Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“No mistake—and I do know what I’m saying because I found the number myself. It’s not only the right number, it’s a magnificent cover. Nobody in his right mind would connect you with Carlos, especially in light of your son’s death. Is it common knowledge he was Carlos’ kill?”

“I would prefer different language, monsieur.”

“Sorry. I mean that.”

“Common knowledge? Among the Sûreté, a qualified yes. Within military intelligence and Interpol, most certainly. I read the reports.”

“What did they say?”

“It was presumed that Carlos did a favor for his friends from his radical days. Even to the point of allowing them to appear silently responsible for the act. It was politically motivated, you know. My son was a sacrifice, an example to others who opposed the fanatics.”

“Fanatics?”

“The extremists were forming a false coalition with the socialists, making promises they had no intention of keeping. My son understood this, exposed it, and initiated legislation to block the alignment. He was killed for it.”

“Is that why you retired from the army and stood for election?”

“With all my heart. It is customary for the son to carry on for the father …” The old man paused, the moonlight illuminating his haggard face. “In this matter, it was the father’s legacy to carry on for the son. He was no soldier, nor I a politician, but I am no stranger to weapons and explosives. His causes were molded by me, his philosophy reflected my own, and he was killed for these things. My decision was clear to me. I would carry on our beliefs into the political arena and let his enemies contend with me. The soldier was prepared for them.”

“More than one soldier, I gather.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those men back there at the restaurant. They looked like they ran half the armies in France.”

“They did, monsieur. They were once known as the angry young commanders of Saint-Cyr. The Republic was corrupt, the military incompetent, the Maginot a joke. Had they been heeded in their time, France would not have fallen. They became the leaders of the Resistance; they fought the Boche and Vichy all through Europe and Africa.”

“What do they do now?”

“Most live on pensions, many obsessed with the past. They pray to the Virgin that it will never be repeated. In too many areas, however, they see it happening. The military is reduced to a sideshow, Communists and socialists in the Assembly forever eroding the strength of the services. The Moscow apparatus runs true to form; it does not change with the decades. A free society is ripe for infiltration, and once infiltrated the changes do not stop until that society is remade into another image. Conspiracy is everywhere; it cannot go unchallenged.”

“Some might say that sounds pretty extreme itself.”

“For what? Survival? Strength? Honor? Are these terms too anachronistic for you?”

“I don’t think so. But I can imagine a lot of damage being done in their names.”

“Our philosophies differ and I don’t care to debate them. You asked me about my associates and I answered you. Now, please, this incredible misinformation of yours. It’s appalling. You don’t know what it’s like to lose a son, to have a child killed.”

The pain comes back to me and I don’t know why. Pain and emptiness, a vacuum in the sky … from the sky.

Death in and from the skies. Jesus, it hurts. It. What is it?

“I can sympathize,” said Jason, his hands gripped to stop the sudden trembling. “But it fits.”

“Not for an instant! As you said, no one in his right mind would connect me to Carlos, least of all the killer pig himself. It’s a risk he would not take. It’s unthinkable.”

“Exactly. Which is why you’re being used; it is unthinkable. You’re the perfect relay for final instructions.”

“Impossible! How?”

“Someone at your phone is in direct contact with Carlos. Codes are used, certain words spoken to get that person on the phone. Probably when you’re not there, possibly when you are. Do you answer the telephone yourself?”

Villiers frowned. “Actually, I don’t. Not that number. There are too many people to be avoided, and I have a private line.”

“Who does answer it?”

“Generally the housekeeper, or her husband who serves as part butler, part chauffeur. He was my driver during my last years in the army. If not either of them, my wife, of course. Or my aide, who often works at my office at the house; he was my adjutant for twenty years.”

“Who else?”

“There is no one else.”

“Maids?”

“None permanent; if they’re needed, they’re hired for an occasion. There’s more wealth in the Villiers name than in the banks.”

“Cleaning woman?”

“Two. They come twice a week and not always the same two.”

“You’d better take a closer look at your chauffeur and the adjutant.”

“Preposterous! Their loyalty is beyond question.”

“So was Brutus’, and Caesar outranked you.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m goddamned serious. And you’d better believe it. Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”

“But then you haven’t really told me very much, have you? Your name, for instance.”

“It’s not necessary. Knowing it could only hurt you.”

“In what way?”

“In the very remote chance that I’m wrong about the relay—and that possibility barely exists.” The old man nodded the way old men do when repeating words that have stunned them to the point of disbelief. His lined face moved up and down in the moonlight. “An unnamed man traps me on a road at night, holds me under a gun, and makes an obscene accusation—a charge so filthy, I wish to kill him—and he expects me to accept his word. The word of a man without a name, with no face I recognize, and no credentials offered other than the statement that Carlos is hunting him. Tell me why should I believe this man?”

“Because,” answered Bourne. “He’d have no reason to come to you if he didn’t believe it was the truth.”

Villiers stared at Jason. “No, there’s a better reason. A while ago, you gave me my life. You threw down your gun, you did not fire it. You could have. Easily. You chose, instead, to plead with me to talk.”

“I don’t think I pleaded.”

“It was in your eyes, young man. It’s always in the eyes. And often in the voice, but one must listen carefully. Supplication can be feigned, not anger. It is either real or it’s a posture. Your anger was real … as was mine.” The old man gestured toward the small Renault ten yards away in the field. “Follow me back to Parc Monceau. We’ll talk further in my office. I’d swear on my life that you’re wrong about both men, but then as you pointed out, Caesar was blinded by false devotion. And indeed he did outrank me.”

“If I walk into that house and someone recognizes me, I’m dead. So are you.”

“My aide left shortly past five o’clock this afternoon and the chauffeur, as you call him, retires no later than ten to watch his interminable television. You’ll wait outside while I go in and check. If things are normal, I’ll summon you; if they’re not, I’ll come back out and drive away. Follow me again. I’ll stop somewhere and we’ll continue.”

Jason watched closely as Villiers spoke. “Why do you want me to go back to Parc Monceau?”

“Where else? I believe in the shock of unexpected confrontation. One of those men is lying in bed watching television in a room on the third floor. And there’s another reason. I want my wife to hear what you have to say. She’s an old soldier’s woman and she has antennae for things that often escape the officer in the field. I’ve come to rely on her perceptions; she may recognize a pattern of behavior once she hears you.”