“Everything is here,” said Marie. She had collated the certificates by denominations, the stacks and the franc notes on the desk. “I told you it would be.”
“It almost wasn’t.”
“What?”
“The man they called Johann, the one from Zurich. He’s dead. I killed him.”
“Jason, what happened?”
He told her. “They counted on the Pont Neuf,” he said. “My guess is that the backup car got caught in traffic, broke into the courier’s radio frequency, and told them to delay. I’m sure of it.”
“Oh God, they’re everywhere!”
“But they don’t know where I am,” said Bourne, looking into the mirror above the bureau, studying his blond hair while putting on the tortoise-shell glasses. “And the last place they’d expect to find me at this moment—if they conceivably thought I knew about it—would be a fashion house on Saint-Honoré.”
“Les Classiques?” asked Marie, astonished.
“That’s right. Did you call it?”
“Yes, but that’s insane!”
“Why?” Jason turned from the mirror. “Think about it. Twenty minutes ago their trap fell apart; there’s got to be confusion, recriminations, accusations of incompetency, or worse. Right now, at this moment, they’re more concerned with each other than with me; nobody wants a bullet in his throat. It won’t last long; they’ll regroup quickly, Carlos will make sure of that. But during the next hour or so, while they’re trying to piece together what happened, the one place they won’t look for me is a relay-drop they haven’t the vaguest idea I’m aware of.”
“Someone will recognize you!”
“Who? They brought in a man from Zurich to do that and he’s dead. They’re not sure what I look like.”
“The courier. They’ll take him; he saw you.”
“For the next few hours he’ll be busy with the police.”
“D’Amacourt. The lawyer!”
“I suspect they’re halfway to Normandy or Marseilles or, if they’re lucky, out of the country.”
“Suppose they’re stopped, caught?”
“Suppose they are? Do you think Carlos would expose a drop where he gets messages? Not on your life. Or his.”
“Jason, I’m frightened.”
“So am I. But not of being recognized.” Bourne returned to the mirror. “I could give a long dissertation about facial classifications, and softened features, but I won’t.”
“You’re talking about the evidences of surgery. Port Noir. You told me.”
“Not all of it,” Bourne leaned against the bureau, staring at his face. “What color are my eyes?”
“What?’
“No, don’t look at me. Now, tell me, what color are my eyes? Yours are brown with speckles of green; what about mine?”
“Blue … bluish. Or a kind of gray, really …” Marie stopped. “I’m not really sure. I suppose that’s dreadful of me.”
“It’s perfectly natural. Basically they’re hazel, but not all the time. Even I’ve noticed it. When I wear a blue shirt or tie, they become bluer; a brown coat or jacket, they’re gray. When I’m naked, they’re strangely nondescript.”
“That’s not so strange. I’m sure millions of people are the same.”
“I’m sure they are. But how many of them wear contact lenses when their eyesight is normal?”
“Contact—”
“That’s what I said,” interrupted Jason. “Certain types of contact lenses are worn to change the color of the eyes. They’re most effective when the eyes are hazel. When Washburn first examined me there was evidence of prolonged usage. It’s one of the clues, isn’t it?”
“It’s whatever you want to make of it,” said Marie. “If it’s true.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because the doctor was more often drunk than sober. You’ve told me that. He piled conjecture on top of conjecture, heaven knows how warped by alcohol. He was never specific. He couldn’t be.”
“He was about one thing. I’m a chameleon, designed to fit a flexible mold. I want to find out whose; maybe I can now. Thanks to you I’ve got an address. Someone there may know the truth. Just one man, that’s all I need. One person I can confront, break if I have to …”
“I can’t stop you, but for God’s sake be careful. If they do recognize you, they’ll kill you.”
“Not there they won’t; it’d be rotten for business. This is Paris.”
“I don’t think that’s funny, Jason.”
“Neither do I. I’m counting on it very seriously.”
“What are you going to do? I mean, how?”
“I’ll know better when I get there. See if anyone’s running around looking nervous or anxious or waiting for a phone call as if his life depended on it.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll do the same as I did with d’Amacourt. Wait outside and follow whoever it is. I’m this close; I won’t miss. And I’ll be careful.”
