Bourne trilogy 3 the b.., p.33
Bourne Trilogy 3 - The Bourne Ultimatum, page 33
"Bernardine!" "Mon Dieu, it is four o'clock in the morning, so I can assume you have something vital to tell this seventy-year-old man." "I've got a problem." "I think you have many problems, but I suppose it's a minor distinction. What is it?" "I'm as close as I can be but I need an end man." "Please speak clearer English, or if you will, far clearer French. It must be an American term, this 'end man.' But then you have so many esoteric phrases. I'm sure someone sits in Langley and thinks them up." "Come on, I haven't time for your bon mots." "You come on, my friend. I'm not trying to be clever, I'm trying to wake up. ... There, my feet are on the floor and a cigarette's in my mouth. Now, what is it?" "My access to the Jackal expects an Englishman to fly over from London this morning with two million eight hundred thousand francs�" "Far less than you have at your disposal, I assume," interrupted Bernardine. "The Banque Normandie was accommodating, was it not?" "Very. The money's there, and that Tabouri of yours is a beaut. He tried to sell me real estate in Beirut." "That Tabouri is a thief�but Beirut is interesting." "Please." "Sorry. Go ahead." "I'm being watched, so I can't go to the bank, and I don't have any Englishman to bring what I can't get to the Pont-Royal." "That's your problem?" "Yes." "Are you willing to part with, say, fifty thousand francs?" "What for?" "Tabouri." "I suppose so." "You signed papers, of course." "Of course." "Sign another paper, handwritten by you and also signed, releasing the money to� Wait a moment, I must go to my desk." There was silence on the line as Bernardine obviously went to another room in his flat; his voice returned. "Allo?" "I'm here." "Oh, this is lovely," intoned the former Deuxi� specialist. "I sank him in his sailboat off the shoals of the Costa Brava. The sharks had a feeding frenzy; he was so fat and delectable. The name is Antonio Scarzi, a Sardinian who traded drugs for information, but you know nothing about that, of course." "Of course." Bourne repeated the last name, spelling it out. "Correct. Seal the envelope, rub a pencil or a pen over your thumb and press your prints along the seal. Then give it to the concierge for Mr. Scarzi." "Understood. What about the Englishman? This morning? It's only a few hours away." "The Englishman is not a problem. The morning is�the few hours are. It's a simple matter to transfer funds from one bank to another�buttons are pressed, computers instantly cross-check the data, and, poof, figures are entered on paper. It's quite another thing to collect nearly three million francs in cash, and your access certainly won't accept pounds or dollars for fear of being caught exchanging them or depositing them. Add to this the problem of collecting notes large enough to be part of a bundle small enough to be concealed from customs inspectors. ... Your access, mon ami, has to be aware of these difficulties." Jason looked aimlessly at the wall, his thoughts on Bernardine's words. "You think he's testing me?" "He has to." "The money could be gotten together from the foreign departments of different banks. A small private plane could hop across the channel and land in a pasture where a car's waiting to bring the man to Paris." "Bien. Of course. However, these logistics take time even for the most influential people. Don't make it all appear too simple, that would be suspect. Keep your access informed as to the progress being made, emphasizing the secrecy, how there can be no risk of exposure, explain the delays. If there were none, he might think it's a trap." "I see what you mean. It comes down to what you just said�don't make it seem so easy because that's not credible." "There's something else, mon ami. A chameleon may be many things in daylight; still, he is safer in darkness." "You forgot something," said Bourne. "What about the Englishman?" "Tallyho, old chap," said Bernardine. The operation went as smoothly as any Jason had ever engineered or been witness to, perhaps thanks to the flair of a resentful talented man who had been sent to the pastures too soon. While throughout the day Bourne made progress calls to Santos, Bernardine had someone other than himself pick up the sealed instructions from the concierge and bring them to him, at which point he made his appointment with Monsieur Tabouri. Shortly after four-thirty in the afternoon, the Deuxi� veteran walked into the Pont-Royal dressed in a dark pin-striped suit so obviously British that it screamed Savile Row. He went to the elevator and eventually, after two wrong turns, reached Bourne's room. "Here's the money," he said, dropping the attach�ase on the floor and going straight to Jason's hotel wet bar; he removed two