“I’ll make a phone callAre you at the... “I’ll make a phone callAre you at the Pont-Royal?”
“No
“Where are you?”
“I suppose you could say I’m an anxious and confused butterfly going from one vaguely
remembered place to another
“You are looking for herBut then that wasn’t a question, was it?”
“Forgive me, but in some ways I hope you do not find herI’ll call you back in twenty minutes
He had gone to yet another point of recall, the Trocadéro, and the Palais de ChaillotHe had
been shot at in the past on one of the terraces; there had been gunfire and men running down the
endless stone steps, intermittently obscured by the huge gilded statues and the great sprays of the
fountains, disappearing into the formal gardens, finally out of sight, out of rangeWhat had
happened? Why did he remember the Trocadéro? But Marie had been there—somewhereWhere
had she been in that enormous complex? Where? A terrace! She had been on a terraceNear a
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statue—what statue? Descartes? Racine? Talleyrand? The statue of Descartes came to his mind
first
He had found it and there was no MarieHe had looked at his watch; it had been nearly fortyfive
minutes since he had talked to BernardineLike the men in his inner screen, he had raced down
the steps
“Go to the Banque Normandie and ask for Monsieur TabouriHe understands that a Monsieur
Simon intends to transfer over seven million francs from the Caymans by way of voice
authorization through his private banker in the islandsHe is most happy to let you use his phone,
but believe me, he’ll charge you for the call
“Where are you now?”
“The TrocadéroI have the damnedest feelings, like vibrations, but she’s not there
It’s probably the things I can’t rememberHell, I may have taken a bullet here, I simply don’t
know
He had done so, and within thirty-five minutes after his call to the Caymans, the olive-skinned,
perpetually smiling Monsieur
gucci bookbag Tabouri confirmed that his funds were in placeHe re quested
750,000 francs in the largest notes possibleThey were delivered to him, and the grinning
obsequious banker took him confidentially aside, away from the desk—which was rather foolish, as
there was no one else in the office—and spoke quietly by a window
“There are some marvelous real estate opportunities in Beirut, believe me, I knowI am the
expert on the Middle East and these stupid conflagrations cannot last much longerMon Dieu, no
one will be left alive! It will once again rise as the Paris of the MediterraneanEstates for a fraction
of their value, hotels for a ridiculous price!”
“It sounds interesting
He had fled the Banque Normandie as if its confines held the germs of a lethal diseaseHe had
returned to the Pont-Royal, and again tried to reach Alex Conklin in the United StatesIt was then
close to one o’clock in the afternoon in Vienna, Virginia, and still all he had
le dix balenciaga heard was an
answering machine with Alex’s disembodied voice instructing the caller to leave a messageFor
any number of reasons, Jason had chosen not to do so
And now he was in Argenteuil, walking up the steps of the métro to the pavement, where he
would slowly, cautiously make his way into the uglier streets and the vicinity of Le Coeur du
SoldatHis instructions were clearHe was not to be the man he was last night, no limp, no ragged
cast-off army clothing, no image that anyone might recognizeHe was to be a simple laborer and
reach the gates of the old closed-down refinery and smoke cigarettes while leaning against the wall
This was to take place between 12:30 and one o’clock in the morningNo sooner and no later
When he had asked Santos’s messengers—after giving them several hundred francs for their
inconvenience—the reason for these late-night precautions, the less inhibited man had replied,
“Santos never leaves Le Coeur du
cartier tank watch Soldat
“He left last evening
“For minutes only,” rejoined the more voluble messenger Bourne nodded, but he had not understood, he could only speculateWas Santos
in some way the Jackal’s prisoner, confined to the sleazy café night and day? It was a fascinating
query in light of the manager’s size and sheer raw power, both combined with a far-above-average
intellect
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It was 12:37 when Jason, in blue jeans, cap and a dark, tattered V-necked sweater, reached the
gates of the old factoryHe took out a pack of Gauloise cigarettes and leaned against the wall,
lighting one with a match, holding the flame longer than necessary before he blew it outHis
thoughts returned to the enigmatic Santos, the premier conduit in Carlos’s army, the most trusted
satellite in the Jackal’s orbit, a man whose French might have been formed at the Sorbonne, yet
Santos was a Latin AmericanA Venezuelan, if Bourne’s instincts had
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