“Will you call me?”
“I’ll try.”
“I may go crazy waiting. Not knowing.”
“Don’t wait. Can you deposit the bonds somewhere?”
“The banks are closed.”
“Use a large hotel; hotels have vaults.”
“You have to have a room.”
“Take one. At the Meurice or the George Cinq. Leave the case at the desk but come back here.”
Marie nodded. “It would give me something to do.”
“Then call Ottawa. Find out what happened.”
“I will.”
Bourne crossed to the bedside table and picked up a number of five-thousand franc notes. “A bribe would be easier,” he said. “I don’t think it’ll happen, but it could.”
“It could,” agreed Marie, and then in the same breath continued. “Did you hear yourself? You just rattled off the names of two hotels.”
“I heard.” He turned and faced her. “I’ve been here before. Many times. I lived here, but not in those hotels. In out-of-the-way streets, I think. Not very easily found.”
The moment passed in silence, the fear electric.
“I love you, Jason.”
“I love you, too,” said Bourne.
“Come back to me. No matter what happens, come back to me.”
The lighting was soft and dramatic, pinpoint spotlights shining down from the dark brown ceiling, bathing manikins and expensively dressed clients in pools of flattering yellows. The jewelry and accessories counters were lined with black velvet, silks of bright red and green tastefully flowing above the midnight sheen, glistening eruptions of gold and silver caught in the recessed frame lights. The aisles curved graciously in semicircles, giving an illusion of space that was not there, for Les Classiques, though hardly small, was not a large emporium. It was, however, a beautifully appointed store on one of the most costly strips of real estate in Paris. Fitting rooms with doors of tinted glass were at the rear, beneath a balcony where the offices of management were located. A carpeted staircase rose on the right beside an elevated switchboard in front of which sat an oddly out-of-place middle-aged man dressed in a conservative business suit, operating the console, speaking into a mouthpiece that was an extension of his single earphone.
The clerks were mostly women, tall, slender, gaunt of face and body, living postmortems of former fashion models whose tastes and intelligence had carried them beyond their sisters in the trade, other practices no longer feasible. The few men in evidence were also slender; reedlike figures emphasized by form-fitting clothes, gestures rapid, stances balletically defiant.
Light romantic music floated out of the dark ceiling, quiet crescendos abstractly punctuated by the beams of the miniature spotlights. Jason wandered through the aisles, studying manikins, touching the fabric, making his own appraisals. They covered his essential bewilderment. Where was the confusion, the anxiety he expected to find at the core of Carlos’ message center? He glanced up at the open office doors and the single corridor that bisected the small complex. Men and women walked casually about as they did on the main floor, every now and then stopping one another, exchanging pleasantries or scraps of relevantly irrelevant information. Gossip. Nowhere was there the slightest sense of urgency, no sign at all that a vital trap had exploded in their faces, an imported killer—the only man in Paris who worked for Carlos and could identify the target—shot in the head, dead in the back of an armored van on the Quai de la Rapée.
It was incredible, if only because the whole atmosphere was the opposite of what he had anticipated. Not that he expected to find chaos, far from it; the soldiers of Carlos were too controlled for that. Still he had expected something. And here there were no strained faces, or darting eyes, no abrupt movements that signified alarm. Nothing whatsoever was unusual; the elegant world of haute couture continued to spin in its elegant orbit, unmindful of events that should have thrown its axis off balance.
Still, there was a private telephone somewhere and someone who not only spoke for Carlos but was also empowered to set in motion three killers on the hunt. A woman …
He saw her; it had to be her. Halfway down the carpeted staircase, a tall imperious woman with a face that age and cosmetics had rendered into a cold mask of itself. She was stopped by a reedlike male clerk who held out a salesbook for the woman’s approval; she looked at it, then glanced down at the floor, at a nervous, middle-aged man by a nearby jewelry counter. The glance was brief but pointed, the message clear. All right, mon ami, pick up your bauble but pay your bill soon. Otherwise you could be embarrassed next time. Or worse. I might call your wife. In milliseconds the rebuke was over; a smile as false as it was broad cracked the mask, and with a nod and a flourish the woman took a pencil from the clerk and initialed the sales slip. She continued down the staircase, the clerk following, leaning forward in further conversation. It was obvious he was flattering her; she turned on the bottom step, touching her crown of streaked dark hair and tapped his wrist in a gesture of thanks.
