دوستان یا دشمنان؟

Chapter ten

Friends or Enemies?

She opened the door to him and her large brown eyes moved around his face, afraid but questioning. She knew - not the answer, but that there was an answer.

“You were right,” he whispered. “I’m not Cain because there is no Cain. He was invented to trap Carlos. I’m that invention. Delta, a man from Medusa, agreed to become a lie called Cain.”

“But why?”

“There was a reason, but d’Anjou didn’t know.” Bourne told her everything that had happened, and what d’Anjou had said. As he spoke, he could see the happiness in her eyes.

“Jason,” she cried. “It’s everything we felt.”

“Not quite,” he said. “I’m Jason to you, Bourne to me, because I know no other name. But it’s not mine. They say I killed him in a place called Tam Quan.”

“I’m sure there was a reason. And it’s years ago. Now you must reach the men at Treadstone, because they’re trying to find you.”

“D’Anjou said that they think I’m not working for them now. What can I say to them? Will they believe that I lost my memory?”

“Contact Washburn. He’ll have records of your illness.”

“He’s a drunk with a million dollars to spend. Even if he talks to them, how can the men at Treadstone be sure?”

But Bourne had no choice. He called the American embassy, identified himself as Delta, and asked them to contact Treadstone. Five hours later, he had followed instructions to call every hour but to stay away from the embassy, and he was becoming confused.

“They want me, but they’re afraid of me,” he said to Marie. “It doesn’t make sense. When I’m inside the embassy gates, they’ll control me. Instead, they don’t want to touch me, but they don’t want to lose me either. Let’s get out of here.”

When he called again, from another part of town, Bourne was told that a Treadstone officer had arrived from the U.S. and would meet him at a graveyard, the Cimetiere de Noblesse, south of Paris.

Bourne ended the call and stared at the phone. Another door was opening in his mind. He could see a gentle hill and white crosses. It was a place for the dead, but also for conversations. He saw a face, and then remembered a name: David Abbott. The man who was responsible for Medusa and for Cain. He shook his head.

“They’ve chosen a graveyard,” he told Marie. “I’ve been there before, so I know the Treadstone man’s real. If I don’t come back, call Villiers. He’s the only person we can trust.”

He decided to take the Renault, which had been parked in an underground car park for some time now. As he walked in, he noticed a man drop down behind a car. The man didn’t reappear. Who was he? How had Bourne been found? Of course - Carlos had found the receptionist who had lent them his car.

Bourne quickly lowered himself between two cars and moved on his hands and knees to a position behind the man. The man stood up slowly and looked around, confused. Then, realizing that there was a trap, he ran.

Now! Bourne jumped up and ran after him, knocking him to the floor. Then he pushed his fingers into the man’s eyes.

“You have five seconds to tell me who’s outside.”

“A man - one man. In a car.”

“You’re Carlos’s man, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know a Carlos. We call a number. I already called it.” Bourne pushed him to the Renault and into the driver’s seat. The man drove him outside to the other car. Bourne pointed his gun at the second man and ordered him into the Renault, too.

Ten kilometers outside Paris, he let them out of the car in the middle of the countryside, but not before he had memorized the number that they had called.

Darkness came, and he was walking through the graves. Where inside this wide, fenced area would he be? Where did he expect Bourne to be? Rain fell, and a memory came to him of other, heavier rain. A brown envelope changing hands.

He suddenly noticed a faint light, moving from side to side among the graves. He wanted to call out, but he did not shout and he did not run. There was something strange about the movement of the light. Was the holder communicating with another man? He was. Someone was hiding behind a gravestone, and the light had caught the end of a gun. Bourne ran up behind him, seized the gun with one hand, and pulled the man’s head back with the other, until it hit the gravestone and he fell unconscious. Bourne searched the man. He was not a government employee - this was a hired killer. Then Bourne ran around the graveyard and walked calmly toward the man from Treadstone from a different direction.

“My name’s Conklin,” the man said, “in case you’ve forgotten.”

“One of many things,” Bourne said. “I lost my memory and spent five months on a small island. A doctor there kept records.”

“Of course he did. You paid him enough. We followed the money from Zurich - our money.”

“I told you - I didn’t know. Amnesia.”

“But you found the money, and a woman to help you move it. You killed Chernak, and three other men. And then you went to New York and shot them all: Abbott, Stevens, and Gordon Webb. We found your fingerprints. My God - your own brother!”

“What?” Pain shot through Bourne’s head. Fire. Explosions. Darkness. When he opened his eyes, Conklin was pointing a gun at him.

“I promised myself I’d give you two minutes to explain yourself,” the CIA man said. “We all lose people - it comes with the job. But who gave you the right to turn your gun against us?”

“You’re wrong. It was Carlos - not me, Carlos! They know about the building on Seventy-first Street.”

“Only eight people knew that address before last week. Three of them are dead, and we’re two of the other five. If Carlos found it, you told him.” Conklin’s hand started to close on the gun.

“No,” screamed Bourne, and he turned quickly and brought his foot up to Conklin’s arm.

As Conklin fell to the ground, Bourne saw another shadow appear behind a grave. He fired twice and the shadow fell.

Conklin was moving toward his gun. Bourne pointed his, but could not fire. He walked quickly away.

He returned to Paris.

“It was a trap,” he told Marie. “I’m going to phone Villiers. His wife is our only hope. We have to make her talk.” He picked up the phone and called. “General, we need to speak to your wife.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Bourne - yes, I know your name now; my wife told me. I am afraid it won’t be possible to speak to her. She saw the anger in my eyes. She saw that I knew. We talked and then she took my gun from beside the bed. I had emptied it, of course. So I put my hands around her throat and killed her. Now I will call the police and confess. Then I shall end my own life.”

“No,” shouted Bourne. “You need Carlos - he killed your son. And I need him because without him I’m dead. Listen to me, Villiers. Don’t throw your life away. You didn’t kill your wife - you must say that I did.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Your wife was Carlos’s cousin and his lover. You can’t punish her any more, but you can use her death.”

“Vous etes soldat - Arretez,” Villiers said, his voice shaking. “Someone reminded me recently that I am a soldier. What do you want me to do?”

“I’m going to send a note to Carlos, to make him even angrier. Then can you get me out of the country, to New York, with a false identity? I have a passport in the name of George Washburn. On the plane, I’ll write down everything that’s happened - that I know. I’ll send it to you, and you can make the decisions if I don’t return. And please protect Marie.”

“I will. Why New York?”

“I have to prove that Carlos knew about a place where men were killed. He’ll think I’ve killed his lover and he’ll follow me to the end of the earth if necessary.”

The man and the invention were finally one. There was no other way. He had to get Carlos.