“You’re convinced of that?”
“Of course. The stop where I chained the bicycle was made to receive instructions from one of the old men. The orders were precise and to be precisely followed. A woman I know would meet me in twenty minutes at a bakery in Saint-Germain where we were to exchange clothes. She was to proceed to the Magdalen mission and I was to meet a courier from Athens in a room at the Hôtel Trémoille.”
“The Magdalen mission … ? You mean those women on the bicycles were actually nuns?”
“Complete with vows of chastity and poverty, monsieur. I am a frequent visiting superior from the convent at Saint-Malo.”
“And the woman at the bakery. Is she—?”
“She falls from grace now and then, but she’s a perfectly splendid administrator.”
“Jesus,” mumbled Bourne.
“He’s frequently on their lips. … Do you see now the hopelessness of my position?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Then I am forced to wonder if you really are the Chameleon. I was not at the bakery. The meeting with the Greek courier never took place. Where was I?”
“You were delayed. The bicycle chain broke; you got grazed by one of those trucks on the rue Lecourbe. Hell, you got mugged. What’s the difference? You were delayed.”
“How long has it been since you rendered me unconscious?”
Jason looked at his watch, now easily seen in the bright morning sunlight. “Something over an hour-plus, I think; perhaps an hour and a half. Considering how you were dressed, the taxi driver cruised around trying to find a place to park where we could help you to a bench on the path with as little scrutiny as possible. He was well paid for his assistance.”
“An hour and a half?” asked Lavier pointedly.
“So?”
“So why didn’t I call the bakery or the Hôtel Trémoille?”
“Complications? … No, too easily verified,” added Bourne, shaking his head.
“Or?” Lavier locked her large green eyes with his. “Or, monsieur?”
“The boulevard Lefebvre,” replied Jason slowly, softly. “The trap. As I reversed his on me, he reversed mine for him three hours later. Then I broke the strategy and took you.”
“Exactly.” The once and former whore of Monte Carlo nodded. “And he cannot know what transpired between us … therefore, I’m marked for execution. A pawn is removed, for she is merely a pawn. She can tell the authorities nothing of substance; she’s never seen the Jackal; she can only repeat the gossip of lowly subordinates.”
“You’ve never seen him?”
“I may have, but not to my knowledge. Again, the rumors fly around Paris. This one with swarthy Latin skin, or that one with black eyes and a dark mustache; ‘He is really Carlos, you know’—how often have I heard the phrases! But no, no man has ever come up to me and said, ‘I am he and I make your life pleasant, you aging elegant prostitute.’ I simply report to old men who every now and then convey information that I must have—such as this evening on the boulevard Lefebvre.”
“I see.” Bourne got to his feet, stretching his body and looking down at his prisoner on the bench. “I can get you out,” he said quietly. “Out of Paris, out of Europe. Beyond Carlos’s reach. Do you want that?”
“As eagerly as Santos did,” answered Lavier, her eyes imploring. “I willingly trade my allegiance from him to you.”
“Why?”
“Because he is old and gray-faced and is no match for you. You offer me life; he offers death.”
“That’s a reasonable decision, then,” said Jason, a tentative but warm smile on his lips. “Do you have any money? With you, I mean?”
“Nuns are sworn to poverty, monsieur,” replied Dominique Lavier, returning his smile. “Actually, I have several hundred francs. Why?”
“It’s not enough,” continued Bourne, reaching into his pocket and taking out his impressive roll of franc notes. “Here’s three thousand,” he said, handing her the money. “Buy some clothes somewhere—I’m sure you know how—and take a room at the … the Meurice on the rue de Rivoli.”
“What name should I use?”
“What suits you?”
“How about Brielle? A lovely seaside town.”
“Why not? … Give me ten minutes to get out of here and then leave. I’ll see you at the Meurice at noon.”
“With all my heart, Jason Bourne!”
“Let’s forget that name.”
The Chameleon walked out of the Bois de Boulogne to the nearest taxi station. Within minutes an ecstatic cabdriver accepted a hundred francs to remain in place at the end of the three-vehicle line, his passenger slumped in the rear seat waiting to hear the words.
“The nun comes out, monsieur!” cried the driver. “She enters the first taxi!”