There was little placidity in the woman’s eyes. They were as aware as any pair of eyes Bourne had ever seen, except perhaps behind gold-rimmed glasses in Zurich.
Instinct. She was his objective; it remained how to reach her. The first moves of the pavane had to be subtle, neither too much nor too little, but warranting attention. She had to come to him.
The next few minutes astonished Jason—which was to say he astonished himself. The term was “role-playing,” he understood that, but what shocked him was the ease with which he slid into a character far from himself—as he knew himself. Where minutes before he had made appraisals, he now made inspections, pulling garments from their individual racks, holding the fabrics up to the light. He peered closely at stitchings, examined buttons and buttonholes, brushing his fingers across collars, fluffing them up, then letting them fall. He was a judge of fine clothes, a schooled buyer who knew what he wanted and rapidly disregarded that which did not suit his tastes. The only items he did not examine were the price tags; obviously they held no interest for him.
The fact that they did not prodded the interest of the imperious woman who kept glancing over in his direction. A sales clerk, her concave body floating upright on the carpet, approached him; he smiled courteously, but said he preferred to browse by himself. Less than thirty seconds later he was behind three manikins, each dressed in the most expensive designs to be found in Les Classiques. He raised his eyebrows, his mouth set in silent approval as he squinted between the plastic figures at the woman beyond the counter. She whispered to the clerk who had spoken to him; the former model shook her head, shrugging.
Bourne stood arms akimbo, billowing his cheeks, his breath escaping slowly as his eyes shifted from one manikin to another; he was an uncertain man about to make up his mind. And a potential client in that situation, especially one who did not look at prices, needed assistance from the most knowledgeable person in the vicinity; he was irresistible. The regal woman touched her hair and gracefully negotiated the aisles toward him. The pavane had come to its first conclusion; the dancers bowed, preparing for the gavotte.
“I see you’ve gravitated to our better items, monsieur,” said the woman in English, a presumption obviously based on the judgment of a practiced eye.
“I trust I have,” replied Jason. “You’ve got an interesting collection here, but one does have to ferret, doesn’t one?”
“The ever-present and inevitable scale of values, monsieur. However, all our designs are exclusive.”
“Cela va sans dire, madame.”
“Ah, vous parlez français?”
“Un peu. Passably.”
“You are American?”
“I’m rarely there,” said Bourne. “You say these are made for you alone?”
“Oh, yes. Our designer is under exclusive contract; I’m sure you’ve heard of him. René Bergeron.”
Jason frowned. “Yes. I have. Very respected, but he’s never made a breakthrough, has he?”
“He will, monsieur. It’s inevitable; his reputation grows each season. A number of years ago he worked for St. Laurent, then Givenchy. Some say he did far more than cut the patterns, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s not hard to follow.”
“And how those cats try to push him in the background! It’s disgraceful! Because he adores women; he flatters them and does not make them into little boys, vous comprenez?”
“Je vous comprends parfaitement.”
“He’ll emerge worldwide one day soon and they’ll not be able to touch the hems of his creations. Think of these as the works of an emerging master, monsieur.”
“You’re very convincing. I’ll take these three. I assume they’re in the size twelve range.”
“Fourteen, monsieur. They will be fitted, of course.”
“I’m afraid not, but I’m sure there are decent tailors in Cap-Ferrat.”
“Naturellement,” conceded the woman quickly.
“Also …” Bourne hesitated, frowning again. “While I’m here, and to save time, select a few others for me along these lines. Different prints, different cuts, but related, if that makes sense.”
“Very good sense, monsieur.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ve had a long flight from the Bahamas and I’m exhausted.”
“Would monsieur care to sit down then?”
“Frankly, monsieur would care for a drink.”
“It can be arranged, of course. As to the method of payment, monsieur …?
