monceau was eliminated, I had no telephone number to give them but my own, which as you know, is a rundown café in the Quarter. The owner and I were friends in the old days, the better days. I could reach him every five minutes for messages and he would never object. I know where he got the money to pay for his business, and whom he had to kill to get it”
   “You’ve behaved well, you have value.”
   “I also have a problem, Carlos. As none of us are to call Parc Monceau, how can I reach you? In the event I must. Say, for instance, the Renault.”
   “Yes, I’m aware of the problem. Are you aware of the burden you ask for?”
   “I would much prefer not to have it. My only hope is that when this is over and Cain is dead, you will remember my contributions and rather than killing me, change the number.”
   “You do anticipate.”
   “In the old days it was my means of survival.”
   The assassin whispered seven figures. “You are the only man alive who has this number.
   Naturally it is untraceable.”
   “Naturally. Who would expect an old beggar to have it?”
   “Every hour brings you closer to a better standard of living. The net is closing; every hour brings him nearer to one of several traps. Cain will be caught, and an imposter’s body will be thrown back to the bewildered strategists who created him. They counted on a monstrous ego and he gave it to them. At the end, he was only a puppet, an expendable puppet. Everyone knew it but him.”

   Bourne picked up the telephone. “Yes?”
   “Room 420?”
   “Go ahead, General.”
   “The telephone calls have stopped. She’s no longer being contacted--not at least by telephone.
   Our couple was out and the phone rang twice. Both times she asked me to answer it. She really wasn’t up to talking.”
   “Who called?”
   “The chemists with a prescription and a journalist requesting an interview. She couldn’t have known either.”
   “Did you get the impression she was trying to throw you off by having you take the calls?” Villiers paused, his reply laced with anger. “It was there, the effect less than subtle insofar as she mentioned she might be having lunch out She said she had a reservation at the George Cinq, and I could reach her there if she decides to go.”
   “If she does, I want to get there first.”
   “I’ll let you know.”
   “You said she’s not being contacted by phone. ‘Not at least by telephone,’ I think you said. Did you mean something by that?”
   “Yes. Thirty minutes ago a woman came to the house. My wife was reluctant to see her but nevertheless did so. I only saw her face for a moment in the parlor, but it was enough. The woman was in panic.”
   “Describe her.”
   Villiers did.
   “Jacqueline Lavier,” said Jason.
   “I thought it might be. From the looks of her, the wolfpack was eminently successful; it was obvious she had not slept. Before taking her into the library, my wife told me she was an old friend in a marriage crisis. A fatuous lie; at her age there are no crises left in marriage, only acceptance and extraction.”
   “I can’t understand her going to your house. It’s too much of a risk. It doesn’t make sense.
   Unless she did it on her own, knowing that no further calls were to be made.”
   “These things occurred to me,” said the soldier. “So I felt the need of a little air, a stroll around the block. My aide accompanied me--a doddering old man taking his limited constitutional under the watchful eye of an escort. But my eyes, too, were watchful. Lavier was followed. Two men were seated in a car four houses away, the automobile equipped with a radio. Those men did not belong to the street. It was in their faces, in the way they watched my house.”
   “How do you know she didn’t come with them?”
   “We live on a quiet street. When Lavier arrived, I was in the sitting room having coffee, and heard her running up the steps. I went to the window in time to see a taxi drive away. She came in a taxi; she was followed.”
   “When did she leave?”
   “She hasn’t. And the men are still outside.”
   “What kind of car are they in?”
   “Citroën. Gray. The first three letters of the license plate are NYR.”
   “Birds in the air, following a contact. Where do the birds come from?”
   “I beg your pardon. What did you say?”
   Jason shook his head “I’m not sure. Never mind. I’m going to try to get out there before Lavier leaves. Do what you can to help me. Interrupt your wife, say you have to speak with her for a few minutes. Insist her ‘old friend’ stay; say anything, just make sure she doesn’t leave.”
   “I will do my best.”
   Bourne hung up and looked at Marie, standing by the window across the room. “It’s working.
   They’re starting to distrust each other. Lavier went to Parc Monceau and she was followed. They’re beginning to suspect their own.”
   “ ‘Birds in the air,’ “ said Marie. “What did you mean?”
   “I don’t know; it’s not important. There isn’t time.”
   “I think it is important, Jason.”
   “Not now.” Bourne walked to the chair where he had dropped his topcoat and hat. He put them on quickly and went to the bureau, opened the drawer and took out the gun. He looked at it for a moment, remembering. The images were there, the past that was his whole yet not his whole at all.
   Zurich. The Bahnhofstrasse and the Carillon du Lac; the Drei Alpenhäuser and the Löwenstrasse; a filthy boardinghouse on the Steppdeckstrasse. The gun symbolized them all, for it had once nearly taken his life in Zurich.
   But this was Paris. And everything started in Zurich was in motion.
   Find Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain.
   False! Goddamn you, false!
   Find Treadstone. Find a message. Find a man.

29
   Jason remained in the far corner of the back seat as the taxi entered Villiers’ block in Parc Monceau. He scanned the cars lining the curb; there was no gray Citroën, no license with the letters NYR.
   But there was Villiers. The old soldier was standing alone on the pavement, four doors away from his house.
   Two men ... in a car four houses away from my house.
   Villiers was standing now where that car had stood; it was a signal.
   “Arrêtez, s’il vous plait,” said Bourne to the driver. “Le vieux là-bas. Je veux parler avec, lui.” He rolled
   down the window and leaned forward. “Monsieur?”
