The Bourne Identity jb-1

by Robert Ludlum

  In the shadows he tugged at the fluted metal; it was strongly in place. He reached as high as he could, then sprang up, gripping the pipe, his feet pressed into the wall, peddling one on top of the other until his left foot was parallel to the first vent. Holding on, he slipped his foot into the recess and propelled himself further up the drain. He was within eighteen inches of the railings; one surge launched from the vent and he could reach the bottom rung.

  The door crashed open beneath him, white light shooting across the gravel into the woods. A figure plummeted out, weaving to maintain its balance, followed by the white-hatted chef, who was screaming.

  “You pissant! You’re drunk, that’s what you are! You’ve been drunk the whole shit-filled night!

  Pastries all over the dining room floor. Everything a mess. Get out, you’ll not get a sou!” The door was pulled shut, the sound of a bolt unmistakably final. Jason held on to the pipe, arms and ankles aching, rivulets of sweat breaking out on his forehead. The man below staggered backward, making obscene gestures repeatedly with his right hand for the benefit of the chef who was no longer there. His glazed eyes wandered up the wall, settling on Bourne’s face. Jason held his breath as their eyes met; the man stared, then blinked and stared again. He shook his head, closing his lids, then opened them wide, taking in the sight he was not entirely sure was there. He backed away, lurching into a sideslip and a forward walk, obviously deciding that the apparition halfway up the wall was the result of his pressured labors. He weaved around the corner of the building, a man more at peace with himself for having rejected the foolishness that had assaulted his eyes.

  Bourne breathed again, letting his body slump against the wall in relief. But it was only for a moment; the ache in his ankle had descended to his foot, a cramp forming. He lunged, grabbing the iron bar that was the base of the railing with his right hand, whipping his left up from the drainpipe, joining it. He pressed his knees into the shingles and pulled himself slowly up the wall until his head was over the edge of the terrace. It was deserted. He kicked his right leg up to the ledge, his right hand reaching for the wrought iron top; balanced, he swung over the railing.

  He was on a terrace used for dining in the spring and summer months, a tiled floor that could accommodate ten to fifteen tables. In the center of the wall separating the enclosed section from the terrace were the wide double doors he had seen from the woods. The figures inside were now motionless, standing still, and for an instant Jason wondered whether an alarm had been set off—whether they were waiting for him. He stood immobile, his hand on his gun; nothing happened. He approached the wall, staying in the shadows. Once there, he pressed his back against the wood and edged his way toward the first door until his fingers touched the frame. Slowly, he inched his head to the pane of glass level with his eyes and looked inside.

  What he saw was both mesmerizing and not a little frightening. The men were in lines—three separate lines, four men to a line—facing André Villiers, who was addressing them. Thirteen men in all, twelve of them not merely standing, but standing at attention. They were old men, but not merely old men; they were old soldiers. None wore uniforms; instead in each lapel they wore ribbons, regimental colors above decorations for valor and rank. And if there was one all-pervasive note about the scene, it, too, was unmistakable. These were men used to command—used to power.

  It was in their faces, their eyes, in the way they listened—respect rendered, but not blindly, judgment ever present. Their bodies were old, but there was strength in that room. Immense strength. That was the frightening aspect. If these men belonged to Carlos, the assassin’s resources were not only far-reaching, they were extraordinarily dangerous. For these were not ordinary men; they were seasoned professional soldiers. Unless he was grossly mistaken, thought Bourne, the depth of experience and range of influence in that room was staggering.

  The mad colonels of Algiers—what was left of them? Men driven by memories of a France that no longer existed, a world that was no more, replaced by one they found weak and ineffectual. Such men could make a pact with Carlos, if only for the covert power it gave them. Strike. Attack.

  Dispatch. Decisions of life and death that were once a part of their fabric, brought back by a force that could serve causes they refused to admit were no longer viable. Once a terrorist, always a terrorist, and assassination was the raw core of terror.

  The general was raising his voice; Jason tried to hear the words through the glass. They became clearer.

  “… our presence will be felt, our purpose understood. We are together in our stand, and that stand is immovable; we shall be heard! In memory of all those who have fallen—our brothers of the tunic and the cannon—who laid down their lives for the glory of France. We shall force our beloved country to remember, and in their names to remain strong, lackey to no one! Those who oppose us will know our anger. In this, too, we are united. We pray to Almighty God that those who have gone before us have found peace, for we are still in conflict… Gentlemen: I give you Our Lady—our France!”

  There was a unison of muttered approvals, the old soldiers remaining rigidly at attention. And then another voice was raised, the first five words sung singly, joined at the sixth by the rest of the group.

  Allons enfants de la patrie,

  Le jour de gloire est arrivé …

  Bourne turned away, sickened by the sight and the sounds inside that room. Lay waste in the name of glory; the death of fallen comrades perforce demands further death. It is required; and if it means a pact with Carlos, so be it.

  What disturbed him so? Why was he suddenly swept by feelings of anger and futility? What triggered the revulsion he felt so strongly? And then he knew. He hated a man like André Villiers, despised the men in that room. They were all old men who made war, stealing life from the young … and the very young.

