Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Identity

“They could assume too, couldn’t they? They might have spotted strange men in cars, or standing around too long, too obviously.”

“Carlos is brighter than that. And there are lots of ways a specific vehicle could get quickly inside an embassy’s gate. Marine contingents everywhere are trained for things like that.”

“I believe you.”

“But they didn’t do that; they didn’t even suggest it. Instead, they’re stalling me, making me play games. Goddamn it, why?”

“You said it yourself, Jason. They haven’t heard from you in six months. They’re being very careful.”

“Why this way? They get me inside those gates, they can do whatever they want. They control me. They can throw me a party or throw me into a cell. Instead, they don’t want to touch me, but they don’t want to lose me either.”

“They’re waiting for the man flying over from Washington.”

“What better place to wait for him than in the embassy?” Bourne pushed back his chair.

“Something’s wrong. Let’s get out of here.”

It had taken Alexander Conklin, inheritor of Treadstone, exactly six hours and twelve minutes to cross the Atlantic. To go back he would take the first Concorde flight out of Paris in the morning, reach Dulles by 7:30 Washington time and be at Langley by 9:00. If anyone tried to phone him or asked where he had spent the night, an accommodating major from the Pentagon would supply a false answer. And a First Secretary at the embassy in Paris would be told that if he ever mentioned having had a single conversation with the man from Langley, he’d be descaled to the lowest attaché on the ladder and shipped to a new post in Tierra del Fuego. It was guaranteed.

Conklin went directly to a row of pay phones against the wall and called the embassy. The First Secretary was filled with a sense of accomplishment.

“Everything’s according to schedule, Conklin,” said the embassy man, the absence of the previously employed Mister a sign of equality. The Company executive was in Paris now, and turf was turf. “Bourne’s edgy. During our last communication he repeatedly asked why he wasn’t being told to come in.”

“He did?” At first Conklin was surprised; then he understood. Delta was feigning the reactions of a man who knew nothing of the events on Seventy-first Street. If he had been told to come to the embassy, he would have bolted. He knew better; there could be no official. connection. Treadstone was anathema, a discredited strategy, a major embarrassment. “Did you reiterate that the streets were being watched?”

“Naturally. Then he asked me who was watching them. Can you imagine?”

“I can. What did you say?”

“That he knew as well as I did, and all things considered I thought it was counterproductive to discuss such matters over the telephone.”

“Very good.”

“I rather thought so.”

“What did he say to that? Did he settle for it?”

“In an odd way, yes. He said, ‘I see.’ That’s all.”

“Did he change his mind and ask for protection?”

“He’s continued to refuse it. Even when I insisted.” The First Secretary paused briefly. “He doesn’t want to be watched, does he?” he said confidentially.

“No, he doesn’t. When do you expect his next call?”

“In about fifteen minutes.”

“Tell him the Treadstone officer has arrived.” Conklin took the map from his pocket; it was folded to the area, the route marked in blue ink. “Say the rendezvous has been set for one-thirty on the road between Chevreuse and Rambouillet, seven miles south of Versailles at the Cimetière de Noblesse.”

“One-thirty, road between Chevreuse and Rambouillet … the cemetery. Will he know how to get there?”

“He’s been there before. If he says he’s going by taxi, tell him to take the normal precautions and dismiss it.”

“Won’t that appear strange? To the driver, I mean. It’s an odd hour for mourning.”

“I said you’re to ‘tell him’ that. Obviously he won’t take a taxi.”

“Obviously,” said the First Secretary quickly, recovering by volunteering the unnecessary. “Since I haven’t called your man here, shall I call him now and tell him you’ve arrived?”

“I’ll take care of that. You’ve still got his number?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Burn it,” ordered Conklin. “Before it burns you. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.”

A train thundered by in the lower level of the Métro, the vibrations felt throughout the platform. Bourne hung up the pay phone on the concrete wall and stared for a moment at the mouthpiece. Another door had partially opened somewhere in the distance of his mind, the light too far away, too dim to see inside. Still, there were images. On the road to Rambouillet … through an archway of iron latticework … a gently sloping hill with white marble. Crosses—large, larger, mausoleums … and statuary everywhere. Le Cimetière de Noblesse. A cemetery, but far more than a resting place for the dead. A drop, but even more than that. A place where conversations took place amid burials and the lowering of caskets. Two men dressed somberly as the crowds were dressed somberly, moving between the mourners until they met among the mourners and exchanged the words they had to say to each other.

There was a face, but it was blurred, out of focus; he saw only the eyes. And that unfocused face and those eyes had a name. David … Abbott. The Monk. The man he knew but did not know.

Creator of Medusa and Cain.

Jason blinked several times and shook his head as if to shake the sudden mists away. He glanced over at Marie, who was fifteen feet to his left against the wall, supposedly scanning the crowds on the platform, watching for someone possibly watching him. She was not; she was looking at him herself, a frown of concern across her face. He nodded, reassuring her; it was not a bad moment for him. Instead, images had come to him. He had been to that cemetery; somehow he would know it.

He walked toward Marie; she turned and fell in step beside him as they headed for the exit.

“He’s here,” said Bourne. “Treadstone’s arrived. I’m to meet him near Rambouillet. At a cemetery.”

“That’s a ghoulish touch. Why a cemetery?”

“It’s supposed to reassure me.”

“Good God, how?”

“I’ve been there before. I’ve met people there … a man there. By naming it as the rendezvous-an unusual rendezvous—Treadstone’s telling me he’s genuine.” She took his arm as they climbed the steps toward the street. “I want to go with you.”

“Sorry.”

“You can’t exclude me!”

“I have to, because I don’t know what I’m going to find there. And if it’s not what I expect, I’ll want someone on my side.”

“Darling, that doesn’t make sense! I’m being hunted by the police. If they find me, they’ll send me back to Zurich on the next plane; you said so yourself. What good would I be to you in Zurich?”

“Not you. Villiers. He trusts us, he trusts you. You can reach him if I’m not back by daybreak or haven’t called explaining why. He can make a lot of noise, and God knows he’s ready to. He’s the one backup we’ve got, the only one. To be more specific, his wife is—through him.” Marie nodded, accepting his logic. ‘He’s ready,” she agreed. “How will you get to Rambouillet?”

“We have a car, remember? I’ll take you to the hotel, then head over to the garage.”

He stepped inside the elevator of the garage complex in Montmartre and pressed the button for the fourth floor. His mind was on a cemetery somewhere between Chevreuse and Rambouillet, on a road he had driven over but had no idea when or for what purpose.

Which was why he wanted to drive there now, not wait until his arrival corresponded more closely to the time of rendezvous. If the images that came to his mind were not completely distorted, it was an enormous cemetery. Where precisely within those acres of graves and statuary was the meeting ground? He would get there by one, leaving a half hour to walk up and down the paths looking for a pair of headlights or a signal. Other things would come to him.