The old soldier sat like a bewildered child, punished for an insignificant act, the meaningful crime having escaped his tormentor’s reasoning, and perhaps his own. He pulled his eyes away from the dead woman and looked at Bourne.

“What happened outside?” he asked in a monotone.

“Men were watching your house. Carlos’ men, five of them. I started a fire up the block; no one was hurt. All but one man left; I took him out.”

“You’re resourceful, Monsieur Bourne.”

“I’m resourceful,” agreed Jason. “But they’ll be back. The fire’ll be out and they’ll come back; before then, if Carlos puts it together, and I think he will. If he does, he’ll send someone in here. He won’t come himself, of course, but one of his guns will be here. When that man finds you ... and her ... he’ll kill you, Carlos loses her, but he still wins. He wins a second time; he’s used you through her and at the end he kills you. He walks away and you’re dead. People can draw whatever conclusions they like, but I don’t think they’ll be flattering.”

“You’re very precise. Assured of your judgment.”

“I know what I’m talking about. I’d prefer not to say what I’m going to say, but there’s no time for your feelings.”

“I have none left. Say what you will.”

“Your wife told you she was French, didn’t she?”

“Yes. From the south. Her family was from Loures Barouse, near the Spanish border. She came to Paris years ago. Lived with an aunt. What of it?”

“Did you ever meet her family?”

“No.”

“They didn’t come up for your marriage?”

“All things considered, we thought it would be best not to ask them. The disparity of our ages would have disturbed them.”

“What about the aunt here in Paris?”

“She died before I met Angélique. What’s the point of all this?”

“Your wife wasn’t French. I doubt there was even an aunt in Paris, and her family didn’t come from Loures Barouse, although the Spanish border has a certain relevance. It could cover a lot, explain a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was Venezuelan. Carlos’ first cousin, his lover since she was fourteen. They were a team, have been for years. I was told she was the only person on earth he cared about.”

“A whore.”

“An assassin’s instrument. I wonder how many targets she set up. How many valuable men are dead because of her.”

“I cannot kill her twice.”

“You can use her. Use her death.”

“The insanity you spoke of?”

“The only insanity is if you throw your life away. Carlos wins it all; he goes on using his gun ... and sticks of dynamite ... and you’re one more statistic. Another kill added to a long list of distinguished corpses. That’s insane.”

“And you’re the reasonable man? You assume the guilt for a crime you did not commit? For the death of a whore? Hunted for a killing that was not yours?”

“That’s part of it. The essential part, actually.”

“Don’t talk to me of insanity, young man. I beg you, leave. What you’ve told me gives me the courage to face Almighty God. If ever a death was justified, it was hers by my hand. I will look into the eyes of Christ and swear it.”

“You’ve written yourself out, then,” said Jason, noticing for the first time the bulge of a weapon in the old man’s jacket pocket.

“I will not stand trial, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, that’s perfect, General! Carlos himself couldn’t have come up with anything better. Not a wasted motion on his part; he doesn’t even have to use his own gun. But those who count will know he did it; he caused it.”

“Those who count will know nothing. Une affaire de coeur ... une grave maladie ... I am not concerned

with the tongues of killers and thieves.”

“And if I told the truth? Told why you killed her?”

“Who would listen? Even should you live to speak. I’m not a fool, Monsieur Bourne. You are running from more than Carlos. You are hunted by many, not just one. You as much as told me so.

You would not tell me your name ... for my own safety, you claimed. When and if this was over, you said, it was I who might not care to be seen with you. Those are not the words of a man in whom much trust is placed.”

“You trusted me.”

“I told you why,” said Villiers, glancing away, staring at his dead wife. “It was in your eyes.”

“The truth?”

“The truth.”

“Then look at me now. The truth is still there. On that road to Nanterre, you told me you’d listen to what I had to say because I gave you your life. I’m trying to give it to you again. You can walk away free, untouched, go on standing for the things you say are important to you, were important to your son. You can win! ... Don’t mistake me, I’m not being noble. Your staying alive and doing what I ask is the only way I can stay alive, the only way I’ll ever be free.” The old soldier looked up. “Why?”

“I told you I wanted Carlos because something was taken from me--something very necessary to my life, my sanity--and he was the cause of it. That’s the truth--I believe it’s the truth--but it’s not the whole truth. There are other people involved, some decent, some not; and my agreement with them was to get Carlos, trap Carlos. They want what you want. But something happened that I can’t explain--I won’t try to explain--and those people think I betrayed them. They think I made a pact with Carlos, that I stole millions from them and killed others who were my links to them. They have men everywhere, and the orders are to execute me on sight. You were right: I’m running from more than Carlos. I’m hunted by men I don’t know and can’t see. For all the wrong reasons. I didn’t do the things they say I did, but no one wants to listen. I have no pact with Carlos--you know I don’t.”

“I believe you. There’s nothing to prevent me from making a call on your behalf. I owe you that.”

“How? What are you going to say? The man known to me as Jason Bourne has no pact with Carlos. I know this because he exposed Carlos’ mistress to me, and that woman was my wife, the wife I choked to death so as not to bring dishonor to my name. I’m about to call the Sûreté and confess my crime--although, of course, I won’t tell them why I killed her. Or why I’m going to kill myself.’ ... Is that it, General? Is that what you’re going to say?” The old man stared silently at Bourne, the fundamental contradiction clear to him. “I cannot help you then.”

“Good. Fine. Carlos wins it all. She wins. You lose. Your son loses. Go on--call the police, then put the barrel of the gun in your goddamn mouth and blow your goddamn head off! Go on! That’s what you want! Take yourself out, lie down and die! You’re not good for anything else anymore.

You’re a self-pitying old, old man! God knows you’re no match for Carlos. No match for the man who placed five sticks of dynamite in rue du Bac and killed your son.” Villiers’ hands shook; the trembling spread to his head “Do not do this. I’m telling you, do not do this.”

“Telling me? You mean you’re giving me an order? The little old man with the big brass buttons is issuing a command? Well, forget it! I don’t take orders from men like you! You’re frauds! You’re worse than all the people you attack; at least they have the stomachs to do what they say they’re

going to do! You don’t. All you’ve got is wind. Words and wind and self-serving bromides. Lie down and die, old man! But don’t give me an order!”

Villiers unclasped his hands and shot out of the chair, his racked body now trembling. “I told you. No more!”

“I’m not interested in what you tell me. I was right the first time I saw you. You belong to Carlos.

You were his lackey alive and you’ll be his lackey dead.”

The old soldier’s face grimaced in pain. He pulled out his gun, the gesture pathetic, the threat, however, real. “I’ve killed many men in my time. In my profession it was unavoidable, often disturbing. I don’t want to kill you now, but I will if you disregard my wishes. Leave me. Leave this house.”