“If it was, it was a trap.”
“It was no trap. A man like Walther Apfel didn’t do what he did to accommodate a trap.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Bourne walked to the single plastic armchair and sat down.
“Koenig did; he marked me right there in the waiting room.”
“He was a bribed foot-soldier, not an officer of the bank. He acted alone. Apfel wouldn’t.”
Jason looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Apfel’s statement had to be cleared by his superiors. It was made in the name of the bank.”
“If you’re so sure, let’s call Zurich.”
“They don’t want that. Either they haven’t the answer or they can’t give it. Apfel’s last words were that they would have no further comment. To anyone. That, too, was part of the message.
We’re to contact someone else.”
Bourne drank; he needed the alcohol, for the moment was coming when he would begin the story of a killer named Cain. “Then were back to whom?” he said. “Back to the trap.”
“You think you know who it is, don’t you?” Marie reached for her cigarettes on the desk. “It’s why you were running, isn’t it?”
“The answer to both questions is yes.” The moment had come. The message was sent by Carlos. I am Cain and you must leave me. I must lose you. But first there is Zurich and you have to understand. “That article was planted to find me.”
“I won’t argue with that,” she broke in, surprising him with the interruption. “I’ve had time to think; they know the evidence is false--so patently false it’s ridiculous. The Zurich police fully expect me to get in touch with the Canadian Embassy now--“ Marie stopped, the unlit cigarette in her hand. “My God, Jason, that’s what they want us to do!”
“Who wants us to do?”
“Whoever’s sending us the message. They know I have no choice but to call the embassy, get the protection of the Canadian government. I didn’t think of it because I’ve already spoken to the embassy, to what’s his name--Dennis Corbelier--and he had absolutely’ nothing to tell me. He only did what I asked him to do; there was nothing else. But that was yesterday, not today, not tonight.” Marie started for the telephone on the bedside table.
Bourne rose quickly from the chair and intercepted her, holding her arm. “Don’t” he said firmly.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re wrong.”
“I’m right, Jason! Let me prove it to you.”
Bourne moved in front of her. “I think you’d better listen to what I have to say.”
“No!” she cried, startling him. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now!”
“An hour ago in Paris it was the only thing you wanted to hear. Hear it!”
“No! An hour ago I was dying. You’d made up your mind to run. Without me. And I know now it will happen over and over again until it stops for you. You hear words, you see images, and fragments of things come back to you that you can’t understand, but because they’re there you condemn yourself. You always will condemn yourself until someone proves to you that whatever you were ... there are others using you, who will sacrifice you. But there’s also someone else out there who wants to help you, help us. That’s the message! I know I’m right I want to prove it to you. Let me!”
Bourne held her arms in silence, looking at her face, her lovely face filled with pain and useless hope, her eyes pleading. The terrible ache was everywhere within him. Perhaps it was better this way; she would see for herself, and her fear would make her listen, make her understand. There was nothing for them any longer. I am Cain ... “All right, you can make the call, but its got to be done my way.” He released her and went to the telephone; he dialed the Auberge du Coin’s front desk. “This is room 341. I’ve just heard from friends in Paris; they’re coming out to join us in a while. Do you have a room down the hall for them? Fine. Their name is Briggs, an American couple. I’ll come down and pay in advance and you can let me have the key. Splendid. Thank you.”
“What are you doing?”
“Proving something to you,” he said. “Get me a dress,” he continued. “The longest one you’ve got.”
“What?”
“If you want to make your call, you’ll do as I tell you.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’ve admitted that,” he said, taking trousers and a shirt from his suitcase. “The dress, please.” Fifteen minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Briggs’ room, six doors away and across the hall from room 341, was in readiness. The clothes had been properly placed, selected lights left on, others not functioning because the bulbs had been removed.
Jason returned to their room; Marie was standing by the telephone. “We’re set.”
“What have you done?”
“What I wanted to do; what I had to do. You can make the call now.”
“It’s very late. Suppose he isn’t there?”
“I think he will be. If not, they’ll give you his home phone. His name was in the telephone logs in Ottawa; it had to be.”
“I suppose it was.”
“Then he will have been reached. Have you gone over what I told you to say?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter; it’s not relevant. I know I’m not wrong.”
“We’ll see. Just say the words I told you. I’ll be right beside you listening. Go ahead.” She picked up the phone and dialed. Seven seconds after she reached the embassy switchboard, Dennis Corbelier was on the line. It was quarter past one in the morning.
“Christ almighty, where are you?”
“You were expecting me to call, then?”
“I was hoping to hell you would! This place is in an uproar. I’ve been waiting here since five o’clock this afternoon.”
“So was Alan. In Ottawa.”
“Alan who? What are you talking about? Where the hell are you?”
“First I want to know what you have to tell me.”
“Tell you?”
“You have a message for me, Dennis. What is it?”
“What is what? What message?”