When he arrives at the Pont-
Royal, you’ll call... When he arrives at the Pont-
Royal, you’ll call me—I’ll give you my private number, of course—and we’ll play the Soviets’
gameExchange for exchange, like walking across a bridge with our respective prisoners in tow
The money for the information
“You’re crazy, SantosMy clients don’t expose themselves that wayYou just lost the rest of the
three million
“Why not try them? They could always hire a blind, couldn’t they? An innocent tourist with a
false bottom in his or her Louis Vuitton carryon? No alarms are set off with paperTry it! It is the
only way you’ll get what you want, monsieur
“I’ll do what I can,” said Bourne
“Here is my telephone Santos picked up a prearranged card from the table with numbers
scrawled across it“Call me when London arrivesIn the meantime, I assure you, you will be
watched
“You’re a real swell guy
“I’ll escort you to the elevator
Marie sat up in bed, sipping hot tea in the dark room, listening to the sounds of Paris
925 tiffany's necklace outside the
windowsNot only was sleep impossible, but it was intolerable, a waste of time when every hour
Robert Ludlum ?? THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM
255
countedShe had taken the earliest flight from Marseilles to Paris and had gone directly to the
Meunce on the rue de Rivoli, the same hotel where she had waited thirteen years ago, waited for a
man to listen to reason or lose his life, and in doing so, losing a large part of hersShe had ordered
a pot of tea then, and he had come back to her; she ordered tea now from the night floor steward,
absently perhaps, as if the repeated ritual might bring about a repetition of his appearance so long
ago
Oh, God, she had seen him! It was no illusion, no mistake, it was David! She had left the hotel at
midmorning and begun wandering, going down the list she had made on the plane, heading from
one location to another without any logical sequence in mind, simply following the succession of
places as they had come to
tiffany jewelry wholesale her—that was her sequenceIt was a lesson she had learned from Jason
Bourne thirteen years ago: When running or hunting, analyze your options but remember your first
It’s usually the cleanest and the bestMost of the time you’ll take it
So she had followed the list, from the pier of the Bateau Mouche at the base of the avenue
George V to the bank on the Madeleine She had wandered aimlessly along the
terraces of the last, as if in a trance, looking for a statue she could not remember, jostled by the
intermittent groups of tourists led by loud, officious guidesThe huge statues all began to look
alike; she had felt light-headedThe late August sun was blindingShe was about to sit down on a
marble bench, remembering yet another dictate from Jason Bourne: Rest is a weaponSuddenly, up
ahead, she saw a man wearing a cap and a dark V-necked sweater; he had turned and raced toward
the palatial stone steps that led to the avenue Gustave VShe knew that run, that
chloe bag stride; she knew it
better than anyone! How often had she watched him—frequently from behind bleachers, sight
unseen—as he had pounded around the university track, ridding himself of the furies that had
gripped himIt was David! She had leaped up from the bench and raced after him
“David! David, it’s me! Jason!”
She had collided with a tour guide leading a group of JapaneseThe man was incensed; she was
furious, so she furiously pummeled her way through the astonished Orientals, the majority shorter
than she was, but her superior sight lines were no helpHer husband had disappearedWhere had
he gone? Into the gardens? Into the street with the crowds and the traffic from the Pont d’Iéna? For
Christ’s sake, where?
“Jason!” she had screamed at the top of her voice“Jason, come back!”
People had looked at her, some with the empathetic glances of lovers burned, most simply
disapprovingShe had run down the never-ending steps to the street, spending—how long a
gucci men watches time
she could not recall—searching for himFinally, in exhaustion, she had taken a taxi back to the
MeuriceIn a daze, she reached her room and fell on the bed, refusing to let the tears comeIt was
no time for tearsIt was a time for a brief rest and food; energy to be restored, the lessons of Jason
BourneThen back into the streets, the hunt to continueAnd as she lay there, staring at the wall,
she felt a swelling in her chest, in her lungs perhaps, and it was accompanied by a sense of passive
elationAs she was looking for David, he was looking for herHer husband had not run away, even
Jason Bourne had not run awayNeither part of the same man could have seen herThere had been
another unknown reason for the sudden, hurried exit from the Trocadéro, but there was only one
reason for his being at the TrocadéroHe, too, was searching what memories he had of Paris
thirteen years agoHe, too, understood that somewhere, someplace in those memories he would
find
chanel ceramic watches h