rl.thebourneultimatum-第108章
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〃That was before； not now。 As must be obvious to you； my position now is truly hopeless。〃
〃Didn't I hear those words recently？〃
〃No； you did not。 I just added the word 'now。' 。。。 For God's sake； put yourself in my place。 I can't pretend to understand； but this ancient boulevardier beside me casually mentions that he'll call in the Deuxième…the Deuxième； Monsieur Bourne！ For some that is no less than France's Gestapo！ Even if I survived； I'm marked by that infamous branch of the government。 I'd no doubt be sent to some horrible penal colony halfway across the world…oh； I've heard the stories of the Deuxième！〃
〃Really？〃 said Bernardine。 〃I haven't。 Sounds positively marvelous。 How wonderful。〃
〃Besides；〃 continued Lavier； looking hard at Jason as she yanked the pointed white hat off her head； a gesture that caused the driver； seeing it in the rearview mirror； to raise his eyebrows。 〃Without me； without my presence in decidedly different clothing at the Meurice； Carlos won't e near the rue de Rivoli。〃 Bernardine tapped the woman's shoulder； bringing his index finger to his lips and nodding toward the front seat。 Dominique quickly added； 〃The man you wish to confer with will not be there。〃
〃She's got a point；〃 said Bourne； leaning forward and looking past Lavier at the Deuxième veteran。 〃She's also got an apartment on the Montaigne； where she's supposed to change clothes； and neither of us can go in with her。〃
〃That poses a dilemma； doesn't it？〃 responded Bernardine。 〃There's no way we can monitor the telephone from outside in the street； is there？〃
〃You fools！ 。。。 I have no choice but to cooperate with you； and if you can't see that you should be led around by trained dogs！ This old； old man here will have my name in the Deuxième files the first chance he gets； and as the notorious Jason Bourne knows if he has even a nodding acquaintance with the Deuxième； several profound questions are raised…once raised by my sister； Jacqueline； incidentally。 Who is this Bourne？ Is he real or unreal？ Is he the assassin of Asia or is he a fraud； a plant？ She phoned me herself one night in Nice after too many brandies…a night perhaps you recall； Monsieur le Caméléon…a terribly expensive restaurant outside Paris。 You threatened her 。。。 in the name of powerful； unnamed people you threatened her！ You demanded that she reveal what she knew about a certain acquaintance of hers…who it was at the time I had no idea…but you frightened her。 She said you appeared deranged； that your eyes became glazed and you uttered words in a language she could not understand。〃
〃I remember；〃 interrupted Bourne icily。 〃We had dinner and I threatened her and she was frightened。 She went to the ladies' room； paid someone to make a phone call； and I had to get out of there。〃
〃And now the Deuxième is allied with those powerful unnamed people？〃 Dominique Lavier shook her head repeatedly and lowered her voice。 〃No； messieurs； I am a survivor and I do not fight against such odds。 One knows when to pass the shoe in baccarat。〃
After a short period of silence； Bernardine spoke。 〃What's your address on the avenue Montaigne？ I'll give it to the driver； but before I do； understand me； madame。 If your words prove false； all the true horrors of the Deuxième will be visited upon you。〃
Marie sat at the room…service table in her small suite at the Meurice reading the newspapers。 Her attention constantly strayed； concentration was out of the question。 Her anxiety had kept her awake after she returned to the hotel shortly past midnight； having made the rounds of five cafés she and David had frequented so many years ago in Paris。 Finally by four…something in the morning； exhaustion had short…circuited her tossing and turning； she fell asleep with the bedside lamp switched on； and was awakened by the same light nearly six hours later。 It was the longest she had slept since that first night on Tranquility Isle； itself a distant memory now except for the very real pain of not seeing and hearing the children。 Don't think about them； it hurts too much。 Think about David。 。。。 No； think about Jason Bourne！ Where？ Concentrate！
She put down the Paris Tribune and poured herself a third cup of black coffee； glancing over at the French doors that led to a small balcony overlooking the rue de Rivoli。 It disturbed her that the once bright morning had turned into a dismal gray day。 Soon the rain would e； making her search in the streets even more difficult。 Resigned； she sipped her coffee and replaced the elegant cup in the elegant saucer； annoyed that it was not one of the simple pottery mugs favored by David and her in their rustic country kitchen in Maine。 Oh； God； would they ever be back there again？ Don't think about such things！ Concentrate！ Out of the question。
She picked up the Tribune； aimlessly scanning the pages； seeing only isolated words； no sentences or paragraphs； no continuity of thought or meaning； merely words。 Then one stood out at the bottom of a meaningless column； a single meaningless line bracketed at the bottom of a meaningless page。
The word was Memom； followed by a telephone number； and despite the fact that the Tribune was printed in English； the French in her switchable French…thinking brain absently translated the word as Maymohm。 She was about to turn the page when a signal from another part of her brain screamed Stop！
Memom 。。。 mommy…turned around by a child struggling with his earliest attempts at language。 Meemom！ Jamie…their Jamie！ The funny inverted name he had called her for several weeks！ David had joked about it while she； frightened； had wondered if their son had dyslexia。
〃He could also just be confused； memom；〃 David had laughed。
David！ She snapped up the page； it was the financial section of the paper； the section she instinctively gravitated to every morning over coffee。 David was sending her a message！ She pushed back her chair； crashing it to the floor as she grabbed the paper and rushed to the telephone on the desk。 Her hands trembling； she dialed the number。 There was no answer； and thinking that in her panic she had made an error or had not used the local Paris digit； she dialed again； now slowly； precisely。
No answer。 But it was David； she felt it； she knew it！ He had been looking for her at the Trocadéro and now he was using a briefly employed nickname only the two of them would know！ My love； my love； I've found you！ 。。。 She also knew she could not stay in the confining quarters of the small hotel suite； pacing up and down and dialing every other minute； driving herself crazy with every unanswered ring。 When you're stressed out and spinning until you think you'll blow apart； find someplace where you can keep moving without being noticed。 Keep moving！ That's vital。 You can't let your head explode。 One of the lessons from Jason Bourne。 Her head spinning； Marie dressed more rapidly than she had ever done in her life。 She tore out the message from the Tribune and left the oppressive suite； trying not to run to the bank of elevators but needing the crowds of the Paris streets； where she could keep moving without being noticed。 From one telephone kiosk to another。
The ride down to the lobby was both interminable and insufferable； the latter because of an American couple…he laden with camera equipment； she with purple eyelids and a peroxide bouffant apparently set in concrete…who kept plaining that not enough people in Paris； France； spoke English。 The elevator doors thankfully opened and Marie walked out rapidly into the crowded Meurice lobby。
As she crossed the marble floor toward the large glass doors of the ornate filigreed entrance； she suddenly； involuntarily stopped as an elderly man in a dark pin…striped suit gasped； his slender body lurching forward in a heavy leather chair below on her right。 The old man stared at her； his thin lips parted in astonishment； his eyes in shock。
〃Marie St。 Jacques！〃 he whispered。 〃My God； get out of here！〃
〃I beg your 。。。 What？〃
The aged Frenchman quickly； with difficulty； rose to his feet； his head subtly； swiftly； jerking in short movements as he scanned the lobby。 〃You cannot be seen here； Mrs。 Webb；〃 he said； his voice still a whisper but no less h
