There was a line of people waiting as he exited. He made his way back to his seat. Jason Bourne had a specific destination in mind; he knew that from the information the tailor, Fine, had provided: Bourne was now in possession of a packet meant for Alex Conklin. Was it possible, he wondered, that Bourne would now take on Conklin's identity?
It would be something Khan would consider if he were in Bourne's shoes. Khan stared out the window at the black sky. Bourne was somewhere in the sprawling metropolis ahead of him, this much was known, but he had no doubt that Paris was just a way station. Bourne's final destination was yet to be learned.
The National Security Advisor's assistant cleared her throat discreetly and the DCI glanced at his watch. Roberta Alonzo-Ortiz, the bitch-woman, had kept him waiting almost forty minutes. Inside the Beltway, playing games of power was standard operating procedure, but Jesus Christ, she was a woman. And weren't they both on the National Security Council? But she was the president's direct appointee; she had his ear like no one else. Where the hell was Brent Scowcroft when you needed him? Pasting a smile on his face, he turned away from the window out which he had been gazing while his mind had been engaged.
"She's ready to see you now," the assistant cooed sweetly. "Her call with the president just ended."
The bitch-woman doesn't miss a trick, the DCI thought. How she loves to rub my nose in her power-stink.
The National Security Advisor was entrenched behind her desk, a huge antique affair she'd had trucked in at her own expense. The DCI thought it absurd, especially since there was nothing on her desk except the brass pen-set the president had given her upon her acceptance of the appointment. He didn't trust people with tidy desks. Behind her, on elaborate gold standards, were the American flag and the flag with the seal of the President of the United States. Between them was a view of Lafayette Park. Two highbacked upholstered chairs sat facing her. The DCI looked at them somewhat longingly. Roberta Alonzo-Ortiz looked bright and chipper in a dark-blue knit suit and white silk blouse. In her ears were gold-backed enamel earrings of the American flag.
"I just got off the phone with the president," she said without preamble, not even a
"Good morning" or "Have a seat."
"So your assistant told me."
Alonzo-Ortiz glared at him, a momentary reminder that she hated being interrupted.
"The conversation concerned you."
Despite his best intentions, the DCI felt his body flush. "Perhaps I should have been here then."
"That would not have been inappropriate." The National Security Advisor went on before he could respond to her verbal slap in the face. "The terrorism summit will take place in five days. Every element is in place, which is why it pains me to have to reiterate that we are walking on eggshells here. Nothing can disturb the summit, especially not a CIA assassin gone criminally insane. The president is anticipating that the summit will be an unqualified success. He expects to make it the cornerstone of his drive for reelection. Even more, it will be his legacy." She put her hands flat on the highly polished surface of her desk. "Let me be perfectly clear—I have made the summit my number-one priority. Its success will ensure that this presidency is lauded and revered for generations to come."
The DCI had been standing throughout this discourse, not having been invited to sit down. The verbal dressing-down was especially humiliating, given its subtext. He did not care for threats, particularly veiled ones. He felt as if he was being given detention in elementary school.
"I had to brief him about the Washington Circle debacle." She said it as if the DCI had made her deliver a shovelful of shit to the Oval Office. "There are consequences to failure; there always are. You need to put a stake through the heart of this one so it can be buried as soon as possible. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly."
"Because it won't go away on its own," the National Security Advisor said. A vein had started to pulse in the DCI's temple. He felt the urge to throw something at her. "I said I understood perfectly."
Roberta Alonzo-Ortiz scrutinized him for a moment, as if she was deciding whether he was worthy of being believed. At length, she said, "Where's Jason Bourne?"
"He's fled the country." The DCI's fists were clenched and white. It was beyond him to tell the bitch-woman that Bourne had simply vanished. As it was, he could scarcely get the words out. But the moment he saw the look on her face, he realized his error.
"Fled the country?" Alonzo-Ortiz rose. "Where has he gone?" The DCI remained silent.
"I see. If Bourne gets anywhere near Reykjavik..."
