The Bourne Identity (56 page)

"Don't you know? Then why did you race back here?"

The wide eyes beneath the short, bobbed hair were fixed on his, her pale face paler in the sunlight.

"You're from the House of Azur, then?" she asked tentatively.

"I could be." Bourne applied a bit more pressure to her elbow. "And?"

"I've delivered what I promised. There will be nothing more, we agreed to that."

"Are you sure?"

"Don't be an idiot! You don't know Paris couture. Someone will get furious with someone else and make bitchy comments in your own studio. What strange deviations! And when the fall line comes out, with you parading half of Bergeron's designs before
he
does, how long do you think I can stay at Les Classiques? I'm Lavier's number two girl, one of the few who has access to her office. You'd better take care of me as you promised. In one of your Los Angeles shops."

"Let's take a walk," said Jason, gently propelling her. "You've got the wrong man, Janine. I've never heard of the House of Azur, and haven't the slightest interest in stolen designs--except where the knowledge can be useful."

"Oh, my God ..."

"Keep walking." Bourne gripped her arm. "I said I wanted to talk to you."

"About what? What do you want from me? How did you get my name?" The words came rapidly now, the phrases overlapping. "I took an early lunch hour and must return at once; we're very busy today.
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Please--you're hurting my arm."

"Sorry."

"What I said; it was foolishness. A lie. On the floor, we've heard rumors; I was testing you.
That's
what I was doing, I was testing you!"

"You're very convincing. I'll accept that."

"I'm loyal to Les Classiques. I've always been loyal."

"It's a fine quality, Janine. I admire loyalty. I was saying that the other day to ... what's his name? ... that nice fellow on the switchboard. What
is
his name? I forget."

"Philippe," said the salesclerk, frightened, obsequious. "Philippe d'Anjou."

"That's it. Thank you." They reached a narrow, cobblestone alleyway between two buildings. Jason guided her into it. "Let's step in here for a moment, just so we're off the street. Don't worry, you won't be late. I'll only take a few minutes of your time." They walked ten paces into the narrow enclosure. Bourne stopped; Janine Dolbert pressed her back against the brick wall. "Cigarette?" he asked, taking a pack from his pocket.

"Thank you, yes."

He lighted it for her, noting that her hand trembled. "Relaxed now?"

"Yes. No, not really. What do you want, Monsieur Briggs?"

"To begin with, the name's not Briggs, but I think you should know that."

"I don't. Why should I?"

"I was sure Lavier's number one girl would have told you."

"Monique?"

"Use last names, please. Accuracy's important."

"Brielle, then," said Janine frowning curiously. "Does she know you?"

"Why not ask her?"

"As you wish. What
is
it, monsieur?"

Jason shook his head. "You really don't know, do you? Three-quarters of the employees at Les Classiques are working with us and one of the brightest wasn't even contacted. Of course it's possible someone thought you were a risk; it happens."

"
What
happens? What risk? Who
are
you?"

"There isn't time now. The others can fill you in. I'm here because we've never received a report from
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you, and yet you speak to prime customers all day long."

"You
must
be clearer, monsieur."

"Let's say I'm the spokesman for a group of people--American, French, English, Dutch--closing in on a killer who's murdered political and military leaders in each of our countries."

"
Murdered?
Military, political ..." Janine's mouth gaped, the ash of her cigarette breaking off, spilling over her rigid hand. "What
is
this? What are you
talking
about? I've heard none of this!"

"I can only apologize," said Bourne softly, sincerely. "You should have been contacted several weeks ago. It was an error on the part of the man before me. I'm sorry; it must be a shock to you."

"It
is
a shock, monsieur," whispered the salesclerk, her concave body tensed, a bent, lacquered reed against the brick. "You speak of things beyond my understanding."

"But now
I
understand," interrupted Jason. "Not a word from you about anyone. Now it's clear."

"It's not to me."

