It was Conklin’s turn to be silent for a moment. “He may want more than that, considering your current pursuits.”
“Oh … ? Oh, I see. In case I lose. Okay, add that when I get to Paris I’ll hire a stenographer and dictate everything I know, everything I’ve learned, and send it to you. I’ll trust Saint Alex to carry it from there. Maybe a page or two at a time to keep them cooperative.”
“I’ll handle that part. … Now Paris, or close by. From what I recall, Montserrat’s near Dominica and Martinique, isn’t it?”
“Less than an hour to each, and Johnny knows every pilot on the big island.”
“Martinique’s French, we’ll go with that. I know people in the Deuxième Bureau. Get down there and call me from the airport terminal. I’ll have made the arrangements by then.”
“Will do. … There’s a last item, Alex. Marie. She and the children will be back here this afternoon. Call her and tell her I’m covered with all the firepower in Paris.”
“You lying son of a bitch—”
“Do it!”
“Of course I will. On that score and not lying, if I live through the day, I’m having dinner with Mo Panov at his place tonight. He’s a terrible cook, but he thinks he’s the Jewish Julia Child. I’d like to bring him up to date; he’ll go crazy if I don’t.”
“Sure. Without him we’d both be in padded cells chewing rawhide.”
“Talk to you later. Good luck.”
The next day at 10:25 in the morning, Washington time, Dr. Morris Panov, accompanied by his guard, walked out of Walter Reed Hospital after a psychiatric session with a retired army lieutenant suffering from the aftereffects of a training exercise in Georgia that took the lives of twenty-odd recruits under his command eight weeks before. There was not much Mo could do; the man was guilty of competitive overachievement, military style, and had to live with his guilt. The fact that he was a financially privileged black and a graduate of West Point did not help. Most of the twenty dead recruits were also black and they had been underprivileged.
Panov, muddling over the available options with his patient, looked at his guard, suddenly startled. “You’re a new man, aren’t you? I mean, I thought I knew all of you.”
“Yes, sir. We’re often reassigned on short notice, keeps all of us on our toes.”
“Habit-oriented anticipation—it can lull anybody.” The psychiatrist continued across the pavement to where his armor-plated car was usually waiting for him. It was a different vehicle. “This isn’t my car,” he said, bewildered.
“Get in,” ordered his guard, politely opening the door.
“What?” A pair of hands from inside the car grabbed him and a uniformed man pulled him into the backseat as the guard followed, sandwiching Panov between them. The two men held the psychiatrist as the one who had been inside yanked Mo’s seersucker jacket off his shoulder and shoved up the short sleeve of his summer shirt. He plunged a hypodermic needle into Panov’s arm.
“Good night, Doctor,” said the soldier with the insignia of the Medical Corps on the lapels of his uniform. “Call New York,” he added.
19
The Air France 747 from Martinique circled Orly Airport in the early evening haze over Paris; it was five hours and twenty-two minutes behind schedule because of the severe weather patterns in the Caribbean. As the pilot entered his final approach the flight officer acknowledged their clearance to the tower, then switched to his prescribed sterile frequency and sent a last message in French to an off limits communications room.
“Deuxième, special cargo. Please instruct your interested party to go to his designated holding area. Thank you. Out.”
“Instructions received and relayed” was the terse reply. “Out.”
The special cargo in question sat in the left rear bulkhead seat in the first-class section of the aircraft; the seat beside him was unoccupied, on orders of the Deuxième Bureau in cooperation with Washington. Impatient, annoyed and unable to sleep because of the constricting bandage around his neck, Bourne, close to exhaustion, reflected on the events of the past nineteen hours. To put it mildly, they had not gone as smoothly as Conklin had anticipated. The Deuxième had balked for over six hours as phone calls went back and forth feverishly between Washington, Paris And, finally, Vienna, Virginia. The stumbling block, and it was more of a hard rock, was the CIA’s inability to spell out the covert operation in terms of one Jason Bourne, for only Alexander Conklin could release the name and he refused to do so, knowing that the Jackal’s penetrations in Paris extended to just about everywhere but the kitchens of the Tour d’Argent. Finally, in desperation and realizing it was lunchtime in Paris, Alex placed ordinary, unsafe overseas telephone calls to several cafés on the Rive Gauche, finding an old Deuxième acquaintance at one on the rue de Vaugirard.
