“Our concerns are not with you, monsieur,” continued the amplified voice.
“Not with me, you say? You arrive here like an army, frightening my wife and children into thinking it is their last minutes on earth, and yet you say we don’t concern you? What kind of reasoning is that? We live among fascists?”
Hurry up! thought Jason. For God’s sake, hurry! Every second is a minute in escape time, an hour for the Jackal!
The door above the flight of brick steps on the right now opened, and a nun in the full flowing black robe of a religious habit appeared. She stood defiantly in the frame, no fear whatsoever in her almost operatic voice. “How dare you?” she roared. “These are the hours of vespers and you intrude. Better you should be asking forgiveness for your sins than interrupting those who plead with God for theirs!”
“Nicely said, Sister,” intoned the unimpressed police officer over the loudspeaker. “But we have other information and we respectfully insist on searching your house. If you refuse, we shall disrespectfully carry out our orders.”
“We are the Magdalen Sisters of Charity!” exclaimed the nun. “These are the sacrosanct quarters of women devoted to Christ!”
“We respect your position, Sister, but we are still coming inside. If what you say is so, I’m sure the authorities will make a generous contribution to your cause.”
You’re wasting time! screamed Bourne to himself. He’s getting away!
“Then may your souls be damned for transgression, but come ahead and invade this holy ground!”
“Really, Sister?” asked another official over the loudspeaker. “I don’t believe there’s anything in the canons that gives you the right to condemn souls to hell on such a flimsy excuse. … Go ahead, Monsieur Inspector. Under the habit, you may find lingerie more suited to the Faubourg.”
He knew that voice! It was Bernardine! What had happened? Was Bernardine no friend after all? Was it all an act, the smooth talk of a traitor? If so, there would be another death that night!
The black-uniformed squad of antiterrorists, their automatic weapons bolted into firing mode, raced to the base of the brick steps as the gendarmes blocked off the boulevard Lefebvre, north and south, while the red and blue lights of the patrol cars incessantly blinked their bright warnings to all beyond the area: Stay away.
“May I go inside?” screamed the baker. No one replied, so the obese man ran through his door clutching his trousers.
An official in civilian clothes, the obvious leader of the assault, joined his invading unit on the pavement below the steps. With a nod of his head, he and his men raced up the brick staircase through the door held open by the defiant nun.
Jason held his place at the edge of the building, his body pressed against the stone, the sweat pouring from his hairline and his neck, his eyes on the incomprehensible scene being played out on the Lefebvre. He knew the who now, but why? Was it true? Was the man most trusted by Alex Conklin and himself in reality another pair of eyes and ears for the Jackal? Christ, he did not want to believe it!
Twelve minutes passed, and with the reemergence of Paris’s version of a SWAT team and its leader, several members bowing and kissing the hand of the real or would-be abbess, Bourne understood that his and Conklin’s instincts had been on true course.
“Bernardine!” screamed the official approaching the first patrol car. “You are finished! Out! Never are you to talk to the lowest recruit in the Deuxième, even the man who cleans the toilets! You are ostracized! … If I had my way, you’d be shot! … International murder in the boulevard Lefebvre! A friend of the Bureau! An agent we must protect! … A fucking nunnery, you miserable son of a bitch! Shit! A nunnery! … Get out of my car, you smelly pig. Get out before a weapon goes off by mistake and your stomach’s on the street, where it belongs!”
Bernardine lurched out of the patrol car, his old unsteady legs barely able to maintain balance, twice falling into the street. Jason waited, wanting to rush to his friend, but knowing he had to wait. The patrol cars and the van raced away; still Bourne had to wait, his eyes alternately watching Bernardine and the front entrance of the Jackal’s house. And it was the Jackal’s house, the nun proved it. Carlos could never let go of his lost faith; he consistently used it as a viable cover, but it was much more than that. Much more.
Bernardine staggered into the shadows of a long-abandoned storefront across from the house on the boulevard Lefebvre. Jason breached the corner and ran down the pavement, racing into the recess and grabbing the Deuxième veteran as he leaned against a long glass window, breathing heavily.
