“Whose kills? Whose contracts?”
“Sanchez ... Carlos.”
“Carlos? Then they’re Carlos’ contracts, his kills. They have nothing to do with you.”
“Carlos’ contracts,” said Bourne, as if in a daze. “Nothing to do with ... me,” he repeated, barely above a whisper.
“You just said it, Jason. None of this has anything to do with you!”
“No! That’s not true!” Bourne shouted, lunging up from the chair, holding his place, staring down at her. “Our contracts,” he added quietly.
“You don’t know what you’re saying!”
“I’m responding! Blindly! It’s why I had to come to Paris!” He spun around and walked to the window, gripping the frame. “That’s what the game is all about,” he continued. “We’re not looking for a lie, we’re looking for the truth, remember? Maybe we’ve found it; maybe the game revealed it.”
“This is no valid test! It’s a painful exercise in incidental recollection. If a magazine like Potomac Quarterly printed this, it would have been picked up by half the newspapers in the world. You could have read it anywhere.”
“The fact is I retained it.”
“Not entirely. You didn’t know where the Ilich came from, that Carlos’ father was a Communist attorney in Venezuela. They’re salient points, I’d think. You didn’t mention a thing about the Cubans. If you had, it would have led to the most shocking speculation written here. You didn’t say a word about it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dallas,” she said. “November 1963.”
“Kennedy,” replied Bourne.
“That’s it? Kennedy?”
“It happened then.” Jason stood motionless.
“It did, but that’s not what I’m looking for.”
“I know,” said Bourne, his voice once again flat, as if speaking in a vacuum. “A grassy knoll ...
Burlap Billy.”
“You read this!”
“No.”
“Then you heard it before, read it before.”
“That’s possible, but it’s not relevant, is it?”
“Stop it, Jason!”
“Those words again. I wish I could.”
“What are you trying to tell me? You’re Carlos?”
“God, no. Carlos wants to kill me, and I don’t speak Russian, I know that.”
“Then what?”
“What I said at the beginning. The game. The game is called Trap-the Soldier.”
“A soldier?”
“Yes. One who defected from Carlos. It’s the only explanation, the only reason I know what I know. In all things.”
“Why do you say defect?”
“Because he does want to kill me. He has to; he thinks I know as much about him as anyone alive.”
Marie had been crouching on the bed; she swung her legs over the side, her hands at her sides.
“That’s a result of defecting. What about the cause? If it’s true, then you did it, became ... became--
“ She stopped.
“All things considered, it’s a little late to look for a moral position,” said Bourne, seeing the pain of acknowledgment on the face of the woman he loved. “I could think of several reasons, clichés.
How about a falling out among thieves ... killers.”
“Meaningless!” cried Marie. “There’s not a shred of evidence.”
“There’s buckets of it and you know it. I could have sold out to a higher bidder or stolen huge sums of money from the fees. Either would explain the account in Zurich.” He stopped briefly, looking at the wall above the bed, feeling, not seeing. “Either would explain Howard Leland, Marseilles, Beirut, Stuttgart ... Munich. Everything. All the unremembered facts that want to come out. And one especially. Why I avoided his name, why I never mentioned him. I’m frightened. I’m afraid of him.”
The moment passed in silence; more was spoken of than fear. Marie nodded. “I’m sure you believe that,” she said, “and in a way I wish it were true. But I don’t think it is. You want to believe it because it supports what you just said. It gives you an answer ... an identity. It may not be the identity you want, but God knows it’s better than wandering blindly through that awful labyrinth you face every day. Anything would be, I guess.” She paused. “And I wish it were true because then we wouldn’t be here.”
“What?”
“That’s the inconsistency, darling. The number or symbol that doesn’t fit in your equation. If you were what you say you were, and afraid of Carlos--and heaven knows you should be--Paris would be the last place on earth you’d feel compelled to go to. We’d be somewhere else; you said it yourself. You’d run away; you’d take the money from Zurich and disappear. But you’re not doing that; instead, you’re walking right back into Carlos’ den. That’s not a man who’s either afraid or guilty.”
“There isn’t anything else. I came to Paris to find out; it’s as simple as that.”
“Then run away. We’ll have the money in the morning; there’s nothing stopping. you--us. That’s simple, too.” Marie watched him closely.
Jason looked at her, then turned away. He walked to the bureau and poured himself a drink.
“There’s still Treadstone to consider,” he said defensively.
“Why any more than Carlos? There’s your real equation. Carlos and Treadstone. A man I once loved very much was killed by Treadstone. All the more reason for us to run, to survive.”
“I’d think you’d want the people who killed him exposed,” said Bourne. “Make them pay for it.”