“Checked,” broke in Sergei.
“Thank you, but my point is that the Jackal could hardly have monitoring personnel all over Paris. It all gets so complicated.”
“Where are your other two men?” asked Bourne.
“In the lobby corridors, sir. I’ll join them shortly, and we have a support vehicle down the street, all in radio contact, of course. … I’ll drive you over now.”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Conklin. “How do we get in? What do we say?”
“It’s been said, sir, you need say nothing. You are authorized covert personnel from the French SEDCE—”
“The what?” broke in Jason.
“The Service of External Documentation and Counterespionage,” answered Alex. “It’s the nearest thing here to Langley.”
“What about the Deuxième?”
“Special Branch,” said Conklin offhandedly, his mind elsewhere. “Some say it’s an elite corps, others say otherwise. … Sergei, won’t they check?”
“They already have, sir. After showing the concierge and his assistant my identification, I gave them an unlisted telephone number that confirmed the Service and my status. I subsequently described the three of you and requested no conversation, merely access to Madame Lavier’s flat. … I’ll drive over now. It will make a better impression on the doorman.”
“Sometimes simplicity backed by authority is best in deception,” observed Krupkin as the Citroën was maneuvered between the sparse, erratic traffic across the wide avenue to the entrance of the white-stone apartment complex. “Take the car around the corner out of sight, Sergei,” ordered the KGB officer, reaching for the door handle. “And my radio, if you please?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the aide, handing Krupkin a miniaturized electronic intercom over the seat. “I’ll signal you when I’m in position.”
“I can reach all of you with this?”
“Yes, comrade. Beyond a hundred and fifty meters the frequency is undetectable.”
“Come along, gentlemen.”
Inside the marble lobby, Krupkin nodded at the formally dressed concierge behind the counter, Jason and Alex on the Soviet’s right. “La porte est ouverte,” said the concierge, his gaze downward, avoiding direct eye contact. “I shall not be in evidence when madame arrives,” he continued in French. “How you got in is unknown to me; however, there is a service entrance at the rear of the building.”
“But for official courtesy it is the one we would have used,” said Krupkin, looking straight ahead as he and his companions walked to the elevator.
Lavier’s flat was a testament to the world of haute couture chic. The walls were dotted with photographs of fashion notables attending important showings and events, as well as with framed original sketches by celebrated designers. Like a Mondrian, the furniture was stark in its simplicity, the colors bold and predominantly red, black and deep green; the chairs, sofas and tables only vaguely resembled chairs, sofas and tables—they seemed more suitable for use in spacecraft.
As if by rote, both Conklin and the Russian immediately began examining the tables, ferreting out handwritten notes, a number of which were beside a mother-of-pearl telephone on top of a curved, thick dark green table of sorts.
“If this is a desk,” said Alex, “where the hell are the drawers or the handles?”
“It’s the newest thing from Leconte,” replied Krupkin.
“The tennis player?” interrupted Conklin.
“No, Aleksei, the furniture designer. You press in and they shoot out.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Try it.”
Conklin did so and a barely discernible drawer sprang loose from an all but invisible crack. “I’ll be damned—”
Krupkin’s miniaturized radio suddenly erupted with two sharp beeps from inside his breast pocket. “It must be Sergei checking in,” said Dimitri, removing the instrument. “You’re in place, comrade?” he continued, speaking into the base of the radio.
“More than that,” came the aide’s quiet voice accompanied by minor static. “The Lavier woman has just entered the building.”
“The concierge?”
“Nowhere in sight.”
“Good. Out. … Aleksei, get away from there. Lavier is on her way up.”
“You want to hide?” asked Conklin facetiously, turning the pages of a telephone notebook.
“I’d rather not start off with instant hostility, which will be the case if she sees you riffling through her personal effects.”
“All right, all right.” Alex returned the notebook to the drawer and closed it. “But if she isn’t going to cooperate, I’m taking that little black book.”
“She’ll cooperate,” said Bourne. “I told you, she wants out, and the only way out for her is with a dead Jackal. The money’s secondary—not inconsequential, but getting out comes first.”
“Money?” asked Krupkin. “What money?”
“I offered to pay her and I will.”
