'You piss-ant! You're drunk, that's what you are! You've been drunk the whole shit-filled night! Pastries all over the dining-room floor... everything a mess. Get out, you'll not get a sou!'
The door was pulled shut, the sound of a bolt unmistakably final. Jason held onto the pipe, arms and ankles aching, rivulets of sweat breaking out on his forehead. The man below staggered backwards, making obscene gestures repeatedly with his right hand for the benefit of the chef who was no longer there. His glazed eyes wandered up the wall, settling on Bourne's face. Jason held his breath as their eyes met; the man stared, then blinked, and stared again. He shook his head, closing his lids, then opened them wide, taking in the sight he was not entirely sure was there. He backed away, lurching into a sideslip and a forward walk, obviously deciding that the apparition halfway up the wall was the result of his pressured labours. He weaved around the corner of the building, a man more at peace with himself for having rejected the foolishness that had assaulted his eyes.
Bourne breathed again, letting his body slump against the wall in relief. But it was only for a moment; the ache in his ankle had descended to his foot, a cramp forming. He lunged, grabbing the iron bar that was the base of the railing with his right hand, whipping his left up from the drainpipe, joining it. He pressed his knees into the tiles and pulled himself slowly up the wall until his head was over the edge of the terrace. It was deserted. He kicked his right leg up to the ledge, his right hand reaching for the wrought-iron top; balanced, he swung over the railing.
He was on a terrace used for dining in the spring and summer months, a tiled floor that could accommodate ten to fifteen tables. In the centre of the wall separating the enclosed section from the terrace were the wide double doors he had seen from the woods. The figures inside were now motionless, standing still, and for an instant Jason wondered whether an alarm had been set off - whether they were waiting for him. He stood immobile, his hand on his gun; nothing happened. He approached the wall, staying in the shadows. Once there, he pressed his back against the wood and edged his way towards the first door until his ringers touched the frame. Slowly, he inched his head up to the pane of glass level with his eyes and looked inside. What he saw was both mesmerizing and not a little frightening. The men were in lines - three separate lines, four men to a line - facing Andre Villiers, who was addressing them. Thirteen men in all, twelve of them not merely standing, but standing at attention. They were old men, but not merely old men; they were old soldiers. None wore uniforms; instead in each lapel they wore ribbons, regimental colours above decorations for valour and rank. And if there was one all-pervasive note about the scene, it, too, was unmistakable. These were men used to command - used to power. It was in their faces, their eyes, in the way they listened - respect rendered but not blindly, judgment ever present. Their bodies were old, but there was strength in that room. Immense strength. That was the frightening aspect. If these men belonged to Carlos, the assassin's resources were not only far-reaching, they were extraordinarily dangerous. For these were not ordinary men; they were seasoned professional soldiers. Unless he was grossly mistaken, thought Bourne, the depth of experience and range of influence in that room was staggering.
The mad colonels of Algiers, what was left of them? Men driven by memories of a France that no longer existed, a world that was no more, replaced by one they found weak and ineffectual. Such men could make a pact with Carlos, if only for the covert power it gave them. Strike. Attack. Dispatch. Decisions of life and death that were once a part of their fabric brought back by a force that could serve causes they refused to admit were no longer viable. Once a terrorist, always a terrorist, and assassination was the raw core of terror.
The general was raising his voice; Jason tried to hear the words through the glass. They became clearer.
'... our presence will be felt, our purpose understood. We are together in our stand, and that stand is immovable; we shall be heard! In memory of all those who have fallen - our brothers of the tunic and the cannon? 'Who laid down their lives for the glory of France. We shall force our beloved country to remember, and in their names to remain strong, lackey to no one\ Those who oppose us will know our anger. In this, too, we are united. We pray to Almighty God that those who have gone before us have found peace, for we are still in conflict ... Gentlemen. I give you our Lady. Our France."
There was a murmur of muttered approvals, the old soldiers remaining rigidly at attention. And then another voice was raised, the first five words sung singly, joined at the sixth by the rest of the group.
Allans, enfants de la patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrive...
Bourne turned away, sickened by the sight and the sounds inside that room. Lay waste in the name of glory; the death of fallen comrades perforce demands further death. It is required; and if it means a pact with Carlos, so be it.
What disturbed him so? Why was he suddenly swept by feelings of anger and futility? What triggered the revulsion he felt so strongly? And then he knew. He hated a man like Andre" Villiers, despised the men in that room. They were all old men who made war, stealing life from the young ... and the very young.
Why were the mists closing in again? Why was the pain so acute? There was no time for questions, no strength to tolerate them. He had to push them out of his mind, and concentrate on Andre1 Francois Villiers, warrior and warlord, whose causes belonged to yesterday but whose pact with an assassin called for death today.
He would trap the general. Break him. Learn everything he knew and probably kill him. Men like Villiers robbed life from the young and the very young. They did not deserve to live. 7 am in my labyrinth again, and the walls are embedded with spikes. Oh, Cod, they hurt.
Jason climbed over the railing in the darkness and lowered himself to the drainpipe, each muscle aching. Pain, too, had to be erased. He had to reach a deserted stretch of road in the moonlight and trap a broker of death.
25
Bourne waited in the Renault two hundred yards east of the restaurant entrance, the motor running, prepared to race ahead the instant he saw Villiers drive out. Several others had already left, all in separate cars. Conspirators did not advertise their association, and these old men were conspirators in the truest sense. They had traded whatever honours they had earned for the lethal convenience of an assassin's gun and an assassin's organization. Age and bias had robbed them of reason, as they had spent their lives robbing life ... from the young and the very young.
What was it? Why won't it leave me? Some terrible thing is deep inside me, trying to break out, trying I think to kill me. The fear and the guilt sweep through me ... but of -what and for what I do not know. Why should these withered old men provoke such feelings of fear and guilt... and loathing?
They were war. They were death. On the ground and from the skies. From the skies ... from the skies. Help me, Marie. For God's sake, help me!
There it was. The headlights swung out of the drive, the long black chassis reflecting the wash of the floodlights. Jason kept his own lights off as he pulled out of the shadows. He accelerated down the road until he reached the first curve, where he switched on the headlights and pressed the pedal to the floor. The isolated stretch of countryside was roughly two miles away; he had to get there quickly.
It was ten past eleven and, as three hours before, the fields swept into the hills, both bathed in the light of the March moon, now in the centre of the sky. He reached the area; it was feasible. The shoulder was wide, bordering a pasture, which meant that both cars could be pulled off the road. The immediate objective, however, was to get Villiers to stop. The general was old but not feeble; if the tactic were suspect, he would break over the grass and race away. Everything was timing, and a totally convincing moment of the unexpected.