“You have every right,” said Marie, suddenly alarmed. “What’s happening has to be terribly painful for you, made worse because you have no one to talk to.”

“I am talking to you, mademoiselle. I shouldn’t, but I am.”

“I wish we could keep talking. I wish one of us could be with you. But that’s not possible and I know you understand that. Please try to hold on. It’s terribly important that no connection be made between you and our friend. It could cost you your life.”

“I think perhaps I have lost it.”

“Ça, c’est absurde,”said Marie sharply, an intended slap in the old soldier’s face. “Vous êtes un soldat.

Arrêtez ça immédiatentent!”

“C’est l’institutrice qui corrige le mauvais élève. Vous avez bien raison.”

“On dit que vous êtes un géant. je le crois.”There was silence on the line; Marie held her breath. When Villiers spoke she breathed again.

“Our mutual friend is very fortunate. You are a remarkable woman.”

“Not at all. I just want my friend to come back to me. There’s nothing remarkable about that.”

“Perhaps not. But I should also like to be your friend. You reminded a very old man of who and what he is. Or who and what he once was, and must try to be again. I thank you for a second time.”

“You’re welcome ... my friend.” Marie hung up, profoundly moved and equally disturbed. She was not convinced Villiers could face the next twenty-four hours, and if he could not, the assassin would know how deeply his apparatus had been penetrated. He would order every contact at Les Classiques to run from Paris and disappear. Or there would be a bloodbath in Saint-Honoré, achieving the same results.

If either happened, there would be no answers, no address in New York, no message deciphered, nor the sender found. The man she loved would be returned to his labyrinth. And he would leave her.

Bourne saw her at the corner, walking under the spill of the streetlight toward the small hotel that was her home. Monique Brielle, Jacqueline Lavier’s number one girl, was a harder, more sinewy version of Janine Dolbert; he remembered seeing her at the shop. There was an assurance about her, her stride the stride of a confident woman, secure in the knowledge of her expertise. Very unflappable. Jason could understand why she was Lavier’s number one. Their confrontation would be brief, the impact of the message startling, the threat inherent. It was time for the start of the second shock wave. He remained motionless and let her pass on the sidewalk, her heels clicking martially on the pavement. The street was not crowded, but neither was it deserted; there were perhaps a half dozen people on the block. It would be necessary to isolate her, then steer her out of earshot of any who might overhear the words, for they were words that no messenger would risk being heard. He caught up with her no more than thirty feet from the entrance to the small hotel; he slowed his pace to hers, staying at her side.

“Get in touch with Lavier right away,” he said in French, staring straight ahead.

“Pardon? What did you say? Who are you, monsieur?”

“Don’t stop! Keep walking. Past the entrance.”

“You know where I live?”

“There’s very little we don’t know.”

“And if I go straight inside? There’s a doorman--“

“There’s also Lavier,” interrupted Bourne. “You’ll lose your job and you won’t be able to find another in Saint-Honoré. And I’m afraid that will be the least of your problems.”

“Who are you?”

“Not your enemy.” Jason looked at her. “Don’t make me one.”

“You. The American! Janine ... Claude Oreale!”

“Carlos,” completed Bourne.

“Carlos? What is this madness? All afternoon, nothing but Carlos! And numbers! Everyone has a number no one’s heard of! And talk of traps and men with guns! It’s crazy!”

“It’s happening. Keep walking. Please. For your own sake.”

She did, her stride less sure, her body stiffened, a rigid marionette uncertain of its strings.

“Jacqueline spoke to us,” she said, her voice intense. “She told us it was all insane, that it--you-– were out to ruin Les Classiques. That one of the other houses must have paid you to ruin us.”

“What did you expect her to say?”

“You are a hired provocateur. She told us the truth.”

“Did she also tell you to keep your mouth shut? Not to say a word about any of this to anyone?”

“Of course.”

“Above all,” ran on Jason as if he had not heard her, “not to contact the police, which under the circumstances would be the most logical thing in the world to do. In some ways, the only thing to do.”

“Yes, naturally ...”

“Not naturally,” contradicted Bourne. “Look, I’m just a relay, probably not much higher than you. I’m not here to convince you, I’m here to deliver a message. We ran a test on Dolbert; we fed her false information.”

“Janine?” Monique Brielle’s perplexity was compounded by mounting confusion. “The things she said were incredible! As incredible as Claude’s hysterical screaming--the things he said. But what she said was the opposite of what he said.”

“We know; it was done intentionally. She’s been talking to Azur.”

“The House of Azur?”

“Check her out tomorrow. Confront her.”

“Confront her?”

“Just do it. It could be tied in.”

“With what?”

“The trap. Azur could be working with Interpol.”

“Interpol? Traps? This is the same craziness! Nobody knows what you’re talking about!”

“Lavier knows. Get in touch with her right away.” They approached the end of the block; Jason touched her arm. “I’ll leave you here at the corner. Go back to your hotel and call Jacqueline. Tell her it’s far more serious than we thought. Everything’s falling apart. Worst of all, someone has turned. Not Dolbert, not one of the clerks, but someone more highly placed. Someone who knows everything.”

“Turned? What does that mean?”

“There’s a traitor in Les Classiques. Tell her to be careful. Of everyone. If she isn’t, it could be the end for all of us.” Bourne released her arm, then stepped off the curb and crossed the street. On the other side he spotted a recessed doorway and quickly stepped inside.

He inched his face to the edge and peered out, looking back at the corner. Monique Brielle was halfway down the block, rushing toward the entrance of her hotel. The fast panic of the second shock wave had begun. It was time to call Marie.

“I’m worried, Jason. It’s tearing him apart. He nearly broke down on the phone. What happens when he looks at her? What must he be feeling, thinking?”

“He’ll handle it,” said Bourne, watching the traffic on the Champs-Elysées from inside the glass telephone booth, wishing he felt more confident about André Villiers. “If he doesn’t, I’ve killed him.

I don’t want it on my head, but that’s what I’ll have done. I should have shut my goddamn mouth and taken her myself.”

“You couldn’t have done that. You saw d’Anjou on the steps; you couldn’t have gone inside.”

“I could have thought of something. As we’ve agreed, I’m resourceful--more than I like to think about.”

“But you are doing something! You’re creating panic, forcing those who carry out Carlos’ orders to show themselves. Someone’s got to stop the panic, and even you said you didn’t think Jacqueline Lavier was high enough. Jason, you’ll see someone and you’ll know. You’ll get him! You will!”

“I hope so; Christ, I hope so! I know exactly what I’m doing, but every now and then ...” Bourne stopped. He hated saying it, but he had to-he had to say it to her. “I get confused. It’s as if I’m split down the middle, one part of me saying ‘Save yourself,’ the other part ... God help me ... telling me to ‘Get Carlos.’ “ “It’s what you’ve been doing from the beginning, isn’t it?” said Marie softly.