Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“How was Cain supposedly killed?”

Madame Lavier retreated, shaking her head in short, rapid movements. “Two men on the waterfront tried to take credit, tried to get paid for it. One was never seen again; it can be presumed Cain killed him, if it was Cain. They were dock garbage.”

“What was the trap?”

The alleged trap, monsieur. They claimed to have gotten word that Cain was to meet someone in the rue Sarrasin a night or so before the assassination. They say they left appropriately obscure messages in the street and lured the man they were convinced was Cain down to the piers, to a fishing boat. Neither trawler nor skipper were seen again, so they may have been right—but as I say, there was no proof. Not even an adequate description of Cain to match against the man led away from the Sarrasin. At any rate, that’s where it ends.”

You’re wrong. That’s where it began. For me.

“I see,” said Bourne, trying again to infuse naturalness into his voice. “Our information’s different naturally. We made a choice on what we thought we knew.”

“The wrong choice, monsieur. What I’ve told you is the truth.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Do we have our compromise, then?”

“Why not?”

“Bien.” Relieved, the woman lifted the wineglass to her lips. “You’ll see, it will be better for everyone.”

“It … doesn’t really matter now.” He could barely be heard, and he knew it. What did he say?

What had he just said? Why did he say it? … The mists were closing in again, the thunder getting louder; the pain had returned to his temples. “I mean … I mean, as you say, it’s better for everyone.” He could feel—see—Lavier’s eyes on him, studying him. “It’s a reasonable solution.”

“Of course it is. You are not feeling well?”

“I said it was nothing; it’ll pass.”

“I’m relieved. Now, would you excuse me for a moment?”

“No.” Jason grabbed her arm.

“Je vous prie, monsieur. The powder room, that is all. If you care to, stand outside the door.”

“We’ll leave. You can stop on the way.” Bourne signaled the waiter for a check.

“As you wish,” she said, watching him.

He stood in the darkened corridor between the spills of light that came from recessed lamps in the ceiling. Across the way was the ladies’ room, denoted by small, uncapitalized letters of gold that read FEMMES. Beautiful people—stunning women, handsome men—kept passing by; the orbit was similar to that of Les Classiques. Jacqueline Lavier was at home.

She had also been in the ladies’ room for nearly ten minutes, a fact that would have disturbed Jason had he been able to concentrate on the time. He could not; he was on fire. Noise and pain consumed him, every nerve ending raw, exposed, the fibers swelling, terrified of puncture. He stared straight ahead, a history of dead men behind him. The past was in the eyes of truth; they had sought him out and he had seen them. Cain … Cain … Cain.

He shook his head and looked up at the black ceiling. He had to function; he could not allow himself to keep falling, plunging into the abyss filled with darkness and high wind. There were decisions to make… No, they were made; it was a question now of implementing them.

Marie. Marie? Oh, God, my love, we’ve been so wrong!

He breathed deeply and glanced at his watch—the chronometer he had traded for a thin gold piece of jewelry belonging to a marquis in the south of France. He is a man of immense skill, extremely inventive… There was no joy in that appraisal. He looked across at the ladies’ room.

Where was Jacqueline Lavier? Why didn’ t she come out? What could she hope to accomplish remaining inside? He had had the presence of mind to ask the maître d’ if there was a telephone there; the man had replied negatively, pointing to a booth by the entrance. The Lavier woman had been at his side, she heard the answer, understanding the inquiry.

There was a blinding flash of light. He lurched backward, recoiling into the wall, his hands in front of his eyes. The pain! Oh, Christ! His eyes were on fire!

And then he heard the words, spoken through the polite laughter of well-dressed men and women walking casually about the corridor.

“In memory of your dinner at Roget’s, monsieur,” said an animated hostess, holding a press camera by its vertical flashbar. “The photograph will be ready in a few minutes. Compliments of Roget.”

Bourne remained rigid, knowing that he could not smash the camera, the fear of another realization sweeping over him. “Why me?” he asked.

“Your fiancée requested it, monsieur,” replied the girl, nodding her head toward the ladies’ room.

“We talked inside. You are most fortunate; she is a lovely lady. She asked me to give you this.” The hostess held out a folded note; Jason took it as she pranced away toward the restaurant entrance.

Your illness disturbs me, as I’m sure it does you, my new friend. You may be what you say you are, and then again you may not. I shall have the answer in a half hour or so. A telephone call was made by a sympathetic diner, and that photograph is on its way to Paris. You cannot stop it any more than you can stop those driving now to Argenteuil. If we, indeed, have our compromise, neither will disturb you—as your illness disturbs me—and we shall talk again when my associates arrive.

It is said that Cain is a chameleon, appearing in various guises, and most convincing. It is also said that he is prone to violence and to fits of temper. These are an illness, no?

He ran down the dark street in Argenteuil after the receding roof light of the taxi; it turned the corner and disappeared. He stopped, breathing heavily, looking in all directions for another; there were none. The doorman at Roget’s had told him a cab would take ten to fifteen minutes to arrive; why had not monsieur requested one earlier? The trap was set and he had walked into it.

Up ahead! A light, another taxi! He broke into a run. He had to stop it; he had to get back to Paris. To Marie.

He was back in a labyrinth, racing blindly, knowing, finally, there was no escape. But the race would be made alone; that decision was irrevocable. There would be no discussion, no debate, no screaming back and forth—arguments based in love and uncertainty. For the certainty had been made clear. He knew who he was … what he had been; he was guilty as charged—as suspected.

An hour or two saying nothing. Just watching, talking quietly about anything but the truth.

Loving. And then he would leave; she would never know when and he could never tell her why. He owed her that; it would hurt deeply for a while, but the ultimate pain would be far less than that caused by the stigma of Cain.

Cain!

Marie. Marie! What have I done?

“Taxi! Taxi!”

Get out of Paris! Now! Whatever you’re doing, stop it and get out! … Those are orders from your government. They want you out of there. They want him isolated.

Marie crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table, her eyes falling on the three-year-old issue of Potomac Quarterly, her thoughts briefly on the terrible game Jason had forced her to play.

“I won’t listen!” she said to herself out loud, startled at the sound of her own voice in the empty room. She walked to the window, the same window he had faced, looking out, frightened, trying to make her understand.

I have to know certain things … enough to make a decision … but may be not everything. A part of me has to be able … to run, disappear. I have to be able to say to myself, what was isn’t any longer, and there’s a possibility that it never was because I have no memory of it. What a person can’t remember didn’t exist … for him.