miniature bottles of Tanqueray gin, snapped them open and poured the liquor into a questionably clean glass. "A votre sant� he added, swallowing half his drink before breathing heavily through his mouth and then rapidly swallowing the rest. "I haven't done anything like that in years." "You haven't?" "Frankly, no. I had others do such things. It's far too dangerous. ... Nevertheless, Tabouri is forever in your debt, and, frankly, he's convinced me I should look into Beirut." "What?" "Of course, I haven't your resources, but a percentage of forty years of les fonds de contingence have found their way to Geneva on my behalf. I'm not a poor man." "You may be a dead man if they pick you up leaving here." "Oh, but I shan't go," said Bernardine, once again searching the small refrigerator. "I shall stay in this room until you have concluded your business." Fran�s ripped open two additional bottles and poured them into his glass. "Now, perhaps, my old heart will beat slower," he added as he walked to the inadequate desk, placed his drink on the blotter, and proceeded to take out two automatics and three grenades from his pockets, placing them all in a row in front of his glass. "Yes, I will relax now." "What the hell is that�are they?" cried Jason. "I think you Americans call it deterrence," replied Bernardine. "Although I frankly believe both you and the Soviets are playing with yourselves as you both put so much money into weaponry that doesn't work. Now, I come from a different era. When you go out to do your business, you will leave the door open. If someone comes down that narrow corridor, he will see a grenade in my hand. That is not nuclear abstraction, that is deterrence." "I'll buy it," said Bourne, going to the door. "I want to get this over with." Out on Montalembert, Jason walked to the corner, and as he had done at the old factory in Argenteuil, leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. He waited, his posture casual, his mind in high gear. A man walked across from the bisecting rue du Bac toward him. It was the talkative messenger from last night; he approached, his hand in his jacket pocket. "Where's the money?" said the man in French. "Where's the information?" answered Bourne. "The money first." "That's not the arrangement." Without warning, Jason grabbed the minion from Argenteuil by his lapel, yanking him forward off his feet. Bourne whipped up his free hand and gripped the messenger's throat, his fingers digging into the man's flesh. "You go back and tell Santos he's got a one-way ticket to hell. I don't deal this way." "Enough!" said the low voice, its owner rounding the corner on Jason's right. The huge figure of Santos approached. "Let him go, Simon. He is nothing. It is now only you and me." "I thought you never left Le Coeur du Soldat?" "You've changed that, haven't you?" "Apparently." Bourne released the messenger, who looked at Santos. With a gesture of his large head, the man raced away. "Your Englishman arrived," said Santos when they were alone. "He carried a valise, I saw for myself." "He arrived carrying a valise," agreed Jason. "So London capitulates, no? London is very anxious." "The stakes are very high and that's all I'll say about it. The information, please." "Let us first again define the procedure, shall we?" "We've defined it several times. ... You give me the information, my client tells me to act upon it; and if satisfactory contact is made, I bring you the remainder of the three million francs." "You say 'satisfactory contact.' What will satisfy you? How will you know the contact is firm? How do I know that you will not claim it is unsatisfactory and steal my money when, indeed, you have made the connection your clients have paid for?" "You're a suspicious fellow, aren't you?" "Oh, very suspicious. Our world, Mr. Simon, is not peopled with saints, is it?" "Perhaps more than you realize." "That would astonish me. Please answer my questions." "All right, I'll try. ... How will I know the contact's firm? That's easy. I'll simply know because it's my business to know. It's what I'm paid for, and a man in my position does not make mistakes at this level and live to apologize. I've refined the process, done my research, and I'll ask two or three questions myself. Then I'll know�one way or another." "That's an elusive reply." "In our world, Mr. Santos, being elusive is hardly a negative, is it? ... As to your concern that I would lie to you and take your money, let me assure you I don't cultivate enemies like you and the network your blackbird obviously controls any more than I would make enemies of my clients. That way is madness and a much shorter life." "I admire your perspicacity as well as your caution," said the Jackal's intermediary. "The bookcases didn't lie. You're a learned man." "That's