The Bourne Identity jb-1

by Robert Ludlum

  Still, there was a private telephone somewhere and someone who not only spoke for Carlos but was also empowered to set in motion three killers on the hunt. A woman …

  He saw her, it had to be her. Halfway down the carpeted staircase, a tall imperious woman with a face that age and cosmetics had rendered into a cold mask of itself. She was stopped by a reedlike male clerk who held out a salesbook for the woman’s approval; she looked at it, then glanced down at the floor, at a nervous, middle-aged man by a nearby jewelry counter. The glance was brief but pointed, the message clear. All right, mon ami, pick up your bauble but pay your bill soon. Otherwise you could be embarrassed next time. Or worse. I might call your wife. In milliseconds the rebuke was over; a smile as false as it was broad cracked the mask, and with a nod and a flourish the woman took a pencil from the clerk and initialed the sales slip. She continued down the staircase, the clerk following, leaning forward in further conversation. It was obvious he was flattering her; she turned on the bottom step, touching her crown of streaked dark hair and tapped his wrist in a gesture of thanks.

  There was little placidity in the woman’s eyes. They were as aware as any pair of eyes Bourne had ever seen, except perhaps behind gold-rimmed glasses in Zurich.

  Instinct. She was his objective; it remained how to reach her. The first moves of the pavane had to be subtle, neither too much nor too little, but warranting attention. She had to come to him.

  The next few minutes astonished Jason—which was to say he astonished himself. The term was “role-playing,” he understood that, but what shocked him was the ease with which he slid into a character far from himself—as he knew himself. Where minutes before he had made appraisals, he now made inspections, pulling garments from their individual racks, holding the fabrics up to the light. He peered closely at stitchings, examined buttons and buttonholes, brushing his fingers across collars, fluffing them up, then letting them fall. He was a judge of fine clothes, a schooled buyer who knew what he wanted and rapidly disregarded that which did not suit his tastes. The only items he did not examine were the price tags; obviously they held no interest for him.

  The fact that they did not prodded the interest of the imperious woman who kept glancing over in his direction. A sales clerk, her concave body floating upright on the carpet, approached him; he smiled courteously, but said he preferred to browse by himself. Less than thirty seconds later he was behind three manikins, each dressed in the most expensive designs to be found in Les Classiques.

  He raised his eyebrows, his mouth set in silent approval as he squinted between the plastic figures at the woman beyond the counter. She whispered to the clerk who had spoken to him; the former model shook her head, shrugging.

  Bourne stood arms akimbo, billowing his cheeks, his breath escaping slowly as his eyes shifted from one manikin to another, he was an uncertain man about to make up his mind. And a potential client in that situation, especially one who did not look at prices, needed assistance from the most knowledgeable person in the vicinity; he was irresistible. The regal woman touched her hair and gracefully negotiated the aisles toward him. The pavane had come to its first conclusion; the dancers bowed, preparing for the gavotte.

  “I see you’ve gravitated to our better items, monsieur,” said the woman in English, a presumption obviously based on the judgment of a practiced eye.

  “I trust I have,” replied Jason. “You’ve got an interesting collection here, but one does have to ferret, doesn’t one?”

  “The ever-present and inevitable scale of values, monsieur. However, all our designs are exclusive.”

  “Cela va sans dire, madame.”

  “Ah, vous parlez français?”

  “Un peu. Passably.”

  “You are American?”

  “I’m rarely there,” said Bourne. “You say these are made for you alone?”

  “Oh, yes. Our designer is under exclusive contract; I’m sure you’ve heard of him. René Bergeron.”

  Jason frowned. “Yes. I have. Very respected, but he’s never made a breakthrough, has he?”

  “He will, monsieur. It’s inevitable; his reputation grows each season. A number of years ago he worked for St. Laurent, then Givenchy. Some say he did far more than cut the patterns, if you know what I mean.”

  “It’s not hard to follow.”

  “And how those cats try to push him in the background! It’s disgraceful! Because he adores women; he flatters them and does not make them into little boys, vous comprenez?”