"We're closing in on Carlos. The assassin known as Carlos."

"Carlos?"
The cigarette fell from Dolbert's hand, the shock complete.

"He's one of your most frequent customers, all the evidence points to it. We've narrowed the probabilities down to eight men. The trap is set for sometime in the next several days, and we're taking every precaution."

"Precaution ...?"

"There's always the danger of hostages, we all know that. We anticipate gunfire, but it will be kept to a minimum. The basic problem will be Carlos himself. He's sworn never to be taken alive; he walks the streets wired up to explosives calculated to be in excess of a thousand-pound bomb. But we can handle that. Our marksmen will be on the scene; one clean shot to the head and it'll be all over."

"Une seule balle ..."

Suddenly Bourne looked at his watch. "I've taken up enough of your time. You've got to get back to the shop and I have to get back to my post. Remember, if you see me outside, you don't know me. If I come into Les Classiques, treat me as you would any rich client.
Except
if you've spotted a customer you think may be our man; then don't waste time telling me. Again, I'm sorry about all this. It was a breakdown in communications, that's all. It happens."

"Une rupture ...?"

Jason nodded, turned in place, and began walking rapidly out of the alleyway toward the street. He stopped and glanced back at Janine Dolbert. She was comatose against the wall; for her the elegant world of
haute couture
was spinning wildly out of orbit.

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Philippe d'Anjou
. The name meant nothing to him, but Bourne could not help himself. He kept repeating it silently trying to raise an image ... as the face of the gray-haired switchboard operator gave rise to such violent images of darkness and flashes of light.
Philippe d'Anjou
. Nothing. Nothing at all. Yet there had been something, something that caused Jason's stomach to knot, the muscles taut and inflexible, a flat panel of hard flesh constricted ... by the darkness. He sat by the front window and the door of a coffee shop on the rue Racine, prepared to get up and leave the moment he saw the figure of Claude Oreale arrive at the doorway of the ancient building across the street. His room was on the fifth floor, in a flat he shared with two other men, reached only by climbing a worn, angular staircase. When he did arrive, Bourne was sure he would not be walking. For Claude Oreale, who had been so effusive with Jacqueline Javier on another staircase in Saint-Honore, had been told by a toothless landlady over the phone to get his
sale gueule
back to rue Racine and put a stop to the screaming and smashing of furniture that was taking place in his fifth-floor flat. Either he would stop it or the gendarmes would be called; he had twenty minutes to show up. He did so in fifteen. His slight frame, encased in a Pierre Cardin suit--rear flap fluttering in the headwind--could be seen racing up the sidewalk from the nearby Metro exit. He avoided collisions with the agility of an out-of-shape broken-field runner trained by the Ballets Russe. His thin neck was thrust forward several inches in front of his vested chest, his long dark hair a flowing mane parallel to the pavement. He reached the entrance and gripped the railing, leaping up the steps and plunging into the shadows of the foyer.

Jason walked rapidly out of the coffee shop and raced across the street. Inside, he ran to the ancient staircase then started up the cracked steps. From the fourth floor landing, he could hear the pounding on the door above.

"Ouvrez! Ouvrez! Vite, nom de Dieu!"Oreale stopped, the silence within perhaps more frightening than anything else.

Bourne climbed the remaining steps until he could see Oreale between the bars of the railing and the floor. The clerk's frail body was pressed into the door, his hands on either side, fingers spread, his ear against the wood, his face flushed. Jason shouted in guttural, bureaucratic French, as he rushed up into view. "Surete! Stay exactly where you are, young man. Let's not have any unpleasantness. We've been watching you and your friends. We know about the darkroom."

"No!" screamed Oreale. "It has nothing to do with me, I swear it!
Darkroom?"

Bourne raised his hand. "Be quiet. Don't shout so!" He immediately followed his commands by leaning over the railing and looking below.

