As Marie looked back the subtle physical differences between the two men who were her husband both fascinated and repelled her. Each was muscular and graceful, each capable of performing difficult tasks requiring physical coordination; but where David’s strength and mobility came from an easy sense of accomplishment, Jason’s was filled with an inner malice, no pleasure in the accomplishment, only a hostile purpose. When she had mentioned this to Panov, his reply was succinct: “David couldn’t kill. Bourne can; he was trained to.”
Still, Mo was pleased that she had spotted the different “physical manifestations,” as he called her observation. “It’s another signpost for you. When you see Bourne, bring David back as fast as you can. If you can’t, call me.”
She could not bring David back now, she thought. For the sake of the children and herself and David, she dared not try.
“I’m going out for a while,” announced Jason by the window.
“You can’t!” cried Marie. “For God’s sake, don’t leave me alone.”
Bourne frowned, lowering his voice, somewhere an undefined conflict within him. “I’m just driving out on the highway to find a phone, that’s all.”
“Take me with you. Please. I can’t stay by myself any longer.”
“All right. … As a matter of fact, we’ll need a few things. We’ll find one of those malls and buy some clothes—toothbrushes, a razor … whatever else we can think of.”
“You mean we can’t go back to Paris.”
“We can and probably will go back to Paris, but not to our hotels. Do you have your passport?”
“Passport, money, credit cards, everything. They were all in my purse, which I didn’t know I had until you gave it to me in the car.”
“I didn’t think it was such a good idea to leave it at the Meurice. Come on. A phone first.”
“Who are you calling?”
“Alex.”
“You just tried him.”
“At his apartment; he was thrown out of his security tent in Virginia. Then I’ll reach Mo Panov. Let’s go.”
They drove south again to the small city of Corbeil-Essonnes, where there was a relatively new shopping center several miles west of the highway. The crowded merchandising complex was a blight on the French countryside but a welcome sight for the fugitives. Jason parked the car, and like any husband and wife out for late-afternoon shopping, they strolled down the central mall, all the while frantically looking for a public telephone.
“Not a goddamned one on the highway!” said Bourne through clenched teeth. “What do they think people are supposed to do if they have an accident or a flat tire?”
“Wait for the police,” answered Marie, “and there was a phone, only it was broken into. Maybe that’s why there aren’t more— There’s one.”
Once again Jason went through the irritating process of placing an overseas call with local operators who found it irritating to ring through to the international branch of the system. And then the thunder returned, distant but implacable.
“This is Alex,” said the recorded voice over the line. “I’ll be away for a while, visiting a place where a grave error was made. Call me in five or six hours. It’s now nine-thirty in the morning, Eastern Standard Time. Out, Juneau.”
Stunned, his mind spinning, Bourne hung up the phone and stared at Marie. “Something’s happened and I have to make sense out of it. His last words were—‘Out, Juneau.’ ”
“Juneau?” Marie squinted, her eyes blocking out the light, then she opened them and looked at her husband. “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie,” she began softly, adding, “Alternating military alphabets?” Then she spoke rapidly. “Foxtrot, Gold … India, Juneau! Juneau’s for J and J is for Jason! … What was the rest?”
“He’s visiting someplace—”
“Come on, let’s walk,” she broke in, noticing the curious faces of two men waiting to use the phone; she grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the booth. “He couldn’t be clearer?” she asked as they entered the flow of the crowds.
“It was a recording. ‘… where a grave error was made.’ ”
“The what?”
“He said to call him in five or six hours—he was visiting a place where a grave error—grave?—my God, it’s Rambouillet!”
“The cemetery … ?”
“Where he tried to kill me thirteen years ago. That’s it! Rambouillet!”
“Not in five or six hours,” objected Marie. “No matter when he left the message he couldn’t fly to Paris and then drive to Rambouillet in five hours. He was in Washington.”