  “Je vous comprends parfaitement.”

  “He’ll emerge worldwide one day soon and they’ll not be able to touch the hems of his creations. Think of these as the works of an emerging master, monsieur.”

  “You’re very convincing. I’ll take these three. I assume they’re in the size twelve range.”

  “Fourteen, monsieur. They will be fitted, of course.”

  “I’m afraid not, but I’m sure there are decent tailors in Cap-Ferrat.”

  “Naturellement,” conceded the woman quickly.

  “Also …” Bourne hesitated, frowning again. “While I’m here, and to save time, select a few others for me along these lines. Different prints, different cuts, but related, if that makes sense.”

  “Very good sense, monsieur.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ve had a long flight from the Bahamas and I’m exhausted.”

  “Would monsieur care to sit down then?”

  “Frankly, monsieur would care for a drink.”

  “It can be arranged, of course. As to the method of payment, monsieur … ?”

  “Je paierai cash, I think,” said Jason, aware that the exchange of merchandise for hard currency would appeal to the overseer of Les Classiques. “Checks and accounts are like spoors in the forest, aren’t they?”

  “You are as wise as you are discriminating.” The rigid smile cracked the mask again, the eyes in no way related. “About that drink, why not my office? It’s quite private; you can relax and I shall bring you selections for your approval.”

  “Splendid.”

  “As to the price range, monsieur?”

  “Les meilleurs, madame.”

  “Naturellement.” A thin white hand was extended. “I am Jacqueline Lavier, managing partner of Les Classiques.”

  “Thank you.” Bourne took the hand without offering a name. One might follow in less public surroundings, his expression said, but not at the moment. For the moment, money was his introduction. “Your office? Mine’s several thousand miles from here.”

  “This way, monsieur.” The rigid smile appeared once more, breaking the facial mask like a sheet of progressively cracked ice. Madame Lavier gestured toward the staircase. The world of haute couture continued, its orbit uninterrupted by failure and death on the Quai de la Rapée.

  That lack of interruption was as disturbing to Jason as it was bewildering. He was convinced the woman walking beside him was the carrier of lethal commands that had been aborted by gunfire an hour ago, the orders having been issued by a faceless man who demanded obedience or death. Yet there was not the slightest indication that a strand of her perfectly groomed hair had been disturbed by nervous fingers, no pallor on the chiseled mask that might be taken for fear. Yet there was no one higher at Les Classiques, no one else who would have a private number in a very private office.

  Part of an equation was missing … but another had been disturbingly confirmed.

  Himself. The chameleon. The charade had worked; he was in the enemy’s camp, convinced beyond doubt that he had not been recognized. The whole episode had a déjà vu quality about it. He had done such things before, experienced the feelings of similar accomplishment before. He was a man running through an unfamiliar jungle, yet somehow instinctively knowing his way, sure of where the traps were and how to avoid them. The chameleon was an expert.

  They reached the staircase and started up the steps. Below on the right, the conservatively dressed, middle-aged operator was speaking quietly in
to the extended mouthpiece, nodding his gray-haired head almost wearily, as if assuring the party on the line that their world was as serene as it should be.

  Bourne stopped on the seventh step, the pause involuntary. The back of the man’s head, the outline of the cheekbone, the sight of the thinning gray hair—the way it fell slightly over the ear; he had seen that man before! Somewhere. In the past, in the unremembered past, but remembered now in darkness … and with flashes of light. Explosions, mists; buffeting winds followed by silences filled with tension. What was it? Where was it? Why did the pain come to his eyes again? The gray-haired man began to turn in his swivel chair, Jason looked away before they made contact.

  “I see monsieur is taken by our rather unique switchboard,” said Madame Lavier. “It’s a distinction we feel sets Les Classiques apart from the other shops on Saint-Honoré.”

  “How so?” asked Bourne, as they proceeded up the steps, the pain in his eyes causing him to blink.

  “When a client calls Les Classiques, the telephone is not answered by a vacuous female, but instead by a cultured gentleman who has all our information at his fingertips.”

