Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“Of course. Why? You’ll travel alone?”

“I have to. She’d never let me go.”

“You’ll have to tell her something.”

“I will. That I’m underground here in Paris, or Brussels, or Amsterdam. Cities where Carlos operates. But she has to get away; our car was found in Montmartre. Carlos’ men are searching every street, every fiat, every hotel. You’re working with me now; your aide will take her into the country—she’ll be safe there. I’ll tell her that.”

“I must ask the question now. What happens if you don’t come back?” Bourne tried to keep the plea out of his voice. “I’ll have time on the plane. I’ll write out everything that’s happened, everything that I … remember. I’ll send it to you and you make the decisions. With her. She called you a giant. Make the right decisions. Protect her.”

“‘Vous êtes un soldat … arrêtez.’ You have my word. She’ll not be harmed.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

Villiers threw the gun on the bed. It landed between the twisted bare legs of the dead woman; the old soldier coughed abruptly, contemptuously, his posture returning. ‘To practicalities, my young wolfpack,” he said, authority coming back to him awkwardly, but with definition. “What’s this strategy of yours?”

“To begin with, you’re in a state of collapse, beyond shock. You’re an automaton walking around in the dark, following instructions you can’t understand but have to obey.”

“Not very different from reality, wouldn’t you say?” interrupted Villiers. “Before a young man with truth in his eyes forced me to listen to him. But how is this perceived state brought about? And why?”

“All you know—all you remember—is that a man broke into your house during the fire and smashed his gun into your head; you fell unconscious. When you woke up you found your wife dead, strangled, a note by her body. It’s what’s in the note that’s driven you out of your mind.”

“What would that be?” asked the old soldier cautiously.

“The truth,” said Jason. “The truth you can’t ever permit anyone to know. What she was to Carlos, what he was to her. The killer who wrote the note left a telephone number, telling you that you could confirm what he’s written. Once you were satisfied, you could destroy the note and report the murder any way you like. But for telling you the truth—for killing the whore who was so much a part of your son’s death—he wants you to deliver a written message.”

“To Carlos?”

“No. He’ll send a relay.”

“Thank God for that. I’m not sure I could go through with it, knowing it was him.”

“The message will reach him.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll write it out for you; you can give it to the man he sends. It’s got to be exact, both in what it says and what it doesn’t say.” Bourne looked over at the dead woman, at the swelling in her throat.

“Do you have any alcohol?”

“A drink?”

“No. Rubbing alcohol. Perfume will do.”

“I’m sure there’s rubbing alcohol in the medicine cabinet.”

“Would you mind getting it for me? Also a towel, please.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Put my hands where your hands were. Just in case, although I don’t think anyone will question you. While I’m doing that, call whomever you have to call to get me out. The timing’s important. I have to be on my way before you call Carlos’ relay, long before you call the police. They’d have the airports watched.”

“I can delay until daybreak, I imagine. An old man’s state of shock, as you put it. Not much longer than that. Where will you go?”

“New York. Can you do it? I have a passport identifying me as a man named George Washburn. Its a good job.”

“Making mine far easier. You’ll have diplomatic status. Pre-clearance on both sides of the Atlantic.”

“As an Englishman? The passport’s British.”

“As a NATO accommodation. Conseiller channels; you are part of an Anglo-American team engaged in military negotiations. We favor your swift return to the United States for further instructions. It’s not unusual, and sufficient to get you rapidly past both immigration points.”

“Good. I’ve checked the schedules. There’s a seven A.M. flight, Air France to Kennedy.”

“You’ll be on it.” The old man paused; he had not finished. He took a step toward Jason. “Why New York? What makes you so certain Carlos will follow you to New York?”

“Two questions with different answers,” said Bourne. “I have to deliver him where he marked me for killing four men and a woman I didn’t know … one of those men very close to me, very much a part of me, I think.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I’m not sure I do, either. There’s no time. It’ll all be in what I write down for you on the plane. I have to prove Carlos knew . A building in New York. Where it all took place; they’ve got to understand He knew about it. Trust me.”

“I do. The second question, then. Why will he come after you?” Jason looked again at the dead woman on the bed. “Instinct, maybe. I’ve killed the one person on earth he cares about. If she were someone else and Carlos killed her, I’d follow him across the world until I found him.”

“He may be more practical. I think that was your point to me.”

“There’s something else,” replied Jason, taking his eyes away from Angélique Villiers. “He has nothing to lose, everything to gain. No one knows what he looks like, but he knows me by sight. Still, he doesn’t know my state of mind. He’s cut me off, isolated me, turned me into someone I was never meant to be. Maybe he was too successful; maybe I’m mad, insane. God knows killing her was insane. My threats are irrational. How much more irrational am I? An irrational man, an insane man, is a panicked man. He can be taken out.”

“Is your threat irrational? Can you be taken out?”

“I’m not sure. I only know I don’t have a choice.” He did not. At the end it was as the beginning. Get Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain. The man and the myth were finally one, images and reality fused. There was no other way.

Ten minutes had passed since he had called Marie, lied to Marie, and heard the quiet acceptance in her voice, knowing it meant she needed time to think. She had not believed him, but she believed in him; she, too, had no choice. And he could not ease her pain; there had been no time, there was no time. Everything was in motion now, Villiers was downstairs calling an emergency number at France’s Conseiller Militaire, arranging for a man with a false passport to fly out of Paris with diplomatic status. In less than three hours a man would be over the Atlantic, approaching the anniversary of his own execution. It was the key; it was the trap. It was the last irrational act, insanity the order of that date.

Bourne stood by the desk; he put down the pen and studied the words he had written on a dead woman’s stationery. They were the words a broken, bewildered old man was to repeat over the telephone to an unknown relay who would demand the paper and give it to Ilich Ramirez Sanchez.

I killed your bitch whore and I’ll come back for you. There are seventy-one streets in the jungle. A jungle as dense as Tam Quan, but there was a path you missed, a vault in the cellars you did not know about—just as you never knew about me on the day of my execution eleven years ago. One other man knew and you killed him. It doesn’t matter. In that vault are documents that will set me free. Did you think I’d become Cain without that final protection? Washington won’t dare touch me! It seems right that on the date of Bourne’s death, Cain picks up the papers that guarantee him a very long life. You marked Cain. Now I mark you. I’ll come back and you can join the whore.