Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy (24 page)

"It was difficult getting out of the States."

"You're as tight-lipped as Alex." She stood a little back, as if she needed to get him in better focus. "You are sad, Jason. So very sad."

"Mile. Dutronc—"

"You must call me Mylene. I insist." She had fashioned an expert bandage from sterile gauze and surgical tape and now applied it to his wound. "And you must change the dressing at least every three days, yes?"

"Yes." He responded to her smile. "Merd, Mylene." She put a hand gently against his cheek. "So very sad. I know how close you and Alex were. He thought of you as a son."

"He said that?"

"He didn't have to; he had a special look on his face when he spoke about you." She examined the dressing one last time. "So I know I'm not the only one hurting." Bourne felt the urge, then, to tell her everything, that it wasn't just the deaths of Alex and Mo affecting him, but the encounter with Khan. In the end, however, he remained silent. She had her own grief to bear.

Instead, he said, "What's the deal with you and Jacques? You act as if you hate each other."

Mylene looked away for a moment, toward the small window with its pebbled glass, running now with rain. "It was brave of him to bring you here. It must have cost him much to ask for my help." She turned back, her gray eyes brimming. Alex's death had brought so much emotion to the surface, and at once he intuited that her own past was being churned up by the restless ocean of present events. "So much sorrow in this world, Jason." A single tear rolled from her eye, lay quivering on her cheek, before sliding down.

"Before Alex, you see, there was Jacques."

"You were his mistress?"

She shook her head. "Jacques was not yet married. We were both very young. We made love like crazy, and because we were both young—and foolish—I became pregnant."

"You have a child?"

Mylene wiped her eyes.
"Non,
I wouldn't have it. I didn't love Jacques. It took what happened to make me see that. Jacques
did
love me, and he— well, he's so very Catholic."

She laughed, a little sadly, and Bourne recalled the story Jacques had told him of Goussainville's history and how the barbarian Franks had been won over by the church. King Clovis' conversion to Catholicism had been a shrewd decision, but it had been more a matter of survival and politics than of faith.

"Jacques has never forgiven me." There was no self-pity in her, making her confession all the more affecting.

He leaned in and tenderly kissed her on both cheeks, and with a small sob she drew him briefly to her.

She left him to shower, and when he was finished, he found a French military uniform piled neatly on the toilet seat. As he dressed, he peered out the window. A linden's branches swung back and forth in the wind. Below him, a handsome woman in her early forties got out of her car, walked down the street to a Citroen in which a man of indeterminate age sat behind the wheel, gnawing obsessively at his fingernails. Opening the passenger's-side door, she slid in.

There was nothing particularly unusual about the scene, except for the fact that Bourne had seen the same woman at the gas station. She had spoken to Jacques about the air pressure in her tire.

Quai d'Orsay!

Quickly, he went back into the living room, where Jacques was still on the phone. The moment the minister saw Bourne's expression, he got off his call.

"What is it,
mon amir
"We've been made," Bourne said.

"What? How is that possible?"

"I don't know, but there are two Quai d'Orsay agents across the street in a black Citroen.

Mylene walked in from the kitchen. "Two more are watching the street behind. But don't worry, they cannot even know which building you're in." At that moment, the doorbell rang. Bourne drew his gun but Mylene's eyes flashed their warning. She jerked her head and Bourne and Robbinet moved out of sight. She opened the door, saw a very rumpled inspector in front of her.

"Alain,
bonjour"
she said.

Tm sorry to intrude on your vacation," Inspector Savoy said, a sheepish grin on his face, "but I was sitting outside and all of a sudden I remembered that you lived here."

"Would you like to come in, have a cup of coffee?"

"Thank you, no. I can't spare the time."

Greatly relieved, Mylene said, "And what were you doing sitting outside my house?"

"We're looking for Jacques Robbinet."

Her eyes opened wide. "The Minister of Culture? But why would he be in, of all places, Goussainville?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Inspector Savoy said. "Nevertheless, his car is parked across the street."

"The inspector is too clever for us, Mylene." Jacques Robbinet strode into the living room buttoning his white shirt. "He has found out about us." With her back turned to Savoy, Mylene shot Robbinet a look. He returned it, smiling easily.