   “In English,” replied Villiers, walking toward the taxi, an old man summoned by a stranger.
   “What happened?” asked Jason.
   “I could not detain them.”
   “Them?”
   “My wife left with the Lavier woman. I was adamant, however. I told her to expect my call at the George Cinq. It was a matter of the utmost importance and I required her counsel.”
   “What did she say?”
   “That she wasn’t sure she’d be at the George Cinq. That her friend insisted on seeing a priest in Neuilly-sur-Seine, at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. She said she felt obliged to accompany her.”
   “Did you object?”
   “Strenuously. And for the first time in our life together, she stated the thoughts in my own mind.
   She said, ‘If it’s your desire to check up on me, André, why not call the parish? I’m sure someone might recognize me and bring me to a telephone.’ Was she testing me?” Bourne tried to think. “Perhaps. Someone would see her there, she’d make sure of it. But bringing her to a phone might be something else again. When did they leave?”
   “Less than five minutes ago. The two men in the Citroën followed them.”
   “Were they in your car?”
   “No. My wife called a taxi.”
   “I’m going out there,” said Jason.
   “I thought you might,” said Villiers. “I looked up the address of the church.”

   Bourne dropped a fifty-franc note over the back of the front seat. The driver grabbed it. “It’s important to me to reach Neuilly-sur-Seine as fast as possible. The Church of the Blessed Sacrament. Do you know where it is?”
   “But of course, monsieur. It is the most beautiful parish in the district.”
   “Get there quickly and there’ll be another fifty francs.”
   “We shall fly on the wings of blessed angels, monsieur!”
   They flew, the flight plan jeopardizing most of the traffic in their path.
   “There are the spires of the Blessed Sacrament, monsieur,” said the victorious driver, twelve minutes later, pointing at three soaring towers of stone through the windshield. “Another minute, perhaps two if the idiots who should be taken off the street will permit. ...”
   “Slow down,” interrupted Bourne, his attention not on the spires of the church but on an automobile several cars ahead. They had taken a corner and he had seen it during the turn; it was a gray Citroën, two men in the front seat.
   They came to a traffic light; the cars stopped Jason dropped the second fifty-franc note over the seat and opened the door. “I’ll be right back. If the light changes, drive forward slowly and I’ll jump in.” Bourne got out, keeping his body low, and rushed between the cars until he saw the letters. NYR; the numbers following were 768, but for the moment they were inconsequential. The taxi driver had earned his money.
   The light changed and the row of automobiles lurched forward like one elongated insect pulling its shelled parts together. The taxi drew alongside; Jason opened the door and climbed in. “You do good work,” he said to the driver.
   “I’m not sure I know the work I am doing.”
   “An affair of the heart. One must catch the betrayer in the act.”
   “In church, monsieur? The world moves too swiftly for me.”
   “Not in traffic,” said Bourne. They approached the final corner before the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. The Citroën made the turn, a single car between it and a taxi, the passengers indistinguishable. Something bothered Jason. The surveillance on the part of the two men was too open, far too obvious. It was as if Carlos’ soldiers wanted someone in that taxi to know they were there.
   Of course! Villiers’ wife was in that cab. With Jacqueline Lavier. And the two men in the Citroën wanted Villiers’ wife to know they were behind her.
   “There is the Blessed Sacrament,” said the driver, entering the street where the church rose in minor medieval splendor in the center of a manicured lawn, crisscrossed by stone paths and dotted with statuary. “What shall I do, monsieur?”
   “Pull into that space,” ordered Jason, gesturing at a break in the line of parked cars. The taxi with Villiers’ wife and the Lavier woman stopped in front of a path guarded by a concrete saint. Villiers’ stunning wife got out first, extending her hand for Jacqueline Lavier, who emerged, ashen, on the pavement. She wore large, orange-rimmed sunglasses and carried a white purse, but she was no longer elegant. Her crown of silver-streaked hair fell in straight, disassociated lines down the sides of her death-white mask of a face, and her stockings were torn. She was at least three hundred feet away, but Bourne felt he could almost hear the erratic gasping for breath that accompanied the hesitant movements of the once regal figure stepping forward in the sunlight.
   The Citroën had proceeded beyond the taxi and was now pulling to the curb. Neither man got out, but a thin metal rod, reflecting the glare of the sun, began rising out of the trunk. The radio antenna was being activated, codes sent over a guarded frequency. Jason was mesmerized, not by the sight and the knowledge of what was being done, but by something else. Words came to him, from where he did not know, but they were there.
   Delta to Almanac, Delta to Almanac. We will not respond. Repeat, negative, brother.
   Almanac to Delta. You will respond as ordered. Abandon, abandon. That is final.
   Delta to Almanac. You’re final, brother. Go fuck yourself. Delta out, equipment damaged.
   Suddenly the darkness was all around him, the sunlight gone. There were no soaring towers of a church reaching for the sky; instead there were black shapes of irregular foliage shivering beneath the light of iridescent clouds. Everything was moving, everything was moving; he had to move with the movement. To remain immobile was to die. Move! For Christ’s sake, move!
   And take them out. One by one. Crawl in closer, overcome the fear--the terrible fear--and reduce the numbers. That was all there was to it. Reduce the numbers. The Monk had made that clear.
   Knife, wire, knee, thumb; you know the points of damage. Of death.
   Death is a statistic for the computers. For you it is survival.
   The Monk.
   The Monk?