"You can't involve me!" continued the salesclerk. "I'm not involved! I've told them over and over again to get rid of it all! One day they'll kill themselves. Drugs are for idiots! My God, it's quiet. I think they're dead!"

Jason stood up from the railing and approached Oreale, his palms raised. "I told you to shut up," he whispered harshly. "Get inside there and be quiet! This was all for the benefit of that old bitch downstairs."

The salesclerk was transfixed, his panic suspended in silent hysteria. "What?"

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"You've got a key," said Bourne. "Open up and get inside."

"It's bolted," replied Oreale. "It's always bolted during these times."

"You damn fool, we had to
reach
you! We had to get you here without anyone knowing why. Open that door. Quickly!"

Like the terrified rabbit he was, Claude Oreale fumbled in his pocket and found the key. He unlocked the door and pushed it open as a man might entering a storage vault filled with mutilated corpses. Bourne propelled him through the doorframe, stepped inside and closed the door. What could be seen of the flat belied the rest of the building. The fair-sized living room was filled with sleek, expensive furniture, dozens of red and yellow velvet pillows scattered about on couches, chairs and the floor. It was an erotic room, a luxurious sanctuary in the midst of debris.

"I've only got a few minutes," said Jason. "No time for anything but business."

"Business?" asked Oreale, his expression flat-out paralyzed. "This ... this darkroom?
What
darkroom?"

"Forget it. You had something better going."

"What business?"

"We received word from Zurich and we want you to get it to your friend Lavier."

"Madame Jacqueline? My
friend?"

"We can't trust the phones."

"What phones? The word?
What
word?"

"Carlos is right."

"Carlos? Carlos who?"

"The assassin."

Claude Oreale screamed. He brought his hand up to his mouth, bit the knuckle of his index finger and screamed. "What are you
saying?"

"Be quiet!"

"Why are you saying it to
me?"

"You're number five. We're counting on you."

"Five
what? For
what?"

"To help Carlos escape the net. They're closing in. Tomorrow, the next day, perhaps the day after that. He's to stay away; he's
got
to stay away. They'll surround the shop, marksmen every ten feet. The crossfire will be murderous; if he's in there it could be a massacre. Every one of you. Dead."

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Oreale screamed again, his knuckle red. "Will you
stop
this! I don't know what you're talking about!

You're a maniac and I won't hear another word--I haven't heard
anything
. Carlos, crossfire ... massacres! God, I'm suffocating ... I need air!"

"You'll get money. A lot of it, I imagine. Lavier will thank you. Also d'Anjou."

"D'Anjou? He loathes me! He calls me a peacock, insults me every chance he gets."

"It's his cover, of course. Actually, he's very fond of you--perhaps more than you know. He's number six."

"What are these
numbers?
Stop talking numbers!"

"How else can we distinguish between you, allocate assignments? We can't use names."

"Who can't?"

"All of us who work for Carlos."

The scream was ear-shattering, as the blood trickled from Oreale's finger. "I won't
listen!
I'm a couturier, an
artist!"

"You're number five. You'll do exactly as we say or you'll never see this passion pit of yours again."

"Aunghunn!"

"Stop screaming! We appreciate you; we know you're all under a strain. Incidentally, we don't trust the bookkeeper."

"Trignon?"

"First names only. Obscurity's important."

"Pierre, then. He's hateful. He deducts for telephone calls."

"We think he's working for Interpol."

"Interpol?"

"If he is, you could all spend ten years in prison.
You'd
be eaten alive, Claude."

"Aunghunn!"

"Shut up! Just let Bergeron know what we think. Keep your eyes on Trignon, especially during the next two days. if he leaves the store for any reason, watch out. It could mean the trap's closing." Bourne walked to the door, his hand in his pocket. "I've got to get back, and so do you. Tell numbers one through six everything I told you. It's vital the word be spread."

Oreale screamed again, hysterically again. "Numbers! Always
numbers!
What
number?
I'm an artist, not a number!"

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