The assassin whispered seven figures. “You are the only man alive who has this number.

Naturally it is untraceable.”

“Naturally. Who would expect an old beggar to have it?”

“Every hour brings you closer to a better standard of living. The net is closing; every hour brings him nearer to one of several traps. Cain will be caught, and an imposter’s body will be thrown back to the bewildered strategists who created him. They counted on a monstrous ego and he gave it to them. At the end, he was only a puppet, an expendable puppet. Everyone knew it but him.”

Bourne picked up the telephone. “Yes?”

“Room 420?”

“Go ahead, General.”

“The telephone calls have stopped. She’s no longer being contacted--not at least by telephone.

Our couple was out and the phone rang twice. Both times she asked me to answer it. She really wasn’t up to talking.”

“Who called?”

“The chemists with a prescription and a journalist requesting an interview. She couldn’t have known either.”

“Did you get the impression she was trying to throw you off by having you take the calls?” Villiers paused, his reply laced with anger. “It was there, the effect less than subtle insofar as she mentioned she might be having lunch out She said she had a reservation at the George Cinq, and I could reach her there if she decides to go.”

“If she does, I want to get there first.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“You said she’s not being contacted by phone. ‘Not at least by telephone,’ I think you said. Did you mean something by that?”

“Yes. Thirty minutes ago a woman came to the house. My wife was reluctant to see her but nevertheless did so. I only saw her face for a moment in the parlor, but it was enough. The woman was in panic.”

“Describe her.”

Villiers did.

“Jacqueline Lavier,” said Jason.

“I thought it might be. From the looks of her, the wolfpack was eminently successful; it was obvious she had not slept. Before taking her into the library, my wife told me she was an old friend in a marriage crisis. A fatuous lie; at her age there are no crises left in marriage, only acceptance and extraction.”

“I can’t understand her going to your house. It’s too much of a risk. It doesn’t make sense.

Unless she did it on her own, knowing that no further calls were to be made.”

“These things occurred to me,” said the soldier. “So I felt the need of a little air, a stroll around the block. My aide accompanied me--a doddering old man taking his limited constitutional under the watchful eye of an escort. But my eyes, too, were watchful. Lavier was followed. Two men were seated in a car four houses away, the automobile equipped with a radio. Those men did not belong to the street. It was in their faces, in the way they watched my house.”

“How do you know she didn’t come with them?”

“We live on a quiet street. When Lavier arrived, I was in the sitting room having coffee, and heard her running up the steps. I went to the window in time to see a taxi drive away. She came in a taxi; she was followed.”

“When did she leave?”

“She hasn’t. And the men are still outside.”

“What kind of car are they in?”

“Citroën. Gray. The first three letters of the license plate are NYR.”

“Birds in the air, following a contact. Where do the birds come from?”

“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

Jason shook his head “I’m not sure. Never mind. I’m going to try to get out there before Lavier leaves. Do what you can to help me. Interrupt your wife, say you have to speak with her for a few minutes. Insist her ‘old friend’ stay; say anything, just make sure she doesn’t leave.”

“I will do my best.”

Bourne hung up and looked at Marie, standing by the window across the room. “It’s working.

They’re starting to distrust each other. Lavier went to Parc Monceau and she was followed. They’re beginning to suspect their own.”

“ ‘Birds in the air,’ “ said Marie. “What did you mean?”

“I don’t know; it’s not important. There isn’t time.”

“I think it is important, Jason.”

“Not now.” Bourne walked to the chair where he had dropped his topcoat and hat. He put them on quickly and went to the bureau, opened the drawer and took out the gun. He looked at it for a moment, remembering. The images were there, the past that was his whole yet not his whole at all.

Zurich. The Bahnhofstrasse and the Carillon du Lac; the Drei Alpenhäuser and the Löwenstrasse; a filthy boardinghouse on the Steppdeckstrasse. The gun symbolized them all, for it had once nearly taken his life in Zurich.

But this was Paris. And everything started in Zurich was in motion.

Find Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain.

False! Goddamn you, false!

Find Treadstone. Find a message. Find a man.

Jason remained in the far corner of the back seat as the taxi entered Villiers’ block in Parc Monceau. He scanned the cars lining the curb; there was no gray Citroën, no license with the letters NYR.

But there was Villiers. The old soldier was standing alone on the pavement, four doors away from his house.

Two men ... in a car four houses away from my house.

Villiers was standing now where that car had stood; it was a signal.

“Arrêtez, s’il vous plait,” said Bourne to the driver. “Le vieux là-bas. Je veux parler avec, lui.” He rolled

down the window and leaned forward. “Monsieur?”

“In English,” replied Villiers, walking toward the taxi, an old man summoned by a stranger.

“What happened?” asked Jason.

“I could not detain them.”

“Them?”

“My wife left with the Lavier woman. I was adamant, however. I told her to expect my call at the George Cinq. It was a matter of the utmost importance and I required her counsel.”

“What did she say?”

“That she wasn’t sure she’d be at the George Cinq. That her friend insisted on seeing a priest in Neuilly-sur-Seine, at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. She said she felt obliged to accompany her.”

“Did you object?”

“Strenuously. And for the first time in our life together, she stated the thoughts in my own mind.

She said, ‘If it’s your desire to check up on me, André, why not call the parish? I’m sure someone might recognize me and bring me to a telephone.’ Was she testing me?” Bourne tried to think. “Perhaps. Someone would see her there, she’d make sure of it. But bringing her to a phone might be something else again. When did they leave?”

“Less than five minutes ago. The two men in the Citroën followed them.”

“Were they in your car?”

“No. My wife called a taxi.”

“I’m going out there,” said Jason.

“I thought you might,” said Villiers. “I looked up the address of the church.”

Bourne dropped a fifty-franc note over the back of the front seat. The driver grabbed it. “It’s important to me to reach Neuilly-sur-Seine as fast as possible. The Church of the Blessed Sacrament. Do you know where it is?”

“But of course, monsieur. It is the most beautiful parish in the district.”

“Get there quickly and there’ll be another fifty francs.”

“We shall fly on the wings of blessed angels, monsieur!”

They flew, the flight plan jeopardizing most of the traffic in their path.

“There are the spires of the Blessed Sacrament, monsieur,” said the victorious driver, twelve minutes later, pointing at three soaring towers of stone through the windshield. “Another minute, perhaps two if the idiots who should be taken off the street will permit. ...”

“Slow down,” interrupted Bourne, his attention not on the spires of the church but on an automobile several cars ahead. They had taken a corner and he had seen it during the turn; it was a gray Citroën, two men in the front seat.