   The sunlight came again, blinding him for a moment, his foot on the pavement, his gaze on the gray Citroën a hundred yards away. But it was difficult to see; why was it so difficult? Haze, mist ...
   not darkness now but impenetrable mist. He was hot; no, he was cold. Cold! He jerked his head up, suddenly aware of where he was and what he was doing. His face had been pressed against the window; his breath had fogged the glass.
   “I’m getting out for a few minutes,” said Bourne. “Stay here.”
   “All day, if you wish, monsieur.”
   Jason pulled up the lapels of his topcoat, pushed his hat forward and put on the tortoise-shell glasses. He walked alongside a couple toward a religious sidewalk bazaar, breaking away to stand behind a mother and child at the counter. He had a clear view of the Citroën, the taxi which had been summoned to Parc Monceau was no longer there, dismissed by Villiers’ wife. It was a curious decision on her part, thought Bourne; cabs were not that available.
   Three minutes later the reason was clear ... and disturbing. Villiers’ wife came striding out of the church, walking rapidly, her tall, statuesque figure drawing admiring glances from strollers. She went directly to the Citroën, spoke to the men in front, then opened the rear door.
   The purse. A white purse! Villiers’ wife was carrying the purse that only minutes before had been clutched in the hands of Jacqueline Lavier. She climbed into the Citroën’s back seat and pulled the door shut. The sedan’s motor was switched on and gunned, prelude to a quick and sudden departure. As the car rolled away, the shiny metal rod that was the vehicle’s antenna became shorter and shorter, retracting into its base.
   Where was Jacqueline Lavier? Why had she given her purse to Villiers’ wife? Bourne started to move, then stopped, instinct warning him. A trap? If Lavier was followed, those following her might also be trailed--and not by him.
   He looked up and down the street, studying the pedestrians on the sidewalk, then each car, each driver and passenger, watching for a face that did not belong, as Villiers had said of the two men in the Citroën had not belonged in Parc Monceau.
   There were no breaks in the parade, no darting eyes or hands concealed in outsized pockets. He was being overly cautious; Neuilly-sur-Seine was not a trap for him. He moved away from the counter and started for the church.
   He stopped, his feet suddenly clamped to the pavement. A priest was coming out of the church, a priest in a black suit, a starched white collar and a black hat that partially covered his face. He had seen him before. Not long ago, not in a forgotten past, but recently. Very recently. Weeks, days ... hours, perhaps. Where was it? Where? He knew him! It was in the walk, in the tilt of his head, in the wide shoulders that seemed to glide in place above the fluid movement of his body. He was a man with a gun! Where was it?
   Zurich? The Carillon du Lac? Two men breaking through the crowds, converging, brokering death. One wore gold-rimmed glasses; it was not he. That man was dead. Was it that other man in the Carillon du Lac? Or in the Guisan Quai? An animal, grunting, wild-eyed in rape. Was it he? Or someone else. A dark-coated man in the corridor at the Auberge du Coin where the lights had been shorted out, the spill from the staircase illuminating the trap. A reverse trap where that man had fired his weapon in darkness at shapes he thought were human. Was it that man?
   Bourne did not know, he only knew that he had seen the priest before, but not as a priest. As a man with a gun.
   The killer in the priestly dark suit reached the end of the stone path and turned right at the base of the concrete saint, his face briefly caught in the sunlight. Jason froze; the skin. The killer’s skin was dark, not tanned by the sun, but by birth. A Latin skin, its hue tempered generations ago by ancestors living in or around the Mediterranean. Forebears who migrated across the globe ... across the seas.
   Bourne stood paralyzed by the shock of his own certainty. He was looking at Ilich Ramirez Sanchez.
   Get Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain.
   Jason tore at the front of his coat, his right hand grasping the handle of the gun in his belt. He started running on the pavement, colliding with the backs and chests of strollers, shouldering a sidewalk vendor out of his way, lurching past a beggar digging into a wire trash--The beggar! The beggar’s hand surged into his pocket; Bourne spun around in time to see the barrel of an automatic emerge from the threadbare coat, the sun’s rays bouncing off the metal. The beggar had a gun! His gaunt hand raised it, weapon and eyes steady. Jason lunged into the street, careening off the side of a small car. He heard the spits of the bullets above him and around him, piercing the air with sickening finality. Screams, shrill and in pain, came from unseen people on the sidewalk. Bourne ducked between two automobiles and raced through the traffic to the other side of the street. The beggar was running away; an old man with eyes of steel was racing into the crowds, into oblivion.
   Get Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is ...!
   Jason spun again and lurched again, propelling himself forward, throwing everything in his path out of his way, racing in the direction of the assassin. He stopped, breathless, confusion and anger welling in his chest, sharp bolts of pain returning to his temples. Where was he? Where was Carlos!
   And then he saw him; the killer had climbed behind the wheel of a large black sedan. Bourne ran back into the traffic, slamming hoods and trunks as he threaded his way insanely toward the assassin. Suddenly he was blocked by two cars that had collided. He spread his hands on a glistening chrome grille and leaped sideways over the impacted bumpers. He stopped again, his eyes searing with pain at what he saw, knowing it was pointless to go on. He was too late. The large black sedan had found a break in the traffic, and Ilich Ramirez Sanchez sped away.
   Jason crossed back to the far pavement as the shrieking of police whistles turned heads everywhere. Pedestrians had been grazed or wounded or killed; a beggar with a gun had shot them.