"Why would he do that?"
"I don't know. He's insane, remember? He's gone rogue. He must know that sabotaging the summit security would embarrass us like nothing else." Her fury was palpable, and for the first time the DCI was truly afraid of her.
"I want Bourne dead," she said in a voice of steel.
"As much as I do." The DCI was fuming. "He's already killed twice, and one of the victims was an old friend."
The National Security Advisor came around from behind her desk. "The president wants Bourne dead. An agent gone rogue—and let's be honest here, Jason Bourne is a worst-case scenario—is a wild card we can't afford. Do I make myself clear?" The DCI nodded. "Believe me when I tell you that Bourne is as good as dead, vanished as if he had never existed at all."
"From your mouth to God's ear. The president's eye is on you," Roberta Alonzo-Ortiz said, ending the interview as abruptly and unpleasantly as she had begun it.
Jason Bourne arrived in Paris on a wet, overcast morning. Paris, city of light, was not at its best in the rain. The mansard-roofed buildings looked gray and wan, and the usually gay and lively outdoor cafes that lined the city's boulevards were quite deserted. Life went on in its muted fashion, but the city was not the same as when it sparkled and shone in sunlight, when good conversation and laughter could be heard on almost every corner. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, Bourne had spent most of the flight on his side, curled in a ball, asleep. His slumber, though now and again interrupted by dark and disturbing dreams, had the benefit of providing a well-needed respite from the pain that had wracked him in the first hour after the plane had taken off. He awoke, chilled and stiff, thinking of the small carved stone Buddha that had hung around Khan's neck. The image seemed to mock him, to be grinning, a mystery yet to be solved. He knew there must be many such carvings—in the shop where he and Dao had chosen the one they would give Joshua there were more than a dozen! He also knew that many Asian Buddhists wore such charms, for both protection and good luck.
In his mind's eye, he saw again Khan's knowing expression, so alight with anticipation and hatred when he had said, "You know what this is, don't you?" And then, uttered with such vehemence: "This is mine, Bourne. Do you understand? The Buddha is mine!" Khan was not Joshua Webb, Bourne told himself. Khan was clever but cruel—an assassin who had killed many times. He could not be Bourne's son.
Despite a bout of heavy crosswinds as they had left the coastline of the United States behind, Rush Service Flight 113 landed at Charles de Gaulle International Airport more or less on time. Bourne felt the urge to remove himself from the cargo hold while it was still on the runway, but he restrained himself.
Another plane was preparing to land. If he got off now, he would be out in the open, exposed in an area where even airport personnel should not be. And so he waited patiently while the plane taxied onward.
As it slowed, he knew that now was the time to act. While the plane was still moving, the jet engines running, none of the ground crew would approach the plane. He opened the door, jumped out onto the tarmac just as a fuel truck was passing by. He caught a ride on the back of it. Hanging there, he experienced a violent wave of nausea as the fumes triggered the memory of Khan's surprise attack. He leaped off the truck as quickly as was practical, making his way into the terminal building.
Inside, he collided with a baggage handler, apologized profusely in French, with a h
and to his head complaining of a migraine. Around the corner of the corridor, he used the ID tag he had swiped from the handler to go through the two sets of doors, out into the terminal proper, which, much to his consternation, was nothing more than a converted hangar. There were precious few people about, but at least he had successfully bypassed Customs and Immigration.
At the first opportunity, he dropped the ID tag into the nearest waste bin. He did not want to be caught wearing it when the handler reported it missing. Standing beneath a large clock, he adjusted his watch. It was just after six hi the morning, Paris time. He called Robbinet, described where he was.
The minister seemed puzzled. "Did you come in on a charter flight, Jason?"
"No, cargo plane."
"Bon, that explains why you are in old Terminal Three. You must have been diverted from Orly," Robbinet said. "Stay right where you are, mon ami. I will collect you shortly." He chuckled. "In the meantime, welcome to Paris. Confusion and ill-fortune to your pursuers."
