“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!”
“You won’t have a face unless you get back there as fast as you got here. Reach Lavier, d’Anjou, Bergeron. As quickly as you can. Then the others.”
“What others?”
“Ask number two.”
“Two?”
“Dolbert. Janine Dolbert.”
“Janine. Her, too?”
“That’s right. She’s two.”
The salesclerk flung his arms wildly above him in helpless protest.
“This is madness! Nothing makes sense!”
“Your life does, Claude,” said Jason simply. “Value it. I’ll be waiting across the street. Leave here in exactly three minutes. And don’t use the phone; just leave and get back to Les Classiques. If you’re not out of here in three minutes I’ll have to return.” He took his hand out of his pocket. In it was his gun.
Oreale expunged a lungful of air, his face ashen as he stared at the weapon.
Bourne let himself out and closed the door.
The telephone rang on the bedside table. Marie looked at her watch; it was 8:15 and for a moment she felt a sharp jolt of fear. Jason had said he would call at 9:00. He had left La Terrasse after dark, around 7:00, to intercept a salesclerk named Monique Brielle. The schedule was precise, to be interrupted only in emergency. Had something happened?
“Is this room 420?” asked the deep male voice on the line.
Relief swept over Marie; the man was André Villiers. The general had called late in the afternoon to tell Jason that panic had spread through Les Classiques; his wife had been summoned to the phone no less than six times over the span of an hour and a half. Not once, however, had he been able to listen to anything of substance; whenever he had picked up the phone, serious conversation had been replaced by innocuous banter.
“Yes,” said Marie. “This is 420.”
“Forgive me, we did not speak before.”
“I know who you are.”
“I’m also aware of you. May I take the liberty of saying thank you.”
“I understand. You’re welcome.”
“To substance. I’m telephoning from my office, and, of course, there’s no extension for this line. Tell our mutual friend that the crisis has accelerated. My wife has taken to her room, claiming nausea, but apparently she’s not too ill to be on the phone. On several occasions, as before, I picked up only to realize that they were alert for any interference. Each time I apologized rather gruffly, saying I expected calls. Frankly, I’m not at all sure my wife was convinced, but of course she’s in no position to question me. I’ll be blunt, mademoiselle. There is unspoken friction building between us, and beneath the surface, it is violent. May God give me strength.”
“I can only ask you to remember the objective,” broke in Marie. “Remember your son.”
“Yes,” said the old man quietly. “My son. And the whore who claims to revere his memory. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’ll convey what you’ve told me to our friend. He’ll be calling within the hour.”
“Please,” interrupted Villiers. There’s more. It’s the reason I had to reach you. Twice while my wife was on the telephone the voices held meaning for me. The second I recognized, a face came to mind instantly. He’s on a switchboard in Saint-Honoré.”
“We know his name. What about the first?”
“It was strange. I did not know the voice, there was no face to go with it, but I understood why it was there. It was an odd voice, half whisper, half command, an echo of itself. It was the command that struck me. You see, that voice was not having a conversation with my wife; it had issued an order. It was altered the instant I got on the line, of course; a prearranged signal for a swift goodbye, but the residue remained. That residue, even the tone, is well known to any soldier; it is his means of emphasis. Am I being clear?”
“I think so,” said Marie gently, aware that if the old man was implying what she thought he was, the strain on him had to be unbearable.
“Be assured of it, mademoiselle,” said the general, “it was the killer pig.” Villiers stopped, his breathing audible, the next words drawn out, a strong man close to weeping. “He was … instructing … my … wife …” The old soldier’s voice cracked. “Forgive me the unforgivable. I have no right to burden you.”
“You have every right,” said Marie, suddenly alarmed. “What’s happening has to be terribly painful for you, made worse because you have no one to talk to.”
“I am talking to you, mademoiselle. I shouldn’t, but I am.”
“I wish we could keep talking. I wish one of us could be with you. But that’s not possible and I know you understand that. Please try to hold on. It’s terribly important that no connection be made between you and our friend. It could cost you your life.”
“I think perhaps I have lost it.”
“Ça, c’est absurde,” said Marie sharply, an intended slap in the old soldier’s face. “Vous êtes un soldat. Arrêtez ça immédiatentent!”
“C’est l’institutrice qui corrige le mauvais élève. Vous avez bien raison.”
“On dit que vous êtes un géant. je le crois.” There was silence on the line; Marie held her breath. When Villiers spoke she breathed again.
“Our mutual friend is very fortunate. You are a remarkable woman.”
“Not at all. I just want my friend to come back to me. There’s nothing remarkable about that.”
“Perhaps not. But I should also like to be your friend. You reminded a very old man of who and what he is. Or who and what he once was, and must try to be again. I thank you for a second time.”
“You’re welcome … my friend.” Marie hung up, profoundly moved and equally disturbed. She was not convinced Villiers could face the next twenty-four hours, and if he could not, the assassin would know how deeply his apparatus had been penetrated. He would order every contact at Les Classiques to run from Paris and disappear. Or there would be a bloodbath in Saint-Honoré, achieving the same results.
If either happened, there would be no answers, no address in New York, no message deciphered, nor the sender found. The man she loved would be returned to his labyrinth. And he would leave her.
28
Bourne saw her at the corner, walking under the spill of the streetlight toward the small hotel that was her home. Monique Brielle, Jacqueline Lavier’s number one girl, was a harder, more sinewy version of Janine Dolbert; he remembered seeing her at the shop. There was an assurance about her, her stride the stride of a confident woman, secure in the knowledge of her expertise. Very unflappable. Jason could understand why she was Lavier’s number one. Their confrontation would be brief, the impact of the message startling, the threat inherent. It was time for the start of the second shock wave. He remained motionless and let her pass on the sidewalk, her heels clicking martially on the pavement. The street was not crowded, but neither was it deserted; there were perhaps a half dozen people on the block. It would be necessary to isolate her, then steer her out of earshot of any who might overhear the words, for they were words that no messenger would risk being heard. He caught up with her no more than thirty feet from the entrance to the small hotel; he slowed his pace to hers, staying at her side.