   Lavier! Bourne broke into a run again, back toward the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. He reached the stone path under the eye of the concrete saint and spun left, racing toward the arched, sculptured doors and the marble steps. He ran up and entered the Gothic church, facing racks of flickering candles, fused rays of colored light streaming down from the stained-glass windows high in the dark stone walls. He walked down the center aisle, staring at the worshipers, looking for streaked silver hair and a mask of a face laminated in white.
   The Lavier woman was nowhere to be seen, yet she had not left; she was somewhere in the church. Jason turned, glancing up the aisle; there was a tall priest walking casually past the rack of candles. Bourne sidestepped his way through a cushioned row, emerged on the far right aisle and intercepted him.
   “Excuse me, Father,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve lost someone.”
   “No one is lost in the house of God, sir,” replied the cleric, smiling.
   “She may not be lost in spirit, but if I don’t find the rest of her, shell be very upset. There’s an emergency at her place of business. Have you been here long, Father?”
   “I greet those of our flock who seek assistance, yes. I’ve been here for the better part of an hour.”
   “Two women came in a few minutes ago. One was extremely tall, quite striking, wearing a light-colored coat, and I think a dark kerchief over her hair. The other was an older lady, not as tall, and obviously not in good health. Did you by any chance see them?” The priest nodded. “Yes. There was sorrow in the older woman’s face, she was pale and grieving.”
   “Do you know where she went? I gather her younger friend left.”
   “A devoted friend, may I say. She escorted the poor dear to confession, helping her inside the booth. The cleansing of the soul gives us all strength during the desperate times.”
   “To confession?”
   “Yes--the second booth from the right. She has a compassionate father confessor, I might add.

A visiting priest from the archdiocese of Barcelona. A remarkable man, too; I’m sorry to say this is his last day. He returns to Spain ...” The tall priest frowned. “Isn’t that odd? A few moments ago I thought I saw Father Manuel leave. I imagine he was replaced for a while. No matter, the dear lady is in good hands.”
   “I’m sure of it,” said Bourne. “Thank you, Father. I’ll wait for her.” Jason walked down the aisle toward the row of confessional booths, his eyes on the second, where a small strip of white fabric proclaimed occupancy; a soul was being cleansed. He sat down in the front row, then knelt forward, angling his head slowly around so he could see the rear of the church. The tall priest stood at the entrance, his attention on the disturbance in the street. Outside, sirens could be heard wailing in the distance, drawing closer.
   Bourne got up and walked to the second booth. He parted the curtain and looked inside, seeing what he expected to see. Only the method had remained in question.
   Jacqueline Lavier was dead, her body slumped forward, rolled to the side, supported by the prayer stall, her mask of a face upturned, her eyes wide, staring in death at the ceiling. Her coat was open, the cloth of her dress drenched in blood. The weapon was a long, thin, letter opener, plunged in above her left breast. Her fingers were curled around the handle, her lacquered nails the color of her blood.
   At her feet was a purse--not the white purse she had clutched in her hands ten minutes earlier, but a fashionable Yves St. Laurent, the precocious initials stamped on the fabric, an escutcheon of the haute couture. The reason for it was clear to Jason. Inside were papers identifying this tragic suicide, this overwrought woman so burdened with grief she took her own life while seeking absolution in the eyes of God. Carlos was thorough, brilliantly thorough.
   Bourne closed the curtain and stepped away from the booth. From somewhere high in a tower, the bells of the morning Angelus rang splendidly.

   The taxi wandered aimlessly through the streets of Neuilly-sur-Seine, Jason in the back seat, his mind racing.
   It was pointless to wait, perhaps deadly to do so. Strategies changed as conditions changed, and they had taken a deadly turn. Jacqueline Lavier had been followed, her death inevitable but out of sequence. Too soon; she was still valuable. Then Bourne understood. She had not been killed because she had been disloyal to Carlos, rather because she had disobeyed him. She had gone to Parc Monceau--that was her indefensible error.

   There was another known relay at Les Classiques, a gray-haired switchboard operator named
   Philippe d’Anjou, whose face evoked images of violence and darkness, and shattering flashes of light and sound. He had been in Bourne’s past, of that Jason was certain, and because of that, the hunted had to be cautious; he could not know what that man meant to him. But he was a relay, and he, too, would be watched, as Lavier had been watched, additional bait for another trap, dispatch demanded when the trap closed.
   Were these the only two? Were there others? An obscure, faceless clerk, perhaps, who was not a clerk at all but someone else? A supplier who spent hours in Saint-Honoré legitimately pursuing the cause of haute couture, but with another cause far more vital to him. Or her. Or the muscular designer, René Bergeron, whose movements were so quick and ... fluid.
   Bourne suddenly stiffened, his neck pressed back against the seat, a recent memory triggered.
   Bergeron. The darkly tanned skin, the wide shoulders accentuated by tightly rolled-up sleeves ...
   shoulders that floated in place above a tapered waist, beneath which strong legs moved swiftly, like an animal’s, a cat’s.
   Was it possible? Were the other conjectures merely phantoms, compounded fragments of familiar images he had convinced himself might be Carlos? Was the assassin--unknown to his relays--deep inside his own apparatus, controlling and shaping every move? Was it Bergeron?
   He had to get to a telephone right away. Every minute he lost was a minute removed from the answer, and too many meant there would be no answer at all. But he could not make the call himself; the sequence of events had been too rapid, he had to hold back, store his own information.
   “The first telephone booth you see, pull over,” he said to the driver, who was still shaken by the chaos at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament.
   “As you wish, monsieur. But if monsieur will please try to understand, it is past the time when I should report to the fleet garage. Way past the time.”
   “I understand.”