“Je paierai cash, I think,” said Jason, aware that the exchange of merchandise for hard currency would appeal to the overseer of Les Classiques. “Checks and accounts are like spoors in the forest, aren’t they?”
“You are as wise as you are discriminating.” The rigid smile cracked the mask again, the eyes in no way related. “About that drink, why not my office? It’s quite private; you can relax and I shall bring you selections for your approval.”
“Splendid.”
“As to the price range, monsieur?”
“Les meilleurs, madame.”
“Naturellement.” A thin white hand was extended. “I am Jacqueline Lavier, managing partner of Les Classiques.”
“Thank you.” Bourne took the hand without offering a name. One might follow in less public surroundings, his expression said, but not at the moment. For the moment, money was his introduction. “Your office? Mine’s several thousand miles from here.”
“This way, monsieur.” The rigid smile appeared once more, breaking the facial mask like a sheet of progressively cracked ice. Madame Lavier gestured toward the staircase. The world of haute couture continued, its orbit uninterrupted by failure and death on the Quai de la Rapée.
That lack of interruption was as disturbing to Jason as it was bewildering. He was convinced the woman walking beside him was the carrier of lethal commands that had been aborted by gunfire an hour ago, the orders having been issued by a faceless man who demanded obedience or death. Yet there was not the slightest indication that a strand of her perfectly groomed hair had been disturbed by nervous fingers, no pallor on the chiseled mask that might be taken for fear. Yet there was no one higher at Les Classiques, no one else who would have a private number in a very private office. Part of an equation was missing … but another had been disturbingly confirmed.
Himself. The chameleon. The charade had worked; he was in the enemy’s camp, convinced beyond doubt that he had not been recognized. The whole episode had a déjà vu quality about it. He had done such things before, experienced the feelings of similar accomplishment before. He was a man running through an unfamiliar jungle, yet somehow instinctively knowing his way, sure of where the traps were and how to avoid them. The chameleon was an expert.
They reached the staircase and started up the steps. Below on the right, the conservatively dressed, middle-aged operator was speaking quietly into the extended mouthpiece, nodding his gray-haired head almost wearily, as if assuring the party on the line that their world was as serene as it should be.
Bourne stopped on the seventh step, the pause involuntary. The back of the man’s head, the outline of the cheekbone, the sight of the thinning gray hair—the way it fell slightly over the ear; he had seen that man before! Somewhere. In the past, in the unremembered past, but remembered now in darkness … and with flashes of light. Explosions, mists; buffeting winds followed by silences filled with tension. What was it? Where was it? Why did the pain come to his eyes again? The gray-haired man began to turn in his swivel chair; Jason looked away before they made contact.
“I see monsieur is taken by our rather unique switchboard,” said Madame Lavier. “It’s a distinction we feel sets Les Classiques apart from the other shops on Saint-Honoré.”
“How so?” asked Bourne, as they proceeded up the steps, the pain in his eyes causing him to blink.
“When a client calls Les Classiques, the telephone is not answered by a vacuous female, but instead by a cultured gentleman who has all our information at his fingertips.”
“A nice touch.”
“Other gentlemen think so,” she added. “Especially when making telephone purchases they would prefer to keep confidential. There are no spoors in our forest, monsieur.”
They reached Jacqueline Lavier’s spacious office. It was the lair of an efficient executive, scores of papers in separate piles on the desk, an easel against the wall holding water-color sketches, some boldly initialed, others left untouched, obviously unacceptable. The walls were filled with framed photographs of the Beautiful People, their beauty too often marred by gaping mouths and smiles as false as the one on the mask of the inhabitant of the office. There was a bitch quality in the perfumed air; these were the quarters of an aging, pacing tigress, swift to attack any who threatened her possessions or the sating of her appetites. Yet she was disciplined; all things considered, an estimable liaison to Carlos.
Who was that man on the switchboard? Where had he seen him?
He was offered a drink from a selection of bottles; he chose brandy.
“Do sit down, monsieur. I shall enlist the help of René himself, if I can find him.”
“That’s very kind, but I’m sure whatever you choose will be satisfactory. I have an instinct about taste; yours is all through this office. I’m comfortable with it.”