  “A nice touch.”

  “Other gentlemen think so,” she added. “Especially when making telephone purchases they would prefer to keep confidential. There are no spoors in our forest, monsieur.” They reached Jacqueline Lavier’s spacious office. It was the lair of an efficient executive, scores of papers in separate piles on the desk, an easel against the wall holding watercolor sketches, some boldly initialed, others left untouched, obviously unacceptable. The walls were filled with framed photographs of the Beautiful People, their beauty too often marred by gaping mouths and smiles as false as the one on the mask of the inhabitant of the office. There was a bitch quality in the perfumed air, these were the quarters of an aging, pacing tigress, swift to attack any who threatened her possessions or the sating of her appetites. Yet she was disciplined; all things considered, an estimable liaison to Carlos.

  Who was that man on the switchboard? Where had he seen him?

  He was offered a drink from a selection of bottles; he chose brandy.

  “Do sit down, monsieur. I shall enlist the help of René himself, if I can find him.”

  “That’s very kind, but I’m sure whatever you choose will be satisfactory. I have an instinct about taste; yours is all through this office. I’m comfortable with it.”

  “You’re too generous.”

  “Only when it’s warranted,” said Jason, still standing. “Actually, I’d like to look around at the photographs. I see a number of acquaintances, if not friends. A lot of these faces pass through the Bahamian banks with considerable frequency.”

  “I’m sure they do,” agreed Lavier, in a tone that bespoke regard for such avenues of finance. “I shan’t be long, monsieur.”

  Nor would she, thought Bourne, as Les Classiques’ partner swept out of the office. Mme. Lavier was not about to allow a tired, wealthy mark too much time to think. She would return with the most expensive designs she could gather up as rapidly as possible. Therefore, if there was anything in the room that could shed light on Carlos’ intermediary—or on the assassin’s operation—it had to be found quickly. And, if it was there, it would be on or around the desk.

  Jason circled behind the imperial chair in front of the wall, feigning amused interest in the photographs, but concentrating on the desk. There were invoices, receipts, and overdue bills, along with dunning letters of reprimand awaiting Lavier’s signature. An address book lay open, four names on the page; he moved closer to see more clearly. Each was the name of a company, the individual contacts bracketed, his or her positions underlined. He wondered if he should memorize each company, each contact. He was about to do so when his eyes fell on the edge of an index card. It was only the edge; the rest was concealed under the telephone itself. And there was something else—dull, barely discernible. A strip of transparent tape, running along the edge of the card, holding it in place. The tape itself was relatively new, recently stuck over the heavy paper and the gleaming wood; it was clean, no smudges or coiled borders or signs of having been there very long.

  Instinct.

  Bourne picked up the telephone to move it aside. It rang, the bell vibrating through his hand, the shrill sound unnerving. He replaced it on the desk and stepped away as a man in shirtsleeves rushed through the open door from the corridor. He stopped, staring at Bourne, his eyes alarmed but noncommittal. The telephone rang a second time; the man walked rapidly to the desk and picked up the receiver.

  “Allô?” There was silence as the intruder listened, head down, concentration on the caller. He was a tanned, muscular man of indeterminate age, the sun-drenched skin disguising the years. His face was taut, his lips thin, his close-cropped hair thick, dark brown, and disciplined. The sinews of his bare arms moved under the flesh as he transferred the phone from one hand to the other, speaking harshly. “Pas ici. Sais pas. Téléphonez plus tard …” He hung up and looked at Jason. “Où est Jacqueline?”

  “A little slower, please,” said Bourne, lying in English. “My French is limited.”

  “Sorry,” replied the bronzed man. “I was looking for Madame Lavier.”

  “The owner?”

  “The title will suffice. Where is she?”

  “Depleting my funds.” Jason smiled, raising his glass to his lips.

  “Oh? And who are you, monsieur?”

  “Who are you?”

  The man studied Bourne. “René Bergeron.”