“And I can assure you, money is not secondary to Madame Lavier,” added the Russian.
The sound of a key being inserted into a latch echoed throughout the living room. The three men turned to the door as a startled Dominique Lavier walked inside. Her astonishment, however, was so brief as to be fleeting; there were no cracks whatsoever in her composure. Brows arched in the manner of a regal mannequin, she calmly replaced the key in her beaded purse, looked over at the intruders and spoke in English.
“Well, Kruppie, I might have known you were somewhere in this bouillabaisse.”
“Ah, the charming Jacqueline, or may we drop the pretense, Domie?”
“Kruppie?” cried Alex. “Domie? … Is this old home week?”
“Comrade Krupkin is one of the more advertised KGB officers in Paris,” said Lavier, walking to the long, cubed red table behind the white silk sofa and putting down her purse. “Knowing him is de rigueur in certain circles.”
“It has its advantages, dear Domie. You can’t imagine the disinformation I’m fed in those circles by the Quai d’Orsay, and once having tasted it, knowing it’s false. By the way, I under stand you’ve met our tall American friend and even had certain negotiations with him, so I think it’s only proper I introduce you to his colleague. … Madame, Monsieur Aleksei Konsolikov.”
“I don’t believe you. He’s no Soviet. One’s nostrils become attuned to the approach of the unwashed bear.”
“Ah, you destroy me, Domie! But you’re right, it was a parental error of judgment. He may therefore introduce himself, if he cares to.”
“The name’s Conklin, Alex Conklin, Miss Lavier, and I’m American. However, our mutual acquaintance ‘Kruppie’ is right in one sense. My parents were Russian and I speak it fluently, so he’s at a loss to mislead me when we’re in Soviet company.”
“I think that’s delicious.”
“Well, it’s at least appetizing, if you know Kruppie.”
“I’m wounded, fatally wounded!” exclaimed Krupkin. “But my injuries are not essential to this meeting. You will work with us, Domie?”
“I’ll work with you, Kruppie. My God, will I work with you! I ask only that Jason Bourne clarifies his offer to me. With Carlos I’m a caged animal, but without him I’m a near-destitute aging courtesan. I want him to pay for my sister’s death and for everything he’s done to me, but I don’t care to sleep in the gutter.”
“Name your price,” said Jason.
“Write it down,” clarified Conklin, glancing at Krupkin. “Let me see,” said Lavier, walking around the sofa and crossing to the Leconte desk. “I’m within a few years of sixty—from one direction or another, it’s immaterial—and without the Jackal, and the absence of some other fatal disease, I will have perhaps fifteen to twenty years.” She bent down over the desk and wrote a figure on a notepad, tore it off, then stood up and looked at the tall American. “For you, Mr. Bourne, and I’d rather not argue. I believe it’s fair.”
Jason took the paper and read the amount: $1,000,000.00, American. “It’s fair,” said Bourne, handing the note back to Lavier. “Add how and where you want it paid and I’ll make the arrangements when we leave here. The money will be there in the morning.”
The aging courtesan looked into Bourne’s eyes. “I believe you,” she said, again bending over the desk and writing out her instructions. She rose and gave the paper back to Jason. “The deal is made, monsieur, and may God grant us the kill. If he does not, we are dead.”
“You’re speaking as a Magdalen sister?”
“I’m speaking as a sister who’s terrified, no more and certainly no less.”
Bourne nodded. “I’ve several questions,” he said. “Do you want to sit down?”
“Oui. With a cigarette.” Lavier crossed to the sofa and, sinking into the cushions, reached for her purse on the red table. She took out a pack of cigarettes, extracted one and picked up a gold lighter from the coffee table. “Such a filthy habit but at times so damned necessary,” she said, snapping the flame and inhaling deeply. “Your questions, monsieur?”
“What happened at the Meurice? How did it happen?”
“The woman happened—I assume it was your woman—that was my understanding. As we agreed, you and your friend from Deuxième were positioned so that when Carlos arrived to trap you, you would kill him. For reasons no one can fathom, your woman screamed as you crossed the Rivoli—the rest you saw for yourself. … How could you have told me to take a room at the Meurice knowing she was there?”