   “There’s a telephone.”
   “Good. Pull over.”
   The red telephone booth, its quaint panes of glass glistening in the sunlight, looked like a large dollhouse from the outside and smelled of urine on the inside. Bourne dialed the Terrasse, inserted the coins and asked for room 420. Marie answered.
   “What happened?”
   “I haven’t time to explain. I want you to call Les Classiques and ask for René Bergeron. D’Anjou will probably be on the switchboard; make up a name and tell him you’ve been trying to reach Bergeron on Lavier’s private line for the past hour or so. Say it’s urgent, you’ve got to talk to him.”
   “When he gets on, what do I say?”
   “I don’t think he will, but if he does, just hang up. And if d’Anjou comes on the line again, ask him when Bergeron’s expected. I’ll call you back in three minutes.”
   “Darling, are you all right?”
   “I’ve had a profound religious experience. I’ll tell you about it later.” Jason kept his eyes on his watch, the infinitesimal jumps of the thin, delicate sweep hand too agonizingly slow. He began his own personal countdown at thirty seconds, calculating the heartbeat that echoed in his throat as somewhere around two and a half per second. He started dialing at ten seconds, inserted the coins at four, and spoke to the Terrasse’s switchboard at minus-five. Marie picked up the phone the instant it began to ring.
   “What happened?” he asked. “I thought you might still be talking.”
   “It was a very short conversation. I think d’Anjou was wary. He may have a list of names of those who’ve been given the private number--I don’t know. But he sounded withdrawn, hesitant.”
   “What did he say?”
   “Monsieur Bergeron is on a fabric search in the Mediterranean. He left this morning and isn’t expected back for several weeks.”
   “It’s possible I may have just seen him several hundred miles from the Mediterranean.”
   “Where?”
   “In church. If it was Bergeron, he gave absolution with the point of a very sharp instrument.”
   “What are you talking about?”
   “Lavier’s dead.”
   “Oh, my God! What are you going to do?”
   “Talk to a man I think I knew. If he’s got a brain in his head, he’ll listen. He’s marked for extinction.”

30
   “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.”
   “Treadstone?”
   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 as his switchboard, the name of the wealthy Paris district echoing louder and louder in his mind. There was death from Parc Monceau and &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 wag 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.
   Now.
   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 feat, 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!” be 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 ricochets 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?” primed 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. Its 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 comers 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. Wha t 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.”
   “Which is?”
   “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 w ere 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.”

31
   She opened the door and for a moment he stood looking at her, seeing the large brown eyes that roamed his face, eyes that were afraid yet curious. She knew. Not the answer, but that there was an answer, and he had come back to tell her what it was. He walked into the room; she closed the door.
   “It happened,” she said.
   “It happened.” Bourne turned and reached for her. She came to him and they held each other, the silence of the embrace saying more than any spoken words. “You were right,” he whispered finally, his lips against her soft hair. “There’s a great deal I don’t know--may never know--but you were right. I’m not Cain because there is no Cain, there never was. Not the Cain they talk about. He never existed. He’s a myth invented to draw out Carlos. I’m that creation. A man from Medusa called Delta agreed to become a lie named Cain. I’m that man.” She pulled back, still holding him. “ ‘Cain is for Charlie ...’ “ She said the words quietly.
   “ ‘And Delta is for Cain,’ “ completed Jason. “You’ve heard me say it?” Marie nodded. “Yes. One night in the room in Switzerland you shouted it in your sleep. You never mentioned Carlos; just Cain ... Delta. I said something to you in the morning about it, but you didn’t answer me. You just looked out the window.”
   “Because I didn’t understand. I still don’t, but I accept it. It explains so many things.”
   She nodded again. “The provocateur. The code words you use, the strange phrases, the perceptions.
   But why? Why you?”
   “ ‘To clean a slate somewhere.’ That’s what he said.”
   “Who said?”
   “D’Anjou.”
   “The man on the steps in Parc Monceau? The switchboard operator?”
   “The man from Medusa. I knew him in Medusa.”
   “What did he say?”
   Bourne told her. And as he did, he could see in her the relief he had felt in himself. There was a light in her eyes, and a muted throbbing in her neck, sheer joy bursting from her throat. It was almost as if she could barely wait for him to finish so she could hold him again.
   “Jason!” she cried, taking his face in her hands. “Darling, my darling! My friend has come back to me! It’s everything we knew, everything we felt!”
   “Not quite everything,” he said, touching her cheek. “I’m Jason to you, Bourne to me, because that’s the name I was given, and have to use it because I don’t have any other. But it’s not mine.”
   “An invention?”
   “No, he was real. They say I killed him in a place called Tam Quan.” She took her hands away from his face, sliding them to his shoulders, not letting him go. “There had to have been a reason.”
   “I hope so. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the slate I’m trying to clean.”
   “It doesn’t matter,” she said, releasing him. “It’s in the past, over ten years ago. All that matters now is that you reach the man at Treadstone, because they’re trying to reach you.”
   “D’Anjou said word was out that the Americans think I’ve turned. No word from me in over six months, millions taken out of Zurich. They must think I’m the most expensive miscalculation on record.”
   “You can explain what happened. You haven’t knowingly broken your agreement; on the other hand, you can’t go on. It’s impossible. All the training you received means, nothing to you. It’s there only in fragments--images and phrases that you can’t relate to anything. People you’re supposed to know, you don’t know. They’re faces without names, without reasons for being where they are or what they are.”
