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〃Sorry I can't offer you a drink。〃
Bryce Ogilvie； of the law firm Ogilvie； Spofford； Crawford and Cohen； was dictating a highly plex reply to the Justice Department's antitrust division when his very private telephone line rang； it rang only at his desk。 He picked up the phone； pressed the green button and spoke rapidly。 〃Hold on；〃 he ordered； looking up at his secretary。 〃Would you excuse me； please？〃
〃Certainly； sir。〃 The secretary got out of her chair； walked across the large impressive office and disappeared beyond the door。
〃Yes； what is it？〃 asked Ogilvie； returning to the phone。
〃The machine isn't working；〃 said the voice on the sacrosanct line。
〃What happened？〃
〃I don't know。 All I get is a busy signal。〃
〃That's the best equipment available。 Perhaps someone was calling in when you called。〃
〃I've been trying for the past two hours。 There's a glitch。 Even the best machines break down。〃
〃All right； send someone up to check it out。 Use one of the niggers。〃
〃Naturally。 No white man would go up there。〃
25
It was shortly past midnight when Bourne got off the métro in Argenteuil。 He had divided the day into segments； splitting the hours between the arrangements he had to make and looking for Marie； going from one arrondissement to another； scouting every café； every shop； every large and small hotel he could recall having been a part of their fugitive nightmare thirteen years ago。 More than once he had gasped； seeing a woman in the distance or across a café…the back of a head； a quick profile； and twice a crown of dark red hair； any of which from a distance or in a café's dim light might have belonged to his wife。 None of these had turned out to be Marie； but he began to understand his own anxiety and； by understanding it； was better able to control it。 These were the most impossible parts of the day； the rest was merely filled with difficulty and frustration。
Alex！ Where the hell was Conklin？ He could not reach him in Virginia！ Because of the time difference； he had counted on Alex to take care of the details； swiftly expediting the transfer of funds； primarily。 The business day on the eastern seaboard of the United States began at four o'clock； Paris time； and the business day in Paris stopped at five o'clock or before； Paris time。 That left barely an hour to release and transfer over a million American dollars to one Mr。 Simon at his chosen bank in Paris； and that meant said Mr。 Simon had to make himself known to the aforementioned； as yet unchosen； Paris bank。 Bernardine had been helpful。 Helpful； hell！ He had made it possible。
〃There's a bank on the rue de Grenelle that the Deuxième frequently uses。 They can be acmodating in terms of hours and the absence of an authentic signature or two； but they give nothing for nothing； and they trust no one； especially anyone associated with our benevolent socialist government。〃
〃You mean regardless of the teletypes； if the money's not there you don't get it。〃
〃Not a sou。 The president； himself； could call and he would be told to pick it up in Moscow； where they firmly believe he belongs。〃
〃Since I can't reach Alex； I've bypassed the bank in Boston and called our man in the Cayman Islands； where Marie put the bulk of the money。 He's Canadian and so's the bank。 He's waiting for instructions。〃
〃I'll make a phone call。 Are you at the Pont…Royal？〃
〃No。 I'll call you back。〃
〃Where are you？〃
〃I suppose you could say I'm an anxious and confused butterfly going from one vaguely remembered place to another。〃
〃You are looking for her。〃
〃Yes。 But then that wasn't a question； was it？〃
〃Forgive me； but in some ways I hope you do not find her。〃
〃Thanks。 I'll call you back in twenty minutes。〃
He had gone to yet another point of recall； the Trocadéro； and the Palais de Chaillot。 He had been shot at in the past on one of the terraces； there had been gunfire and men running down the endless stone steps； intermittently obscured by the huge gilded statues and the great sprays of the fountains； disappearing into the formal gardens； finally out of sight； out of range。 What had happened？ Why did he remember the Trocadéro？ 。。。 But Marie had been there…somewhere。 Where had she been in that enormous plex？ Where？ 。。。 A terrace！ She had been on a terrace。 Near a statue…what statue？ 。。。 Descartes？ Racine？ Talleyrand？ The statue of Descartes came to his mind first。 He would find it。
He had found it and there was no Marie。 He had looked at his watch； it had been nearly forty…five minutes since he had talked to Bernardine。 Like the men in his inner screen； he had raced down the steps。 To a telephone。
〃Go to the Banque Normandie and ask for Monsieur Tabouri。 He understands that a Monsieur Simon intends to transfer over seven million francs from the Caymans by way of voice authorization through his private banker in the islands。 He is most happy to let you use his phone； but believe me； he'll charge you for the call。〃
〃Thanks； Fran？ois。〃
〃Where are you now？〃
〃The Trocadéro。 It's crazy。 I have the damnedest feelings； like vibrations； but she's not there。 It's probably the things I can't remember。 Hell； I may have taken a bullet here； I simply don't know。〃
〃Go to the bank。〃
He had done so； and within thirty…five minutes after his call to the Caymans； the olive…skinned； perpetually smiling Monsieur Tabouri confirmed that his funds were in place。 He re quested 750；000 francs in the largest notes possible。 They were delivered to him； and the grinning obsequious banker took him confidentially aside； away from the desk…which was rather foolish； as there was no one else in the office…and spoke quietly by a window。
〃There are some marvelous real estate opportunities in Beirut； believe me； I know。 I am the expert on the Middle East and these stupid conflagrations cannot last much longer。 Mon Dieu； no one will be left alive！ It will once again rise as the Paris of the Mediterranean。 Estates for a fraction of their value； hotels for a ridiculous price！〃
〃It sounds interesting。 I'll be in touch。〃
He had fled the Banque Normandie as if its confines held the germs of a lethal disease。 He had returned to the Pont…Royal； and again tried to reach Alex Conklin in the United States。 It was then close to one o'clock in the afternoon in Vienna； Virginia； and still all he had heard was an answering machine with Alex's disembodied voice instructing the caller to leave a message。 For any number of reasons； Jason had chosen not to do so。
And now he was in Argenteuil； walking up the steps of the métro to the pavement； where he would slowly； cautiously make his way into the uglier streets and the vicinity of Le Coeur du Soldat。 His instructions were clear。 He was not to be the man he was last night； no limp； no ragged cast…off army clothing； no image that anyone might recognize。 He was to be a simple laborer and reach the gates of the old closed…down refinery and smoke cigarettes while leaning against the wall。 This was to take place between 12：30 and one o'clock in the morning。 No sooner and no later。
When he had asked Santos's messengers…after giving them several hundred francs for their inconvenience…the reason for th