The Bourne Identity

17

“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.”
“We want no money!”
“I’m glad to know it. Who’s ‘we?’ ”
“I thought you said you knew.”
“I said we had an idea. Enough to expose a man named Koenig in Zurich; d’Amacourt here in Paris. If we decide to do that, it could prove to be a major embarrassment, couldn’t it?”
“Money? Embarrassment? These are not issues. You are consumed with stupidity, all of you! I’ll say it again. Get out of Paris. Leave this alone. It is not your concern any longer.”
“We don’t think it’s yours. Frankly, we don’t think you’re competent.”
“Competent?” repeated Lavier, as if she did not believe what she had heard.
“That’s right.”
“Have you any idea what you’re saying? Whom you’re talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter. Unless you back off, my recommendation is that we come out loud and clear. Mock up charges—not traceable to us, of course. Expose Zurich, the Valois. Call in the S?reté, Interpol ... anyone and anything to create a manhunt—a massive manhunt.”
“You are mad. And a fool.”
“Not at all. We have friends in very important positions; we’ll get the information first We’ll be waiting at the right place at the right time. We’ll take him.”
“You won’t take him. He’ll disappear again! Can’t you see that? He’s in Paris and a network of people he cannot know are looking for him. He may have escaped once, twice; but not a third time! He’s trapped now. We’ve trapped him!”
“We don’t want you to trap him. That’s not in our interests.” It was almost the moment, thought Bourne. Almost, but not quite; her fear had to match her anger. She had to be detonated into revealing the truth. “Here’s our ultimatum, and we’re holding you responsible for conveying it—otherwise you’ll join Koenig and d’Amacourt. Call off your hunt tonight If you don’t we’ll move first thing in the morning; we’ll start shouting. Les Classiques’ll be the most popular store in Saint-Honoré, but I don’t think it’ll be the right people.”
The powdered face cracked. “You wouldn’t dare! How dare you? Who are you to say this?!”
He paused, then struck. “A group of people who don’t care much for your Carlos.”
The Lavier woman froze, her eyes wide, stretching the taut skin into scar tissue. “You do know,” she whispered. “And you think you can oppose him? You think you’re a match for Carlos?”
“In a word, yes.”
“You’re insane. You don’t give ultimatums to Carlos.”
“I just did.”
“Then you’re dead. You raise your voice to anyone and you won’t last the day. He has men everywhere; they’ll cut you down in the street.”
“They might if they knew whom to cut down,” said Jason. “You forget. No one does. But they know who you are. And Koenig, and d’Amacourt. The minute we expose you, you’d be eliminated. Carlos couldn’t afford you any longer. But no one knows me.”
“You forget, monsieur. I do.”
“The least of my worries. Find me ... after the damage is done and before the decision is made regarding your own future. It won’t be long.”
“This is madness. You come out of nowhere and talk like a madman. You cannot do this!”
“Are you suggesting a compromise?”
“It’s conceivable,” said Jacqueline Lavier. “Anything is possible.”
“Are you in a position to negotiate it?”
“I’m in a position to convey it ... far better than I can an ultimatum. Others will relay it to the one who decides.”
“What you’re saying is what I said a few minutes ago: we can talk.”
“We can talk, monsieur,” agreed Mme. Lavier, her eyes fighting for her life.
“Then let’s start with the obvious.”
“Which is?”
Now. The truth.
“What’s Bourne to Carlos? Why does he want him?”
“What’s Bourne—” The woman stopped, venom and fear replaced by an expression of absolute shock. “You can ask that?”
“I’ll ask it again,” said Jason, hearing the pounding echoes in his chest. “What’s Bourne to Carlos?”
“He’s Cain! You know it as well as we do. He was your error, your choice! You chose the wrong man!”
Cain. He heard the name and the echoes erupted into cracks of deafening thunder. And with each crack, pain jolted him, bolts searing one after another through his head, his mind and body recoiling under the onslaught of the name. Cain. Cain. The mists were there again. The darkness, the wind, the explosions.