Bourne went to wash up. Staring at himself in the men's room mirror, he saw a haggard face, haunted eyes and a bloody throat, someone he barely recognized. Cupping his hands, he threw water over his face and head, sluicing away the sweat, grime and whatever was left of the makeup he had applied earlier. With a damp paper towel, he cleaned the darkened horizontal wound across his throat. He knew he would need to get some antibiotic cream on it as soon as possible.
His stomach was in a knot, and though he didn't feel hungry, he knew he needed to eat. Every once in a while the taste of the jet fuel came back to him and he gagged, eyes tearing with the effort. To get his mind off the sick sensation, he performed five minutes of stretching, five more of calisthenics, ridding his muscles of their cramped and aching condition. He ignored the pain the exercises cost him, concentrating instead on breathing deeply and evenly.
By the time he walked back into the terminal, Jacques Robbinet was waiting for him. He was a tall, extraordinarily fit man, neatly dressed in a dark pinstripe suit, gleaming brogues and a stylish tweed topcoat. He was a bit older and a bit grayer, but otherwise he was the figure out of Bourne's fragmented memory.
He spotted Bourne immediately and a grin broke out on his face, but he made no move toward his old friend. Instead, he used hand signals to indicate that Bourne should walk down the terminal to Bourne's right. Bourne immediately saw why. Several members of the Police Nationale had entered the hangar, were questioning airport personnel, doubtless on the lookout for the suspect who had stolen the baggage handler's ID. Bourne walked at a natural pace. He was almost at the doors when he saw two more Police Nationale, machine pistols slung across their chests, carefully watching everyone who went in and out of the terminal.
Robbinet had seen them as well. Putting a frown on his face, he hurried past Bourne, pushing through the doors and engaging the policemen's attention. As soon as he introduced himself, they told him that they were on the lookout for a suspect—an assumed terrorist—who had stolen a baggage handler's ID tag. They showed him a faxed copy of Bourne's photo.
No, the minister had not seen this man. Robbinet's face assumed an expression of fear. Perhaps—was such a thing possible?—the terrorist was after him, he said. Would they be so kind as to escort him to his car?
As soon as the three men had moved off, Bourne went quickly through the door, out into the gray mist. He saw the policemen accompanying Robbinet to his Peugeot and he walked in the opposite direction. As the minister got into his car, he gave Bourne a furtive glance. He thanked the policemen, who walked back to their post outside the terminal doors.
Robbinet drove off, made a U-turn, coming back to exit the airport. Out of sight of the policemen, he slowed the car, rolled down the off-side window.
"That was close, mon ami"
When Bourne made a move to get in, Robbinet shook his head. "With the airport on high alert, there is certain to be more Police Nationale about." He reached down, popped the trunk. "Not the most comfortable of places." He looked apologetic. "But for now surely the safest."
Without another word, Bourne crawled into the trunk, shutting himself in, and Robbinet took off. It was well the minister had thought ahead; there were two roadblocks to negotiate before they could exit the airport, the first manned by Police Nationale, the second by members of the Quai d'Orsay, the French equivalent of the CIA. With Robbinet's credentials, he got through both without incident, but he was repeatedly shown Bourne's photo, asked if he had seen the fugitive.
Ten minutes after he had turned onto the Al, Robbinet pulled over into a breakdown area, popped the trunk. Bourne got out, slid into the passenger's seat, and Robbinet accelerated onto the motorway, heading north.
"That's him!" The baggage handler pointed to the grainy photo of Jason Bourne.
"That's the man who stole my ID."
"You're certain, monsieur? Please look again, more closely this time." Inspector Alain Savoy centered the photo in front of the potential witness. They were in a concrete room inside Terminal Three of Charles de Gaulle Airport, where Savoy had decided to set up temporary headquarters. It was a mean place, smelling strongly of mildew and disinfectant. He was always in such places, it seemed to him. There was nothing permanent in his life.
"Yes, yes," the baggage handler said. "He bumped into me, said he had a migraine. Ten minutes later, when I went to go through a secure door, I discovered the tag was gone. He took it."