His lips brushed hers, as he came up beside her.

By this time Inspector Savoy's cheeks had grown warm. "Minister Robbinet, I had no idea ... that is, there was no intention to intrude—"

Robbinet raised a hand. "Apology accepted, but why are you looking for me?" With an overt show of relief, Savoy handed over the grainy photo of Jason Bourne.

"We're searching for this man, Minister. A known CIA assassin who's turned rogue. We have reason to believe that he means to kill you."

"But that's terrible, Alain!"

To Bourne, observing this charade from the shadows, Mylene looked shocked indeed.

"I don't know this man," Robbinet said, "nor why he would want to take my life. But then who can fathom the minds of assassins, eh?" He shrugged, turned as Mylene handed him his jacket and raincoat. "But by all means, I'll return to Paris as quickly as possible."

"With us as an escort," Savoy said firmly. "You'll ride with me and my associate will drive your official car." He held out his hand. "If you would be so kind."

"As you wish." Robbinet delivered the key to his Peugeot. "I'm in your hands, Inspector."

Then, he turned, took Mylene in his arms. Savoy discreetly withdrew, saying he would wait in the hallway for Robbinet.

"Take Jason down to the car park," Robbinet whispered in her ear. "Take my attache case with you and give him the contents just before you leave him." He whispered the combination to her and she nodded.

She stared up at him, then she kissed him hard on the mouth and said, "Godspeed, Jacques."

For just an instant, his eyes opened wide in response. Then he was gone, and Mylene went quickly through the living room.

She called softly to Bourne, and he appeared. "We must make the most of the advantage Jacques has given you."

Bourne nodded.
"D'accord."

Mylene grabbed Robbinet's attach^ case. "Come now. We must hurry!" She opened the front door, peered out to ensure that the way was clear, then led him down to the underground car park. She stopped just inside the metal-clad door. Peering through the wire-reinforced glass pane, she reported back to him. "The car park looks clear, but be vigilant, you never know."

She unlocked the attache case, held out a packet. "Here is the money you requested, along with your identity card and your orders. You're Pierre Montefort, a courier due to hand over top-secret documents to the military attache in Budapest not later than eighteen hundred hours, local time." She dropped a set of keys into Bourne's palm. "A military motorcycle is parked in the third rank, next-to-last space on the right." For a moment, Bourne and Mylene stood looking at each other. He opened his mouth, but she spoke first, "Remember, Jason, life is too short for regrets." Bourne left then, striding with ramrod-straight back through the door into a grim and gloomy place of naked concrete block and oil-stained macadam. He looked neither to the left nor right as he went down the car ranks. At the third one, he turned right. A moment later, he found the motorcycle, a silver Voxan VB-1, with a huge 996-cubic V2 engine. Bourne strapped his attache case to the back, where it would be prominently displayed for the Quai d'Orsay to see. He found a helmet in the carry pack, stowed his hat. Climbing on, he walked the machine out of its parking spot, started the engine and wheeled out of the car park into the rain.

Justine B£rard had been thinking about her son, Yves, when she received the call from Inspector Savoy. These days it seemed as if the only way she could relate to Yves was through his video games. The first time she had beaten him in
Grand Theft Auto
by outmaneuvering his car with hers was the moment he had looked at her—and really seen her as a living, breathing human being, rather than the annoyance that cooked him food and washed his clothes. Ever since then, though, he'd been begging her to take him for a spin in her official car. So far, she had been successful in staving him off, but there was no doubt that he was wearing her down, not only because she was proud of her nerveless driving but because she desperately wanted Yves to be proud of her. Following the call from Savoy, informing her that he had found Minister Robbinet and that they were escorting him back to Paris, she had immediately gotten things rolling, pulling the men off surveillance duty, directing them into standard VIP protection formation. Now she gestured to the Police Nationale standing by as Inspector Savoy escorted the Minister of Culture out the front door of the apartment building. At the same time, she checked the street for any sign of the insane assassin Jason Bourne. Be"rard was elated. It made no difference whether Inspector Savoy had found the minister in this maze of residences through cleverness or good fortune, she would benefit hugely, for it was she who had led Savoy here and it was she who would be in at the end when they brought Jacques Robbinet back to Paris safe and sound. Savoy and Robbinet had crossed the street under the watchful eyes of the phalanx of policemen, machine pistols at the ready. She had Savoy's car door open, and as he passed her, he handed her the key to the minister's Peugeot.

