Page 18 of The Bourne Legacy (Jason Bourne 4)

  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 cafés 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 hand 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 in 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 A1, 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, smel

ling 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 tri-band 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 morning 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.

  “Where are we going, Jacques?” Bourne asked. “I need to get to Budapest as quickly as possible.”

  “D’accord,” Robbinet said. He’d been periodically glancing in his rear-view mirror, checking for Police Nationale vehicles. The Quai d’Orsay was another matter; their operatives used unmarked cars, switching make and models among their divisions every few months. “I had booked you on an outboard flight that left five minutes ago, but while you were in the air the game board has changed. The Agency is howling for your blood—and that howl is being heard in all corners of the world where they have leverage, including mine.”

  “But there must be a way—”

  “Of course there’s a way, mon ami.” Robbinet smiled. “There’s always a way—a certain someone named Jason Bourne taught me that.” He turned north again, onto the N17. “While you rested in the boot of my car, I was far from idle. There’s a military transport leaving from Orly at sixteen hundred hours.”

  “That’s not until four this afternoon,” Bourne said. “What about driving to Budapest?”

  “Such a plan is unsafe, too many Police Nationale. And your maddened American friends have pricked the Quai d’Orsay into action.” The Frenchman shrugged. “It’s all arranged. I’ve all your credentials with me. Under military cover you’ll be secure from scrutiny, and in any event it’s best to let the incident at Terminal Three die down, non?” He swung past some slow-moving traffic. “Until then, you’ll need a place to go to ground.”

  Bourne turned his head away, stared out at the dreary industrial landscape. The impact of what had happened during his last encounter with Khan had hit him with the impact of a train derailing. He couldn’t help exploring the fierce ache inside himself, much as one keeps pressing a sore tooth, if only to determine just how deep the pain went. The fiercely analytical portion of his mind had already determined that Khan hadn’t really said anything that indicated he possessed intimate knowledge of David or Joshua Webb. He had made intimations, innuendoes, yes, but what did they amount to?

  Bourne, aware that Robbinet was scrutinizing him, turned further toward the window.

  Robbinet, misconstruing the reason for Bourne’s brooding silence, said, “Mon ami, you will be in Budapest by eighteen hundred hours, have no fear.”

  “Merci, Jacques.” Bourne momentarily freed himself from his melancholy thoughts. “Thanks for all your kindness and help. What now?”

  “Alors, we are going to Goussainville. Not the most scenic town in France, but there’s someone there who I suspect will interest you.”

  Robbinet said nothing more for the remainder of the trip. He was right about Goussainville. It was one of those French villages that, because of its proximity to the airport, had been transformed into a modern industrial town. The depressing rows of high-rises, glass-fronted offices and giant retailers not unlike Wal-Mart were only slightly alleviated by the roundabouts and curbsides planted with row upon row of colorful flowers.

  Bourne noticed the radio unit mounted below the dashboard, presumably used by Jacques’ driver. As Robbinet pulled into a gas station, he asked his friend for the frequencies used by the Police Nationale and the Quai d’Orsa

y. While Robbinet pumped gas into the car, Bourne monitored both frequencies but heard nothing about the incident at the airport, nothing of interest about him. Bourne watched the cars coming and going in and out of the gas station. A woman got out of her car, asked Robbinet his opinion about her front driver’s side tire. She was worried it needed air. A vehicle with two young men pulled in. They both got out. One man lounged against the fender of the car while the driver went into the station. The lounging man eyed Jacques’ Peugeot, then gazed appreciatively at the woman as she walked back to her car.

  “Anything on the air?” Robbinet inquired as he slid in beside Bourne.

  “Not a thing.”

  “That at least is good news,” Robbinet said as they drove off.

  They went down more ugly streets, and Bourne used the mirrors to check that the car with the two young men wasn’t tailing them.

  “Goussainville had an ancient and royal beginning,” Robbinet said. “Once upon a time it belonged to Clotaire, wife of Clovis, the king of France early in the sixth century. While we Franks were still considered barbarians, he converted to Catholicism, making us acceptable to the Romans. The emperor made him a consul. Barbarians no longer, we became true champions of the Faith.”

  “You’d never know this place was once a medieval city.”

  The minister pulled up to a series of concrete apartment buildings. “In France,” he said, “history is often hidden in the most unexpected places.”

  Bourne looked around. “This isn’t where your current mistress lives, is it?” he said. “Because the last time you introduced me to your mistress I had to pretend she was my girlfriend when your wife walked into the café where we were having drinks.”

  “I recall you having quite a good time that afternoon.” Robbinet shook his head. “But no, with her Dior this and her Yves Saint Laurent that I’m certain Delphine would rather slit her wrists than live in Goussainville.”

  “Then what are we doing here?”

  The minister sat staring out at the rain for some time. “Filthy weather,” he said at last.