neither here nor there, but I have certain credentials. Appearances can be a liability as well as an asset. ... What I am about to tell you, Mr. Simon, is known by only four men on the face of the earth, all of whom speak French fluently. How you wish to use that information is up to you. However, if you even hint at Argenteuil, I'll know it instantly and you will never leave the Pont-Royal alive." "The contact can be made so quickly?" "With a telephone number. But you will not place the call for at least an hour from the moment we part. If you do, again I will know it, and again I tell you you're a dead man." "An hour. Agreed. ... Only three other people have this number? Why not pick one you're not particularly fond of so I might peripherally allude to him�if it's necessary." Santos permitted himself a small, flat smile. "Moscow," he said softly. "High up in Dzerzhinsky Square." "The KGB?" "The blackbird is building a cadre in Moscow, always Moscow, it's an obsession with him." Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, thought Bourne. Trained at Novgorod. Dismissed by the Komitet as a maniac. The Jackal! "I'll bear it in mind�if it's called for. The number, please?" Santos recited it twice along with the words Bourne was to say. He spoke slowly, obviously impressed that Bourne wrote nothing down. "Is it all clear?" "Indelibly, no pencil or paper required. ... If everything goes as I trust it will, how do you want me to get you the money?" "Phone me; you've got my number. I will leave Argenteuil and come to you. And never return to Argenteuil." "Good luck, Santos. Something tells me you deserve it." "No one more so. I have drunk the hemlock far too many times." "Socrates," said Jason. "Not directly. Plato's dialogues, to be precise. Au revoir." Santos walked away, and Bourne, his chest pounding, headed back to the Pont-Royal, desperately suppressing his desire to run. A running man is an object of curiosity, a target. A lesson from the cantos of Jason Bourne. "Bernardine!" he yelled, racing down the narrow, deserted hallway to his room, all too aware of the open door and the old man seated at the desk, a grenade in one hand, a gun in the other. "Put the hardware away, we've hit pay dirt!" "Who's paying?" asked the Deuxi� veteran as Jason closed the door. "I am," answered Bourne. "If this works out the way I think it will, you can add to your account in Geneva." "I do not do what I'm doing for that, my friend. It has never been a consideration." "I know, but as long as we're passing out francs like we're printing them in the garage, why shouldn't you get a fair share?" "I can't argue with that, either." "An hour," announced Jason. "Forty-three minutes now, to be exact." "For what?" "To find out if it's real, actually real." Bourne fell on the bed, his arms behind his head on the pillow, his eyes alive. "Write this down, Fran�s." Jason recited the telephone number given him by Santos. "Buy, bribe, or threaten every high-level contact you've ever had in the Paris telephone service, but get me the location of that number." "It's not such an expensive request�" "Yes, it is," countered Bourne. "He's got it guarded, inviolate; he wouldn't do it any other way. Only four people in his entire network have it." "Then, perhaps, we do not go high-level, but, instead, far lower to the ground, underground actually. Into the tunnels of the telephone service beneath the streets." Jason snapped his head over at Bernardine. "I hadn't thought of that." "Why should you? You are not Deuxi�. The technicians are the source, not the bureaucrats behind the desks. ... I know several. I will find one and give him a quiet call at home later tonight�" "Tonight?" broke in Bourne, raising himself off the bed. "It will cost a thousand francs or so, but you'll get the location of the telephone." "I can't wait until later tonight." "Then you add a risk by trying to reach such a man at work. These men are monitored; no one trusts anyone in the telephone service. It's the Socialists' paradox: Give its laboring forces responsibility but no individual authority." "Hold it!" said Jason from the bed. "You have the home phone numbers, right?" "They're in the book, yes. These people don't keep private listings." "Have someone's wife call. An emergency. Someone's got to get home." Bernardine nodded his head. "Not bad, my friend. Not bad at all." The minutes turned into quarter hours as the retired Deuxi� officer went to work, unctuously, with promises of reward for the wives of telephone technicians, if they would do what he asked them to do. Two hung up on him, three turned him down with epithets born of the suspicious Paris curbsides; but the sixth, amid obscenities, declared, "Why not?" As long as the rodent she had married understood that the money was