They sat in a booth at the rear of the small country inn, complete with a worn canopy, hard pine banquettes and perfectly acceptable wine. The owner, an expansive, florid fat man, proclaimed the cuisine to be extraordinary, but since no one could summon hunger, Bourne paid for four entrées just to keep the proprietor happy. It did. The owner sent over two large carafes of good vin ordinaire along with a bottle of mineral water, and stayed away from the table.
“All right, Mo,” said Jason, “you won’t tell me what happened, or who did it, but you’re still the same functioning, overbearing, verbose medicine man with a chicken in his mouth we’ve known for thirteen years, am I correct?”
“Correct, you schizophrenic escapee from Bellevue. And in case you think I’m being heroic, let me make it absolutely clear that I’m here only to protect my nonmedical civil rights. My paramount interest is with my adorable Marie, who I trust you’ll notice is sitting beside me, not you. I positively salivate thinking about her meat loaf.”
“Oh, how I do love you, Mo,” said David Webb’s wife, squeezing Panov’s arm.
“Let me count the ways,” responded the doctor, kissing her cheek.
“I’m here,” said Conklin. “My name is Alex and I have a couple of things to talk about and they don’t include meat loaf. … Although I should tell you, Marie, I told Peter Holland yesterday that it was terrific.”
“What’s with my damned meat loaf?”
“It’s the red sauce,” interjected Panov.
“May we get to what we’re here for,” said Jason Bourne, his voice a monotone.
“Sorry, darling.”
“We’ll be working with the Soviets.” Conklin spoke quickly, his rush of words countering the immediate reaction from Bourne and Marie. “It’s all right, I know the contact, I’ve known him for years, but Washington doesn’t know I know him. His name is Krupkin, Dimitri Krupkin, and as I told Mo, he can be bought for five pieces of silver.”
“Give him thirty-one,” interrupted Bourne, “to make sure he’s on our side.”
“I figured you’d say that. Do you have a ceiling?”
“None.”
“Not so fast,” said Marie. “What’s a negotiable starting point?”
“Our economist speaks,” proclaimed Panov, drinking his wine.
“Considering his position in the Paris KGB, I’d say around fifty thousand, American.”
“Offer him thirty-five and escalate to seventy-five under pressure. Up to a hundred, if necessary, of course.”
“For Christ’s sake,” cried Jason, controlling his voice. “We’re talking about us, about the Jackal. Give him anything he wants!”
“Too easily bought, too easily turned to another source. To a counteroffer.”
“Is she right?” asked Bourne, staring at Conklin.
“Normally, of course, but in this case it would have to be the equivalent of a workable diamond mine. No one wants Carlos in the dead file more than the Soviets, and the man who brings in his corpse will be the hero of the Kremlin. Remember, he was trained at Novgorod. Moscow never forgets that.”
“Then do as she says, only buy him,” said Jason.
“I understand.” Conklin leaned forward, turning his glass of water. “I’ll call him tonight, pay phone to pay phone, and get it settled. Then I’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow, maybe lunch somewhere outside of Paris. Very early, before the regulars come in.”
“Why not here?” asked Bourne. “You can’t get much more remote and I’ll know the way.”
“Why not?” agreed Alex. “I’ll talk to the owner. But not the four of us, just—Jason and me.”
“I assumed that,” said Bourne coldly. “Marie’s not to be involved. She’s not to be seen or heard, is that clear?”
“David, really—”
“Yes, really.”
“I’ll go over and stay with her,” interrupted Panov quickly. “Meat loaf?” he added, obviously to lessen the tension.
“I don’t have a kitchen, but there’s a lovely restaurant that serves fresh trout.”
“One sacrifices,” sighed the psychiatrist.
“I think you should eat in the room.” Bourne’s voice was now adamant.
“I will not be a prisoner,” said Marie quietly, her gaze fixed on her husband. “Nobody knows who we are or where we are, and I submit that someone who locks herself in her room and is never seen draws far more attention than a perfectly normal Frenchwoman who goes about her normal business of living.”
“She’s got a point,” observed Alex. “If Carlos has his network calling around, someone behaving abnormally could be picked up. Besides, Panov’s from left field—pretend you’re a doctor or something, Mo. Nobody’ll believe it, but it’ll add a touch of class. For reasons that escape me, doctors are usually above suspicion.”
