Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

He would trap the general. Break him. Learn everything he knew, and probably kill him. Men like Villiers robbed life from the young and the very young. They did not deserve to live. I am in my labyrinth again, and the walls are imbedded with spikes. Oh, God, they hurt.

Jason climbed over the railing in the darkness and lowered himself to the drainpipe, each muscle aching. Pain, too, had to be erased. He had to reach a deserted stretch of road in the moonlight and trap a broker of death.

Bourne waited in the Renault, two hundred yards east of the restaurant entrance, the motor running, prepared to race ahead the instant he saw Villiers drive out. Several others had already left, all in separate cars. Conspirators did not advertise their association, and these old men were conspirators in the truest sense. They had traded whatever honors they had earned for the lethal convenience of an assassin’s gun and an assassin’s organization. Age and bias had robbed them of reason, as they had spent their lives robbing life … from the young and the very young.

What was it? Why won’t it leave me? Some terrible thing is deep inside me, trying to break out, trying I think to kill me.. The fear and the guilt sweep through me … but of what and for what I do not know. Why should these withered old men provoke such feelings of fear and guilt … and loathing?

They were war. They were death. On the ground and from the skies. From the skies … from the skies. Help me, Marie. For God’s sake, help me!

There it was. The headlights swung out of the drive, the long black chassis reflecting the wash of the floodlights. Jason kept his own lights off as he pulled out of the shadows. He accelerated down the road until he reached the first curve, where he switched on the headlights and pressed the pedal to the floor. The isolated stretch in the countryside was roughly two miles away; he had to get there quickly.

It was ten past eleven, and as three hours before the fields swept into the hills, both bathed in the light of the March moon, now in the center of the sky. He reached the area; it was feasible. The shoulder was wide, bordering a pasture, which meant that both automobiles could be pulled off the road. The immediate objective, however, was to get Villiers to stop. The general was old but not feeble; if the tactic were suspect, he would break over the grass and race away. Everything was timing, and a totally convincing moment of the unexpected.

Bourne swung the Renault around in a U-turn, waited until he saw the headlights in the distance, then suddenly accelerated, swinging the wheel violently back and forth. The automobile careened over the road—an out-of-control driver, incapable of finding a straight line, but nevertheless speeding.

Villiers had no choice; he slowed down as Jason came racing insanely toward him. Then abruptly, when the two cars were no more than twenty feet from colliding, Bourne spun the wheel to the left, braking as he did so, sliding into a skid, tires screeching. He came to a stop, the window open, and raised his voice in an undefined cry. Half shout, half scream; it could have been the vocal explosion of an ill man or a drunk man, but the one thing it was not was threatening. He slapped his hand on the frame of the window and was silent, crouching in the seat, his gun on his lap.

He heard the door of Villiers! sedan open and peered through the steering wheel. The old man was not visibly armed; he seemed to suspect nothing, relieved only that a collision had been avoided. The general walked through the beams of the headlights to the Renault’s left window, his shouts anxious, his French the interrogating commands of Saint-Cyr.

“What’s the meaning of this? What do you think you’re doing? Are you all right?” His hands gripped the base of the window.

“Yes, but you’re not,” replied Bourne in English, raising the gun.

“What …” The old man gasped, standing erect. “Who are you and what is this?” Jason got out of the Renault, his left hand extended above the barrel of the weapon. “I’m glad your English is fluent. Walk back to your car. Drive it off the road.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’ll kill you right now. It wouldn’t take much to provoke me.”

“Do these words come from the Red Brigades? Or the Paris branch of the Baader-Meinhof?”

“Why? Could you countermand them if they did?”

“I spit at them! And you!”

“No one’s ever doubted your courage, General. Walk to your car.”

“It’s not a matter of courage!” said Villiers without moving. “It’s a question of logic. You’ll accomplish nothing by killing me, less by kidnapping me. My orders are firm, fully understood by my staff and my family. The Israelis are absolutely right. There can be no negotiations with terrorists. Use your gun, garbage! Or get out of here!”

Jason studied the old soldier, suddenly, profoundly uncertain, but not about to be fooled. It would be in the furious eyes that stared at him. One name soaked in filth coupled with another name heaped with the honors of his nation would cause another kind of explosion; it would be in the eyes.

“Back at that restaurant, you said France shouldn’t be a lackey to anyone. But a general of France became someone’s lackey. General André Villiers, messenger for Carlos. Carlos’ contact, Carlos’ soldier, Carlos’ lackey.”

The furious eyes did grow wide, but not in any way Jason expected. Fury was suddenly joined by hatred, not shock, not hysteria, but deep, uncompromising abhorrence. The back of Villiers’ hand shot up, arching from his waist, the crack against Bourne’s face sharp, accurate, painful. It was followed by a forward slap, brutal, insulting, the force of the blow reeling Jason back on his feet.

The old man moved in, blocked by the barrel of the gun, but unafraid, undeterred by its presence, consumed only with inflicting punishment. The blows came one after another, delivered by a man possessed.

“Pig!” screamed Villiers. “Filthy, detestable pig! Garbage!”

“I’ll shoot! I’ll kill you! Stop it!” But Bourne could not pull the trigger. He was backed into the small car, his shoulders pressed against the roof. Still the old man attacked, his hands flying out, swinging up, crashing down.

“Kill me—if you can—if you dare! Dirt! Filth!”

Jason threw the gun to the ground, raising his arms to fend off Villiers! assault. He lashed his left hand out, grabbing the old man’s right wrist, then his left, gripping the left forearm that was slashing down like a broadsword. He twisted both violently, bending Villiers into him, forcing the old soldier to stand motionless, their faces inches from each other, the old man’s chest heaving.

“Are you telling me you’re not Carlos’ man? Are you denying it?” Villiers lunged forward, trying to break Bourne’s grip, his barrel-like chest smashing into Jason. “I revile you! Animal!”

“Goddamn you—yes or no?”

The old man spat in Bourne’s face, the fire in his eyes now clouded, tears welling. “Carlos killed my son,” he said in a whisper. “He killed my only son on the rue du Bac. My son’s life was blown up with five sticks of dynamite on the rue du Bac!”

Jason slowly reduced the pressure of his fingers. Breathing heavily, he spoke as calmly as he could.

“Drive your car into the field and stay there. We have to talk, General. Something’s happened you don’t know about, and we’d both better learn what it is.”

“Never! Impossible! It could not happen!”

“It happened,” said Bourne, sitting with Villiers in the front seat of the sedan.

“An incredible mistake has been made! You don’t know what you’re saying!”