“I think so. It’s a private line belonging to a fashion house on Saint-Honoré. Les Classiques”
“A fashion house? You mean a studio?”
“I’m sure it’s got one, but it’s essentially an elegant dress shop. Like the House of Dior, or Givenchy. Haute couture. In the trade, Corbelier said, it’s known as the House of René. That’s Bergeron.”
“Who?’
“René Bergeron, a designer. He’s been around for years, always on the fringes of a major success.
I know about him because my little lady back home copies his designs.”
“Did you get the address?’
Marie nodded. “Why didn’t Corbelier know about Peter? Why doesn’t everybody?”
“Maybe you’ll learn when you call. It’s probably as simple as time zones; too late for the morning editions here in Paris. I’ll pick up the afternoon paper.” Bourne went to the closet for his topcoat, conscious of the hidden weight in his belt. “I’m going back to the bank. I’ll follow the courier to the Pont Neuf.” He put on the coat, aware that Marie was not listening. “I meant to ask you, do these fellows wear uniforms?”
“Who?”
“Bank couriers.”
“That would account for the newspapers, not the wire services.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The difference in time. The papers might not have picked it up, but the wire services would have known. And embassies have teletypes; they would have known about it. It wasn’t reported, Jason.”
“You’ll call tonight,” he said. “I’m going.”
“You asked about the couriers. Do they wear uniforms?”
“I was curious.”
“Most of the time, yes. They also drive armored vans, but I was specific about that. If a van was used it was to be parked a block from the bridge, the courier to proceed on foot.”
“I heard you, but I wasn’t sure what you meant. Why?”
“A bonded courier’s bad enough, but he’s necessary; bank insurance requires him. A van is simply too obvious; it could be followed too easily. You won’t change your mind and let me go with you?”
“No.”
“Believe me, nothing will go wrong; those two thieves wouldn’t permit it.”
“Then there’s no reason for you to be there.”
“You’re maddening.”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“I know. And you move faster without me.” Marie got up and came to him. “I do understand.” She leaned into him, kissing him on the lips, suddenly aware of the weapon in his belt. She looked into his eyes. “You are worried, aren’t you?”
“Just cautious.” He smiled, touching her chin. “It’s an awful lot of money. It may have to keep us for a long time.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“The money?”
“No. Us.” Marie frowned. “A safety deposit box.”
“You keep talking in non sequiturs.”
“You can’t leave negotiable certificates worth over a million dollars in a Paris hotel room. You’ve got to get a deposit box.”
“We can do it tomorrow.” He released her, turning for the door. “While I’m out, look up Les Classiques in the phone book and call the regular number. Find out how late it’s open.” He left quickly.
Bourne sat in the back seat of a stationary taxi, watching the front of the bank through the windshield. The driver was humming an unrecognizable tune, reading a newspaper, content with the fifty-franc note he had received in advance. The cab’s motor, however, was running, the passenger had insisted upon that.
The armored van loomed in the right rear window, its radio antenna shooting up from the center of the roof like a tapered bowsprit. It parked in a space reserved for authorized vehicles directly in front of Jason’s taxi. Two small red lights appeared above the circle of bulletproof glass in the rear door. The alarm system had been activated.
Bourne leaned forward, his eyes on the uniformed man who climbed out of the side door and threaded his way through the crowds on the pavement toward the entrance of the bank. He felt a sense of relief, the man was not one of the three well-dressed men who had come to the Valois yesterday.
Fifteen minutes later the courier emerged from the bank, the leather attaché case in his left hand, his right covering an unlatched holster. The jagged rip on the side of the case could be seen clearly.
Jason felt the fragment of leather in his ‘shirt pocket; if nothing else it was the primitive combination that made a life beyond Paris, beyond Carlos, possible. If there was such a life and he could accept it without the terrible labyrinth from which he could find no escape.
But it was more than that. In a manmade labyrinth one kept moving, running, careening off walls, the contact itself a form of progress, if only blind. His personal labyrinth had no walls, no defined corridors through which to race. Only space, and swirling mists in the darkness that he saw so clearly when he opened his eyes at night and felt the sweat pouring down his face. Why was it always space and darkness and high winds? Why was he always plummeting through the air at night? A parachute. Why? Then other words came to him; he had no idea where they were from, but they were there and he heard them.
What’s left when your memory’s gone? And your identity, Mr. Smith?
Stop it!
The armored van swung into the traffic on rue Madeleine. Bourne tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Follow that truck, but keep at least two cars between us,” he said in French.
The driver turned, alarmed. “I think you have the wrong taxi, monsieur. Take back your money.”
“I’m with the armored-car company, you imbecile. It’s a special assignment.”
“Regrets, monsieur. We will not lose it”
The driver plunged diagonally forward into the combat of traffic. The van took the quickest route to the Seine, going down sidestreets. Turning left on the Quai de la Rapée toward the Pont Neuf. Then, within what Jason judged to be three or four blocks of the bridge, it slowed down, hugging the curb as if the courier had decided he was too early for his appointment. But, if anything, Bourne thought, he was running late. It was six minutes to three, barely enough time for the man to park and walk the one prescribed block to the bridge. Then why had the van slowed down? Slowed down? No, it had stopped; it wasn’t moving! Why? The traffic? ...
Good God, of course--the traffic!
“Stop here,” said Bourne to the driver. “Pull over to the curb. Quickly!”
“What is it, monsieur?”