Alpha, Bravo, Cain, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot. ... Cain, Delta. Delta, Cain. Delta ... Cain.
Cain is for Charlie.
Delta is for Cain!
“What is it? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” Bourne had slipped his right hand over his left wrist, gripping it, his fingers pressed into his flesh with such pressure he thought his skin might break. He had to do something; he had to stop the trembling, lessen the noise, repulse the pain. He had to clear his mind. The eyes of the truth were staring at him; he could not look away. He was there, he was home, and the cold made him shiver. “Go on,” he said, imposing a control on his voice that resulted in a whisper; he could not help himself.
“Are you ill? You’re very pale and you’re—”
“I’m fine,” he interrupted curtly. “I said, go on.”
“What’s there to tell you?”
“Say it all. I want to hear it from you.”
“Why? There’s nothing you don’t know. You chose Cain. You dismissed Carlos; you think you can dismiss him now. You were wrong then and you are wrong now.”
I will kill you. I will grab your throat and choke the breath out of you. Tell me! For Christ’s sake, tell me! At the end, there is only my beginning! I must know it.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “If you are looking for a compromise—if only to save your life—tell me why we should listen. Why is Carlos so adamant ... so paranoid ... about Bourne? Explain it to me as if I hadn’t heard it before. If you don’t, those names that shouldn’t be mentioned will be spread all over Paris, and you’ll be dead by the afternoon.”
Lavier was rigid, her alabaster mask set. “Carlos will follow Cain to the ends of the earth and kill him.”
“We know that. We want to know why.”
“He has to. Look to yourself. To people like you.”
“That’s meaningless. You don’t know who we are.”
“I don’t have to. I know what you’ve done.”
“Spell it out!”
“I did. You picked Cain over Carlos—that was your error. You chose the wrong man. You paid the wrong assassin.”
“The wrong ... assassin.”
“You were not the first, but you will be the last. The arrogant pretender will be killed here in Paris, whether there is a compromise or not.”
“We picked the wrong assassin ...” The words floated in the elegant, perfumed air of the restaurant. The deafening thunder receded, angry still but far away in the storm clouds; the mists were clearing, circles of vapor swirling around him. He began to see, and what he saw was the outlines of a monster. Not a myth, but a monster. Another monster. There were two.
“Can you doubt it?” asked the woman. “Don’t interfere with Carlos. Let him take Cain; let him have his revenge.” She paused, both hands slightly off the table; Mother Rat. “I promise nothing, but I will speak for you, for the loss your people have sustained. It’s possible ... only possible, you understand ... that your contract might be honored by the one you should have chosen in the first place.”
“The one we should have chosen. ... Because we chose the wrong one.”
“You see that, do you not, monsieur? Carlos should be told that you, see it. Perhaps ... only perhaps ... he might have sympathy for your losses if he were convinced you saw your error.”
“That’s your compromise?” said Bourne flatly, struggling to find a line of thought.
“Anything is possible. No good can come from your threats, I can tell you that. For any of us, and I’m frank enough to include myself. There would be only pointless killing; and Cain would stand back laughing. You would lose not once, but twice.”
“If that’s true ...” Jason swallowed, nearly choking as dry air filled the vacuum in his dry throat, “then I’ll have to explain to my people why we ... chose ... the ... wrong man.” Stop it! Finish the statement. Control yourself. “Tell me everything you know about Cain.”
“To what purpose?” Lavier put her fingers on the table, her bright red nail polish ten points of a weapon.
“If we chose the wrong man, then we had the wrong information.”
“You heard he was the equal of Carlos, no? That his fees were more reasonable, his apparatus more contained, and because fewer intermediaries were involved there was no possibility of a contract being traced. Is this not so?”
“Maybe.”
“Of course it’s so. It’s what everyone’s been told and it’s all a lie. Carlos’ strength is in his far-reaching sources of information—infallible information. In his elaborate system of reaching the right person at precisely the right moment prior to a kill.”
“Sounds like too many people. There were too many people in Zurich, too many here in Paris.”
“All blind, monsieur. Every one.”
