"Yes. His name was Dylan Thomas and he died in his mid-thirties. He was saying fight like a son of a bitch. Don't give in."
"I mean to do that." Bernardine again reached into a pocket and pulled out a card. "Here is my office-merely consultant status, you understand-and on the back I've written down my home phone; it is a special telephone, actually unique. Call me; whatever you need will be provided. Remember, I am the only friend you have in Paris. No one else knows you are here."
"May I ask you a question?"
"Mais certainement."
"How can you do the things you're doing for me when for all intents and purposes you've been put out to pasture?"
"Ah," exclaimed the consultant to the Deuxième Bureau. "The younger man grows older! Like Alex, I carry my credentials in my head. I know the secrets. How is it otherwise?"
"You could be taken out, neutralized-have an accident."
"Stupide, young man! What is in both our heads we say is written down, locked away, to be revealed should such unnatural acts occur. ... Of course, it's all nonsense, for what do we really know that could not be denied, labeled as the ramblings of old men, but they do not know that. Fear, monsieur. It is the most potent weapon in our profession. Second, of course, is embarrassment, but that is usually reserved for the Soviet KGB and your Federal Bureau of Investigation, both of which fear embarrassment more than their nations' enemies."
"You and Conklin come from the same street, don't you?"
"But of course. To the best of my knowledge, neither of us has a wife or a family, only sporadic lovers to fill our beds, and loud, annoying nephews and nieces to fill our flats on certain holidays; no really close friends except now and then an enemy we respect, who, for all we know and in spite of our truce, might shoot us or poison us with a drink. We must live alone, you see, for we are the professionals-we have nothing to do with the normal world; we merely use it as a couverture-as we slink around in dark alleys, paying or compromising people for secrets that mean nothing where summit conferences are concerned."
"Then why do you do it? Why not walk away if it's so useless?"
"It's in the blood rushing through our veins. We've been trained. Beat the enemy in the deadly game-he takes you or you take him, and it is better that you take him."
"That's dumb."
"But of course. It's all dumb. So why does Jason Bourne go after the Jackal here in Paris? Why doesn't he walk away and say Enough. Complete protection is yours for the asking."
"So's prison. Can you get me out of here and into the city? I'll find a hotel and be in touch with you."
"Before you are in touch with me, reach Alex."
"What?"
"Alex wants you to call him. Something happened."
"Where's a phone?"
"Not now. Two o'clock, Washington time; you have well over an hour. He won't be back before then."
"Did he say what it was?"
"I think he's trying to find out. He was very upset."
The room at the Pont-Royal on the rue Montalembert was small and in a secluded corner of the hotel, reached by taking the slow, noisy brass elevator to the top floor and walking down two narrow intersecting hallways, all of which was satisfactory to Bourne. It reminded him of a mountain cave, remote and secure.
To chew up the minutes before calling Alex, he walked along the nearby boulevard Saint-Germain, making necessary purchases. Various toiletries joined several articles of clothing; casual denims called for summer shirts and a lightweight safari jacket; dark socks required tennis shoes, to be scuffed and soiled. Whatever he could supply himself now would save time later. Fortunately, there was no need to press old Bernardine for a weapon. During the drive into Paris from Orly, the Frenchman had opened the glove compartment of his car in silence, withdrawn a taped brown box and handed it to Jason. Inside was an automatic with two boxes of shells. Underneath, neatly layered, were thirty thousand francs, in varying denominations, roughly five thousand dollars, American.
"Tomorrow I will arrange a method for you to obtain funds whenever necessary. Within limits, of course."
"No limits," Bourne had contradicted. "I'll have Conklin wire you a hundred thousand, and then another hundred after that, if it's necessary. You just tell him where."
"Of contingency funds?"
"No. Mine. Thanks for the gun."
With both his hands holding the looped strings of shopping bags, he headed back to Montalembert and the hotel. In a few minutes it would be two in the afternoon in Washington, eight at night in Paris. As he walked rapidly down the street he tried not to think about Alex's news-an impossible demand on himself. If anything had happened to Marie and the children, he'd go out of his mind! Yet what could have happened? They were back on Tranquility by now, and there was no safer place for them. There was not! He was sure of that. As he entered the old elevator and lowered the bags in his right hand so as to push the number of his floor and remove the hotel key from his pocket, there was a stinging sensation in his neck; he gasped-he had moved too fast, stretched the gut of a suture perhaps. He felt no warm trickle of blood; it was merely a warning this time. He rushed down the two narrow corridors to his room, unlocked the door, threw the shopping bags on the bed, and rapidly took the three necessary steps to the desk and the telephone. Conklin was true to his word; the phone in Vienna, Virginia, was picked up on the first ring.
"Alex, it's me. What happened? Marie ... ?"
"No," interrupted Conklin curtly. "I spoke to her around noon. She and the kids are back at the inn and she's ready to kill me. She doesn't believe a word I told her and I'm going to erase the tape. I haven't heard that kind of language since the Mekong Delta."
"She's upset-"
"So am I," broke in Alex, not bothering to make light of Bourne's understatement. "Mo's disappeared."
"What?"
"You heard me. Panov's gone, vanished."
"My God, how? He was guarded every minute!"
"We're trying to piece it together; that's where I was, over at the hospital."
"Hospital?"
"Walter Reed. He was in a psych session with a military this morning, and when it was over he never came out to his detail. They waited twenty minutes or so, then went in to find him and his escort because he was on a tight schedule. They were told he left."
"That's crazy!"
"It gets crazier and scarier. The head floor nurse said an army doctor, a surgeon, came to the desk, showed his ID, and instructed her to tell Dr. Panov that there was a change of routing for him, that he was to use the east-wing exit because of an expected protest march at the main entrance. The east wing has a different hallway to the psych area than the one to the main lobby, yet the army surgeon used the main doors."
"Come again?"
"He walked right past our escort in the hallway."
"And obviously out the same way and around to the east-wing hall. Nothing on-scene unusual. A doctor with clearance in a restricted area, in and out, and while he's in, he delivers false instructions. ... But, Christ, Alex, who? Carlos was on his way back here, to Paris! Whatever he wanted in Washington he got. He found me, he found us. He didn't need any more!"
"DeSole," said Conklin quietly. "DeSole knew about me and Mo Panov. I threatened the Agency with both of us, and DeSole was there in the conference room."
"I'm not with you. What are you telling me?"
"DeSole, Brussels ... Medusa."
"All right, I'm slow."
"It's not he, David, it's they. DeSole was taken out, our connection removed. It's Medusa."
"To hell with them! They're on my back burner!"
"You're not on theirs. You cracked their shell. They want you."
"I couldn't care less. I told you yesterday, I've only got one priority and he's in Paris, square one in Argenteuil."