Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

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 d’Anjou knew it as surely as he knew the dead woman in Neuilly-sur-Seine was Jacqueline Lavier.

“What might that information be?” asked d’Anjou.

“The identity of your employer. A name and sufficient proof to have sealed in an envelope and given to an attorney, to be held throughout your natural life. But if your life were to end unnaturally, even accidentally, he’d be instructed to open the envelope and reveal the contents. It’s protection, d’Anjou.”

“I see,” said the Medusan softly. “But you say men watch me, follow me.”

“Cover yourself,” said Jason. “Tell them the truth. You’ve got a number to call, haven’t you?”

“Yes, there’s a number, a man.” The older man’s voice rose slightly in astonishment.

“Reach him, tell him exactly what I said … except for the exchange, of course. Say I contacted you, want a meeting with you. It’s to be outside the Louvre in an hour. The truth.”

“You’re insane.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“You usually did. You’re creating your own trap, mounting your own execution.”

“In which event you may be amply rewarded.”

“Or executed myself, if what you say is so.”

“Let’s find out if it is. I’ll make contact with you one way or another, take my word for it. They have my photograph; they’ll know it when I do. Better a controlled situation than one in which there’s no control at all.”