“Of course he could; we’ve both done it before. An army jet out of Andrews Air Force Base under diplomatic cover to Paris. Peter Holland threw him out, but he gave him a going away present. Immediate separation, but a bonus for bringing him Medusa.” Bourne suddenly whipped his wrist up and looked at his watch. “It’s still only around noon in the islands. Let’s find another phone.”
“Johnny? Tranquility? You really think—”
“I can’t stop thinking!” interrupted Jason, rushing ahead, holding Marie’s hand as she stumblingly kept up with him. “Glace,” he said, looking up to his right.
“Ice cream?”
“There’s a phone inside, over there,” he answered, slowing them both down and approaching the huge windows of a pâtisserie that had a red banner over its door announcing an ice cream counter with several dozen flavors. “Get me a vanilla,” he said, ushering them both into the crowded store.
“Vanilla what?”
“Whatever.”
“You won’t be able to hear—”
“He’ll hear me, that’s all that matters. Take your time, give me time.” Bourne crossed to the phone, instantly understanding why it was not used; the noise of the store was nearly unbearable. “Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît, c’est urgent!” Three minutes later, holding his palm against his left ear, Jason had the unexpected comfort of hearing Tranquility Inn’s most irritating employee over the phone.
“This is Mr. Pritchard, Tranquility Inn’s associate manager. My switchboard informs me that you have an emergency, sir. May I inquire as to the nature of your—”
“You can shut up!” shouted Jason from the cacophonous ice cream parlor in Corbeil-Essonnes in France. “Get Jay St. Jay on the phone, now. This is his brother-in-law.”
“Oh, it is such a pleasure to hear from you, sir! Much has happened since you left. Your lovely children are with us and the handsome young boy plays on the beach—with me, sir—and all is—”
“Mr. St. Jacques, please. Now!”
“Of course, sir. He is upstairs. …”
“Johnny?”
“David, where are you?”
“That doesn’t matter. Get out of there. Take the kids and Mrs. Cooper and get out!”
“We know all about it, Dave. Alex Conklin called several hours ago and said somebody named Holland would reach us. … I gather he’s the chief honcho of your intelligence service.”
“He is. Did he?”
“Yeah, about twenty minutes after I talked to Alex. He told us we were being choppered out around two o’clock this afternoon. He needed the time to clear a military aircraft in here. Mrs. Cooper was my idea; your backward son says he doesn’t know how to change diapers, sport. … David, what the hell is going on? Where’s Marie?”
“She’s all right—I’ll explain everything later. Just do as Holland says. Did he say where you were being taken?”
“He didn’t want to, I’ll tell you that. But no fucking American’s going to order me and your kids around—my Canadian sister’s kids—and I told him that in a seven spade flush.”
“That’s nice, Johnny. Make friends with the director of the CIA.”
“I don’t give a shit on that score. In my country we figure those initials mean Caught In the Act, and I told him so!”
“That’s even nicer. … What did he say?”
“He said we were going to a safe house in Virginia, and I said mine’s pretty goddamned safe right here and we had a restaurant and room service and a beach and ten guards who could shoot his balls off at two hundred yards.”
“You’re full of tact. And what did he say to that?”
“Actually, he laughed. Then he explained that his place had twenty guards who could take out one of my balls at four hundred yards, along with a kitchen and room service and television for the kids that I couldn’t match.”
“That’s pretty persuasive.”
“Well, he said something else that was even more persuasive that I really couldn’t match. He told me there was no public access to the place, that it was an old estate in Fairfax turned over to the government by a rich ambassador who had more money than Ottawa, with its own airfield and an entrance road four miles from the highway.”
“I know the place,” said Bourne, wincing at the noise of the pâtisserie. “It’s the Tannenbaum estate. He’s right; it’s the best of the sterile houses. He likes us.”
“I asked you before—where’s Marie?”
“She’s with me.”
“She found you!”
“Later, Johnny. I’ll reach you in Fairfax.” Jason hung up the phone as his wife awkwardly made her way through the crowd and handed him a pink plastic cup with a blue plastic spoon plunged into a mound of dark brown.