“I apologize for the ruse, Trignon, but it was for your own benefit. I didn’t think you wanted to be questioned in front of your wife and family.”
“Questioned?” exclaimed the bookkeeper, his thick, protruding lips curled, his eyes frightened. “Me? What about? What is this? Why are you here at my home? I’m a law-abiding citizen!”
“You work in Saint-Honoré? For a firm called Les Classiques?”
“I do. Who are you?”
“If you prefer, we can go down to my office,” said Bourne.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a special investigator for the Bureau of Taxation and Records, Division of Fraud and Conspiracy. Come along—my official car is outside.”
“Outside? Come along? I have no jacket, no coat! My wife. She’s upstairs expecting me to bring back a telegram. A telegram!”
“You can send her one if you like. Come along now. I’ve been at this all day and I want to get it over with.”
“Please, monsieur,” protested Trignon. “I do not insist on going anywhere! You said you had questions. Ask your questions and let me go back upstairs. I have no wish to go to your office.”
“It might take a few minutes,” said Jason.
“I’ll ring through to my wife and tell her it’s a mistake. The telegram’s for old Gravet; he lives here on the first floor and can barely read. She will understand.”
Madame Trignon did not understand, but her shrill objections were stilled by a shriller Monsieur Trignon. “There, you see,” said the bookkeeper, coming away from the mailslot, the strings of hair on his bald scalp matted with sweat. “There’s no reason to go anywhere. What’s a few minutes of a man’s life? The television shows will be repeated in a month or two. Now, what in God’s name is this, monsieur? My books are immaculate, totally immaculate! Of course I cannot be responsible for the accountant’s work. That’s a separate firm; he’s a separate firm. Frankly, I’ve never liked him; he swears a great deal, if you know what I mean. But then, who am I to say?’ Trignon’s hands were held out palms up, his face pinched in an obsequious smile.
“To begin with,” said Bourne, dismissing the protestations, “do not leave the city limits of Paris. If for any reason, personal or professional, you are called upon to do so, notify us. Frankly, it will not be permitted.”
“Surely you’re joking, monsieur!”
“Surely I’m not.”
“I have no reason to leave Paris—nor the money, to do so—but to say such a thing to me is unbelievable. What have I done?”
“The Bureau will subpoena your books in the morning. Be prepared.”
“Subpoena? For what cause? Prepared for what?”
“Payments to so-called suppliers whose invoices are fraudulent. The merchandise was never received—was never meant to be received—the payments, instead, routed to a bank in Zurich.”
“Zurich? I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve prepared no checks for Zurich.”
“Not directly, we know that. But how easy it was for you to prepare them for nonexistent firms, the monies paid, then wired to Zurich.”
“Every invoice is initialed by Madame Lavier! I pay nothing on my own!”
Jason paused, frowning. “Now it’s you who are joking,” he said.
“On my word! It’s the house policy. Ask anyone! Les Classiques does not pay a sou unless authorized by Madame.”
“What you’re saying, then, is that you take your orders directly from her.”
“But naturally!”
“Whom does she take orders from?”
Trignon grinned. “It is said from God, when not the other way around. Of course, that’s a joke, monsieur.”
“I trust you can be more serious. Who are the specific owners of Les Classiques?”
“It is a partnership, monsieur. Madame Lavier has many wealthy friends; they have invested in her abilities. And, of course, the talents of René Bergeron.”
“Do these investors meet frequently? Do they suggest policy? Perhaps advocate certain firms with which to do business?”
“I wouldn’t know, monsieur. Naturally, everyone has friends.”
“We may have concentrated on the wrong people,” interrupted Bourne. “It’s quite possible that you and Madame Lavier—as the two directly involved with the day-to-day finances—are being used.”
“Used for what?”
“To funnel money into Zurich. To the account of one of the most vicious killers in Europe.”
Trignon convulsed, his large stomach quivering as he fell back against the wall “In the name of God, what are you saying?”