“Blind?”
“To put it plainly, I’ve been part of the operation for a number of years, meeting in one way or another dozens who have played their minor roles—none is major. I have yet to meet a single person who has ever spoken to Carlos, much less has any idea who he is.”
“That’s Carlos. I want to know about Cain. What you know about Cain.” Stay controlled. You cannot turn away. Look at her. Look at her!
“Where shall I begin?”
“With whatever comes to mind first. Where did he come from?” Do not look away!
“Southeast Asia, of course.”
“Of course ...” Oh, God.
“From the American Medusa, we know that ...”
Medusa! The winds, the darkness, the flashes of light, the pain. … The pain ripped through his skull now; he was not where he was, but where he had been. A world away in distance and time. The pain. Oh, Jesus. The pain ...
Tao!
Che-sah!
Tam Quan! Alpha, Bravo, Cain ... Delta.
Delta … Cain!
Cain is for Charlie.
Delta is for Cain.
“What is it?” The woman looked frightened; she was studying his face, her eyes roving, boring into his. “You’re perspiring. Your hands are shaking. Are you having an attack?”
“It passes quickly.” Jason pried his hand away from his wrist and reached for a napkin to wipe his forehead.
“It comes with the pressures, no?”
“With the pressures, yes. Go on. There isn’t much time; people have to be reached, decisions made. Your life is probably one of them. Back to Cain: You say he came from the American ... Medusa.”
“Les mercenaires du diable,” said Lavier. “It was the nickname given Medusa by the Indochina colonials—what was left of them. Quite appropriate, don’t you think?”
“It doesn’t make any difference what I think. Or what I know. I want to hear what you think, what you know about Cain.”
“Your attack makes you rude.”
“My impatience makes me impatient. You say we chose the wrong man; if we did we had the wrong information. Les mercenaires du diable. Are you implying that Cain is French?”
“Not at all, you test me poorly. I mentioned that only to indicate how deeply we penetrated Medusa.”
“ ‘We’ being the people who work for Carlos.”
“You could say that.”
“I will say that. If Cain’s not French, what is he?”
“Undoubtedly American.”
Oh, God! “Why?”
“Everything he does has the ring of American audacity. He pushes and shoves with little or no finesse, taking credit where none is his, claiming kills when he had nothing to do with them. He had studied Carlos’ methods and connections like no other man alive. Were told he recites them with total recall to potential clients, more often than not putting himself in Carlos’ place, convincing fools that it was he, not Carlos, who accepted and fulfilled the contracts.” Lavier paused. “I’ve struck a chord, no? He did the same with you—your people—yes?”
“Perhaps.” Jason reached for his own wrist again, as the statements came back to him. Statements made in response to clues in a dreadful game.
Stuttgart. Regensburg. Munich. Two kills and a kidnapping, Baader accreditation. Fees from U. S. sources. …
Teheran? Eight kills. Divided accreditation—Khomeini and PLO. Fee, two million. Southwest Soviet sector.
Paris ... All contracts will be processed through Paris.
Whose contracts?
Sanchez ... Carlos.
“… always such a transparent device.”
The Lavier woman had spoken; he had not heard her. “What did you say?”
“You were remembering, yes? He used the same device with you—your people. It’s how he gets his assignments.”
“Assignments?” Bourne tensed the muscles in his stomach until the pain brought him back to the table in the candelabraed dining room in Argenteuil. “He gets assignments, then,” he said pointlessly.
“And carries them out with considerable expertise; no one denies him that. His record of kills is impressive. In many ways, he is second to Carlos—not his equal, but far above the ranks of les guérilleros. He’s a man of immense skill, extremely inventive, a trained lethal weapon out of Medusa. But it is his arrogance, his lies at the expense of Carlos that will bring him down.”
“And that makes him American? Or is it your bias? I have an idea you like American money, but that’s about all they export that you do like.” Immense skill; extremely inventive, a trained lethal weapon. ... Port Noir, La Ciotat, Marseilles, Zurich, Paris.
“It is beyond prejudice, monsieur. The identification is positive.”
