A man walked across from the bisecting rue du Bac toward him. It was the talkative messenger from last night; he approached, his hand in his jacket pocket.
“Where’s the money?” said the man in French.
“Where’s the information?” answered Bourne.
“The money first.”
“That’s not the arrangement.” Without warning, Jason grabbed the minion from Argenteuil by his lapel, yanking him forward off his feet. Bourne whipped up his free hand and gripped the messenger’s throat, his fingers digging into the man’s flesh. “You go back and tell Santos he’s got a one-way ticket to hell. I don’t deal this way.”
“Enough!” said the low voice, its owner rounding the corner on Jason’s right. The huge figure of Santos approached. “Let him go, Simon. He is nothing. It is now only you and me.”
“I thought you never left Le Coeur du Soldat?”
“You’ve changed that, haven’t you?”
“Apparently.” Bourne released the messenger, who looked at Santos. With a gesture of his large head, the man raced away.
“Your Englishman arrived,” said Santos when they were alone. “He carried a valise, I saw for myself.”
“He arrived carrying a valise,” agreed Jason.
“So London capitulates, no? London is very anxious.”
“The stakes are very high and that’s all I’ll say about it. The information, please.”
“Let us first again define the procedure, shall we?”
“We’ve defined it several times. … You give me the information, my client tells me to act upon it; and if satisfactory contact is made, I bring you the remainder of the three million francs.”
“You say ‘satisfactory contact.’ What will satisfy you? How will you know the contact is firm? How do I know that you will not claim it is unsatisfactory and steal my money when, indeed, you have made the connection your clients have paid for?”
“You’re a suspicious fellow, aren’t you?”
“Oh, very suspicious. Our world, Mr. Simon, is not peopled with saints, is it?”
“Perhaps more than you realize.”
“That would astonish me. Please answer my questions.”
“All right, I’ll try. … How will I know the contact’s firm? That’s easy. I’ll simply know because it’s my business to know. It’s what I’m paid for, and a man in my position does not make mistakes at this level and live to apologize. I’ve refined the process, done my research, and I’ll ask two or three questions myself. Then I’ll know—one way or another.”
“That’s an elusive reply.”
“In our world, Mr. Santos, being elusive is hardly a negative, is it? … As to your concern that I would lie to you and take your money, let me assure you I don’t cultivate enemies like you and the network your blackbird obviously controls any more than I would make enemies of my clients. That way is madness and a much shorter life.”
“I admire your perspicacity as well as your caution,” said the Jackal’s intermediary.
“The bookcases didn’t lie. You’re a learned man.”
“That’s neither here nor there, but I have certain credentials. Appearances can be a liability as well as an asset. … What I am about to tell you, Mr. Simon, is known by only four men on the face of the earth, all of whom speak French fluently. How you wish to use that information is up to you. However, if you even hint at Argenteuil, I’ll know it instantly and you will never leave the Pont-Royal alive.”
“The contact can be made so quickly?”
“With a telephone number. But you will not place the call for at least an hour from the moment we part. If you do, again I will know it, and again I tell you you’re a dead man.”
“An hour. Agreed. … Only three other people have this number? Why not pick one you’re not particularly fond of so I might peripherally allude to him—if it’s necessary.”
Santos permitted himself a small, flat smile. “Moscow,” he said softly. “High up in Dzerzhinsky Square.”
“The KGB?”
“The blackbird is building a cadre in Moscow, always Moscow, it’s an obsession with him.”
Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, thought Bourne. Trained at Novgorod. Dismissed by the Komitet as a maniac. The Jackal!
“I’ll bear it in mind—if it’s called for. The number, please?”
Santos recited it twice along with the words Bourne was to say. He spoke slowly, obviously impressed that Bourne wrote nothing down. “Is it all clear?”
“Indelibly, no pencil or paper required. … If everything goes as I trust it will, how do you want me to get you the money?”
“Phone me; you’ve got my number. I will leave Argenteuil and come to you. And never return to Argenteuil.”
“Good luck, Santos. Something tells me you deserve it.”
“No one more so. I have drunk the hemlock far too many times.”
“Socrates,” said Jason.
“Not directly. Plato’s dialogues, to be precise. Au revoir.”
Santos walked away, and Bourne, his chest pounding, headed back to the Pont-Royal, desperately suppressing his desire to run. A running man is an object of curiosity, a target. A lesson from the cantos of Jason Bourne.
“Bernardine!” he yelled, racing down the narrow, deserted hallway to his room, all too aware of the open door and the old man seated at the desk, a grenade in one hand, a gun in the other. “Put the hardware away, we’ve hit pay dirt!”
“Who’s paying?” asked the Deuxième veteran as Jason closed the door.
“I am,” answered Bourne. “If this works out the way I think it will, you can add to your account in Geneva.”
“I do not do what I’m doing for that, my friend. It has never been a consideration.”
“I know, but as long as we’re passing out francs like we’re printing them in the garage, why shouldn’t you get a fair share?”
“I can’t argue with that, either.”
“An hour,” announced Jason. “Forty-three minutes now, to be exact.”
“For what?”
“To find out if it’s real, actually real.” Bourne fell on the bed, his arms behind his head on the pillow, his eyes alive. “Write this down, François.” Jason recited the telephone number given him by Santos. “Buy, bribe, or threaten every high-level contact you’ve ever had in the Paris telephone service, but get me the location of that number.”
“It’s not such an expensive request—”
“Yes, it is,” countered Bourne. “He’s got it guarded, inviolate; he wouldn’t do it any other way. Only four people in his entire network have it.”
“Then, perhaps, we do not go high-level, but, instead, far lower to the ground, underground actually. Into the tunnels of the telephone service beneath the streets.”
Jason snapped his head over at Bernardine. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Why should you? You are not Deuxième. The technicians are the source, not the bureaucrats behind the desks. … I know several. I will find one and give him a quiet call at home later tonight—”
“Tonight?” broke in Bourne, raising himself off the bed.
“It will cost a thousand francs or so, but you’ll get the location of the telephone.”
“I can’t wait until later tonight.”
“Then you add a risk by trying to reach such a man at work. These men are monitored; no one trusts anyone in the telephone service. It’s the Socialists’ paradox: Give its laboring forces responsibility but no individual authority.”
“Hold it!” said Jason from the bed. “You have the home phone numbers, right?”
“They’re in the book, yes. These people don’t keep private listings.”
“Have someone’s wife call. An emergency. Someone’s got to get home.”
Bernardine nodded his head. “Not bad, my friend. Not bad at all.”
The minutes turned into quarter hours as the retired Deuxième officer went to work, unctuously, with promises of reward for the wives of telephone technicians, if they would do what he asked them to do. Two hung up on him, three turned him down with epithets born of the suspicious Paris curbsides; but the sixth, amid obscenities, declared, “Why not?” As long as the rodent she had married understood that the money was hers.
The hour was over, and Jason left the hotel, walking slowly, deliberately, down the pavement, crossing four streets until he saw a public phone on the Quai Voltaire by the Seine. A blanket of darkness was slowly floating down over Paris, the boats on the river and the bridges dotted with lights. As he approached the red kiosk he breathed steadily, inhaling deeply, exercising a control over himself that he never thought possible. He was about to place the most important phone call of his life, but he could not let the Jackal know that, if, indeed, it was the Jackal. He went inside, inserted the coin and dialed.
“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice, the French oui sharp and harsh. A Parisienne.
“Blackbirds circle in the sky,” said Bourne, repeating Santos’s words in French. “They make a great deal of noise, all but one. He is silent.”
“Where do you call from?”
“Here in Paris, but I am not from Paris.”