   Bourne took off his coat and pulled the automatic from his belt. He studied the cylinder--the ugly, perforated extension of the barrel that guaranteed to reduce the decibel count of a gunshot to a spit. It sickened him. He walked to the bureau, put the weapon inside and pushed the drawer shut.
   He held on to the knobs for a moment, his eyes straying to the mirror, to the face in the glass that had no name.
   “What do I say to them?” he asked. “This is Jason Bourne calling. Of course I know that’s not my name because I killed a man named Jason Bourne, but it’s the one you gave me. ... I’m sorry, gentlemen, but something happened to me on the way to Marseilles. I lost something--nothing you can put a price on--just my memory. Now, I gather we’ve got an agreement, but I don’t remember what it is, except for crazy phrases like ‘Get Carlos!’ and ‘Trap Carlos!’ and something about Delta being Cain and Cain is supposed to replace Charlie and Charlie is really Carlos. Things like that, which may lead you to think I do remember. You might even say to yourselves, ‘We’ve got one prime bastard here. Let’s put him away for a couple of decades in a very tight stockade. He not only took us, but worse, he could prove to be one hell of an embarrassment.’ “ Bourne turned from the mirror and looked at Marie. “I’m not kidding. What do I say?”
   “The truth,” she answered “They’ll accept it. They’ve sent you a message; they’re trying to reach you. As far as the six months is concerned, wire Washburn in Port Noir. He kept records-– extensive, detailed records.”
   “He may not answer. We had our own agreement. For putting me back together he was to receive a fifth of Zurich, untraceable to him. I sent him a million American dollars.”
   “Do you think that would stop him from helping you?”
   Jason paused. “He may not be able to help himself. He’s got a problem; he’s a drunk. Not a drinker. A drunk. The worst kind; he knows it and likes it. How long can he live with a million dollars? More to the point, how long do you think those waterfront pirates will let him live once they find out?”
   “You can still prove you were there. You were ill, isolated. You weren’t in contact with anyone.”
   “How can the men at Treadstone be sure? From their view I’m a walking encyclopedia of official secrets. I had to be to do what I’ve done. How can they be certain I haven’t talked to the wrong people?”
   “Tell them to send a team to Port Noir.”
   “It’ll be greeted with blank stares and silence. I left that island in the middle of the night with half the waterfront after me with hooks. If anyone down there made any money out of Washburn, he’ll see the connection and walk the other way.”
   “Jason, I don’t know what you’re driving at. You’ve got your answer, the answer you’ve been looking for since you woke up that morning in Port Noir. What more do you want?”
   “I want to be careful, that’s all,” said Bourne abrasively. “I want to ‘look before I leap’ and make damn sure the ‘stable door is shut’ and ‘Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick--but for Christ’s sake don’t fall into the fire!’ How’s that for remembering?” He was shouting; he stopped.
   Marie walked across the room and stood in front of him. “It’s very good. But that’s not it, is it?
   Being careful I mean.”
   Jason shook his head. “No, it isn’t,” he said. “With each step I’ve been afraid, afraid of the things I’ve learned. Now, at the end, I’m more frightened than ever. If I’m not Jason Bourne, who am I really? What have I left back there? Has that occurred to you?”
   “In all its ramifications, my darling. In a way, I’m far more afraid than you. But I don’t think that can stop us. I wish to God it could, but I know it can’t.”
   The attaché at the American Embassy on the avenue Gabriel walked into the office of the First Secretary and closed the door. The man at the desk looked up.
   “You’re sure it’s him?”
   “I’m only sure he used the key words,” said the attaché, crossing to the desk, a red-bordered index card in his hand. “Here’s the flag,” he continued, handing the card to the First Secretary. “I’ve checked off the words he used, and if that flag’s accurate, I’d say he’s genuine.” The man behind the desk studied the card. “When did he use the name Treadstone?”
   “Only after I convinced him that he wasn’t going to talk with anyone in U. S. Intelligence unless he gave me a damn good reason. I think he thought it’d blow my mind when he said he was Jason Bourne. When I simply asked him what I could do for him, he seemed stuck, almost as if he might hang up on me.”
   “Didn’t he say there was a flag out for him?”
   “I was waiting for it but he never said it. According to that eight-word sketch--‘Experienced field officer. Possible defection or enemy detention’--he could have just said the word ‘flag’ and we would have been in sync. He didn’t.”
   “Then maybe he’s not genuine.”
   “The rest fits, though. He did say D.C.’s been looking for him for more than six months. That was when he used the name Treadstone. He was from Treadstone; that’s supposed to be the explosive. He also told me to relay the code words Delta, Cain and Medusa. The first two are on the flag, I checked them off. I don’t know what Medusa means.”
   “I don’t know what any of this means,” said the First Secretary. “Except that my orders are to hightail it down to communications, clear all scrambler traffic to Langley and get a sterile patch to a spook named Conklin. Him I’ve heard of: a mean son of a bitch who got his foot blown off ten or twelve years ago in Nam. He pushes very strange buttons over at the Company. Also he survived the purges, which leads me to think he’s one man they don’t want roaming the streets looking for a job.
   Or a publisher.”
   “Who do you think this Bourne is?” asked the attaché. “I’ve never seen such a concentrated but formless hunt for a person in my whole eight years away from the States.”
   “Someone they want very badly.” The First Secretary got up from the desk. “Thanks for this. I’ll tell D.C. how well you handled it. What’s the schedule? I don’t suppose he gave you a telephone number.”
