“You damn fool, we had to reach you! We had to get you here without anyone knowing why.
Open that door. Quickly!”
Like the terrified rabbit he was, Claude Oreale fumbled in his pocket and found the key. He unlocked the door and pushed it open as a man might entering a storage vault filled with mutilated corpses. Bourne propelled him through the doorframe, stepped inside and closed the door.
What could be seen of the flat belied the rest of the building. The fair-sized living room was filled with sleek, expensive furniture, dozens of red and yellow velvet pillows scattered about on couches, chairs and the floor. It was an erotic room, a luxurious sanctuary in the midst of debris.
“I’ve only got a few minutes,” said Jason. “No time for anything but business.”
“Business?” asked Oreale, his expression flat-out paralyzed. “This ... this darkroom? What darkroom?”
“Forget it. You had something better going.”
“What business?”
“We received word from Zurich and we want you to get it to your friend Lavier.”
“Madame Jacqueline? My friend?”
“We can’t trust the phones.”
“What phones? The word? What word?”
“Carlos is right.”
“Carlos? Carlos who?”
“The assassin.”
Claude Oreale screamed. He brought his hand up to his mouth, bit the knuckle of his index finger and screamed. “What are you saying?”
“Be quiet!”
“Why are you saying it to me?”
“You’re number five. We’re counting on you.”
“Five what? For what?”
“To help Carlos escape the net. They’re closing in. Tomorrow, the next day, perhaps the day after that. He’s to stay away; he’s got to stay away. They’ll surround the shop, marksmen every ten feet.
The crossfire will be murderous; if he’s in there it could be a massacre. Every one of you. Dead.” Oreale screamed again, his knuckle red. “Will you stop this! I don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re a maniac and I won’t hear another word--I haven’t heard anything. Carlos, crossfire ...
massacres! God, I’m suffocating ... I need air!”
“You’ll get money. A lot of it, I imagine. Lavier will thank you. Also d’Anjou.”
“D’Anjou? He loathes me! He calls me a peacock, insults me every chance he gets.”
“It’s his cover, of course. Actually, he’s very fond of you--perhaps more than you know. He’s number six.”
“What are these numbers? Stop talking numbers!”
“How else can we distinguish between you, allocate assignments? We can’t use names.”
“Who can’t?”
“All of us who work for Carlos.”
The scream was ear-shattering, as the blood trickled from Oreale’s finger. “I won’t listen! I’m a couturier, an artist!”
“You’re number five. You’ll do exactly as we say or you’ll never see this passion pit of yours again.”
“Aunghunn!”
“Stop screaming! We appreciate you; we know you’re all under a strain. Incidentally, we don’t trust the bookkeeper.”
“Trignon?”
“First names only. Obscurity’s important.”
“Pierre, then. He’s hateful. He deducts for telephone calls.”
“We think he’s working for Interpol.”
“Interpol?”
“If he is, you could all spend ten years in prison. You’d be eaten alive, Claude.”
“Aunghunn!”
“Shut up! Just let Bergeron know what we think. Keep your eyes on Trignon, especially during the next two days. if he leaves the store for any reason, watch out. It could mean the trap’s closing.” Bourne walked to the door, his hand in his pocket. “I’ve got to get back, and so do you. Tell numbers one through six everything I told you. It’s vital the word be spread.” Oreale screamed again, hysterically again. “Numbers! Always numbers! What number? I’m an artist, not a number!”
“You won’t have a face unless you get back there as fast as you got here. Reach Lavier, d’Anjou, Bergeron. As quickly as you can. Then the others.”
“What others?”
“Ask number two.”
“Two?”
“Dolbert. Janine Dolbert.”
“Janine. Her, too?”
“That’s right. She’s two.”