“Prepare yourselves. Especially you. You prepared the checks, no one else.”
“Only upon approval!”
“Did you ever check the merchandise against the invoices?”
“It’s not my job!”
“So, in essence you issued payments for supplies you never saw.”
“I never see anything! Only invoices that have been initialed. I pay only on those!”
“You’d better find every one. You and Madame Lavier had better start digging up every backup in your files. Because the two of you—especially you—will face the charges.”
“Charges? What charges?”
“For a lack of a specific writ, let’s call it accessory to multiple homicide.”
“Multiple—”
“Assassination. The account in Zurich belongs to the assassin known as Carlos. You, Pierre Trignon, and your current employer, Madame Jacqueline Lavier, are directly implicated in financing the most sought-after killer in Europe. Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. Alias Carlos.”
“Aughhhh! …” Trignon slid down to the foyer floor, his eyes in shock, his puffed features twisted out of shape. “All afternoon …” he whispered. “People running around, hysterical meetings in the aisles, looking at me strangely, passing my cubicle and turning their heads. Oh, my God.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t waste a moment. Morning will be here soon, and with it possibly the most difficult day of your life.” Jason walked to the outside door and stopped, his hand on the knob. “It’s not my place to advise you, but if I were you, I’d reach Madame Lavier at once. Start preparing your joint defense—it may be all you have. A public execution is not out of the question.”
The chameleon opened the door and stepped outside, the cold night air whipping across his face.
Get Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain.
False!
Find a number in New York. Find Treadstone. Find the meaning of a message. Find the sender.
Find Jason Bourne.
Sunlight burst through the stained-glass windows as the clean-shaven old man in the dated suit of clothes rushed down the aisle of the church in Neuilly-sur-Seine. The tall priest standing by the rack of novena candles watched him, struck by a feeling of familiarity. For a moment the cleric thought he had seen the man before, but could not place him. There had been a disheveled beggar yesterday, about the same size, the same … No, this old man’s shoes were shined, his white hair combed neatly, and the suit of clothes, although from another decade, were of good quality.
“Angelus Domini,” said the old man, as he parted the curtains of the confessional booth.
“Enough!” whispered the silhouetted figure behind the scrim. “What have you learned in Saint-Honoré?”
“Little of substance, but respect for his methods.”
“Is there a pattern?”
“Random, it would appear. He selects people who know absolutely nothing and instigates chaos through them. I would suggest no further activity at Les Classiques.”
“Naturally,” agreed the silhouette. “But what’s his purpose?”
“Beyond the chaos?” asked the old man. “I’d say it was to spread distrust among those who do know something. The Brielle woman used the words. She said the American told her to tell Lavier there was ‘a traitor’ inside, a patently false statement. Which of them would dare? Last night was insane, as you know. The bookkeeper, Trignon, went crazy. Waiting until two in the morning outside Lavier’s house, literally assaulting her when she returned from Brielle’s hotel, screaming and crying in the street.”
“Lavier herself did not behave much better. She was barely in control when she called Parc Monceau; she was told not to call again. No one is to call there … ever again. Ever.”
“We received the word. The few of us who know the number have forgotten it.”
“Be sure you have.” The silhouette moved suddenly; there was a ripple in the curtain. “Of course to spread distrust! It follows chaos. There’s no question about it now. He’ll pick up the contacts, try to force information from them and when one fails, throw him to the Americans and go on to the next. But he’ll make the approaches alone; it’s part of his ego. He is a madman. And obsessed.”
“He may be both,” countered the old man, “but he’s also a professional. He’ll make sure the names are delivered to his superiors in the event he does fail. So regardless of whether you take him or not, they will be taken.”
“They will be dead,” said the assassin. “But not Bergeron. He’s far too valuable. Tell him to head for Athens; he’ll know where.”
“Am I to assume I’m taking the place of Parc Monceau?”
“That would be impossible. But. for the time being you will relay my final decisions to whomever they concern.”