   “No way. He wanted to call back in fifteen minutes, but I played the harried bureaucrat. I told him to call me in an hour or so. That’d make it past five o’clock, so we could gain another hour or two by my being out to dinner.”
   “I don’t know. We can’t risk losing him. I’ll let Conklin set up the game plan. He’s the control on this. No one makes a move on Bourne unless it’s authorized by him.”

Alexander Conklin sat behind the desk in his white-walled office in Langley, Virginia, and listened to the embassy man in Paris. He was convinced; it was Delta. The reference to Medusa was the proof, for it was a name no one would know but Delta. The bastard! He was playing the stranded agent, his controls at the Treadstone telephone not responding to the proper code words--whatever they were--because the dead could not talk. He was using the omission to get himself off the meathook! The sheer nerve of the bastard was awesome. Bastard, bastard!
   Kill the controls and use the kills to call off the hunt. Any kind of hunt. How many men had done it before, thought Alexander Conklin. He had. There had been a source-control in the hills of Huong Khe, a maniac issuing maniacal orders, certain death for a dozen teams of Medusans on a maniacal hunt. A young intelligence officer named Conklin had crept back into Base Camp Kilo with a North Vietnamese rifle, Russian caliber, and had fired two bullets into the head of a maniac.
   There had been grieving and harsher security measures put in force, but the hunt was called off.
   There had been no fragments of glass found in the jungle paths of Base Camp Kilo, however.
   Fragments with fingerprints that irrefutably identified the sniper as an Occidental recruit from Medusa itself. There were such fragments found on Seventy-first Street, but the killer did not know it--Delta did not know it.
   “At one point we seriously questioned whether he was genuine,” said the embassy’s First Secretary, rambling on as if to fill the abrupt silence from Washington. “An experienced field officer would have told the attaché to check for a flag, but the subject didn’t.”
   “An oversight,” replied Conklin, pulling his mind back to the brutal enigma that was Delta-Cain.
   “What are the arrangements?”
   “Initially Bourne insisted on calling back in fifteen minutes, but I instructed lower-level to stall.
   For instance, we could use the dinner hour ...” The embassy man was making sure a Company executive in Washington realized the perspicacity of his contributions. It would go on for the better part of a minute; Conklin had heard too many variations before.
   Delta. Why had he turned? The madness must have eaten his head away, leaving only the instincts for survival. He had been around too long; he knew that sooner or later they would find him, kill him. There was never any alternative; he understood that from the moment he turned--or broke-– or whatever it was. There was nowhere to hide any longer; he was a target all over the globe. He could never know who might step out of the shadows and bring his life to an end. It was something they all lived with, the single most persuasive argument against turning. So another solution had to be found: survival. The biblical Cain was the first to commit fratricide. Had the mythical name triggered the obscene decision, the strategy itself? Was it as simple as that? Clod knew it was the perfect solution. Kill them all, kill your brother.
   Webb gone, the Monk gone, the Yachtsman and his wife ... who could deny the instructions Delta received, since these four alone relayed instructions to him? He had removed the millions and distributed them as ordered. Blind recipients he had assumed were intrinsic to the Monk’s strategy.
   Who was Delta to question the Monk? The creator of Medusa, the genius who had recruited and created him. Cain.
   The perfect solution. To be utterly convincing, all that was required was the death of a brother, the proper grief to follow. The official judgment would be rendered. Carlos had infiltrated and broken Treadstone. The assassin had won, Treadstone abandoned. The bastard!
   “... so basically I felt the game plan would come from you.” The First Secretary in Paris had finished. He was an ass, but Conklin needed him; one tune had to be heard while another was being played.
   “You did the right thing,” said a respectful executive in Langley. “I’ll let our people over here know how well you handled it. You were absolutely right; we need time, but Bourne doesn’t realize it. We can’t tell him, either, which makes it tough. We’re on sterile, so may I speak accordingly?,, “Of course.”
   “Bourne’s under pressure. He’s been ... detained ... for a long period of time. Am I clear?”
   “The Soviets?”
   “Right up to the Lubyanka. His run was made by means of a double-entry. Are you familiar with the term?”
   “Yes, I am. Moscow thinks he’s working for them now.”
   “That’s what they think.” Conklin paused. “And we’re not sure. Crazy things happen in the Lubyanka.”
   The First Secretary whistled softly. “That’s a basket. How are you going to make a determination?”
   “With your help. But the classification priority is so high it’s above embassy, even ambassadorial level. You’re on the scene; you were reached. You can accept the condition or not, that’s up to you.
   If you do, I think a commendation might come right out of the Oval Office.”
   Conklin could hear the slow intake of breath from Paris.
   “I’ll do whatever I can, of course. Name it.”
   “You already did. We want him stalled. When he calls back, talk to him yourself.”
   “Naturally,” interrupted the embassy man.
   “Tell him you relayed the codes. Tell him Washington is flying over an officer-of-record from Treadstone by military transport. Say D.C. wants him to keep out of sight and away from the embassy; every route is being watched. Then ask him if he wants protection, and if he does, find out where he wants to pick it up. But don’t send anyone; when you talk to me again I’ll have been in touch with someone over there. I’ll give you a name then and an eye-spot you can give to him.”
   “Eye-spot?”
   “Visual identification. Something or someone he can recognize.”
   “One of your men?”
   “Yes, we think it’s best that way. Beyond you, there’s no point in involving the embassy. As a matter of fact, it’s vital we don’t, so whatever conversations you have shouldn’t be logged.”
   “I can take care of that,” said the First Secretary. “But how is the one conversation I’m going to have with him going to help you determine whether he’s a double-entry?”