  “Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Jason. “She’s looking for you. You’re very good, Mr. Bergeron. She said I was to look upon your designs as the work of an emerging master.” Bourne smiled again. “You’re the reason I may have to wire the Bahamas for a great deal of money.”

  “You’re most kind, monsieur. And I apologize for barging in.”

  “Better that you answered that phone than me. Berlitz considers me a failure.”

  “Buyers, suppliers, all screaming idiots. To whom, monsieur, do I have the honor of speaking?”

  “Briggs,” said Jason, having no idea where the name came from, astonished that it came so quickly, so naturally. “Charles Briggs.”

  “A pleasure to know you.” Bergeron extended his hand; the grip was firm. “You say Jacqueline was looking for me?”

  “On my behalf, I’m afraid.”

  “I shall find her.” The designer left quickly.

  Bourne stepped to the desk, his eyes on the door, his hand on the telephone. He moved it to the side, exposing the index card. There were two telephone numbers, the first recognizable as a Zurich exchange, the second obviously Paris.

  Instinct. He had been right, a strip of transparent tape the only sign he had needed. He stared at the numbers, memorizing them, then moved the telephone back in place and stepped away.

  He had barely managed to clear the desk when Madame Lavier swept back into the room, a half dozen dresses over her arm. “I met René on the steps. He approves of my selections most enthusiastically. He also tells me your name is Briggs, monsieur.”

  “I would have told you myself,” said Bourne, smiling back, countering the pout in Lavier’s voice.

  “But I don’t think you asked.”

  “‘Spoors in the forest,’ monsieur. Here, I bring you a feast!” She separated the dresses, placing them carefully over several chairs. “I truly believe these are among the finest creations René has brought us.”

  “Brought you? He doesn’t work here then?”

  “A figure of speech; his studio’s at the end of the corridor, but it is a holy sacristy. Even I tremble when I enter.”

  “They’re magnificent,” continued Bourne, going from one to another. ‘But I don’t want to overwhelm her, just pacify her,” he added, pointing out three garments. “I’ll take these.”

  “A fine selection, Monsieur Briggs!”

  “Box them with the others, if you will.”

  “Of course. She is, indeed, a fortu
nate lady.”

  “A good companion, but a child. A spoiled child, I’m afraid. However, I’ve been away a lot and haven’t paid much attention to her, so I guess I should make peace. It’s one reason I sent her to Cap-Ferrat.” He smiled, taking out his Louis Vuitton billfold. “La facture, si’il vous plaît?”

  “I’ll have one of the girls expedite everything.” Madame Lavier pressed a button on the intercom next to the telephone. Jason watched closely, prepared to comment on the call Bergeron had answered in the event the woman’s eyes settled on a slightly out-of-place phone. “Faites venir Janine—avec les robes. La facture aussi.” She stood up. “Another brandy, Monsieur Briggs?”

  “Merci bien.” Bourne extended his glass; she took it and walked to the bar. Jason knew the time had not yet arrived for what he had in mind; it would come soon—as soon as he parted with money—but not now. He could, however, continue building a foundation with the managing partner of Les Classiques. “That fellow Bergeron,” he said. “You say he’s under exclusive contract to you?”

  Madame Lavier turned, the glass in her hand. “Oh, yes. We are a closely knit family here.” Bourne accepted the brandy, nodded his thanks, and sat down in an armchair in front of the desk. “That’s a constructive arrangement,” he said pointlessly.

  The tall, gaunt clerk he had first spoken with came into the office, a salesbook in her hand.

  Instructions were given rapidly, figures entered, the garments gathered and separated as the salesbook exchanged hands. Lavier held it out for Jason’s perusal. “Voici la facture, monsieur,” she said.

  Bourne shook his head, dismissing inspection. “Combien?” he asked.

  “Vingt mille soixante francs, monsieur,” answered the Les Classiques partner, watching his reaction with the expression of a very large, wary bird.

  There was none. Jason merely removed five five-thousand-franc notes and handed them to her.

  She nodded and gave them in turn to the slender salesclerk, who walked cadaverously out of the office with the dresses.