  Why were the mists closing in again? Why was the pain so acute? There was no time for questions, no strength to tolerate them. He had to push them out of his mind and concentrate on André François Villiers, warrior and warlord, whose causes belonged to yesterday but whose pact with an assassin called for death today.

  He would trap the general. Break him. Learn everything he knew, and probably kill him. Men like Villiers robbed life from the young and the very young. They did not deserve to live. I am in my labyrinth again, and the walls are imbedded with spikes. Oh, God, they hurt.

  Jason climbed over the railing in the darkness and lowered himself to the drainpipe, each muscle aching. Pain, too, had to be erased. He had to reach a deserted stretch of road in the moonlight and trap a broker of death.

  25

  Bourne waited in the Renault, two hundred yards east of the restaurant entrance, the motor running, prepared to race ahead the instant he saw Villiers drive out. Several others had already left, all in separate cars. Conspirators did not advertise their association, and these old men were conspirators in the truest sense. They had traded whatever honors they had earned for the lethal convenience of an assassin’s gun and an assassin’s organization. Age and bias had robbed them of reason, as they had spent their lives robbing life … from the young and the very young.

  What was it? Why won’t it leave me? Some terrible thing is deep inside me, trying to break out, trying I think to kill me.. The fear and the guilt sweep through me … but of what and for what I do not know. Why should these withered old men provoke such feelings of fear and guilt … and loathing?

  They were war. They were death. On the ground and from the skies. From the skies … from the skies. Help me, Marie. For God’s sake, help me!

  There it was. The headlights swung out of the drive, the long black chassis reflecting the wash of the floodlights. Jason kept his own lights off as he pulled out of the shadows. He accelerated down the road until he reached the first curve, where he switched on the headlights and pressed the pedal to the floor. The isolated stretch in the countryside was roughly two miles away; he had to get there quickly.

 
It was ten past eleven, and as three hours before the fields swept into the hills, both bathed in the light of the March moon, now in the center of the sky. He reached the area; it was feasible. The shoulder was wide, bordering a pasture, which meant that both automobiles could be pulled off the road. The immediate objective, however, was to get Villiers to stop. The general was old but not feeble; if the tactic were suspect, he would break over the grass and race away. Everything was timing, and a totally convincing moment of the unexpected.

  Bourne swung the Renault around in a U-turn, waited until he saw the headlights in the distance, then suddenly accelerated, swinging the wheel violently back and forth. The automobile careened over the road—an out-of-control driver, incapable of finding a straight line, but nevertheless speeding.

  Villiers had no choice; he slowed down as Jason came racing insanely toward him. Then abruptly, when the two cars were no more than twenty feet from colliding, Bourne spun the wheel to the left, braking as he did so, sliding into a skid, tires screeching. He came to a stop, the window open, and raised his voice in an undefined cry. Half shout, half scream; it could have been the vocal explosion of an ill man or a drunk man, but the one thing it was not was threatening. He slapped his hand on the frame of the window and was silent, crouching in the seat, his gun on his lap.

  He heard the door of Villiers! sedan open and peered through the steering wheel. The old man was not visibly armed; he seemed to suspect nothing, relieved only that a collision had been avoided. The general walked through the beams of the headlights to the Renault’s left window, his shouts anxious, his French the interrogating commands of Saint-Cyr.

  “What’s the meaning of this? What do you think you’re doing? Are you all right?” His hands gripped the base of the window.

  “Yes, but you’re not,” replied Bourne in English, raising the gun.

  “What …” The old man gasped, standing erect. “Who are you and what is this?” Jason got out of the Renault, his left hand extended above the barrel of the weapon. “I’m glad your English is fluent. Walk back to your car. Drive it off the road.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I’ll kill you right now. It wouldn’t take much to provoke me.”

  “Do these words come from the Red Brigades? Or the Paris branch of the Baader-Meinhof?”

  “Why? Could you countermand them if they did?”

  “I spit at them! And you!”

  “No one’s ever doubted your courage, General. Walk to your car.”

  “It’s not a matter of courage!” said Villiers without moving. “It’s a question of logic. You’ll accomplish nothing by killing me, less by kidnapping me. My orders are firm, fully understood by my staff and my family. The Israelis are absolutely right. There can be no negotiations with terrorists. Use your gun, garbage! Or get out of here!”

  Jason studied the old soldier, suddenly, profoundly uncertain, but not about to be fooled. It would be in the furious eyes that stared at him. One name soaked in filth coupled with another name heaped with the honors of his nation would cause another kind of explosion; it would be in the eyes.

  “Back at that restaurant, you said France shouldn’t be a lackey to anyone. But a general of France became someone’s lackey. General André Villiers, messenger for Carlos. Carlos’ contact, Carlos’ soldier, Carlos’ lackey.”

  The furious eyes did grow wide, but not in any way Jason expected. Fury was suddenly joined by hatred, not shock, not hysteria, but deep, uncompromising abhorrence. The back of Villiers’ hand shot up, arching from his waist, the crack against Bourne’s face sharp, accurate, painful. It was followed by a forward slap, brutal, insulting, the force of the blow reeling Jason back on his feet.