“Psychopathic ingrate,” mumbled Panov.
“May we get back to business?” said Bourne curtly.
“You’re very rude, David.”
“I’m very impatient, do you mind?”
“Okay, cool it,” said Conklin. “We’re all uptight, but things have got to be clear. Once Krupkin’s on board, his first job will be to trace the number Gates gave Prefontaine in Boston.”
“Who gave what where?” asked the bewildered psychiatrist.
“You were out of it, Mo. Prefontaine’s an impeached judge who fell into a Jackal contact. To cut it short, the contact gave our judge a number here in Paris to reach the Jackal, but it didn’t coincide with the one Jason already had. But there’s no question that the contact, a lawyer named Gates, reached Carlos.”
“Randolph Gates? Boston’s gift to the boardrooms of Genghis Khan?”
“That’s the one.”
“Holy Christ—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say that, I’m not a gentile. What the hell, I’m nothing, but you’ll admit it’s a shock.”
“A large one, and we have to know who owns that number here in Paris. Krupkin can find out for us. It’s corkscrew, I grant you, but there it is.”
“Corkscrew?” asked Panov. “Are you now going to produce a Rubik’s cube in Arabic? Or, perhaps, a Double-Crostic from the London Times? What in heaven’s name is a Prefontaine, judge, jury or otherwise? It sounds like a bad early wine.”
“It’s a late, very good vintage,” broke in Marie. “You’d like him, Doctor. You could spend months studying him because he’s got more brights than most of us, and that grand intellect of his is still intact despite such inconveniences as alcohol, corruption, loss of family and prison. He’s an original, Mo, and where the majority of felons in his league blame everyone but themselves, he doesn’t. He retains a gloriously ironic sense of humor. If the American judiciary had any brains—which on the surface the Justice Department would seem to refute—they’d put him back on the bench. … He went after the Jackal’s people on principle first, because they wanted to kill me and my children. If, on the second round, he makes a dollar, he deserves every penny and I’ll see that he gets it.”
“You’re succinct. You like him.”
“I adore him, as I adore you and Alex. You’ve all taken such risks for us—”
“May we get back to what we’re here for?” said the Chameleon angrily. “The past doesn’t interest me, tomorrow does.”
“You’re not only rude, my dear, you’re terribly ungrateful.”
“So be it. Where were we?”
“At the moment with Prefontaine,” replied Alex sharply, looking at Bourne. “But he may not matter because he probably won’t survive Boston. … I’ll call you at the inn at Barbizon tomorrow and set up a time for lunch. Out here. Clock yourself on the drive back so we’re not hanging around like mateless snow geese. Also, if that fat guy’s right about his ‘cuisine,’ Kruppie will love it and tell everybody he discovered it.”
“Kruppie?”
“Relax. I told you, we go back a long time.”
“And don’t go into it,” added Panov. “You really don’t want to hear about Istanbul and Amsterdam. They’re both a couple of thieves.”
“We pass,” said Marie. “Go on, Alex, what about tomorrow?”
“Mo and I will take a taxi out to your place, and your husband and I will drive back here. We’ll call you after lunch.”
“What about that driver of yours, the one Casset got you?” asked the Chameleon, his eyes cold, inquiring.
“What about him? He’ll be paid double what he can make in a month with his taxi for tonight, and after he drops us off at a hotel, he’ll disappear. We won’t see him again.”
“Will he see anyone else?”
“Not if he wants to live and send money to his relatives in Algeria. I told you, Casset cleared him. He’s granite.”
“Tomorrow, then,” said Bourne grimly, looking across the table at Marie and Morris Panov. “After we leave for Paris, you’re to stay out at Barbizon, and you’re not to leave the inn. Do you both understand that?”
“You know, David,” answered Marie, bristling and rigid on the pine banquette. “I’m going to tell you something. Mo and Alex are as much a part of our family as the children, so I’ll say it in front of them. We all, all of us, humor you and in some ways pamper you because of the horrible things you went through. But you cannot and you will not order us around as if we were inferior beings in your august presence. Do you understand that?”