“You’re too generous.”
“Only when it’s warranted,” said Jason, still standing. “Actually, I’d like to look around at the photographs. I see a number of acquaintances, if not friends. A lot of these faces pass through the Bahamian banks with considerable frequency.”
“I’m sure they do,” agreed Lavier, in a tone that bespoke regard for such avenues of finance. “I shan’t be long, monsieur.”
Nor would she, thought Bourne, as Les Classiques’ partner swept out of the office. Mme. Lavier was not about to allow a tired, wealthy mark too much time to think. She would return with the most expensive designs she could gather up as rapidly as possible. Therefore, if there was anything in the room that could shed light on Carlos’ intermediary—or on the assassin’s operation—it had to be found quickly. And, if it was there, it would be on or around the desk.
Jason circled behind the imperial chair in front of the wall, feigning amused interest in the photographs, but concentrating on the desk. There were invoices, receipts, and overdue bills, along with dunning letters of reprimand awaiting Lavier’s signature. An address book lay open, four names on the page; he moved closer to see more clearly. Each was the name of a company, the individual contacts bracketed, his or her positions underlined. He wondered if he should memorize each company, each contact. He was about to do so when his eyes fell on the edge of an index card. It was only the edge; the rest was concealed under the telephone itself. And there was something else—dull, barely discernible. A strip of transparent tape, running along the edge of the card, holding it in place. The tape itself was relatively new, recently stuck over the heavy paper and the gleaming wood; it was clean, no smudges or coiled borders or signs of having been there very long.
Instinct.
Bourne picked up the telephone to move it aside. It rang, the bell vibrating through his hand, the shrill sound unnerving. He replaced it on the desk and stepped away as a man in shirtsleeves rushed through the open door from the corridor. He stopped, staring at Bourne, his eyes alarmed but noncommittal. The telephone rang a second time; the man walked rapidly to the desk and picked up the receiver.
“Allô?” There was silence as the intruder listened, head down, concentration on the caller. He was a tanned, muscular man of indeterminate age, the sun-drenched skin disguising the years. His face was taut, his lips thin, his close-cropped hair thick, dark brown, and disciplined. The sinews of his bare arms moved under the flesh as he transferred the phone from one hand to the other, speaking harshly. “Pas ici. Sais pas. Téléphonez plus tard …” He hung up and looked at Jason. “Où est Jacqueline?”
“A little slower, please,” said Bourne, lying in English. “My French is limited.”
“Sorry,” replied the bronzed man. “I was looking for Madame Lavier.”
“The owner?”
“The title will suffice. Where is she?”
“Depleting my funds.” Jason smiled, raising his glass to his lips.
“Oh? And who are you, monsieur?”
“Who are you?”
The man studied Bourne. “René Bergeron.”
“Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Jason. “She’s looking for you. You’re very good, Mr. Bergeron. She said I was to look upon your designs as the work of an emerging master.” Bourne smiled again. “You’re the reason I may have to wire the Bahamas for a great deal of money.”
“You’re most kind, monsieur. And I apologize for barging in.”
“Better that you answered that phone than me. Berlitz considers me a failure.”
“Buyers, suppliers, all screaming idiots. To whom, monsieur, do I have the honor of speaking?”
“Briggs,” said Jason, having no idea where the name came from, astonished that it came so quickly, so naturally. “Charles Briggs.”
“A pleasure to know you.” Bergeron extended his hand; the grip was firm. “You say Jacqueline was looking for me?”
“On my behalf, I’m afraid.”
“I shall find her.” The designer left quickly.
Bourne stepped to the desk, his eyes on the door, his hand on the telephone. He moved it to the side, exposing the index card. There were two telephone numbers, the first recognizable as a Zurich exchange, the second obviously Paris.
Instinct. He had been right, a strip of transparent tape the only sign he had needed. He stared at the numbers, memorizing them, then moved the telephone back in place and stepped away.
He had barely managed to clear the desk when Madame Lavier swept back into the room, a half dozen dresses over her arm. “I met René on the steps. He approves of my selections most enthusiastically. He also tells me your name is Briggs, monsieur.”
