The reverse trap by the nature of its single complication must be swift and simpler still…
A matter of minutes… He had only a matter of moments if everything he believed was so. D’Anjou! The contact had played his role—his minor role—and was expendable—as Jacqueline Lavier had been expendable.
Bourne ran out from between the two cars toward the black sedan; it was no more than fifty yards ahead. He could see the two men; they were converging on Philippe d’Anjou, who was still pacing in front of the short flight of marble steps. One accurate shot from either man and d’Anjou would be dead, Treadstone Seventy-One gone with him. Jason ran faster, his hand inside his coat, gripping the heavy automatic.
Carlos’ soldiers were only yards away, now hurrying themselves, the execution to be quick, the condemned man cut down before he understood what was happening.
“Medusa!” roared Bourne, not knowing why he shouted the name rather than d’Anjou’s own.
“Medusa—Medusa!”
D’Anjou’s head snapped up, shock on his face. The driver of the black sedan had spun around, his weapon leveled at Jason, while his companion moved toward d’Anjou, his gun aimed at the former Medusan. Bourne dove to his right, the automatic extended, steadied by his left hand. He fired in midair, his aim accurate; the man closing in on d’Anjou arched backward as his stiffened legs were caught in an instant of paralysis; he collapsed on the cobblestones. Two spits exploded over Jason’s head, the bullets impacting into metal behind him. He rolled to his left, his gun again steady, directed at the second man. He pulled the trigger twice; the driver screamed, an eruption of blood spreading across his face as he fell.
Hysteria swept through the crowds. Men and women screamed, parents threw themselves over children, others ran up the steps through the great doors of the Louvre, as guards tried to get outside. Bourne got to his feet, looking for d’Anjou. The older man had lunged behind the block of white granite, his gaunt figure now crawling awkwardly in terror out of his sanctuary. Jason raced through the panicked crowd, shoving the automatic into his belt, separating the hysterical bodies that stood between himself and the man who could give him the answers. Treadstone. Treadstone!
He reached the gray-haired Medusan. “Get up!” 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 devi
ce. 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. What I still believe. It wasn’t money—no amount of money could have made you do it—it had to be something else. I think you did it for the same reason so many others agreed to Medusa eleven years ago. To clean a slate somewhere, to be able to return to something you had before, that was barred to you. I don’t know, of course, and I don’t expect you to confirm it, but that’s what I think.”
“It’s possible you’re right,” said Jason, holding his breath, the cool winds of release blowing into the mists. It made sense. A message was sent. This could be it. Find the message. Find the sender. Treadstone! “Which leads us back,” continued d’Anjou, “to the stories about Delta. Who was he? What was he? This educated, oddly quiet man who could transform himself into a lethal weapon in the jungles. Who stretched himself and others beyond endurance for no cause at all. We never understood.”
“It was never required. Is there anything else you can tell me? Do they know the precise location of Treadstone?”
“Certainly. I learned it from Bergeron. A residence in New York City, on East Seventy-first Street. Number 139. Isn’t that correct?”
“Possibly … Anything else?”
“Only what you obviously know, the strategy of which I admit eludes me.”
“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 were right from the beginning.
“Nothing else, then?” asked Bourne, trying to control the impatience in his voice, anxious now beyond any anxiety he had known to get back to Marie.
“It’s all I know—but please understand, I was never told that much. I was brought in because of my knowledge of Medusa—and it was established that Cain was from Medusa—but I was never part of Carlos’ inner circle.”
“You were close enough. Thank you.” Jason put several bills on the table and started to slide across the booth.
“There’s one thing,” said d’Anjou. “I’m not sure it’s relevant at this point, but they know your name is not Jason Bourne.”
“What?”
“March 25. Don’t you remember, Delta? It’s only two days from now, and the date’s very important to Carlos. Word has been spread. He wants your corpse on the twenty-fifth. He wants to deliver it to the Americans on that day.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“On March 25, 1968, Jason Bourne was executed at Tam Quan. You executed h
im.”
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?”
The Bourne Identity jb-1 Page 47