“How did you get it?”
Lavier touched the stem of her wineglass, her red-tipped index finger curling around it. “A discontented man was bought in Washington.”
“Washington?”
“The Americans also look for Cain—with an intensity approaching Carlos’, I suspect. Medusa has never been made public, and Cain might prove to be an extraordinary embarrassment. This discontented man was in a position to give us a great deal of information, including the Medusa records. It was a simple matter to match the names with those in Zurich. Simple for Carlos, not for anyone else.”
Too simple, thought Jason, not knowing why the thought struck him. “I see,” he said.
“And you? How did you find him? Not Cain, of course, but Bourne.”
Through the mists of anxiety, Jason recalled another statement. Not his, but one spoken by Marie. “Far simpler,” he said. “We paid the money to him by means of a shortfall deposit into one account, the surplus diverted blindly into another. The numbers could be traced; it’s a tax device.”
“Cain permitted it?”
“He didn’t know it. The numbers were paid for ... as you paid for different numbers—telephone numbers—on a fiche.”
“I commend you.”
“It’s not required, but everything you know about Cain is. All you’ve done so far is explain an identification. Now, go on. Everything you know about this man Bourne, everything you’ve been told.” Be careful. Take the tension from your voice. You are merely ... evaluating data. Marie, you said that. Dear, dear Marie. Thank God you’re not here.
“What we know about him is incomplete. He’s managed to remove most of the vital records, a lesson he undoubtedly learned from Carlos. But not all; we’ve pieced together a sketch. Before he was recruited into Medusa, he supposedly was a French-speaking businessman living in Singapore, representing a collective of American importers from New York to California. The truth is he had been dismissed by the collective, which then tried to have him extradited back to the States for prosecution; he had stolen hundreds of thousands from it. He was known in Singapore as a reclusive figure, very powerful in contraband operations, and extraordinarily ruthless.”
“Before that,” interrupted Jason, feeling again the perspiration breaking out on his hairline. “Before Singapore. Where did he come from?” Be careful! The images! He could see the streets of Singapore. Prince Edward Road, Kim Chuan, Boon Tat Street, Maxwell, Cuscaden.
“Those are the records no one can find. There are only rumors, and they are meaningless. For example, it was said that he was a defrocked Jesuit, gone mad; another speculation was that he had been a young, aggressive investment banker caught embezzling funds in concert with several Singapore banks. There’s nothing concrete, nothing that can be traced. Before Singapore, nothing.”
You’re wrong, there was a great deal. But none of that is part of it... There is a void, and it must be filled, and you can’t help me. Perhaps no one can; perhaps no one should.
“So far, you haven’t told me anything startling,” said Bourne, “nothing relative to the information I’m interested in.”
“Then I don’t know what you wan! You ask me questions, press for details, and when I offer you answers you reject them as immaterial. What do you want?”
“What do you know about Cain’s ... work? Since you’re looking for a compromise, give me a reason for it. If our information differs, it would be over what he’s done, wouldn’t it? When did he first come to your attention? Carlos’ attention? Quickly!”
“Two years ago,” said Mme. Lavier, disconcerted by Jason’s impatience, annoyed, frightened. “Word came out of Asia of a white man offering a service astonishingly similar to the one provided by Carlos. He was swiftly becoming an industry. An ambassador was assassinated in Moulmein; two days later a highly regarded Japanese politician was killed in Tokyo prior to a debate in the Diet. A week after that a newspaper editor was blown out of his car in Hong Kong, and in less than forty-eight hours a banker was shot on a street in Calcutta. Behind each one, Cain. Always Cain.” The woman stopped, appraising Bourne’s reaction. He gave none. “Don’t you see? He was everywhere. He raced from one kill to another, accepting contracts with such rapidity that he had to be indiscriminate. He was a man in an enormous hurry, building his reputation so quickly that he shocked even the most jaded professionals. And no one doubted that he was a professional, least of all Carlos. Instructions were sent: find out about this man, learn all you can. You see, Carlos understood what none of us did, and in less than twelve months he was proven correct. Reports came from informers in Manila, Osaka, Hong Kong and Tokyo. Cain was moving to Europe, they said; he would make Paris itself his base of operations. The challenge was clear, the gauntlet thrown. Cain was out to destroy Carlos. He would become the new Carlos, his services the services required by those who sought them. As you sought them, monsieur.”
