Alex! Where the hell was Conklin? He could not reach him in Virginia! Because of the time difference, he had counted on Alex to take care of the details, swiftly expediting the transfer of funds, primarily. The business day on the eastern seaboard of the United States began at four o’clock, Paris time, and the business day in Paris stopped at five o’clock or before, Paris time. That left barely an hour to release and transfer over a million American dollars to one Mr. Simon at his chosen bank in Paris, and that meant said Mr. Simon had to make himself known to the aforementioned, as yet unchosen, Paris bank. Bernardine had been helpful. Helpful, hell! He had made it possible.
“There’s a bank on the rue de Grenelle that the Deuxième frequently uses. They can be accommodating in terms of hours and the absence of an authentic signature or two, but they give nothing for nothing, and they trust no one, especially anyone associated with our benevolent socialist government.”
“You mean regardless of the teletypes, if the money’s not there you don’t get it.”
“Not a sou. The president, himself, could call and he would be told to pick it up in Moscow, where they firmly believe he belongs.”
“Since I can’t reach Alex, I’ve bypassed the bank in Boston and called our man in the Cayman Islands, where Marie put the bulk of the money. He’s Canadian and so’s the bank. He’s waiting for instructions.”
“I’ll make a phone call. Are you at the Pont-Royal?”
“No. I’ll call you back.”
“Where are you?”
“I suppose you could say I’m an anxious and confused butterfly going from one vaguely remembered place to another.”
“You are looking for her.”
“Yes. But then that wasn’t a question, was it?”
“Forgive me, but in some ways I hope you do not find her.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.”
He had gone to yet another point of recall, the Trocadéro, and the Palais de Chaillot. He had been shot at in the past on one of the terraces; there had been gunfire and men running down the endless stone steps, intermittently obscured by the huge gilded statues and the great sprays of the fountains, disappearing into the formal gardens, finally out of sight, out of range. What had happened? Why did he remember the Trocadéro? … But Marie had been there—somewhere. Where had she been in that enormous complex? Where? … A terrace! She had been on a terrace. Near a statue—what statue? … Descartes? Racine? Talleyrand? The statue of Descartes came to his mind first. He would find it.
He had found it and there was no Marie. He had looked at his watch; it had been nearly forty-five minutes since he had talked to Bernardine. Like the men in his inner screen, he had raced down the steps. To a telephone.
“Go to the Banque Normandie and ask for Monsieur Tabouri. He understands that a Monsieur Simon intends to transfer over seven million francs from the Caymans by way of voice authorization through his private banker in the islands. He is most happy to let you use his phone, but believe me, he’ll charge you for the call.”
“Thanks, François.”
“Where are you now?”
“The Trocadéro. It’s crazy. I have the damnedest feelings, like vibrations, but she’s not there. It’s probably the things I can’t remember. Hell, I may have taken a bullet here, I simply don’t know.”
“Go to the bank.”
He had done so, and within thirty-five minutes after his call to the Caymans, the olive-skinned, perpetually smiling Monsieur Tabouri confirmed that his funds were in place. He re quested 750,000 francs in the largest notes possible. They were delivered to him, and the grinning obsequious banker took him confidentially aside, away from the desk—which was rather foolish, as there was no one else in the office—and spoke quietly by a window.
“There are some marvelous real estate opportunities in Beirut, believe me, I know. I am the expert on the Middle East and these stupid conflagrations cannot last much longer. Mon Dieu, no one will be left alive! It will once again rise as the Paris of the Mediterranean. Estates for a fraction of their value, hotels for a ridiculous price!”
“It sounds interesting. I’ll be in touch.”
He had fled the Banque Normandie as if its confines held the germs of a lethal disease. He had returned to the Pont-Royal, and again tried to reach Alex Conklin in the United States. It was then close to one o’clock in the afternoon in Vienna, Virginia, and still all he had heard was an answering machine with Alex’s disembodied voice instructing the caller to leave a message. For any number of reasons, Jason had chosen not to do so.
And now he was in Argenteuil, walking up the steps of the métro to the pavement, where he would slowly, cautiously make his way into the uglier streets and the vicinity of Le Coeur du Soldat. His instructions were clear. He was not to be the man he was last night, no limp, no ragged cast-off army clothing, no image that anyone might recognize. He was to be a simple laborer and reach the gates of the old closed-down refinery and smoke cigarettes while leaning against the wall. This was to take place between 12:30 and one o’clock in the morning. No sooner and no later.
When he had asked Santos’s messengers—after giving them several hundred francs for their inconvenience—the reason for these late-night precautions, the less inhibited man had replied, “Santos never leaves Le Coeur du Soldat.”
“He left last evening.”
“For minutes only,” rejoined the more voluble messenger.
“I understand.” Bourne nodded, but he had not understood, he could only speculate. Was Santos in some way the Jackal’s prisoner, confined to the sleazy café night and day? It was a fascinating query in light of the manager’s size and sheer raw power, both combined with a far-above-average intellect.
It was 12:37 when Jason, in blue jeans, cap and a dark, tattered V-necked sweater, reached the gates of the old factory. He took out a pack of Gauloise cigarettes and leaned against the wall, lighting one with a match, holding the flame longer than necessary before he blew it out. His thoughts returned to the enigmatic Santos, the premier conduit in Carlos’s army, the most trusted satellite in the Jackal’s orbit, a man whose French might have been formed at the Sorbonne, yet Santos was a Latin American. A Venezuelan, if Bourne’s instincts had merit. Fascinating. And Santos wanted to see him ‘with peace in his heart.’ Bravo, amigo, thought Jason. Santos had reached a terrified ambassador in London with a question so loaded it made a political party’s private poll look like the essence of nonpartisan neutrality. Atkinson had no choice but to state emphatically, if not in panic, that whatever instructions Snake Lady issued were to be carried out. The power of Snake Lady was the ambassador’s only protection, his ultimate refuge.
So Santos could bend; that decision was rooted in intellect, not loyalty, not obligation. The conduit wanted to crawl out of his sewer, and with three million francs in the offing, combined with a multitude of faraway places across the globe to choose from, the conduit’s mind told him to listen, to consider. There were alternatives in life if opportunities were presented. One had been presented to Santos, vassal to Carlos, whose fealty to his lord had perhaps run its suffocating course. It was this instinctive projection that made Bourne include in his plea—calmly but firmly, the emphasis in understatement—such phrases as You could travel, disappear … a wealthy man, free of care and unpleasant drudgery. The key words were “free” and “disappear,” and Santos’s eyes had responded. He was ready to take the three-million-franc bait, and Bourne was perfectly happy to let him break the line and swim with it.
Jason looked at his watch; fifteen minutes had passed. No doubt Santos’s minions were checking the streets, a final inspection before the high priest of conduits appeared. Bourne thought briefly of Marie, of the sensations he felt at the Trocadéro, remembering old Fontaine’s words when the two of them watched the paths of Tranquility Inn from the high storage room, waiting for Carlos. He’s near, I feel it. Like the approach of distant thunder. In a different—far different—way Jason had like feelings at the Trocadéro. Enough! Santos! The Jackal!
His watch read one o’clock, and the two messengers from the Pont-Royal walked out of the alley and across the street to the gates of the old refinery.
“Santos will see you now,” said the voluble one.
“I don’t see him.”
“You are to come with us. He does not leave Le Coeur du Soldat.”
“Why do I find that not to my liking?”
“There’s no reason for such feelings. He has peace in his heart.”
“What about his knife?”
“He has no knife, no weapon. He never carries either.”