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 Sûreté—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.”