The Bourne Identity

25

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!”
“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 S?reté, 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.”
Bourne had to say the words. “I trapped you by pretending one thing; you can trap me by pretending another. How do I know Parc Monceau isn’t a trap?”
The old man did not waver. “You have the word of a general officer of France, and that’s all you have. If it’s not good enough for you, take your weapon and get out.”
“It’s good enough,” said Bourne. “Not because it’s a general’s word, but because it’s the word of a man whose son was killed in the rue du Bac.”

The drive back into Paris seemed far longer to Jason than the journey out. He was fighting images again, images that caused him to break out into sweat. And pain, starting at his temples, sweeping down through his chest, forming a knot in his stomach—sharp bolts pounding until he wanted to scream.
Death in the skies ... from the skies. Not darkness, but blinding sunlight. No winds that batter my body into further darkness, but instead silence and the stench of Jungle and ... riverbanks. Stillness followed by the screeching of birds and the screaming pitch of machines. Birds … machines ... racing downward out of the sky in blinding sunlight. Explosions. Death. Of the young and the very young.
Stop it! Hold the wheel! Concentrate on the road but do not think! Thought is too painful and you don’t know why.
They entered the tree-lined street in Parc Monceau. Villiers was a hundred feet ahead, facing a problem that had not existed several hours ago: there were many more automobiles in the street now, parking at a premium.
There was, however, one sizable space on the left, across from the general’s house; it could accommodate both their cars. Villiers thrust his hand out the window, gesturing for Jason to pull in behind him.
And then it happened. Jason’s eyes were drawn by a light in doorway, his focus suddenly rigid on the figures in the spill; the recognition of one so startling and so out of place he found himself reaching for the gun in his belt.
Had he been led into a trap after all? Had the word of a general officer of France been worthless?
Villiers was maneuvering his sedan into place. Bourne spun around in the seat, looking in all directions; there was no one coming toward him, no one closing in. It was not a trap. It was something else, part of what was happening about which the old soldier knew nothing.
For across the street and up the steps of Villiers’ house stood a youngish woman—a striking woman—in the doorway. She was talking rapidly, with small anxious gestures, to a man standing on the top step, who kept nodding as if accepting instructions. That man was the gray-haired, distinguished-looking switchboard operator from Les Classiques. The man whose face Jason knew so well, yet did not know. The face that had triggered other images ... images as violent and as painful as those which had ripped him apart during the past half hour in the Renault.
But there was a difference. This face brought back the darkness and torrential winds in the night sky, explosions coming one after another, sounds of a staccato gunfire echoing through the myriad tunnels of a jungle.
Bourne pulled his eyes away from the door and looked at Villiers through the windshield. The general had switched off his headlights and was about to get out of the car. Jason released the clutch and rolled forward until he made contact with the sedan’s bumper. Villiers whipped around in his seat.
Bourne extinguished his own headlights and turned on the small inside roof light. He raised his hand—palm downward—then raised it twice again, telling the old soldier to stay where he was. Villiers nodded and Jason switched off the light.
He looked back over at the doorway. The man had taken a step down, stopped by a last command from the woman. Bourne could see her clearly now. She was in her middle to late thirties, with short dark hair, stylishly cut, framing a face that was bronzed by the sun. She was a tall woman, statuesque, actually, her figure tapered, the swell of her breasts accentuated by the sheer, close-fitting fabric of a long white dress that heightened the tan of her skin. If she was part of the house, Villiers had not mentioned her, which meant she was not. She was a visitor who knew when to come to the old man’s home; it would fit the strategy of relay-removed-from-relay. And that meant she had a contact in Villiers’ house. The old man had to know her, but how well? The answer obviously was not well enough.
The gray-haired switchboard operator gave a final nod, descended the steps and walked rapidly down the block. The door closed, the light of the carriage lamps shining on the deserted staircase and the glistening black door with the brass hardware.
Why did those steps and that door mean something to him? Images. Reality that was not real.
Bourne got out of the Renault, watching the windows, looking for the movement of a curtain; there was nothing. He walked quickly to Villiers’ car; the front window was rolled down, the general’s face turned up, his thick eyebrows arched in curiosity.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” he asked.
“Over there, at your house,” said Jason, crouching on the pavement. “You saw what I just saw.”
“I believe so. And?”
“Who was the woman? Do you know her?”
“I would hope to God I did! She’s my wife.”
