The Bourne Identity jb-1

by Robert Ludlum

  “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? Th
at’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.”