"We know he did," Inspector Savoy said. "Your presence was electronically reported in two places while your ID tag was missing. Here." He handed over the tag. He was a short man and sensitive about it. His face looked as rumpled as his longish dark hair. His lips seemed permanently pursed, as if even in repose he was assessing innocence or guilt.
"We found it in a trash bin."
"Thank you, Inspector."
"You'll be fined, you know. One day's pay."
"That's an outrage," the baggage handler said. "I'll report this to the union. There may be a demonstration."
Inspector Savoy sighed. He was used to these threats. Among the union workers, there were always demonstrations. "Is there anything more you can tell me about the incident?" When the man shook his head, the inspector dismissed him. He stared down at the faxed sheet. Besides Jason Bourne's photo, it contained an American contact. Pulling out a triband cell phone, he punched in the number.
"Martin Lindros, Deputy Director of Central Intelligence."
"Monsieur Lindros, this is Inspector Alain Savoy of the Quai d'Orsay. We have found your fugitive."
"What?"
A slow smile crept over Savoy's unshaven face. The Quai d'Orsay was always sucking at the CIA teat. There was a great deal of pleasure, not to mention national pride, in having the situation reversed. "That's right. Jason Bourne arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport around six this morning, Paris time." Savoy's heart gladdened at the swift intake of breath at the other end of the line.
"Do you have him?" Lindros asked. "Is Bourne in custody?"
"Sadly, no."
"What do you mean? Where is he?"
"This is a mystery." There ensued a silence so long and deep that Savoy was obliged at length to say, "Monsieur Lindros, are you still on the line?"
"Yes, Inspector. I'm just going through my notes." Another silence, briefer this time.
"Alex Conklin had a clandestine contact high up in your government, a man named Jacques Robbinet—do you know him?"
"Certainement, Monsieur Robbinet is the Minister of Culture. Surely you don't expect me to believe that a man of his stature is in league with this madman?"
"Of course not," Lindros said. "But Bourne has already murdered Monsieur Conklin. If he's in Paris now, it stands to reason that he may be after Monsieur Robbinet."
"One moment, hold the line, if you please." Inspector Savoy was certain that he'd heard or read M. Robbinet's name somewhere today. He gestured to a subordinate, who handed him a sheaf of files. Savoy leafed rapidly through the interviews made this morni
ng at Charles de Gaulle by all the various police and security services. Sure enough, there was Robbinet's name. Hurriedly, he got back on the line. "Monsieur Lindros, it happens that Monsieur Robbinet was here today."
"At the airport?"
"Yes, and not only that. He was interviewed at the same terminal as the one Bourne was in. In fact, he seemed alarmed when he was told the name of the fugitive. He asked the Police Nationale to accompany him back to his automobile."
"This proves my theory." Lindros' voice was slightly breathless with a combination of excitement and alarm. "Inspector, you've got to find Robbinet, and fast."
"There's no problem," Inspector Savoy said. "I'll simply call the minister's office."
"That's precisely what you won't do," Lindros said. "I want to keep this operation absolutely secure."
"But surely Bourne can't—"
"Inspector, in the brief course of this investigation I've learned never to utter the phrase
'Bourne can't' because I know that he can. He's an exceedingly clever and dangerous assassin. Anyone who goes near him is in danger of their life, get me?"
"Pardon, monsieur?"
Lindros tried to slow down his speech. "However you choose to find Robbinet, you'll do it through back channels only. If you surprise the minister, chances are you'll be surprising Bourne as well."
"D'accord." Savoy stood up and looked for his trench coat.
"Listen closely, Inspector. I'm very much afraid Monsieur Robbinet's life is in imminent danger," Lindros said. "Everything now depends on you."
Concrete high-rises, office buildings, gleaming factories flashed by, squat and blocky by American standards, made even more ugly by the gloomy overcast. Soon enough, Robbinet turned off, driving west on the CD47 into the oncoming downpour.
Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy Page 17