“Your wife?” Bourne’s shock was on his face. “I thought you said ... I thought you said she was an old woman. That you wanted her to listen to me because over the years you’d learned to respect her judgment. In the field, you said. That’s what you said.”
“Not exactly. I said she was an old soldier’s woman. And I do, indeed, respect her judgment. But she’s my second wife—my very much younger second wife—but every bit as devoted as my first, who died eight years ago.”
“Oh, my God ...
“Don’t let the disparity of our ages concern you. She is proud and happy to be the second Madame Villiers. She’s been a great help to me in the Assembly.”
“I’m sorry,” whispered Bourne. “Christ, I’m sorry.”
“What about? You mistook her for someone else? People frequently do; she’s a stunning girl. I’m quite proud of her.” Villiers opened the door as Jason stood up on the pavement. “You wait here,” said the general, “I’ll go inside and check; if everything’s normal, I’ll open the door and signal you. If it isn’t I’ll come back to the car and we’ll drive away.”
Bourne remained motionless in front of Villiers, preventing the old man from stepping forward “General, I’ve got to ask you something. I’m not sure how, but I have to. I told you I found your number at a relay drop used by Carlos. I didn’t tell you where, only that it was confirmed by someone who admitted passing messages to and from contacts of Carlos.” Bourne took a breath, his eyes briefly on the door across the street. “Now I’ve got to ask you a question, and please think carefully before you answer. Does your wife buy clothes at a shop called Les Classiques?”
“In Saint-Honoré?”
“Yes.”
“I happen to know she does not.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very much so. Not only have I never seen a bill from there, but she’s told me how much she dislikes its, designs. My wife is very knowledgeable in matters of fashion.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“What?”
“General, I can’t go inside that house. No matter what you find, I can’t go in there.”
“Why not? What are you saying?”
“The man on the steps who was talking to your wife. He’s from the drop; it’s Les Classiques. He’s a contact to Carlos.”
The blood drained from André Villiers’ face. He turned and stared across the tree-lined street at his house, at the glistening black door and the brass fittings that reflected the light of the carriage lamps.

The pockmarked beggar scratched the stubble of his beard, took off his threadbare beret and trudged through the bronze doors of the small church in Neuilly-sur-Seine.
He walked down the far right aisle under the disapproving glances of two priests. Both clerics were upset; this was a wealthy parish and, biblical compassion notwithstanding, wealth did have its privileges. One of them was to maintain a certain status of worshiper—for the benefit of other worshipers—and this elderly, disheveled derelict hardly fit the mold.
The beggar made a feeble attempt to genuflect, sat down in a pew in the second row, crossed himself and knelt forward, his head in prayer, his right hand pushing back the left sleeve of his overcoat. On his wrist was a watch somewhat in contradistinction to the rest of his apparel. It was an expensive digital, the numbers large and the readout bright. It was a possession he would never be foolish enough to part with, for it was a gift from Carlos. He had once been twenty-five minutes late for confession, upsetting his benefactor, and had no other excuse but the lack of an accurate timepiece. During their next appointment, Carlos had pushed it beneath the translucent scrim separating sinner from holy man.
It was the hour and the minute. The beggar rose and walked toward the second booth on the right. He parted the curtain and went inside.
“Angelus Domini.”
“Angelus Domini, child of God.” The whisper from behind the black cloth was harsh. “Are your days comfortable?”
“They are made comfortable ...”
“Very well,” interrupted the silhouette. “What did you bring me? My patience draws to an end. I pay thousands—hundreds of thousands—for incompetence and failure. What happened in Montrouge? Who was responsible for the lies that came from the embassy in the Montaigne? Who accepted them?”
The Auberge du Coin was a trap, yet not one for killing. It is difficult to know exactly what it was. If the attaché named Corbelier repeated lies, our people are convinced he was not aware of it. He was duped by the woman.”
“He was duped by Cain! Bourne traces each source, feeding each false information, thus exposing each and confirming the exposure. But why? To whom? We know what and who he is now, but he relays nothing to Washington. He refuses to surface.”
“To suggest an answer,” said the beggar, “I would have to go back many years, but it’s possible he wants no interference from his superiors. American Intelligence has its share of vacillating autocrats, rarely communicating fully with each other. In the days of the cold war, money was made selling information three and four times over to the same stations. Perhaps Cain waits until he thinks there is only one course of action to be taken, no differing strategies to be argued by those above.”
“Age hasn’t dulled your sense of maneuver, old friend. It’s why I called upon you.”
