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They waited in Krupkin’s armor-plated Citroen on the edge of an overgrown field a hundred feet behind the old man’s car, the front of the restaurant in clear sight. To Bourne’s annoyance, Conklin and the KGB officer reminisced like two aging professionals dissecting each other’s strategies in past intelligence operations, pointing out the deficiencies each held to be with the other’s. The Soviet backup was a nondescript sedan on the far shoulder of the road diagonally across from the restaurant. Two armed men were ready to leap out, their automatic weapons prepared to fire. What the hell does that mean Me You know who I am Jamie, said St. Jacques gently. Go find Mrs. Cooper, will you please I think she’s in the kitchen. The special cargo in question sat in the left rear bulkhead seat in the first-class section of the aircraft the seat beside him was unoccupied, on orders of the Deuxieme Bureau in cooperation with Washington. Impatient, annoyed and unable to sleep because of the constricting bandage around his neck, Bourne, close to exhaustion, reflected on the events of the past nineteen hours. To put it mildly, they had not gone as smoothly as Conklin had anticipated. The Deuxieme had balked for over six hours as phone calls went back and forth feverishly between Washington, Paris And, finally, Vienna, Virginia. The stumbling block, and it was more of a hard rock, was the CIA’s inability to spell out the covert operation in terms of one Jason Bourne, for only Alexander Conklin could release the name and he refused to do so, knowing that the Jackal’s penetrations in Paris extended to just about everywhere but the kitchens of the Tour d’Argent. Finally, in desperation and realizing it was lunchtime in Paris, Alex placed ordinary, unsafe overseas telephone calls to several cafes on the Rive Gauche, finding an old Deuxieme acquaintance at one on the rue de Vaugirard. Santos My great and good friend Santos No, it isn’t I want you back, I want you here THE TRANSFORMATION Alone The next sixty seconds were as terrifying as the shrieking hell depicted by Munch. A waiter and two of the men who were among the three couples were dead, the waiter and one man sprawled on the floor, their skulls shattered, what was left of their faces lying in blood the third man was splayed back in the banquette, his eyes wide and glass-dead, his clothes riddled with bullets, rivulets of blood rolling down the fabric. The women were in total shock, alternately moaning and screaming as they kept trying to crawl over the pine walls of the booth. The well-dressed man and wife from the Italian embassy were nowhere in sight.
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I don’t trust beepers, I like words, interrupted Jason. Get on the radio. Copyright © Robert Ludlum. That could be interesting. The kennel people are coming for the dogs around seven in the morning, incidentally, so don’t make the seals too tight. You got it. A screaming, pulsating siren erupted, deafening, incessant, echoing throughout the cavernous house like a sonic tornado. Bourne spastically whipped his body around and sprang off the couch, at first disoriented, unsure of where he was and for a terrible moment of who he was. Yeah, babe. I know. She’s already asked for one-harassed me is more appropriate. She runs the cleanest escort service in the city the girls are checked weekly. The point is, I don’t know nothin’, Mr. Delta. But I can figure things, y’know what I mean We Casset frowned in alarm. Charles Casset, the lean, bright heir apparent of the CIA’s directorship, sat back in his chair and sighed. Why do I have the idea that I’m going to have to ride herd on both you gentlemen
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