“Jacqueline spoke to us,” she said, her voice intense. “She told us it was all insane, that it--you-– were out to ruin Les Classiques. That one of the other houses must have paid you to ruin us.”
“What did you expect her to say?”
“You are a hired provocateur. She told us the truth.”
“Did she also tell you to keep your mouth shut? Not to say a word about any of this to anyone?”
“Of course.”
“Above all,” ran on Jason as if he had not heard her, “not to contact the police, which under the circumstances would be the most logical thing in the world to do. In some ways, the only thing to do.”
“Yes, naturally ...”
“Not naturally,” contradicted Bourne. “Look, I’m just a relay, probably not much higher than you. I’m not here to convince you, I’m here to deliver a message. We ran a test on Dolbert; we fed her false information.”
“Janine?” Monique Brielle’s perplexity was compounded by mounting confusion. “The things she said were incredible! As incredible as Claude’s hysterical screaming--the things he said. But what she said was the opposite of what he said.”
“We know; it was done intentionally. She’s been talking to Azur.”
“The House of Azur?”
“Check her out tomorrow. Confront her.”
“Confront her?”
“Just do it. It could be tied in.”
“With what?”
“The trap. Azur could be working with Interpol.”
“Interpol? Traps? This is the same craziness! Nobody knows what you’re talking about!”
“Lavier knows. Get in touch with her right away.” They approached the end of the block; Jason touched her arm. “I’ll leave you here at the corner. Go back to your hotel and call Jacqueline. Tell her it’s far more serious than we thought. Everything’s falling apart. Worst of all, someone has turned. Not Dolbert, not one of the clerks, but someone more highly placed. Someone who knows everything.”
“Turned? What does that mean?”
“There’s a traitor in Les Classiques. Tell her to be careful. Of everyone. If she isn’t, it could be the end for all of us.” Bourne released her arm, then stepped off the curb and crossed the street. On the other side he spotted a recessed doorway and quickly stepped inside.
He inched his face to the edge and peered out, looking back at the corner. Monique Brielle was halfway down the block, rushing toward the entrance of her hotel. The fast panic of the second shock wave had begun. It was time to call Marie.
“I’m worried, Jason. It’s tearing him apart. He nearly broke down on the phone. What happens when he looks at her? What must he be feeling, thinking?”
“He’ll handle it,” said Bourne, watching the traffic on the Champs-Elysées from inside the glass telephone booth, wishing he felt more confident about André Villiers. “If he doesn’t, I’ve killed him.
I don’t want it on my head, but that’s what I’ll have done. I should have shut my goddamn mouth and taken her myself.”
“You couldn’t have done that. You saw d’Anjou on the steps; you couldn’t have gone inside.”
“I could have thought of something. As we’ve agreed, I’m resourceful--more than I like to think about.”
“But you are doing something! You’re creating panic, forcing those who carry out Carlos’ orders to show themselves. Someone’s got to stop the panic, and even you said you didn’t think Jacqueline Lavier was high enough. Jason, you’ll see someone and you’ll know. You’ll get him! You will!”
“I hope so; Christ, I hope so! I know exactly what I’m doing, but every now and then ...” Bourne stopped. He hated saying it, but he had to-he had to say it to her. “I get confused. It’s as if I’m split down the middle, one part of me saying ‘Save yourself,’ the other part ... God help me ... telling me to ‘Get Carlos.’ “ “It’s what you’ve been doing from the beginning, isn’t it?” said Marie softly.
“I don’t care about Carlos!” shouted Jason, wiping away the sweat that had broken out on his hairline, aware, too, that he was cold. “It’s driving me crazy,” he added, not sure whether he had said the words out loud or to himself.
“Darling, come back.”
“What?” Bourne looked at the telephone, again not sure whether he had heard spoken words, or whether he had wanted to hear them, and so they were there. It was happening again. Things were and they were not. The sky was dark outside, outside a telephone booth on the Champs-Elysées. It had once been bright, so bright, so blinding. And hot, not cold. With screeching birds and screaming streaks of metal ...
“Jason!”
“What?”
“Come back. Darling, please come back.”
“Why?”
“You’re tired. You need rest.”
“I have to reach Trignon. Pierre Trignon. He’s the bookkeeper.”
“Do it tomorrow. It can wait until tomorrow.”
“No. Tomorrow’s for the captains.” What was he saying? Captains. Troops. Figures colliding in panic. But
it was the only way, the only way. The chameleon was a ... provocateur.
“Listen to me,” said Marie, her voice insistent. “Something’s happening to you. It’s happened before; we both know that, my darling. And when it does, you have got to stop, we know that, too. Come back to the hotel. Please.”
Bourne closed his eyes, the sweat was drying and the sounds of the traffic outside the booth replaced the screeching in his ears. He could see the stars in the cold night sky, no more blinding sunlight, no more unbearable heat. It had passed, whatever it was.
“I’m all right. Really, I’m okay now. A couple of bad moments, that’s all.”
“Jason?” Marie spoke slowly, forcing him to listen. “What caused them?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just saw the Brielle woman. Did she say something to you? Something that made you think of something else?”
“I’m not sure. I was too busy figuring out what to say myself.”
“Think, darling!”
Bourne closed his eyes, trying to remember. Had there been something? Something spoken casually or so rapidly that it was lost at the moment? “She called me a provocateur,” said Jason, not understanding why the word came back to him. “But then, that’s what I am, aren’t I? That’s what I’m doing.”