   “Because it won’t be one; it’ll be closer to ten.”
   “Ten?”
   “That’s right. Your instructions to Bourne--from us through you--are that he’s to check in on your phone every hour to confirm the fact that he’s in safe territory. Until that last time, when you tell him the Treadstone officer has arrived in Paris and will meet with him.”
   “What will that accomplish?” asked the embassy man.
   “He’ll keep moving ... if he’s not ours. There are a half a dozen known deep-cover Soviet agents in Paris, all with tripped phones. If he’s working with Moscow, the chances are he’ll use at least one of them. We’ll be watching. And if that’s the way it turns out, I think you’ll remember the time you spent all night at the embassy for the rest of your life. Presidential commendations have a way of raising a career man’s grade level. Of course, you don’t have too much higher to go ...”
   “There’s higher, Mr. Conklin,” interrupted the First Secretary.
   The conversation was over; the embassy man would call back after hearing from Bourne. Conklin got up from the chair and limped across the room to a gray filing cabinet against the wall. He unlocked the top panel. Inside was a stapled folder containing a sealed envelope bearing the names and locations of men who could be called upon in emergencies. They had once been good men, loyal men, who for one reason or another could no longer be on a Washington payroll. In all cases it had been necessary to remove them from the official scene, relocate them with new identities-– those fluent in other languages frequently given citizenship by cooperating foreign governments.
   They had simply disappeared.
   They were the outcasts, men who had gone beyond the laws in the service of their country, who often killed in the interests of their country. But their country could not tolerate their official existence; their covers had been exposed, their actions made known. Still, they could be called upon.
   Monies were constantly funneled to accounts beyond official scrutiny, certain understandings intrinsic to the payments.
   Conklin carried the envelope back to his desk and tore the marked tape from the flap; it would be resealed, remarked. There was a man in Paris, a dedicated man who had come up through the officer corps of Army Intelligence, a lieutenant colonel by the time he was thirty-five. He could be counted on; he understood national priorities. He had killed a left-wing cameraman in a village near Hu a dozen years ago.
   Three minutes later he had the man on the line, the call unlogged, unrecorded. The former officer was given a name and a brief sketch of defection, including a covert trip to the United States during which the defector in question on special assignment had eliminated those controlling the strategy.
   “A double-entry?” asked the man in Paris. “Moscow?”
   “No, not the Soviets,” replied Conklin, aware that if Delta requested protection, there would be conversations between the two men.
   “It was a long-range deep cover to snare Carlos.”
   “The assassin?”
   “That’s right.”
   “You may say it’s not Moscow, but you won’t convince me. Carlos was trained in Novgorod and as far as I’m concerned he’s still a dirty gun for the KGB.”
   “Perhaps. The details aren’t for briefing, but suffice it to say we’re convinced our man was bought off; he’s made a few million and wants an unencumbered passport.”
   “So he took out the controls and the finger’s pointed at Carlos, which doesn’t mean a damn thing but give him another kill.”
   “That’s it. We want to play it out, let him think he’s home free. Best, we’d like an admission, whatever information we can get, which is why I’m on my way over. But it’s definitely secondary to taking him out. Too many people in too many places were compromised to put him where he is.
   Can you help? There’ll be a bonus.”
   “My pleasure. And keep the bonus, I hate fuckers like him. They blow whole networks.”
   “It’s got to be airtight; he’s one of the best. I’d suggest support, at least one.”
   “I’ve got a man from the Saint-Gervais worth five. He’s for hire.”
   “Hire him. Here are the particulars. The control in Paris is an embassy blind; he knows nothing but he’s in communication with Bourne and may request protection for him.”
   “I’ll play it,” said the former intelligence officer. “Go ahead.”
   “There’s not much more for the moment. I’ll take a jet out of Andrews. My ETA in Paris will be anywhere between eleven and twelve midnight your time. I want to see Bourne within an hour or so after that and be back here in Washington by tomorrow. It’s tight, but that’s the way it’s got to be.”
   “That’s the way it’ll be, then.”
   “The blind at the embassy is the First Secretary. His name is ...” Conklin gave the remaining specifics and the two men worked out basic ciphers for their initial contact in Paris. Code words that would tell the man from the Central Intelligence Agency whether or not any problems existed when they spoke. Conklin hung up. Everything was in motion exactly the way Delta would expect it to be in motion. The inheritors of Treadstone would go by the book, and the book was specific where collapsed strategies and strategists were concerned. They were to be dissolved, cut off, no official connection or acknowledgment permitted. Failed strategies and strategists were an embarrassment to Washington. And from its manipulative beginnings, Treadstone Seventy-One had used, abused and maneuvered every major unit in the United States Intelligence community and not a few foreign governments. Very long poles would be held when touching any survivors.
   Delta knew all this, and because he himself had destroyed Treadstone, he would appreciate the precautions, anticipate them, be alarmed if they were not there. And when confronted he would react in false fury and artificial anguish over the violence that had taken place in Seventy-first Street.
   Alexander Conklin would listen with all his concentration, trying to discern a genuine note, or even the outlines of a reasonable explanation, but he knew he would hear neither. Irregular fragments of glass could not beam themselves across the Atlantic, only to be concealed beneath a heavy drape in a
   Manhattan brownstone, and fingerprints were more accurate proof of a man having been at a scene than any photograph. There was no way they could be doctored.
   Conklin would give Delta the benefit of two minutes to say whatever came to his facile mind. He would listen, and then he would pull the trigger.