“Moulmein, Tokyo, Calcutta …” Jason heard the names coming from his lips, whispered from his throat. Again they were floating, suspended in the perfumed air, shadows of a past forgotten. “Manila, Hong Kong …” He stopped, trying to clear the mists, peering at the outlines of strange shapes that kept racing across his mind’s eye.
“These places and many others,” continued Lavier. “That was Cain’s error, his error still. Carlos may be many things to many people, but among those who have benefited from his trust and generosity, there is loyalty. His informers and hirelings are not so readily for sale, although Cain has tried time and again. It is said that Carlos is swift to make harsh judgments, but, as they also say, better a Satan one knows than a successor one doesn’t. What Cain did not realize—does not realize now—is that Carlos’ network is a vast one. When Cain moved to Europe, he did not know that his activities were uncovered in Berlin, Lisbon, Amsterdam ... as far away as Oman.”
“Oman,” said Bourne involuntarily. “Sheik Mustafa Kalig,” he whispered, as if to himself.
“Never proven!” interjected the Lavier woman defiantly. “A deliberate smokescreen of confusion, the contract itself fiction. He took credit for an internal murder; no one could penetrate that security. A lie!”
“A lie,” repeated Jason.
“So many lies,” added Mme. Lavier contemptuously. “He’s no fool, however; he lies quietly, dropping a hint here and there, knowing that they will be exaggerated in the telling into substance. He provokes Carlos at every turn, promoting himself at the expense of the man he would replace. But he’s no match for Carlos; he takes contracts he cannot fulfill. You are only one example; we hear there have been several others. It’s said that’s why he stayed away for months, avoiding people like yourselves.”
“Avoiding people ...” Jason reached for his wrist; the trembling had begun again, the sound of distant thunder vibrating in far regions of his skull. “You’re ... sure of that?”
“Very much so. He wasn’t dead; he was in hiding. Cain botched more than one assignment; it was inevitable. He accepted too many in too short a time. Yet whenever he did, he followed an abortive kill with a spectacular, unsolicited one, to uphold his stature. He would select a prominent figure and blow him away, the assassination a shock to everyone, and unmistakably Cain’s. The ambassador traveling in Moulmein was an example; no one had called for his death. There were two others that we know of—a Russian commissar in Shanghai and more recently a banker in Madrid. ...”
The words came from the bright red lips working feverishly in the lower part of the powdered mask facing him. He heard them; he had heard them before. He had lived them before. They were no longer shadows, but remembrances of that forgotten past. Images and reality were fused. She began no sentence he could not finish, nor could she mention a name or a city or an incident with which he was not instinctively familiar.
She was talking about ... him.
Alpha, Bravo, Cain, Delta ...
Cain is for Charlie, and Delta is for Cain.
Jason Bourne was the assassin called Cain.
There was a final question, his brief reprieve from darkness two nights ago at the Sorbonne. Marseilles. August 23.
“What happened in Marseilles?” he asked.
“Marseilles?” the Lavier woman recoiled. “How could you? What lies were you told? What other lies?”
“Just tell me what happened.”
“You refer to Leland, of course. The ubiquitous ambassador whose death was called for—paid for, the contract accepted by Carlos.”
“What if I told you that there are those who think Cain was responsible?”
“It’s what he wanted everyone to think! It was the ultimate insult to Carlos—to steal the kill from him. Payment was irrelevant to Cain; he only wanted to show the world—our world—that he could get there first and do the job for which Carlos had been paid. But he didn’t, you know. He had nothing to do with the Leland kill.”
“He was there.”
“He was trapped. At least, he never showed up. Some said he’d been killed, but since there was no corpse, Carlos didn’t believe it.”
“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 ma?tre 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!”