He told her. “They counted on the Pont Neuf,” he said. “My guess is that the backup car got caught in traffic, broke into the courier’s radio frequency, and told them to delay. I’m sure of it.”
“Oh God, they’re everywhere!”
“But they don’t know where I am,” said Bourne, looking into the mirror above the bureau, studying his blond hair while putting on the tortoise-shell glasses. “And the last place they’d expect to find me at this moment--if they conceivably thought I knew about it--would be a fashion house on Saint-Honoré.”
“Les Classiques?” asked Marie, astonished.
“That’s right. Did you call it!”
“Yes, but that’s insane!”
“Why?” Jason turned from the mirror. -Think about it. Twenty minutes ago their trap fell apart; there’s got to be confusion, recriminations, accusations of incompetency, or worse. Right now, at this moment, they’re more concerned with each other than with me; nobody wants a bullet in his throat. It won’t last long, they’ll regroup quickly, Carlos will make sure of that. But during the next hour or so, while they’re trying to piece together what happened, the one place they won’t look for me is a relay-drop they haven’t the vaguest idea I’m aware of.”
“Someone will recognize you!”
“Who? They brought in a man from Zurich to do that and he’s dead. They’re not sure what I look like.”
“The courier. They’ll take him; he saw you.”
“For the next few hours he’ll be busy with the police.”
“D’Amacourt. The lawyer!”
“I suspect they’re halfway to Normandy or Marseilles or, if they’re lucky, out of the country.”
“Suppose they’re stopped, caught?”
“Suppose they are? Do you think Carlos would expose a drop where he gets messages? Not on your life. Or his.”
“Jason, I’m frightened.”
“So am I. But not of being recognized.” Bourne returned to the mirror. “I could give a long dissertation about facial classifications, and softened features, but I won’t.”
“You’re talking about the evidences of surgery. Port Noir. You told me.”
“Not all of it.” Bourne leaned against the bureau, staring at his face. “What color are my eyes?”
“What?”
“No, don’t look at me. Now, tell me, what color are my eyes? Yours are brown with speckles of green; what about mine?”
“Blue ... bluish. Or a kind of gray, really ...” Marie stopped. “I’m not really sure. I suppose that’s dreadful of me.”
“It’s perfectly natural. Basically they’re hazel, but not all the time. Even I’ve noticed it When I wear a blue shirt or tie, they become bluer, a brown coat or jacket, they’re gray. When I’m naked, they’re strangely nondescript.”
“That’s not so strange. I’m sure millions of people are the same.”
“I’m sure they are. But how many of them wear contact lenses when their eyesight is normal?”
“Contact--“
“That’s what I said,” interrupted Jason. “Certain types of contact lenses are worn to change the color of the eyes. They’re most effective when the eyes are hazel. When Washburn first examined me there was evidence of prolonged usage. It’s one of the clues, isn’t it?”
“It’s whatever you want to make of it,” said Marie. “If it’s true.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because the doctor was more often drunk than sober. You’ve told me that. He piled conjecture on top of conjecture, heaven knows how warped by alcohol. He was never specific. He couldn’t be.”
“He was about one thing. I’m a chameleon, designed to fit a flexible mold. I want to find out whose; maybe I can now. Thanks to you I’ve got an address. Someone there may know the truth.
Just one man, that’s all I need. One person I can confront, break if I have to ...”
“I can’t stop you, but for God’s sake be careful. If they do recognize you, they’ll kill you.”
“Not there they won’t; it’d be rotten for business. This is Paris.”
“I don’t think that’s funny, Jason.”
“Neither do I. I’m counting on it very seriously.”
“What are you going to do? I mean, how?”
“I’ll know better when I get there. See if anyone’s running around looking nervous or anxious or waiting for a phone call as if his life depended on it.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll do the same as I did with d’Amacourt. Wait outside and follow whoever it is. I’m this close; I won’t miss. And I’ll be careful.”
“Will you call me?”
“I’ll try.”
“I may go crazy waiting. Not knowing.”
“Don’t wait. Can you deposit the bonds somewhere?”
“The banks are closed.”
“Use a large hotel; hotels have vaults.”
“You have to have a room.”
“Take one. At the Meurice or the George Cinq. Leave the case at the desk but come back here.”
Marie nodded. “It would give me something to do.”