  The old man moved in, blocked by the barrel of the gun, but unafraid, undeterred by its presence, consumed only with inflicting punishment. The blows came one after another, delivered by a man possessed.

  “Pig!” screamed Villiers. “Filthy, detestable pig! Garbage!”

  “I’ll shoot! I’ll kill you! Stop it!” But Bourne could not pull the trigger. He was backed into the small car, his shoulders pressed against the roof. Still the old man attacked, his hands flying out, swinging up, crashing down.

  “Kill me—if you can—if you dare! Dirt! Filth!”

  Jason threw the gun to the ground, raising his arms to fend off Villiers! assault. He lashed his left hand out, grabbing the old man’s right wrist, then his left, gripping the left forearm that was slashing down like a broadsword. He twisted both violently, bending Villiers into him, forcing the old soldier to stand motionless, their faces inches from each other, the old man’s chest heaving.

  “Are you telling me you’re not Carlos’ man? Are you denying it?” Villiers lunged forward, trying to break Bourne’s grip, his barrel-like chest smashing into Jason. “I revile you! Animal!”

  “Goddamn you—yes or no?”

  The old man spat in Bourne’s face, the fire in his eyes now clouded, tears welling. “Carlos killed my son,” he said in a whisper. “He killed my only son on the rue du Bac. My son’s life was blown up with five sticks of dynamite on the rue du Bac!”

  Jason slowly reduced the pressure of his fingers. Breathing heavily, he spoke as calmly as he could.

  “Drive your car into the field and stay there. We have to talk, General. Something’s happened you don’t know about, and we’d both better learn what it is.”

  “Never! Impossible! It could not happen!”

  “It happened,” said Bourne, sitting with Villiers in the front seat of the sedan.

  “An incredible mistake has been made! You don’t know what you’re saying!”

  “No mistake—and I do know what I’m saying because I found the number myself. It’s not only the right number, it’s a magnificent cover. Nobody in his right mind would connect you with Carlos, especially in light of your son’s death. Is it common knowledge he was Carlos’ kill?”

  “I would prefer different language, monsieur.”

  “Sorry. I mean that.”

  “Common knowledge? Among the Sûreté, a qualified yes. Within military intelligence and Interpol, most certainly. I read the reports.”

  “What did they say?”

  “It was presumed that Carlos did a favor for his friends from his radical days. Even to the point of allowing them to appear silently responsible for the act. It was politically motivated, you know. My son was a sacrifice, an example to others who opposed the fanatics.”

  “Fanatics?”

  “The extremists were forming a false coalition with the socialists, making promises they had no intention of keeping. My son understood this, exposed it, and initiated legislation to block the alignment. He was killed for it.”

  “Is that why you retired from the army and stood for election?”

  “With all my heart. It is customary for the son to carry on for the father …” The old man paused, the moonlight illuminating his haggard face. “In this matter, it was the father’s legacy to carry on for the son. He was no soldier, nor I a politician, but I am no stranger to weapons and explosives. His causes were molded by me, his philosophy reflected my own, and he was killed for these things. My decision was clear to me. I would carry on our beliefs into the political arena and let his enemies contend with me. The soldier was prepared for them.”

  “More than one soldier, I gather.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those men back there at the restaurant. They looked like they ran half the armies in France.”

  “They did, monsieur. They were once known as the angry young commanders of Saint-Cyr. The Republic was corrupt, the military incompetent, the Maginot a joke. Had they been heeded in their time, France would not have fallen. They became the leaders of the Resistance; they fought the Boche and Vichy all through Europe and Africa.”

  “What do they do now?”

  “Most live on pensions, many obsessed with the past. They pray to the Virgin that it will never be repeated. In too many a
reas, however, they see it happening. The military is reduced to a sideshow, Communists and socialists in the Assembly forever eroding the strength of the services. The Moscow apparatus runs true to form; it does not change with the decades. A free society is ripe for infiltration, and once infiltrated the changes do not stop until that society is remade into another image. Conspiracy is everywhere; it cannot go unchallenged.”

  “Some might say that sounds pretty extreme itself.”

  “For what? Survival? Strength? Honor? Are these terms too anachronistic for you?”

  “I don’t think so. But I can imagine a lot of damage being done in their names.”

  “Our philosophies differ and I don’t care to debate them. You asked me about my associates and I answered you. Now, please, this incredible misinformation of yours. It’s appalling. You don’t know what it’s like to lose a son, to have a child killed.”

  The pain comes back to me and I don’t know why. Pain and emptiness, a vacuum in the sky … from the sky.

  Death in and from the skies. Jesus, it hurts. It. What is it?

  “I can sympathize,” said Jason, his hands gripped to stop the sudden trembling. “But it fits.”

  “Not for an instant! As you said, no one in his right mind would connect me to Carlos, least of all the killer pig himself. It’s a risk he would not take. It’s unthinkable.”