“Follow it,” said Jason, sitting up.
On the avenue Victor Hugo, Lavier’s taxi slowed down and pulled up in front of one of Paris’s few exceptions to tradition—an open plastic-domed public telephone. “Stop here,” ordered Bourne, who climbed out the instant the driver swung into the curb. Limping, the Chameleon walked swiftly, silently, to the telephone directly behind and unseen by the frantic nun under the plastic dome. He was not seen, but he could hear clearly as he stood several feet behind her.
“The Meurice!” she shouted into the phone. “The name is Brielle. He’ll be there at noon. … Yes, yes, I’ll stop at my flat, change clothes, and be there in an hour.” Lavier hung up and turned, gasping at the sight of Jason. “No!” she screamed.
“Yes, I’m afraid,” said Bourne. “Shall we take my taxi or yours? … ‘He’s old and gray-faced’—those were your words, Dominique. Pretty goddamned descriptive for someone who never met Carlos.”
A furious Bernardine walked out of the Pont-Royal with the doorman, who had summoned him. “This is preposterous!” he shouted as he approached the taxi. “No, it’s not,” he amended, looking inside. “It’s merely insane.”
“Get in,” said Jason on the far side of the woman dressed in the habit of a nun. Francois did so, staring at the black clothes, the white pointed hat and the pale face of the religious female between them. “Meet one of the Jackal’s more talented performers,” added Bourne. “She could make a fortune in your cinéma-vérité, take my word for it.”
“I’m not a particularly religious man, but I trust you have not made a mistake. … I did—or should I say we did—with that pig of a baker.”
“Why?”
“He’s a baker, that’s all he is! I damn near put a grenade in his ovens, but no one but a French baker could plead the way he did!”
“It fits,” said Jason. “The illogical logic of Carlos—I can’t remember who said that, probably me.” The taxi made a U-turn and entered the rue du Bac. “We’re going to the Meurice,” added Bourne.
“I’m sure there’s a reason,” stated Bernardine, still looking at the enigmatically passive face of Dominique Lavier. “I mean, this sweet old lady says nothing.”
“I’m not old!” cried the woman vehemently.
“Of course not, my dear,” agreed the Deuxième veteran. “Only more desirable in your mature years.”
“Boy, did you hit it!”
“Why the Meurice?” asked Bernardine.
“It’s the Jackal’s final trap for me,” answered Bourne. “Courtesy of our persuasive Magdalen Sister of Charity here. He expects me to be there and I’ll be there.”
“I’ll call in the Deuxième. Thanks to a frightened bureaucrat, they’ll do anything I ask. Don’t endanger yourself, my friend.”
“I don’t mean to insult you, Francois, but you yourself told me you didn’t know all of the people in the Bureau these days. I can’t take the chance of a leak. One man could send out an alarm.”
“Let me help.” The low soft-spoken voice of Dominique Lavier broke the hum of the outside traffic like the initial burr of a chain saw. “I can help.”
“I listened to your help before, lady, and it was leading me to my own execution. No thanks.”
“That was before, not now. As must be obvious to you, my position now is truly hopeless.”
“Didn’t I hear those words recently?”
“No, you did not. I just added the word ‘now.’ … For God’s sake, put yourself in my place. I can’t pretend to understand, but this ancient boulevardier beside me casually mentions that he’ll call in the Deuxième—the Deuxième, Monsieur Bourne! For some that is no less than France’s Gestapo! Even if I survived, I’m marked by that infamous branch of the government. I’d no doubt be sent to some horrible penal colony halfway across the world—oh, I’ve heard the stories of the Deuxième!”
“Really?” said Bernardine. “I haven’t. Sounds positively marvelous. How wonderful.”
“Besides,” continued Lavier, looking hard at Jason as she yanked the pointed white hat off her head, a gesture that caused the driver, seeing it in the rearview mirror, to raise his eyebrows. “Without me, without my presence in decidedly different clothing at the Meurice, Carlos won’t come near the rue de Rivoli.” Bernardine tapped the woman’s shoulder, bringing his index finger to his lips and nodding toward the front seat. Dominique quickly added, “The man you wish to confer with will not be there.”