“I would have told you myself,” said Bourne, smiling back, countering the pout in Lavier’s voice. “But I don’t think you asked.”
“ ‘Spoors in the forest,’ monsieur. Here, I bring you a feast!” She separated the dresses, placing them carefully over several chairs. “I truly believe these are among the finest creations René has brought us.”
“Brought you? He doesn’t work here then?”
“A figure of speech; his studio’s at the end of the corridor, but it is a holy sacristy. Even I tremble when I enter.”
“They’re magnificent,” continued Bourne, going from one to another. “But I don’t want to overwhelm her, just pacify her,” he added, pointing out three garments. “I’ll take these.”
“A fine selection, Monsieur Briggs!”
“Box them with the others, if you will.”
“Of course. She is, indeed, a fortunate lady.”
“A good companion, but a child. A spoiled child, I’m afraid. However, I’ve been away a lot and haven’t paid much attention to her, so I guess I should make peace. It’s one reason I sent her to Cap-Ferrat.” He smiled, taking out his Louis Vuitton billfold. “La facture, s’il vous plaît?”
“I’ll have one of the girls expedite everything.” Madame Lavier pressed a button on the intercom next to the telephone. Jason watched closely, prepared to comment on the call Bergeron had answered in the event the woman’s eyes settled on a slightly out-of-place phone. “Faites venir Janine—avec les robes. La facture aussi.” She stood up. “Another brandy, Monsieur Briggs?”
“Merci bien.” Bourne extended his glass; she took it and walked to the bar. Jason knew the time had not yet arrived for what he had in mind; it would come soon—as soon as he parted with money—but not now. He could, however, continue building a foundation with the managing partner of Les Classiques. “That fellow Bergeron,” he said. “You say he’s under exclusive contract to you?”
Madame Lavier turned, the glass in her hand. “Oh, yes. We are a closely knit family here.”
Bourne accepted the brandy, nodded his thanks, and sat down in an armchair in front of the desk. “That’s a constructive arrangement,” he said pointlessly.
The tall, gaunt clerk he had first spoken with came into the office, a salesbook in her hand. Instructions were given rapidly, figures entered, the garments gathered and separated as the salesbook exchanged hands. Lavier held it out for Jason’s perusal. “Voici la facture, monsieur,” she said.
Bourne shook his head, dismissing inspection. “Combien?” he asked.
“Vingt-mille, soixante francs, monsieur,” answered the Les Classiques partner, watching his reaction with the expression of a very large, wary bird.
There was none. Jason merely removed five five-thousand-franc notes and handed them to her. She nodded and gave them in turn to the slender salesclerk, who walked cadaverously out of the office with the dresses.
“Everything will be packaged and brought up here with your change.” Lavier went to her desk and sat down. “You’re on your way to Ferrat, then. It should be lovely.”
He had paid; the time had come. “A last night in Paris before I go back to kindergarten,” said Jason, raising his glass in a toast of self-mockery.
“Yes, you mentioned that your friend is quite young.”
“A child is what I said, and that’s what she is. She’s a good companion, but I think I prefer the company of more mature women.”
“You must be very fond of her,” contested Lavier, touching her perfectly coiffed hair, the flattery accepted. “You buy her such lovely—and, frankly—very expensive things.”
“A minor price considering what she might try to opt for.”
“Really.”
“She’s my wife, my third to be exact, and there are appearances to be kept up in the Bahamas. But all that’s neither here nor there; my life’s quite in order.”
“I’m sure it is, monsieur.”
“Speaking of the Bahamas, a thought occurred to me a few minutes ago. It’s why I asked you about Bergeron.”
“What is that?’
“You may think I’m impetuous; I assure you I’m not. But when something strikes me, I like to explore it. Since Bergeron’s yours exclusively, have you ever given any thought to opening a branch in the islands?”
“And points south. Into the Caribbean, perhaps.”
“Monsieur, Saint-Honoré by itself is often more than we can handle. Untended farmland generally goes fallow, as they say.”
