The Bourne Identity (39 page)

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.
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"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."

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"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?"

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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.

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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 maitre 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 fiancee 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.