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END
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「No.」 Jason grabbed her arm.
「Je vous prie, monsieur. The powder room, that is all. If you care to, stand outside the door.」
「We』ll leave. You can stop on the way.」 Bourne signaled the waiter for a check.
「As you wish,」 she said, watching him.
He stood in the darkened corridor between the spills of light that came from recessed lamps in the ceiling.
Across the way was the ladies』 room, denoted by small, uncapitalized letters of gold that read FEMMES.
Beautiful people—stunning women, handsome men—kept passing by; the orbit was similar to that of Les
Classiques. Jacqueline Lavier was at home.
She had also been in the ladies』 room for nearly ten minutes, a fact that would have disturbed Jason had he
been able to concentrate on the time. He could not; he was on fire. Noise and pain consumed him, every nerve
ending raw, exposed, the fibers swelling, terrified of puncture. He stared straight ahead, a history of dead men
behind him. The past was in the eyes of truth; they had sought him out and he had seen them. Cain ... Cain …
Cain.
He shook his head and looked up at the black ceiling. He had to function; he could not allow himself to keep
falling, plunging into the abyss filled with darkness and high wind. There were decisions to make. ... No, they
were made; it was a question now of implementing them.
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Marie. Marie? Oh, God, my love, we』ve been so wrong!
He breathed deeply and glanced at his watch—the chronometer he had traded for a thin gold piece of jewelry
belonging to a marquis in the south of France. He is a man of immense skill, extremely inventive. … There was
no joy in that appraisal. He looked across at the ladies』 room.
Where was Jacqueline Lavier? Why didn’t she come out? What could she hope to accomplish remaining
inside? He had had the presence of mind to ask the maître d』 if there was a telephone there; the man had replied
negatively, pointing to a booth by the entrance. The Lavier woman had been at his side, she heard the answer,
understanding the inquiry.
There was a blinding flash of light. He lurched backward, recoiling into the wall, his hands in front of his eyes.
The pain! Oh, Christ! His eyes were on fire!
And then he heard the words, spoken through the polite laughter of well-dressed men and women walking
casually about the corridor.
「In memory of your dinner at Roget’s, monsieur,」 said an animated hostess, holding a press camera by its
vertical flashbar. 「The photograph will be ready in a few minutes. Compliments of Roget.」
Bourne remained rigid, knowing that he could not smash the camera, the fear of another realization sweeping
over him. 「Why me?」 he asked.
「Your fiancée requested it, monsieur,」 replied the girl, nodding her head toward the ladies』 room. 「We talked
inside. You are most fortunate; she is a lovely lady. She asked me to give you this.」 The hostess held out a folded
note; Jason took it as she pranced away toward the restaurant entrance.
Your illness disturbs me, as I’m sure it does you, my new friend. You may be what you say you are, and
then again you may not. I shall have the answer in a half hour or so. A telephone call was made by a
sympathetic diner, and that photograph is on its way to Paris. You cannot stop it any more than you can stop
those driving now to Argenteuil. If we, indeed, have our compromise, neither will disturb you—as your illness
disturbs me—and we shall talk again when my associates arrive.