“It wouldn’t have to be tended; not in the way that you think. A concession here, one there, the designs exclusive, local ownership on a percentage-franchise basis. Just a boutique or two, spreading, of course, cautiously.”
“That takes considerable capital, Monsieur Briggs.”
“Key prices, initially What you might call entrance fees. They’re high but not prohibitive. In the finer hotels and clubs it usually depends on how well you know the managements.”
“And you know them?”
“Extremely well. As I say, I’m just exploring, but I think the idea has merit. Your labels would have a certain distinction—Les Classiques, Paris, Grand Bahama … Caneel Bay, perhaps.” Bourne swallowed the rest of his brandy. “But you probably think I’m crazy. Consider it just talk.… Although I’ve made a dollar or two on risks that simply struck me on the spur of the moment.”
“Risks?” Jacqueline Lavier touched her hair again.
“I don’t give ideas away, madame. I generally back them.”
“Yes, I understand. As you say, the idea does have merit.”
“I think so. Of course, I’d like to see what kind of agreement you have with Bergeron.”
“It could be produced, monsieur.”
“Tell you what,” said Jason. “If you’re free, let’s talk about it over drinks and dinner. It’s my only night in Paris.”
“And you prefer the company of more mature women,” concluded Jacqueline Lavier, the mask cracked into a smile again, the white ice breaking beneath eyes now more in concert.
“C’est vrai, madame.”
“It can be arranged,” she said, reaching for the phone.
The phone. Carlos.
He would break her, thought Bourne. Kill her if he had to. He would learn the truth.
Marie walked through the crowd toward the booth in the telephone complex on rue Vaugirard. She had taken a room at the Meurice, left the attaché case at the front desk, and had sat alone in the room for exactly twenty-two minutes. Until she could not stand it any longer. She had sat in a chair facing a blank wall, thinking about Jason, about the madness of the last eight days that had propelled her into an insanity beyond her understanding. Jason. Considerate, frightening, bewildered Jason Bourne. A man with so much violence in him, and yet oddly, so much compassion. And too terribly capable in dealing with a world ordinary men knew nothing about. Where had he sprung from, this love of hers? Who had taught him to find his way through the dark back streets of Paris, Marseilles, and Zurich … as far away as the Orient, perhaps? What was the Far East to him? How did he know the languages? What were the languages? Or language?
Tao.
Che-sah.
Tam Quan.
Another world, and she knew nothing of it. But she knew Jason Bourne, or the man called Jason Bourne, and she held on to the decency she knew was there. Oh, God, how she loved him so!
Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. Carlos. What was he to Jason Bourne?
Stop it! she had screamed at herself while in that room alone. And then she had done what she had seen Jason do so many times: she had lunged up from the chair, as if the physical movement would clear the mists away—or allow her to break through them.
Canada. She had to reach Ottawa and find out why Peter’s death—his murder—was being handled so secretly, so obscenely. It did not make sense; she objected with all her heart. For Peter, too, was a decent man, and he had been killed by indecent men. She would be told why or she would expose that death—that murder—herself. She would scream out loud to the world that she knew, and say, “Do something!”
And so she had left the Meurice, taken a cab to the rue Vaugirard, and placed the call to Ottawa. She waited now outside the booth, her anger mounting, an unlit cigarette creased between her fingers. When the bell rang, she could not take the time to crush it out.
It rang. She opened the glass door of the booth and went inside.
“Is this you, Alan?”
“Yes,” was the curt reply.
“Alan, what the hell is going on? Peter was murdered, and there hasn’t been a single word in any newspaper or on any broadcast! I don’t think the embassy even knows! It’s as though no one cared! What are you people doing?”
“What we’re told to do. And so will you.”
“What? That was Peter! He was your friend! Listen to me, Alan …”
“No!” The interruption was harsh. “You listen. Get out of Paris. Now! Take the next direct flight back here. If you have any problems, the embassy will clear them—but you’re to talk only to the ambassador, is that understood?”
“No!” screamed Marie St. Jacques. “I don’t understand! Peter was killed and nobody cares! All you’re saying is bureaucratic bullshit! Don’t get involved; for God’s sake, don’t ever get involved!”
