“Darling, are you all right?”
“I’ve had a profound religious experience. I’ll tell you about it later.” Jason kept his eyes on his watch, the infinitesimal jumps of the thin, delicate sweep hand too agonizingly slow. He began his own personal countdown at thirty seconds, calculating the heartbeat that echoed in his throat as somewhere around two and a half per second. He started dialing at ten seconds, inserted the coins at four, and spoke to the Terrasse’s switchboard at minus-five. Marie picked up the phone the instant it began to ring.
“What happened?” he asked. “I thought you might still be talking.”
“It was a very short conversation. I think d’Anjou was wary. He may have a list of names of those who’ve been given the private number--I don’t know. But he sounded withdrawn, hesitant.”
“What did he say?”
“Monsieur Bergeron is on a fabric search in the Mediterranean. He left this morning and isn’t expected back for several weeks.”
“It’s possible I may have just seen him several hundred miles from the Mediterranean.”
“Where?”
“In church. If it was Bergeron, he gave absolution with the point of a very sharp instrument.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lavier’s dead.”
“Oh, my God! What are you going to do?”
“Talk to a man I think I knew. If he’s got a brain in his head, he’ll listen. He’s marked for extinction.”
“D’Anjou.”
“Delta? I wondered when ... I think I’d know your voice anywhere.”
He had said it! The name had been spoken. The name that meant nothing to him, and yet somehow everything. D’Anjou knew. Philippe d’Anjou was part of the unremembered past. Delta. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain. Delta. Delta. Delta! He had known this man and this man had the answer! Alpha, Bravo, Cain, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot ...
Medusa.
“Medusa,” he said softly, repeating the name that was a silent scream in his ears.
“Paris is not Tam Quan, Delta. There are no debts between us any longer. Don’t look for payment. We work for different employers now.”
“Jacqueline Lavier’s dead. Carlos killed her in Neuilly-sur-Seine less than thirty minutes ago.”
“Don’t even try. As of two hours ago Jacqueline was on her way out of France. She called me herself from Orly Airport. She’s joining Bergeron--“ “On a fabric search in the Mediterranean?” interrupted Jason.
D’Anjou paused. “The woman on the line asking for René. I thought as much. It changes nothing. I spoke with her; she called from Orly.”
“She was told to tell you that. Did she sound in control of herself?”
“She was upset, and no one knows why better than you. You’ve done a remarkable job down here, Delta. Or Cain. Or whatever you call yourself now. Of course she wasn’t herself. It’s why she’s going away for a while.”
“It’s why she’s dead. You’re next.”
“The last twenty-four hours were worthy of you. This isn’t.”
“She was followed; you’re being followed. Watched every moment.”
“If I am it’s for my own protection.”
“Then why is Lavier dead?”
“I don’t believe she is.”
“Would she commit suicide?”
“Never.”
“Call the rectory at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament in Neuilly-sur-Seine. Ask about the woman who killed herself while taking confession. What have you got to lose? I’ll call you back.” Bourne hung up and left the booth. He stepped off the curb, looking for a cab. The next call to Philippe d’Anjou would be made a minimum of ten blocks away. The man from Medusa would not be convinced easily, and until he was, Jason would not risk electronic scanners picking up even the general location of the call.
Delta? I think I’d know your voice anywhere. ... Paris is not Tam Quan. Tam Quan ... Tam Quan, Tam Quan! Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain. Medusa!
Stop it! Do not think of things that ... you cannot think about. Concentrate on what is. Now. You.
Not what others say you are--not even what you may think you are. Only the now. And the now is a man who can give you answers.
We work for different employers. ...
That was the key.
Tell me! For Christ’s sake, tell me! Who is it? Who is my employer, d’Anjou?
A taxi swerved to a stop perilously close to his kneecaps. Jason opened the door and climbed in.
“Place Vendôme,” he said, knowing it was near Saint-Honoré. It was imperative to be as close as possible to put in motion the strategy that was rapidly coming into focus. He had the advantage, it was a matter of using it for a dual purpose. D’Anjou had to be convinced that those following him were his executioners. But what those men could not know was that another would be following them.
The Vendôme was crowded as usual, the traffic wild as usual. Bourne saw a telephone booth on the corner and got out of the taxi. He went inside the booth and dialed Les Classiques; it had been fourteen minutes since he had called from Neuilly-Sur-Seine.
“D’Anjou?”
“A woman took her own life while at confession, that’s all I know.”
“Come on, you wouldn’t settle for that. Medusa wouldn’t settle for that.”
“Give me a moment to put the board on hold.” The line went dead for roughly four seconds.
D’Anjou returned. “A middle-aged woman with silver and white hair, expensive clothing, and a St. Laurent purse. I’ve just described ten thousand women in Paris. How do I know you didn’t take one, kill her, make her the basis of this call?”
“Oh, sure. I carried her into the church like a pieta, blood dripping in the aisle from her open stigmata. Be reasonable, D’Anjou. Let’s start with the obvious. The purse wasn’t hers; she carried a white leather handbag. She’d hardly be likely to advertise a competing house.”
“Lending credence to my belief. It was not Jacqueline Lavier.”