Paris traffic is an endless enigma regardless of the hour of day or night. It also provides palpable excuses for anyone wishing to be early or late, or having arrived at the right destination or the wrong one. In a phrase, Parisians behind a steering wheel embody the last civilized vestiges of lethal abandon—possibly outdone by their counterparts in Rome or Athens. And so it was for the Magdalen Sisters of Charity, especially for the officious superior hen on the single rear point. At an intersection of the rue Lecourbe in Montparnasse, a congestion of produce trucks prevented her from keeping up with her religious colleagues. Benignly she waved them on and abruptly turned into a narrow side street, suddenly pedaling faster than before. Bourne, his wound from Tranquility Isle now pulsating throughout his neck, did not increase his pace; he did not have to. The white-lettered blue sign on the building fronting the street read IMPASSE, a dead end; there was no other way out.
He found the bicycle chained to an extinguished street lamp and waited in the darkness of a doorway no more than fifteen feet away. He raised his hand and touched the warm moistness of the bandage around his neck; the bleeding was slight. With luck, no more than one suture had burst. … Oh, Christ, his legs were tired—no, “tired” was inadequate. They ached with the pain that came with unused and abused muscles; the rhythmic strides of jogging, even running, were no preparation for lurching or weaving, or for violently sudden stops and starts. He leaned against the stone, breathing heavily, his eyes on the bicycle, trying to suppress a thought that kept recurring with infuriating regularity: only a few short years ago, he would never have noticed the discomfort in his legs. There would have been none.
The sound of an unlatched bolt broke the stillness of the predawn narrow street, followed rapidly by the grating noise of a heavy door being opened. It was the entrance to the flat in front of the chained bicycle. His back against the wall, Jason removed the gun from his belt and watched the woman in the nun’s habit rush to the lamppost. She fumbled with a key in the dim light, awkwardly trying to insert it into the base of the lock. Bourne stepped out on the pavement and walked swiftly, silently forward.
“You’ll be late for early Mass,” he said.
The woman spun around, the key flying into the street, her black cloth snapping in the turn as she plunged her right hand between the folds of her habit. Jason lurched, gripping her arm with his left hand and tearing off the large white hat with his right. At the sight of the exposed face in front of him, he gasped.
“My God,” he whispered. “It’s you!”
27
“I know you!” cried Bourne. “Paris … years ago … your name is Lavier … Jacqueline Lavier. You had one of those dress shops … Les Classiques—St.-Honoré—Carlos’s drop in the Faubourg! I found you in a confessional booth in Neuilly-sur-Seine. I thought you were dead.” The woman’s sharp, creased, middle-aged fade was contorted in frenzy. She tried to twist out of his grip, but Jason stepped sideways as she pivoted, yanking her away in a sweeping circular motion, crashing her against the wall, pinning her, his left forearm across her throat. “But you weren’t dead. You were part of the trap that ended at the Louvre, blew apart at the Louvre! … By Christ, you’re coming with me. Men died in that trap—Frenchmen died—and I couldn’t stay around and tell them how it happened or who was responsible. … In my country, you kill a cop, it doesn’t go off the books. It’s no different over here; and when it’s cops, they don’t stop looking. Oh, they’ll remember the Louvre, they’ll remember their men!”
“You’re wrong!” choked the woman, her wide green eyes bulging. “I’m not who you think I am—”
“You’re Lavier! Queen of the Faubourg, sole contact to the Jackal’s woman, the general’s wife. Don’t tell me I’m wrong … I followed the two of you out to Neuilly—to that church with the bells ringing and priests everywhere—one of them Carlos! Moments later his whore came back out, but you didn’t. She left in a hurry, so I ran inside and described you to an old priest—if he was a priest—and he told me you were in the second confessional from the left. I walked over and pulled the curtain and there you were. Dead. I thought you’d just been killed and everything was happening so fast. Carlos had to be there! He was within my reach, my gun—or maybe I was within his. I raced around like a maniac and finally I saw him! Out in the street in his priestly black clothes—I saw him, I knew it was him because he saw me and started to run through the traffic. And then I lost him, I lost him! … But I had a card to play. You. I passed the word—Lavier’s dead. … It was just what I was supposed to do, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”
“I tell you again, you are wrong!” The woman no longer struggled; it was pointless. Instead, she remained rigid against the wall, no part of her body moving, as if by doing so she might be permitted to speak. “Will you listen to me?” she asked with difficulty, Jason’s forearm still pressed against her throat.
“Forget it, lady,” answered Bourne. “You’re going out of here limp—a Sister of Charity being helped, not assaulted, by a stranger. You’re about to have a fainting spell. At your age it’s a fairly common occurrence, isn’t it?”
“Wait.”
“Too late.”
“We must talk!”
“We will.” Releasing his arm, Jason instantly crashed both his hands simultaneously into the woman’s shoulder blades where the tendons weave into the neck muscles. She collapsed; he caught her in the fall and carried her out of the narrow street as an adoring supplicant might a religious social worker. The dawn light was beginning to fill the sky, and several early risers, one a young jogger in shorts, converged on the man carrying the nun. “She’s been with my wife and sick children for nearly two days without sleep!” pleaded the Chameleon in street French. “Will someone please find me a taxi so I can take her back to her convent in the ninth arrondissement?”
“I shall!” roared the young runner. “There’s an all-night stand on the rue de Sèvres, and I’m very fast!”
“You are a gift, monsieur,” said Jason, appreciating but instantly disliking the all too confident, all too young jogger.
Six minutes later the taxi arrived, the youth inside. “I told the driver you have money,” he said, climbing out. “I trust it’s so.”
“Of course. And thanks.”
“Tell the sister what I did,” added the young man in running shorts, helping Bourne gently insert the unconscious woman into the back of the taxi. “I’ll need all the help I can get when my time comes.”
“I trust that’s not imminent,” said Jason, trying to return the youth’s grin.
“Not likely! I represent my firm in the marathon.” The overgrown child began running in place.
“Thanks again. I hope you win the next one.”
“Tell the sister to pray for me!” cried the athlete, racing away.
“The Bois de Boulogne,” said Bourne, closing the door and addressing the driver.
“The Bois? That ventilating nut told me it was an emergency! You had to get the nun to a hospital.”
“She drank too much wine, what can I tell you?”
“The Bois de Boulogne,” said the driver, nodding his head. “Let her walk it off. I have a second cousin in the Lyons convent. She gets out for a week she’s soused to the temples. Who can blame her?”
The bench on the graveled path of the Bois progressively received the warm rays of the early sun as the middle-aged woman in the religious habit began shaking her head. “How are you doing, Sister?” asked Jason, sitting beside his prisoner.
“I believe I was struck by an army tank,” replied the woman, blinking and opening her mouth to swallow air. “At least a tank.”
“Which I suspect you know more about than a welfare wagon from the Magdalen Sisters of Charity.”
“Quite so,” agreed the woman.
“Don’t bother to look for your gun,” said Bourne. “I removed it from the very expensive belt under your habit.”
“I’m glad you recognized the value. It’s part of what we must talk about. … Since I am not in a police station, I assume you’ve granted me my request to talk.”
“Only if what you say suits my purpose, I assume you understand that.”
“But it must, you see. Suit your purpose, as you say. I’ve failed. I’ve been taken. I’m not where I should be, and whatever the time is, the light tells me I’m too late for excuses. Also, my bicycle has either disappeared or is still chained to the lamppost.”