Page 55 of The Bourne Ultimatum (Jason Bourne 3)

  “Pazzo!” said the dark-haired man in Italian to the fashionably dressed middle-aged woman behind the wheel. “I tell you it’s crazy! For three days we wait, all incoming American planes watched, and we are about to give up when that fool in New York turns out to be right. It’s them!.… Here, I’ll drive. You get out and reach our people over there. Tell them to call DeFazio; instruct him to go to his other favorite restaurant and await my call to him. He is not to leave until we speak.”

  “Is this you, old man?” asked the hostess in the diplomatic lounge, speaking softly into the telephone at her counter.

  “It is I,” replied the quavering voice at the other end of the line. “And the Angelus rings for eternity in my ears.”

  “It is you, then.”

  “I told you that, so get on with it.”

  “The list we were given last week included a slender middle-aged American with a limp, possibly accompanied by a doctor. Is this correct?”

  “Correct! And?”

  “They have passed through. I used the title ‘Doctor’ with the cripple’s companion and he responded to it.”

  “Where have they gone? It’s vital that I know!”

  “It was not disclosed, but I will soon learn enough for you to find out, old man. The porter who took their luggage to the south platform will get the description and the license of the car that meets them.”

  “In the name of God, call me back with the information!”

  * * *

  Three thousand miles from Paris, Louis DeFazio sat alone at a rear table in Trafficante’s Clam House on Prospect Avenue in Brooklyn, New York. He finished his late afternoon lunch of vitello tonnato and dabbed his lips with the bright red napkin, trying to look his usual jovial, if patronizing, self. However, if the truth were known, it was all he could do to stop from gnawing on the napkin rather than caressing his mouth with it. Maledetto! He had been at Trafficante’s for nearly two hours—two hours! And it had taken him forty-five minutes to get there after the call from Garafola’s Pasta Palace in Manhattan, so that meant it was actually over two hours, almost three, since the gumball in Paris, France, spotted two of the targets. How long could it take for two bersaglios to get to a hotel in the city from the airport? Like three hours? Not unless the Palermo gumball drove to London, England, which was not out of the question, not if one knew Palermo.

  Still, DeFazio knew he had been right! The way the Jew shrink talked under the needle there was no other route he and the ex-spook could take but to Paris and their good buddy, the fake hit man.… So Nicolo and the shrink disappeared, went poof-zam, so what the fuck? The Jew got away and Nicky would do time. But Nicolo wouldn’t talk; he understood that bad trouble, like a knife in the kidney, was waiting for him wherever he went if he did. Besides, Nicky didn’t know anything so specific the lawyers couldn’t wipe away as secondhand horseshit from a fifth-rate horse’s ass. And the shrink only knew he was in a room in some farmhouse, if he could even remember that. He never saw anybody but Nicolo when he was “compass mantis,” as they say.

  But Louis DeFazio knew he was right. And because he was right, there were more than seven million big ones waiting for him in Paris. Seven million! Holy Christ! He could give the Palermo gumballs in Paris more than they ever expected and still walk away with a bundle.

  An old waiter from the old country, an uncle of Trafficante, approached the table and Louis held his breath. “There’s a telephone call for you, Signor DeFazio.”

  As was usual, the capo supremo went to a pay phone at the end of a narrow dark corridor outside the men’s room. “This is New York,” said DeFazio.

  “This is Paris, Signor New York. This is also pazzo!”

  “Where’ve you been? You pazzo enough to drive to London, England? I’ve been waitin’ three hours!”

  “Where I’ve been is on a number of unlit country roads, which is important only to my nerves. Where I am now is crazy!”

  “So where?”

  “I’m using a gatekeeper’s telephone for which I’m paying roughly a hundred American dollars and the French buffone keeps looking through the window to see that I don’t steal anything—perhaps his lunch pail, who knows?”

  “You don’t sound too stupid for a gumball. So what gatekeeper’s what? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m at a cemetery about twenty-five miles from Paris. I tell you—”

  “A cimitero?” interrupted Louis. “What the hell for?”

  “Because your two acquaintances drove here from the airport, you ignorante! At the moment there is a burial in progress—a night burial with a candlelight procession which will soon be drowned out by rain—and if your two acquaintances flew over here to attend this barbaric ceremony, then the air in America is filled with brain-damaging pollutants! We did not bargain for this sciocchezze, New York. We have our own work to do.”

  “They went there to meet the big cannoli,” said DeFazio quietly, as if to himself. “As to work, gumball, if you ever want to work with us, or Philadelphia, or Chicago, or Los Angeles again, you’ll do what I tell you. You’ll also be terrifically paid for it, capisce?”

  “That makes more sense, I admit.”

  “Stay out of sight, but stay with them. Find out where they go and who they see. I’ll get over there as soon as I can, but I gotta go by way of Canada or Mexico, just to make sure no one’s watching. I’ll be there late tomorrow or early the next day.”

  “Ciao,” said Paris.

  “Omerta,” said Louis DeFazio.

  30

  The hand-held candles flickered in the night drizzle as the two parallel lines of mourners walked solemnly behind the white casket borne on the shoulders of six men; several began to slip on the increasingly wet gravel of the cemetery’s path. Flanking the procession were four drummers, two on each side, their snare drums snapping out the slow cadence of the death march, erratically out of sequence because of the unexpected rocks and the unseen flat grave markers in the darkness of the bordering grass. Shaking his head slowly in bewilderment, Morris Panov watched the strange nocturnal burial rite, relieved to see Alex Conklin limping, threading his way between the tombstones toward their meeting ground.

