“It was the other day,” broke in Marie. “This is an emergency, operator. Do you have another number?”
“The telephone is no longer in service, madame. There is no alternate number.”
“I may have been given the wrong one. It’s most urgent. Could you give me the name of the party who had this number?”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“I told you; it’s an emergency! May I speak with your superior, please?”
“He would not be able to help you. This number is an unpublished listing. Good afternoon, madame.”
The connection was broken. “It’s been disconnected,” she said.
“It took too goddamn long to find that out,” replied Bourne, looking up and down the street.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“You think they could have traced it here? In Paris? To a public phone?’ “Within three minutes an exchange can be determined, a district pinpointed. In four, they can narrow the blocks down to half a dozen.”
“How do you know that?”
“I wish I could tell you. Let’s go.”
“Jason. Why not wait out of sight? And watch?”
“Because I don’t know what to watch for and they do. They’ve got a photograph to go by; they could station men all over the area.”
“I don’t look anything like the picture in the papers.”
“Not you. Me. Let’s go!”
They walked rapidly within the erratic ebb and flow of the crowds until they reached the boulevard Malesherbes ten blocks away, and another telephone booth, this with a different exchange from the first. This time there were no operators to go through; this was Paris. Marie stepped inside, coins in her hand and dialed; she was prepared.
But the words that came over the line so astonished her:
“La résidence du Général Villiers. Bonjour? ... Allô? Allô?” For a moment Marie was unable to speak. She simply stared at the telephone. “Je m’excuse,” she whispered. “Une erreur.” She hung up.
“What’s the matter?” asked Bourne, opening the glass door. “What happened? Who was it?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” she said. “I just reached the house of one of the most respected and powerful men in France.”
“André François Villiers,” repeated Marie, lighting a cigarette. They had returned to their room at the Terrasse to sort things out, to absorb the astonishing information. “Graduate of Saint-Cyr, hero of the Second World War, a legend in the Resistance, and, until his break over Algeria, De Gaulle’s heir-apparent. Jason, to connect such a man with Carlos is simply unbelievable.”
“The connection’s there. Believe it.”
“It’s almost too difficult. Villiers is old-line honor-of-France, a family traced back to the seventeenth century. Today he’s one of the ranking deputies in the National Assembly--politically to the right of Charlemagne, to be sure--but very much a law-and-order army man. It’s like linking Douglas MacArthur to a Mafia hit man. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Then let’s look for some. What was the break with De Gaulle?”
“Algeria. In the early sixties, Villiers was part of the OAS--one of the Algerian colonels under Salan. They opposed the Evian agreements that gave independence to Algeria, believing it rightfully belonged to France.”
“ ‘The mad colonels of Algiers,’ “ said Bourne, as with so many words and phrases, not knowing where they came from or why he said them.
“That means something to you?”
“It must, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Think,” said Marie. “Why should the ‘mad colonels’ strike a chord with you? What’s the first thing that comes to your mind? Quickly!”
Jason looked at her helplessly, then the words came. “Bombings ... infiltrations. Provocateurs. You study them; you study the mechanisms.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are decisions based on what you learn?”
“I guess so.”
“What kind of decisions? You decide what?”
“Disruptions.”
“What does that mean to you? Disruptions.”
“I don’t know! I can’t think!”
“All right ... all right. We’ll go back to it some other time.”
“There isn’t time. Let’s get back to Villiers. After Algeria, what?”
“There was a reconciliation of sorts with De Gaulle; Villiers was never directly implicated in the terrorism, and his military record demanded it. He returned to France--was welcomed, really--a fighter for a lost but respected cause. He resumed his command, rising to the rank of general,.
before going into politics.”
“He’s a working politician, then?”
“More a spokesman. An elder statesman. He’s still an entrenched militarist, still fumes over France’s reduced military stature.”
“Howard Leland,” said Jason. “There’s your connection to Carlos.”
“How? Why?”
“Leland was assassinated because he interfered with the Quai D’Orsay’s arms buildups and exports. We don’t need anything more.”
“It seems incredible, a man like that ...” Marie’s voice trailed off; she was struck by recollection.