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. “Com-bien?” 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?”
“The Bahamas?”
“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.