As Robbinet ducked his head to get into the backseat of Savoy's car, Berard heard the throaty roar of a powerful motorcycle engine. By the echo, it was coming from the car park below the building in which Savoy had found Minister Robbinet. She cocked her head, recognizing the roar of a Voxan VB-1. A military vehicle.

A moment later, she saw the courier accelerate out of the car park and she grabbed her cell phone. What was a military courier doing in Gous-sainville? Unconsciously, she was walking toward the minister's Peugeot. She barked out her Quai d'Orsay authorization code, asked to be patched through to Military Liaison. She had reached the Peugeot, unlocked it, slid behind the wheel. With the Code Rouge alert on, it did not take her long to receive the information she was seeking. There was currently no known military courier anywhere near Goussainville.

She started the car, jerked it into gear. Inspector Savoy's shout of query was drowned in the screech of the Peugeot's tires as she stood on the gas pedal, accelerating down the street in pursuit of the Voxan. She could only surmise that Bourne had been on to them, knew that he was trapped here unless he could make a quick escape. The urgent CIA circular she had read had noted that he was able to change identity and appearance with astonishing rapidity. If he was the courier—and, really, when she thought about it, what other possibility was there?—then apprehending or killing him would provide her career an entirely new trajectory. She could imagine the minister himself—so grateful for saving his life—interceding on her behalf, even, possibly, offering her the position of chief of his security.

In the meantime, though, she would have to bring down this faux courier. Lucky for her, the minister's car was far from a standard Peugeot sedan. Already she could feel the souped-up engine responding to the pressure she was putting on it as she slewed hard left around a corner, shot through a traffic light, passed a lumbering truck on the wrong side. She ignored the indignant blare of its air horn. All of her being was concentrated on keeping the Voxan in sight.

At first Bourne couldn't believe that he'd been made so quickly, but as the Peugeot continued its dogged pursuit, he was forced to conclude that something had gone terribly wrong. He had seen the Quai d'Orsay taking Robbinet, knew one of their operatives was driving his car. His assumed identity wouldn't be enough to protect him now; he had to lose this tail permanently. He hunched over, weaving in and out of traffic, varying his speeds, the ways in which he overtook slower traffic. He took turns at dangerously acute angles, aware that at any instant he could go over and send the Voxan screaming onto its side. A glance in the side mirror confirmed that he was unable to shake the Peugeot. More ominously, it appeared to be gaining on him.

Though the Voxan wove in and out of traffic, though her car was less ma-neuverable, Berard kept closing the distance between them. She had flipped the special lever installed in all ministerial cars that made the head-and taillights flash, and this signal caused the more alert motorists to give way. In her head scrolled the increasingly more intricate and hair-raising scenarios of
Grand Theft Auto.
The scrolling of the streets, the vehicles she needed to pass or get around were astonishingly similar. Once, in order not to lose the Voxan, she had to make a split-second decision, running up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians scattered from her path.

All at once, she saw the entrance to the Al and knew this was where Bourne must be headed. Her best chance of getting him was before he made it onto the motorway. Biting her lip in grim intent, she drew on every last bit of power the Peugeot's engine could give her, closing the gap even more. The Voxan was only two cars away from her. She pulled out to the right, overtook one car, waved the other one back, its driver cowed as much by her aggressive driving as by the Peugeot's flashing lights.

Berard was not one to waste an opportunity. They were coming up on the entrance; it was now or never. She manhandled the Peugeot up onto the sidewalk, aiming to approach Bourne on the offside so that in order to keep her in sight he would have to take his eyes off the road. At the speed they were both going, she knew he couldn't afford to do that. She rolled down her window, floored the accelerator and the car leaped forward into the wind-driven rain.