Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“Quite true. So Bourne dropped back a letter and assumed ‘Cain.’ He could have chosen ‘Echo’ or ‘Foxtrot’ or ‘Zulu.’ Twenty-odd others. What’s the difference? What’s your point?”

“He chose Cain deliberately. It was symbolic. He wanted it clear from the beginning.”

“Wanted what clear?”

“That Cain would replace Carlos. Think. ‘Carlos’ is Spanish for Charles—Charlie. The code word ‘Cain’ was substituted for ‘Charlie’—Carlos. It was his intention from the start. Cain would replace Carlos. And he wanted Carlos to know it.”

“Does Carlos?”

“Of course. Word goes out in Amsterdam and Berlin, Geneva and Lisbon, London and right here in Paris. Cain is available; contracts can be made, his price lower than Carlos’ fee. He erodes! He constantly erodes Carlos’ stature.”

“Two matadors in the same ring. There can only be one.”

“It will be Carlos. We’ve trapped the puffed-up sparrow. He’s somewhere within two hours of Saint-Honoré.”

“But where?”

“No matter. We’ll find him. After all, he found us. He’ll come back; his ego will demand it. And then the eagle will sweep down and catch the sparrow. Carlos will kill him.”

The old man adjusted his single crutch under his left arm, parted the black drape and stepped into the confessional booth. He was not well; the pallor of death was on his face, and he was glad the figure in the priest’s habit beyond the transparent curtain could not see him clearly. The assassin might not give him further work if he looked too worn to carry it out; he needed work now. There were only weeks remaining and he had responsibilities. He spoke.

“Angelus Domini.”

“Angelus Domini, child of God,” came the whisper. “Are your days comfortable?”

“They draw to an end, but they are made comfortable.”

“Yes. I think this will be your last job for me. It is of such importance, however, that your fee will be five times the usual. I hope it will be of help to you.”

“Thank you, Carlos. You know, then.”

“I know. This is what you must do for it, and the information must leave this world with you. There can be no room for error.”

“I have always been accurate. I will go to my death being accurate now.”

“Die in peace, old friend. It’s easier… You will go to the Vietnamese Embassy and ask for an attaché named Phan Loc. When you are alone, say the following words to him: ‘Late March 1968 Medusa, the Tam Quan sector. Cain was there. Another also.’ Have you got that?”

“‘Late March 1968 Medusa, the Tam Quan sector. Cain was there. Another also.’”

“He’ll tell you when to return. It will be in a matter of hours.”

“I think it’s time we talked about a fiche confidentielle out of Zurich.”

“My God!”

“I’m not the man you’re looking for.”

Bourne gripped the woman’s hand, holding her in place, preventing her from running into the aisles of the crowded, elegant restaurant in Argenteuil, a few miles outside of Paris. The pavane was over, the gavotte finished. They were alone; the velvet booth a cage.

“Who are you?” The Lavier woman grimaced, trying to pull her hand away, the veins in the cosmeticized neck pronounced.

“A rich American who lives in the Bahamas. Don’t you believe that?”

“I should have known,” she said, “no charges, no check—only cash. You didn’t even look at the bill.”

“Or the prices before that. It’s what brought you over to me.”

“I was a fool. The rich always look at prices, if only for the pleasure of dismissing them.” Lavier spoke while glancing around, looking for a space in the aisles, a waiter she might summon. Escape.

“Don’t,” said Jason, watching her eyes. “It’d be foolish. We’d both be better off if we talked.” The woman stared at him, the bridge of hostile silence accentuated by the hum of the large, dimly lit, candelabraed room and the intermittent eruptions of quiet laughter from the nearby tables. “I ask you again,” she said. “Who are you?”

“My name isn’t important. Settle for the one I gave you.”

“Briggs? It’s false.”

“So’s Larousse, and that’s on the lease of a rented car that picked up three killers at the Valois Bank. They missed there. They also missed this afternoon at the Pont Neuf. He got away.”

“Oh, God!” she cried, trying to break away.

“I said don’t!” Bourne held her firmly, pulling her back.

“If I scream, monsieur?” The powdered mask was cracked with lines of venom now, the bright red lipstick defining the snarl of an aging, cornered rodent.

“I’ll scream louder,” replied Jason. “We’d both be thrown out, and once outside I don’t think you’ll be unmanageable. Why not talk? We might learn something from each other. After all, we’re employees, not employers.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Then I’ll start. Maybe you’ll change your mind.” He lessened his grip cautiously. The tension remained on her white, powdered face, but it, too, was lessened as the pressure of his fingers was reduced. She was ready to listen. “You paid a price in Zurich. We paid, too. Obviously more than you did. We’re after the same man; we know why we want him.” He released her. “Why do you?” She did not speak for nearly half a minute, instead, studying him in silence, her eyes angry yet frightened. Bourne knew he had phrased the question accurately; for Jacqueline Lavier not to talk to him would be a dangerous mistake. It could cost her her life if subsequent questions were raised.

“Who is ‘we?’” she asked.

“A company that wants its money. A great deal of money. He has it.”

“He did not earn it, then?”

Jason knew he had to be careful; he was expected to know far more than he did. “Let’s say there’s a dispute.”

“How could there be? Either he did or he did not, there’s hardly a middle ground.”

“It’s my turn,” said Bourne. “You answered a question with a question and I didn’t avoid you. Now, let’s go back. Why do you want him? Why is the private telephone of one of the better shops in Saint-Honoré put on a fiche in Zurich?”

“It was an accommodation, monsieur.”

“For whom?”

“Are you mad?”

“All right, I’ll pass on that for now. We think we know anyway.”

“Impossible!”

“Maybe, maybe not. So it was an accommodation … to kill a man?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Yet a minute ago when I mentioned the car, you tried to run. That’s saying something.”

“A perfectly natural reaction.” Jacqueline Lavier touched the stem of her wineglass. “I arranged for the rental. I don’t mind telling you that because there’s no evidence that I did so. Beyond that I know nothing of what happened.” Suddenly she gripped the glass, her mask of a face a mixture of controlled fury and fear. “Who are you people?”

“I told you. A company that wants its money back.”

“You’re interfering! Get out of Paris! Leave this alone!”

“Why should we? Were the injured party; we want the balance sheet corrected. We’re entitled to that.”

“You’re entitled to nothing!” spat Mme. Lavier. “The error was yours and you’ll pay for it!”

“Error?” He had to be very careful. It was here—right below the hard surface—the eyes of the truth could be seen beneath the ice. “Come off it. Theft isn’t an error committed by the victim.”

“The error was in your choice, monsieur. You chose the wrong man.”

“He stole millions from Zurich,” said Jason. “But you know that. He took millions, and if you think you’re going to take them from him—which is the same as taking them from us—you’re very much mistaken.”