“Or perhaps,” continued the beggar, “he really has turned. It’s happened.”
“I don’t think so, but it doesn’t matter. Washington thinks he has. The Monk is dead, they’re all dead at Treadstone. Cain is established as the killer.”
“The Monk?” said the beggar. “A name from the past; he was active in Berlin, in Vienna We knew him well, healthier for it from a distance. There’s your answer, Carlos. It was always the Monk’s style to reduce the numbers to as few as possible. He operated on the theory that his circles were infiltrated, compromised. He must have ordered Cain to report only to him. It would explain Washington’s confusion, the months of silence.”
“Would it explain ours? For months there was no word, no activity.”
“A score of possibilities. Illness, exhaustion, brought back for new training. Even to spread confusion to the enemy. The Monk had a cathedralful of tricks.”
“Yet before he died he said to an associate that he did not know what had happened. That he wasn’t even certain the man was Cain.”
“Who was the associate?”
“A man named Gillette. He was our man, but Abbott couldn’t have known it.”
“Another possible explanation. The Monk had an instinct about such men. It was said in Vienna that David Abbott would distrust Christ on the mountain and look for a bakery.”
“It’s possible. Your words are comforting; you look for things others do not look for.”
“I’ve had far more experience; I was once a man of stature. Unfortunately I pissed away the money.”
“You still do.”
“A profligate—what can I tell you?”
“Obviously something else.”
“You’re perceptive, Carlos. We should have known each other in the old days.”
“Now you’re presumptuous.”
“Always. You know that I know you can swat my life away at any moment you choose, so I must be of value. And not merely with words that come from experience.”
“What have you got to tell me?”
“This may not be of great value, but it is something. I put on respectable clothes and spent the day at the Auberge du Coin. There was a man, an obese man—questioned and dismissed by the S?reté—whose eyes were too unsteady. And he perspired too much. I had a chat with him, showing him an official NATO identification I had made in the early fifties. It seems he negotiated the rental of an automobile at three o’clock yesterday morning. To a blond man in the company of a woman. The description fits the photograph from Argenteuil.”
“A rental?”
“Supposedly. The car was to be returned within a day or so by the woman.”
“It will never happen.”
“Of course not, but it raises a question, doesn’t it? Why would Cain go to the trouble of obtaining an automobile in such a fashion?”
“To get as far away as possible as rapidly as possible.”
“In which case the information has no value,” said the beggar. “But then there are so many ways to travel faster less conspicuously. And Bourne could hardly trust an avaricious night clerk, he might easily look for a reward from the S?reté. Or anyone else.”
“What’s your point?”
“I suggest that Bourne could have obtained that car for the sole purpose of following someone here in Paris. No loitering in public where he might be spotted, no rented cars that could be traced, no frantic searches for elusive taxis. Instead, a simple exchange of license plates and a nondescript black Renault in the crowded streets. Where would one begin to look?”
The silhouette turned. “The Lavier woman,” said the assassin softly. “And everyone else he suspects at Les Classiques. It’s the only place he has to start. They’ll be watched, and within days—hours perhaps—a nondescript black Renault will be seen and he’ll be found. Do you have a full description of the car?”
“Down to three dents in the left rear fender.”
“Good. Spread the word to the old men. Comb the streets, the garages, the parking lots. The one who finds it will never have to look for work again.”
“Speaking of such matters ...”
An envelope was slipped between the taut edge of the curtain and the blue felt of the frame. “If your theory proves right, consider this a token”
“I am right, Carlos.”
“Why are you so convinced?”
“Because Cain does what you would do, what I would have done—in the old days. He must be respected.”
“He must be killed,” said the assassin. “There’s symmetry in the timing. In a few days it will be the twenty-fifth of March. On March 25, 1968, Jason Bourne was executed in the jungles of Tam Quan. Now, years later—nearly to the day—another Jason Bourne is hunted, the Americans as anxious as we are to see him killed. I wonder which of us will pull the trigger this time.”
“Does it matter?”
“I want him,” whispered the silhouette. “He was never real, and that’s his crime against me. Tell the old men that if any find him, get word to Parc Monceau but do nothing. Keep him in sight, but do nothing! I want him alive on the twenty-fifth of March. On March 25 I’ll execute him myself and deliver his body to the Americans.”
“The word will go out immediately.”
“Angelus Domini, child of God.”
“Angelus Domini,” said the beggar.