The Bourne Identity

Bourne stared at him, fascinated, wondering what insanities could have driven such a man into the obscene world of Carlos. Whatever the reasons, they had to be powerful, for he was powerful. And that made him dangerous - for he was respected and had the ears of his government.

Villiers turned, speaking to the maid and glancing at his wristwatch. The woman nodded, closing the door, as the general walked briskly down the steps and around the bonnet of a large saloon to the driver's side. He opened the door and climbed in, then started the engine and rolled slowly out into the middle of the street. Jason waited until the saloon reached the corner and turned right; he eased the Renault away from the kerb and accelerated, reaching the intersection in time to see Villiers turn right again a block east.

There was a certain irony in the coincidence, an omen if one could believe in such things. The route General Villiers chose to the outlying suburb of Nanterre included a stretch of back road in the countryside nearly identical to the one in St Germain-en-Laye where twelve hours ago Marie had pleaded with Jason not to give up - his life or hers. There were stretches

of pasture land, fields that fused into the gently rising hills; but instead of being crowned by early light, these were washed in the cold, white rays of the moon. It occurred to Bourne that this stretch of isolated road would be as good a spot as any on which to intercept the returning general.

It was not difficult for Jason to follow at distances up to a quarter of a mile, which was why he was surprised to realize he had practically caught up with the old soldier. Villiers had suddenly slowed down and was turning into a gravelled drive cut out of the woods, the parking area beyond illuminated by floodlights. A sign, hanging from two chains on a high-angle post, was caught in the spill.

L'Arbalete. The general was meeting someone for dinner at an out-of-the-way restaurant, not in the suburb of Nanterre but close by. In the country.

Bourne drove past the entrance and pulled off the shoulder of the road, the right side of the car covered by foliage; he had to think things out ... he had to control himself. There was a fire in his mind; it was growing, spreading. He was suddenly consumed by an extraordinary possibility.

Considering the shattering events - the enormity of the embarrassment experienced by Carlos last night at the motel in Montrouge, it was more than likely that Andre Villiers had been summoned to an out-of-the-way restaurant for an emergency meeting. Perhaps even with Carlos himself. If that was the case, the premises would be guarded, and a man whose photograph had been distributed to those guards would be shot the instant he was recognized. On the other hand, the chance to observe a nucleus belonging to Carlos - or Carlos himself -was an opportunity that might never come again. He had to get inside L'Arbalete. There was a compulsion within him to take the risk. Any risk! It was crazy! But then he was not sane. Sane as a man with a memory was sane. Carlos. Find Carlos! Cod in heaven, why?

He felt the gun in his belt; it was secure. He got out and put on his overcoat, covering the jacket with the lettering across the back. He picked up a narrow-brimmed hat from the seat, the cloth soft, angled down on all sides; it would cover his hair. Then he tried to remember if he had been wearing the tortoise-shell glasses when the photograph was taken in Argenteuil. He had not; he had removed them at the table when successive bolts of pain had seared through his head, brought on by words that told him of a past too familiar, too frightening to face, He felt his shirt pocket; the glasses were there if he needed them. He pressed the door closed and started for the woods.

The glare of the restaurant floodlights filtered through the trees, growing brighter with each several yards, less foliage to block the light. Bourne reached the edge of the short patch of forest, the gravelled parking area in front of him. He was at the side of the rustic restaurant, a row of small windows running the length of the building, flickering candles beyond the glass illuminating the figures of the diners. Then his eyes were drawn to the first floor - although it did not extend the length of the building but only halfway, the rear section an open terrace. The enclosed part, however, was similar to the ground floor. A line of windows, a bit larger, perhaps, but still in a row, and again glowing with candles. Figures were milling about, but they were different from the diners below.

They were all men. Standing, not sitting; moving casually, glasses in hands, cigarette smoke spiralling over their heads. It was impossible to tell how many - more than ten, less than twenty, perhaps.

There he was, crossing from one group to another, the white beard a beacon, switching on and off as it was intermittently blocked by figures nearer the windows. General Villiers had, indeed, driven out to Nanterre for a meeting, and the odds favoured a conference that dealt with the failures of the past forty-eight hours, failures that permitted a man named Cain to remain alive.

The odds. What were the odds? Where were the guards? How many, and where were their stations? Keeping behind the edge of the woods, Bourne side-stepped his way towards the front of the restaurant, bending branches silently, his feet over the underbrush. He stood motionless, watching for men concealed in the foliage or in the shadows of the building. He saw none, and retraced his path, breaking new ground until he reached the rear of the restaurant

A door opened, the spill of light harsh, and a man hi a white jacket emerged. He stood for a moment, cupping his hands, lighting a cigarette. Bourne looked to the left, to the right, above to the terrace; no one appeared. A guard stationed in the area would have been alarmed by the sudden light ten feet below the conference. There were no guards outside. Protection found - as it had to be at Villiers's house in Pare Monceau - within the building itself.

Another man appeared in the doorway, also wearing a white jacket, but with the addition of a chef's hat. His voice was angry, his French laced with the guttural dialect of Gascony. 'While you piss off, we sweat! The pastry cart is half empty. Fill it. Now, you bastard!'

The pastry man turned and shrugged; he crushed out his cigarette and went back inside, closing the door behind him. The light vanished, only the wash of the moon remained, but it was enough to illuminate the terrace. There was no one there, no guard patrolling the wide double doors that led to the inside room.

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

Bourne judged the distance and the obstacles. He was no more than forty feet from the rear of the building, ten or twelve below the railing that bordered the terrace. There were two vents in the exterior wall, vapour escaping from both and next to them a drainpipe that was within reach of the railing. If he could scale the pipe and manage to get a toehold in the lower vent, he would be able to grab a rung of the railing and pull himself up to the terrace. But be could do none of this wearing the overcoat; he took it off, placing it at his feet, the soft-brimmed hat on top, and covered both with undergrowth. Then he stepped to the edge of the woods and raced as quietly as possible across the gravel to the drainpipe.

In the shadows he tugged at the fluted metal; it was strongly in place. He reached as high as he could, then sprang up, gripping the pipe, his feet pressed into the wall, pedalling one on top of the other until his left foot was parallel to the first vent. Holding on, he slipped his foot into the recess, and propelled himself further up the drain. He was within eighteen inches of the railing; one surge launched from the vent and he could reach the bottom rung.

The door crashed open beneath him, white light shooting across the gravel into the woods. A figure plummeted out, weaving to maintain its balance, followed by the white-hatted chef who was screaming.