hers. The hour was over, and Jason left the hotel, walking slowly, deliberately, down the pavement, crossing four streets until he saw a public phone on the Quai Voltaire by the Seine. A blanket of darkness was slowly floating down over Paris, the boats on the river and the bridges dotted with lights. As he approached the red kiosk he breathed steadily, inhaling deeply, exercising a control over himself that he never thought possible. He was about to place the most important phone call of his life, but he could not let the Jackal know that, if, indeed, it was the Jackal. He went inside, inserted the coin and dialed. "Yes?" It was a woman's voice, the French oui sharp and harsh. A Parisienne. "Blackbirds circle in the sky," said Bourne, repeating Santos's words in French. "They make a great deal of noise, all but one. He is silent." "Where do you call from?" "Here in Paris, but I am not from Paris." "From where, then?" "Where the winters are far colder," answered Jason, feeling the moisture on his hairline. Control. Control! "It is urgent that I reach a blackbird." The line was suddenly filled with silence, a sonic void, and Bourne stopped breathing. Then came the voice, low, steady, and as hollow as the previous silence. "We speak to a Muscovite?" The Jackal! It was the Jackal! The smooth, swift French could not hide the Latino trace. "I did not say that," answered Bourne; his own French dialect was one he employed frequently, with the guttural tinge of Gascony. "I merely said the winters were colder than Paris." "Who is this?" "Someone who is considered by someone who knows you sufficiently impressive to be given this number along with the proper words to go with it. I can offer you the contract of your career, of your life. The fee is immaterial�name your own�but those who pay are among the most powerful men in the United States. They control much of American industry, as well as that country's financial institutions, and have direct access to the nerve centers of the government." "This is also a very strange call. Very unorthodox." "If you're not interested, I'll forget this number and go elsewhere. I'm merely the broker. A simple yes or no will suffice." "I do not commit to things I know nothing about, to people I never heard of." "You'd recognize their positions, if I were at liberty to reveal them, believe that. However, I'm not seeking a commitment, only your interest at this point. If the answer is yes, I can reveal more. If it's no, well, I tried, but am forced to go elsewhere. The newspapers say he was in Brussels only yesterday. I'll find him." There was a short, sharp intake of breath at the mention of Brussels and the unspoken Jason Bourne. "Yes or no, blackbird?" Silence. Finally the Jackal spoke. "Call me back in two hours," he ordered, hanging up the phone. It was done! Jason leaned against the pay phone, the sweat pouring down his face and breaking out on his neck. The Pont-Royal. He had to get back to Bernardine! "It was Carlos!" he announced, closing the door and crossing directly to the bedside phone while taking Santos's card out of his pocket. He dialed; in seconds, he spoke. "The bird's confirmed," he said. "Give me a name, any name." The pause was brief. "I've got it. The merchandise will be left with the concierge. It'll be locked and taped; count it and send my passports back to me. Have your best boy pick everything up and call off the dogs. They could lead a blackbird to you." Jason hung up and turned to Bernardine. "The telephone number is in the fifteenth arrondissement," said the Deuxi� veteran. "Our man knew that, or at least assumed it when I gave it to him." "What's he going to do?" "Go back into the tunnels and refine things further." "Will he call us here?" "Fortunately, he drives a motorbike. He said he would be back at work in ten minutes or so and reach us by this room number within the hour." "Perfect!" "Not entirely. He wants five thousand francs." "He could have asked ten times that. ... What's 'within the hour'? How long before he calls?" "You were gone perhaps thirty, thirty-five minutes, and he reached me shortly after you left. I'd say within the next half hour." The telephone rang. Twenty seconds later they had an address on the boulevard Lefebvre. "I'm leaving," said Jason Bourne, taking Bernardine's automatic off the desk and putting two grenades in his pocket. "Do you mind?" "Be my guest," replied the Deuxi�, reaching under his jacket and removing a second weapon from his belt. "Pickpockets so abound in Paris one should always carry a backup. ... But what for?" "I've got at least a couple of hours and I want to look around." "Alone?" "How else? If we call for support, I risk being gunned down or spending the rest of my life in jail for an assassination in Belgium I had nothing to do with."
