Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Ultimatum

"What about the other two?" pressed Bourne.

"Silent subordinates, controlled by and subservient to their superior. They're also experts at their craft. ... Here he comes!"

Sergei could be seen walking out of the glass doors; he turned left, and within moments crossed the wide boulevard toward the Citroën. He reached the car, went around the hood and climbed in behind the wheel. "Everything is in order," he said, angling his head over the front seat. "Madame has not returned and the flat is number twenty-one, second floor, right front side. It has been swept thoroughly; there are no intercepts."

"Are you certain?" asked Conklin. "There's no room for error here, Sergei."

"Our instruments are the best, sir," answered the KGB aide, smiling. "It pains me to say it, but they were developed by the General Electronics Corporation under contract to Langley."

"Two points for our side," said Alex.

"Minus twelve for permitting the technology to be stolen," concluded Krupkin. "Besides, I'm sure a number of years ago our Madame Lavier might have had bugs sewn into her mattress-"

"Checked," broke in Sergei.

"Thank you, but my point is that the Jackal could hardly have monitoring personnel all over Paris. It all gets so complicated."

"Where are your other two men?" asked Bourne.

"In the lobby corridors, sir. I'll join them shortly, and we have a support vehicle down the street, all in radio contact, of course. ... I'll drive you over now."

"Wait a minute," interrupted Conklin. "How do we get in? What do we say?"

"It's been said, sir, you need say nothing. You are authorized covert personnel from the French SEDCE-"

"The what?" broke in Jason.

"The Service of External Documentation and Counterespionage," answered Alex. "It's the nearest thing here to Langley."

"What about the Deuxième?"

"Special Branch," said Conklin offhandedly, his mind elsewhere. "Some say it's an elite corps, others say otherwise. ... Sergei, won't they check?"

"They already have, sir. After showing the concierge and his assistant my identification, I gave them an unlisted telephone number that confirmed the Service and my status. I subsequently described the three of you and requested no conversation, merely access to Madame Lavier's flat. ... I'll drive over now. It will make a better impression on the doorman."

"Sometimes simplicity backed by authority is best in deception," observed Krupkin as the Citroën was maneuvered between the sparse, erratic traffic across the wide avenue to the entrance of the white-stone apartment complex. "Take the car around the corner out of sight, Sergei," ordered the KGB officer, reaching for the door handle. "And my radio, if you please?"

"Yes, sir," replied the aide, handing Krupkin a miniaturized electronic intercom over the seat. "I'll signal you when I'm in position."

"I can reach all of you with this?"

"Yes, comrade. Beyond a hundred and fifty meters the frequency is undetectable."

"Come along, gentlemen."

Inside the marble lobby, Krupkin nodded at the formally dressed concierge behind the counter, Jason and Alex on the Soviet's right. "La porte est ouverte," said the concierge, his gaze downward, avoiding direct eye contact. "I shall not be in evidence when madame arrives," he continued in French. "How you got in is unknown to me; however, there is a service entrance at the rear of the building."

"But for official courtesy it is the one we would have used," said Krupkin, looking straight ahead as he and his companions walked to the elevator.

Lavier's flat was a testament to the world of haute couture chic. The walls were dotted with photographs of fashion notables attending important showings and events, as well as with framed original sketches by celebrated designers. Like a Mondrian, the furniture was stark in its simplicity, the colors bold and predominantly red, black and deep green; the chairs, sofas and tables only vaguely resembled chairs, sofas and tables-they seemed more suitable for use in spacecraft.

As if by rote, both Conklin and the Russian immediately began examining the tables, ferreting out handwritten notes, a number of which were beside a mother-of-pearl telephone on top of a curved, thick dark green table of sorts.

"If this is a desk," said Alex, "where the hell are the drawers or the handles?"

"It's the newest thing from Leconte," replied Krupkin.

"The tennis player?" interrupted Conklin.

"No, Aleksei, the furniture designer. You press in and they shoot out."

"You're kidding."

"Try it."

Conklin did so and a barely discernible drawer sprang loose from an all but invisible crack. "I'll be damned."

Krupkin's miniaturized radio suddenly erupted with two sharp beeps from inside his breast pocket. "It must be Sergei checking in," said Dimitri, removing the instrument. "You're in place, comrade?" he continued, speaking into the base of the radio.

"More than that," came the aide's quiet voice accompanied by minor static. "The Lavier woman has just entered the building."

"The concierge?"

"Nowhere in sight."

"Good. Out. ... Aleksei, get away from there. Lavier is on her way up."

"You want to hide?" asked Conklin facetiously, turning the pages of a telephone notebook.

"I'd rather not start off with instant hostility, which will be the case if she sees you riffling through her personal effects."

"All right, all right." Alex returned the notebook to the drawer and closed it. "But if she isn't going to cooperate, I'm taking that little black book."

"She'll cooperate," said Bourne. "I told you, she wants out, and the only way out for her is with a dead Jackal. The money's secondary-not inconsequential, but getting out comes first."

"Money?" asked Krupkin. "What money?"

"I offered to pay her and I will."

"And I can assure you, money is not secondary to Madame Lavier," added the Russian.

The sound of a key being inserted into a latch echoed throughout the living room. The three men turned to the door as a startled Dominique Lavier walked inside. Her astonishment, however, was so brief as to be fleeting; there were no cracks whatsoever in her composure. Brows arched in the manner of a regal mannequin, she calmly replaced the key in her beaded purse, looked over at the intruders and spoke in English.

"Well, Kruppie, I might have known you were somewhere in this bouillabaisse."

"Ah, the charming Jacqueline, or may we drop the pretense, Domie?"

"Kruppie?" cried Alex. "Domie? ... Is this old home week?"

"Comrade Krupkin is one of the more advertised KGB officers in Paris," said Lavier, walking to the long, cubed red table behind the white silk sofa and putting down her purse. "Knowing him is de rigueur in certain circles."

"It has its advantages, dear Domie. You can't imagine the disinformation I'm fed in those circles by the Quai d'Orsay, and once having tasted it, knowing it's false. By the way, I under stand you've met our tall American friend and even had certain negotiations with him, so I think it's only proper I introduce you to his colleague. ... Madame, Monsieur Aleksei Konsolikov."

"I don't believe you. He's no Soviet. One's nostrils become attuned to the approach of the unwashed bear."

"Ah, you destroy me, Domie! But you're right, it was a parental error of judgment. He may therefore introduce himself, if he cares to."

"The name's Conklin, Alex Conklin, Miss Lavier, and I'm American. However, our mutual acquaintance 'Kruppie' is right in one sense. My parents were Russian and I speak it fluently, so he's at a loss to mislead me when we're in Soviet company."

"I think that's delicious."

"Well, it's at least appetizing, if you know Kruppie."

"I'm wounded, fatally wounded!" exclaimed Krupkin. "But my injuries are not essential to this meeting. You will work with us, Domie?"