“Do you remember the tinamou and an American somewhat younger than he is now who made things a little simpler for you?”
“Ah, the tinamou, the bird with hidden wings and ferocious legs! They were such better days, younger days. And if the somewhat older American was at the time given the status of a saint, I shall never forget him.”
“Don’t now, I need you.”
“It is you, Alexander?”
“It is and I’ve got a problem with D. Bureau.”
“It is solved.”
And it was, but the weather was insoluble. The storm that had battered the central Leeward Islands two nights before was only a prelude to the torrential rain and winds that swept up from the Grenadines, with another storm behind it. The islands were entering the hurricane season, so the weather was not astonishing, it was merely a delaying factor. Finally, when clearance for takeoff was around the chronological corner, it was discovered that there was a malfunction in the far starboard engine; no one argued while the problem was traced, found and repaired. The elapsed time, however, was an additional three hours.
Except for the churning of his mind, the flight itself was uneventful for Jason; only his guilt interfered with his thoughts of what was before him—Paris, Argenteuil, a café with the pro vocative name of Le Coeur du Soldat, The Soldier’s Heart. The guilt was most painful on the short flight from Montserrat to Martinique when they passed over Guadeloupe and the island of Basse-Terre. He knew that only a few thousand feet below were Marie and his children, preparing to fly back to Tranquility Isle, to the husband and father who would not be there. His infant daughter, Alison, would, of course, know nothing, but Jamie would; his wide eyes would grow larger and cloud over as words tumbled out about fishing and swimming … and Marie—Christ, I can’t think about her! It hurts too much!
She’d think he had betrayed her, run away to seek a violent confrontation with an enemy from long ago in another far-off life that was no longer their life. She would think like old Fontaine, who had tried to persuade him to take his family thousands of miles away from where the Jackal prowled, but neither of them understood. The aging Carlos might die, but on his deathbed he would leave a legacy, a bequest that would hinge on the mandatory death of Jason Bourne—David Webb and his family. I’m right, Marie! Try to understand me. I have to find him, I have to kill him! We can’t live in our personal prison for the rest of our lives!
“Monsieur Simon?” said the stoutish well-tailored Frenchman, an older man with a close-cropped white chin beard, pronouncing the name Seemohn.
“That’s right,” replied Bourne, shaking the hand extended to him in a narrow deserted hallway somewhere in Orly Airport.
“I am Bernardine, François Bernardine, an old colleague of our mutual friend, Alexander the Saint.”
“Alex mentioned you,” said Jason, smiling tentatively. “Not by name, of course, but he told me you might bring up his sainthood. It was how I’d know you were—his colleague.”
“How is he? We hear stories, of course.” Bernardine shrugged. “Banal gossip, by and large. Wounded in the futile Vietnam, alcohol, dismissed, disgraced, brought back a hero of the Agency, so many contradictory things.”
“Most of them true; he’s not afraid to admit that. He’s a cripple now, and he doesn’t drink, and he was a hero. I know.”
“I see. Again stories, rumors, who can believe what? Flights of fancy out of Beijing, Hong Kong—some concerning a man named Jason Bourne.”
“I’ve heard them.”
“Yes, of course. … But now Paris. Our saint said you would need lodgings, clothes purchased en scène, as it were, French to the core.”
“A small but varied closet,” agreed Jason. “I know where to go, what to buy, and I have sufficient money.”
“Then we are concerned with lodgings. A hotel of your choice? La Trémoille? George Cinq? Plaza-Athénée?”