“Stay out of it, Marie!”
“Stay out of what? That’s what you’re not telling me, isn’t it? Well, you’d better …”
“I can’t!” Alan lowered his voice. “I don’t know. I’m only telling you what I was told to tell you.”
“By whom?”
“You can’t ask me that.”
“I am asking!”
“Listen to me, Marie. I haven’t been home for the past twenty-four hours. I’ve been waiting here for the last twelve for you to call. Try to understand me—I’m not suggesting you come back. Those are orders from your government.”
“Orders? Without explanations?”
“That’s the way it is. I’ll say this much. They want you out of there; they want him isolated.… That’s the way it is.”
“Sorry, Alan—that’s not the way it is. Goodbye.” She slammed the receiver down, then instantly gripped her hands to stop the trembling. Oh, my God, she loved him so … and they were trying to kill him. Jason, my Jason. They all want you killed. Why?
The conservatively dressed man at the switchboard snapped the red toggle that blocked the lines, reducing all incoming calls to a busy signal. He did so once or twice an hour, if only to clear his mind and expunge the empty insanities he had been required to mouth during the past minutes. The necessity to cut off all conversation usually occurred to him after a particularly tedious one; he had just had it. The wife of a Deputy trying to conceal the outrageous price of a single purchase by breaking it up into several, thus not to be so apparent to her husband. Enough! He needed a few minutes to breathe.
The irony struck him. It was not that many years ago when others sat in front of switchboards for him. At his companies in Saigon and in the communications room of his vast plantation in the Mekong Delta. And here he was now in front of someone else’s switchboard in the perfumed surroundings of Saint-Honoré. The English poet said it best: There were more preposterous vicissitudes in life than a single philosophy could conjure.
He heard laughter on the staircase and looked up. Jacqueline was leaving early, no doubt with one of her celebrated and fully bankrolled acquaintances. There was no question about it, Jacqueline had a talent for removing gold from a well-guarded mine, even diamonds from De Beers. He could not see the man with her, he was on the other side of Jacqueline, his head oddly turned away.
Then for an instant he did see him; their eyes made contact; it was brief and explosive. The gray-haired switchboard operator suddenly could not breathe; he was suspended in a moment of disbelief, staring at a face, a head, he had not seen in years. And then almost always in darkness, for they had worked at night … died at night.
Oh, my God—it was him! From the living—dying—nightmares thousands of miles away. It was him!
The gray-haired man rose from the switchboard as if in a trance. He pulled the mouthpiece-earphone off and let it drop to the floor. It clattered as the board lit up with incoming calls that made no connections, answered only with discordant hums. He stepped off the platform and sidestepped his way quickly toward the aisle to get a better look at Jacqueline Lavier and the ghost that was her escort. The ghost who was a killer—above all men he had ever known, a killer. They said it might happen but he had never believed them; he believed them now. It was the man.
He saw them both clearly. Saw him. They were walking down the center aisle toward the entrance. He had to stop them. Stop her! But to rush out and yell would mean death. A bullet in the head, instantaneous.
They reached the doors; he pulled them open, ushering her out to the pavement. The gray-haired man raced out from his hiding place, across the intersecting aisle and down to the front window. Out in the street he had flagged a taxi. He was opening the door, motioning for Jacqueline to get inside. Oh, God! She was going!
The middle-aged man turned and ran as fast as he could toward the staircase. He collided with two startled customers and a salesclerk, pushing all three violently out of his way. He raced up the steps, across the balcony and down the corridor, to the open studio door.
“René! René!” he shouted, bursting inside.
Bergeron looked up from his sketchboard, astonished. “What is it?”
“That man with Jacqueline! Who is he? How long has he been here?”
“Oh? Probably the American,” said the designer. “His name’s Briggs. A fatted calf; he’s done very well by our grosses today.”
“Where did they go?”
“I didn’t know they went anywhere.”
“She left with him!”
“Our Jacqueline retains her touch, no? And her good sense.”
“Find them! Get her!”
“Why?”
“He knows! He’ll kill her!”
“What?”
“It’s him! I’d swear to it! That man is Cain!”