  “Any sign of them?” asked Alex.

  “None,” replied Panov. “I gather you didn’t do any better.”

  “Worse. I got stuck with a lunatic.”

  “How?”

  “A light was on in the gatehouse, so I went over thinking David or Marie might have left us a message. There was a clown outside who kept looking into a window and said he was the watchman and did I want to rent his telephone.”

  “His telephone?”

  “He said there were special rates for the night, as the nearest pay phone was ten kilometers down the road.”

  “A lunatic,” agreed Panov.

  “I explained that I was looking for a man and a woman I was to meet here and wondered if they’d left a message. There was no message but there was the telephone. Two hundred francs—crazy.”

  “I might do a flourishing business in Paris,” said Mo, smiling. “Did he by any chance see a couple wandering around?”

  “I asked him that and he nodded affirmative, saying there were dozens. Then he pointed to that candlelight parade over there before going back to his goddamn window.”

  “What is that parade, incidentally?”

  “I asked him that, too. It’s a religious cult; they bury their dead only at night. He thinks they may be gypsies. He said that while blessing himself.”

  “They’re going to be wet gypsies,” observed Panov, pulling up his collar as the drizzle turned into rain.

  “Christ, why didn’t I think of it?” exclaimed Conklin, looking over his shoulder.

  “The rain?” asked the bewildered psychiatrist.

  “No, the large tomb halfway up the hill beyond the gatehouse. It’s where it happened!”

  “Where you tried to—” Mo did not finish the question; he did not have to.

  “Where

he could have killed me but didn’t,” completed Alex. “Come on!”

  The two Americans retreated down the gravel path past the gatehouse and into the darkness of the rising hill of grass punctuated by white gravestones now glistening in the rain. “Easy,” cried Panov, out of breath. “You’re used to that nonexistent foot of yours, but I haven’t quite adjusted to my pristine body having been raped by chemicals.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Mo!” shouted a woman’s voice from a marble portico above. The figure waved her arms beneath the pillared, overhanging roof of a grave so large it looked like a minor mausoleum.

  “Marie?” yelled Panov, rushing ahead of Conklin.

  “That’s nice!” roared Alex, limping with difficulty up the wet slippery grass. “You hear the sound of a female and suddenly you’re unraped. You need a shrink, you phony!”

  The embraces were meant; a family was together. While Panov and Marie spoke quietly, Jason Bourne took Conklin aside to the edge of the short marble roof, the rain now harsh. The former candlelight procession below, the flickering flames now gone, was half scattered, half holding its position by a gravesite. “I didn’t mean to choose this place, Alex,” said Jason. “But with that crowd down there I couldn’t think of another.”

  “Remember the gatehouse and that wide path to the parking lot?… You’d won. I was out of ammunition and you could have blown my head apart.”

  “You’re wrong, how many times have I told you? I couldn’t have killed you. It was in your eyes; even though I wasn’t able to see them clearly I knew what was there. Anger and confusion, but, above all, confusion.”

  “That’s never been a reason not to kill a man who tries to kill you.”

  “It is if you can’t remember. The memory may be gone but not the fragments, not the—well, for me they were … pulsating images. In and out, in and out, but there.”

  Conklin looked up at Bourne, a sad grin on his face. “The pulsating bit,” he said. “That was Mo’s term. You stole it.”

  “Probably,” said Jason as both men in unison looked back at Marie and Panov. “She’s talking about me, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Why not? She’s concerned and he’s concerned.”

  “I hate to think how many more concerns I’ll give them both. You, too, I imagine.”

  “What are you trying to tell me, David?”

  “Just that. Forget David. David Webb doesn’t exist, not here, not now. He’s an act I put on for his wife, and I do it badly. I want her to go back to the States, to her children.”

  “Her children? She won’t do it. She came over to find you and she found you. She remembers Paris thirteen years ago and she won’t leave you. Without her then you wouldn’t be alive today.”

  “She’s an impediment. She has to go. I’ll find a way.”

  Alex looked up at the cold eyes of the creation once known as the Chameleon and spoke quietly. “You’re a fifty-year-old man, Jason. This isn’t Paris thirteen years ago or Saigon years before that. It’s now, and you need all the help you can get. If she thinks she can provide a measure of it, I for one believe her.”

  Bourne snapped his head down at Conklin. “I’ll be the judge of who believes what.”

  “That’s a touch extreme, pal.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Jason, softening his tone. “I don’t want to have happen here what happened in Hong Kong. That can’t be a problem for you.”

  “Maybe not.… Look, let’s get out of here. Our driver knows a little country restaurant in Epernon, about six miles from here, where we can talk. We’ve got several things to go over.”

  “Tell me,” said Bourne. “Why Panov? Why did you bring Mo with you?”

  “Because if I hadn’t he would have put strychnine in my flu shot.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Exactly what it says. He’s a part of us, and you know it better than Marie or myself.”

  “Something happened to him, didn’t it? Something happened to him because of me.”

  “It’s over with and he’s back, that’s all you have to know now.”

  “It was Medusa, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I repeat, he’s back, and outside of being a little tired, he’s okay.”

  “Little …? Which reminds me. A little country restaurant six miles from here, isn’t that what your driver said?”

  “Yes, he knows Paris and everything around it thoroughly.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A French Algerian who’s worked for the Agency for years. Charlie Casset recruited him for us. He’s tough, knowledgeable and very well paid for both. Above all, he can be trusted.”

  “I suppose that’s good enough.”

  “Don’t suppose, accept it.”

  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 gla

ss 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.”