“Tam Quan’s never far away, it seems. Where shall we go, Delta? We can’t stay here.”
They sat inside a curtained booth in a crowded café on the rue Pilon, a back street that was hardly more than an alley in Montmartre. D’Anjou sipped his double brandy, his voice low, pensive.
“I shall return to Asia,” he said. “To Singapore or Hong Kong or even the Seychelles, perhaps.
France was never very good for me, now it’s deadly.”
“You may not have to,” said Bourne, swallowing the whiskey, the warm liquid spreading quickly, inducing a brief, spatial calm. “I meant what I said. You tell me what I want to know. I’ll give you--
“ He stopped, the doubts sweeping over him; no, he would say it. “I’ll give you Carlos’ identity.”
“I’m not remotely interested,” replied the former Medusan, watching Jason closely. “I’ll tell you whatever I can. Why should I withhold anything? Obviously I won’t go to the authorities, but if I have information that could help you take Carlos, the world would be a safer place for me, wouldn’t it? Personally, however, I wish no involvement.”
“You’re not even curious?”
“Academically, perhaps, for your expression tells me I’ll be shocked. So ask your questions and then astonish me.”
“You’ll be shocked.”
Without warning d’Anjou said the name quietly. “Bergeron?”
Jason did not move; speechless, he stared at the older man. D’Anjou continued.
“I’ve thought about it over and over again. Whenever we talk I look at him and wonder. Each time, however, I reject the idea.”
“Why?” Bourne interrupted, refusing to acknowledge the Medusan’s accuracy.
“Mind you, I’m not sure--I just feel it’s wrong. Perhaps because I’ve learned more about Carlos from René Bergeron than anyone else. He’s obsessed by Carlos; he’s worked for him for years, takes enormous pride in the confidence. My problem is that he talks too much about him.”
“The ego speaking through the assumed second party?”
“It’s possible, I suppose, but inconsistent with the extraordinary precautions Carlos takes, the literally impenetrable wall of secrecy he’s built around himself. I’m not certain, of course, but I doubt it’s Bergeron.”
“You said the name. I didn’t.”
D’Anjou smiled. “You have nothing to be concerned about, Delta. Ask your questions.”
“I thought it was Bergeron. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, for he may be. I told you, it doesn’t matter to me. In a few days I’ll be back in Asia, following the franc, or the dollar, or the yen. We Medusans were always resourceful, weren’t we?” Jason was not sure why, but the haggard face of André Villiers came to his mind’s eye. He had promised himself to learn what he could for the old soldier. He would not get the opportunity again.
“Where does Villiers’ wife fit in?”
D’Anjou’s eyebrows arched. “Angélique? But of course--you said Parc Monceau, didn’t’ you?
How--“
“The details aren’t important now.”
“Certainly not to me.”
“What about her?” primed Bourne.
“Have you looked at her closely? The skin?”
“I’ve been close enough. She’s tanned. Very tall and very tanned.”
“She keeps her skin that way. The Riviera, the Greek Isles, Costa del Sol, Gstaad; she is never without a sun-drenched skin.”
“It’s very becoming.”
“It’s also a successful device. It covers what she is. For her there is no autumn or winter pallor, no lack of color in her face or arms or very long legs. The attractive hue of her skin is always there, because it would be there in any event. With or without Saint-Tropez or the Costa Brava or the Alps.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Although the stunning Angélique Villiers is presumed to be Parisian, she’s not. She’s Hispanic.
Venezuelan, to be precise.”
“Sanchez,” whispered Bourne. “Ilich Ramirez Sanchez.”
“Yes. Among the very few who speak of such things, it is said she is Carlos’ first cousin, his lover since the age of fourteen. It is rumored--among those very few people--that beyond himself, she is the only person on earth he cares about.”
“And Villiers is the unwitting drone?”
“Words from Medusa, Delta?” D’Anjou nodded. “Yes, Villiers is the drone. Carlos’ brilliantly conceived wire into many of the most sensitive departments of the French government, including the files on Carlos himself.”
“Brilliantly conceived,” said Jason, remembering. “Because it’s unthinkable.”
“Totally.”
Bourne leaned forward, the interruption abrupt. ‘Treadstone,” he said, both hands gripping the glass in front of him. “Tell me about Treadstone Seventy-One.”
“What can I tell you?”
“Everything they know. Everything Carlos knows.”
“I don’t think I’m capable of doing that. I hear things, piece things together, but except where Medusa’s concerned, I’m hardly a consultant, much less a confidant.” It was all Jason could do to control himself, curb himself from asking about Medusa, about Delta and Tam Quan; the winds in the night sky and the darkness and the explosions of light that blinded him whenever he heard the words. He could not; certain things had to be. assumed, his own loss passed over, no indication given. The priorities. Treadstone. Treadstone Seventy-One ...
“What have you heard? What have you pieced together?”
“What I heard and what I pieced together were not always compatible. Still, obvious facts were apparent to me.”
“Such as?”
“When I saw it was you, I knew. Delta had made a lucrative agreement with the Americans. Another lucrative agreement, a different kind than before, perhaps.”