Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

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 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?”