“For God’s sake, what happened?” cried Bourne, supporting Bernardine by both shoulders.
“Easy, mon ami,” choked Bernardine. “The pig I sat next to—a politician, no doubt, looking for an issue—punched me in the chest before he threw me out of the car. … I told you, I don’t know all the new people who attach themselves to the Bureau these days. You have the same problems in America, so, please, do not give me a lecture.”
“It’s the last thing I’m about to do. … This is the house, Bernardine. Right here, right in front of us!”
“This is also a trap.”
“What?”
“Alex and I confirmed it. The telephone numbers were different. I gather you did not make your call to Carlos, as he instructed you to.”
“No. I had the address and I wanted him stretched. What’s the difference? This is the house!”
“Oh, this is where your Mr. Simon was to go, and if he was truly Mr. Simon, he would be taken to another rendezvous. But if he was not Monsieur Simon but someone else, then he would be shot—proof—another corpse in search of the Jackal.”
“You’re wrong!” insisted Jason, shaking his head and speaking quietly, rapidly. “This may be a detour, but Carlos is still on the switch. He’s not going to allow anyone to waste me but himself. That’s his commandment.”
“As yours is regarding him?”
“Yes. I have a family; he has a borderline legend. Mine is complete for me, but his is a vacuum—without any real meaning for him any longer. He’s gone as far as he can go. The only way he can go further is to move into my territory—David Webb’s territory—and eliminate Jason Bourne.”
“Webb? David Webb? Who in the name of almighty God is that?”
“Me,” replied Bourne, smiling forlornly and leaning beside Bernardine against the window. “It’s nuts, isn’t it?”
“Nuts!” cried the former Deuxième. “It is fou! Insane, not to be believed!”
“Believe it.”
“You are a family man with children and you do this work?”
“Alex never told you?”
“If he did so, I passed it off as a cover—one goes along with anything.” Shaking his head, the older man looked up at his taller companion. “You really have a family whom you do not wish to escape from?”
“On the contrary, I want to get back to them as soon as I can. They’re the only people on earth I really care about.”
“But you are Jason Bourne, the killer Chameleon! The deepest recesses of the criminal world tremble at your name!”
“Oh, come on, that’s a bit much, even from you.”
“Not for an instant! You are Bourne, second only to the Jackal—”
“No!” shouted the suddenly forgotten David Webb. “He’s no match for me! I’ll take him! I’ll kill him!”
“Very well, very well, mon ami,” said Bernardine calmly, reassuringly, staring at the man he could not understand. “What do you want me to do?”
Jason Bourne turned and breathed heavily against the glass window for several moments—and then through the mists of indecision the Chameleon’s strategy became clear. He swung around and looked across the dark street at the stone building on the right. “The police are gone,” he said quietly.
“Of course, I realize that.”
“Did you also realize that no one from the other two buildings came outside? Yet there are lights on in a number of the windows.”
“I was preoccupied, what can I say? I did not notice.” Bernardine raised his eyebrows in sudden recollection. “But there were faces at the windows, several faces, I saw them.”
“Yet no one came outside.”
“Very understandable. The police … men with weapons racing around. Best to barricade oneself, no?”
“Even after the police and the weapons and the patrol cars have left? They all just go back to their television sets as if nothing had happened? No one comes out to check with the neighbors? That’s not natural, François; it’s not even unnaturally natural. It’s been orchestrated.”
“What do you mean? How?”
“One man walks out on the porch and shouts into a searchlight. Attention is drawn to him and precious seconds of a minute’s warning evaporate. Then a nun emerges on the other side draping herself in holy indignation—more seconds lost, more hours for Carlos. The assault’s mounted and the Deuxième comes up with zero. … And when it’s all over, everything’s back to normal—an abnormal normalcy. A job was done according to a predesigned plan, so there’s no call for really normal curiosity—no gathering in the street, no excitement, not even a collective postcrisis indignation. Simply people inside undoubtedly checking with one another. Doesn’t it all tell you something?”