Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(13)

Certain that he hadn’t been followed, he retraced his steps, entering the café within thirty seconds of the time sent to him. He prided himself on being a man of promptness—something else his father wouldn’t have recognized in his adult son. On the ranch, chores got done, but no one looked at their watches.

The young woman sat with a straight back and a certain sense of herself that Fulmer found extremely attractive. She was sitting at a table by herself, sipping at a cup of coffee into which she periodically poured what appeared to be a clear liquid—possibly vodka—from an old-fashioned glass. For long moments, he stood, transfixed, regarding her with curious concentration. Then, as if making up his mind about something, he strode through the crowded café, sat down in the molded plastic chair opposite her.

His face creased in a smile. “Bonjour, Fran?oise.”

She wrinkled her nose, set her cup down with no little energy. “How many times have I asked you not to mangle my native language,” Fran?oise Sevigne said.

“Vous ne voulez pas la fa?on dont je parle fran?ais? Comment provincial!”

“You’re laughing at me in terrible French!”

“What of it?” His smile broadened. “Are you so thin-skinned?”

“You know that I’m not.”

He nodded. “Indeed, I do.”

“Then why do you do it?”

He grinned. “Try as I might, I cannot help myself.” He spread his hands. “You French. I can’t help thinking of the Maginot Line: what you considered impregnable the Germans turned to paper.”

Her expression hardened. “You think this is amusing?”

“Mademoiselle, that is history. On a more personal front, what we have here is so far from amusing I find I must joke about it in order to keep my mind on an even keel.”

This response seemed to mollify her—even give her food for thought. Pouring the rest of the liquor into her coffee, she stirred it with a spoon, then pushed the cup across the table to a spot between his two hands. Before she could withdraw, he traced a tiny circle on her forefinger with the tip of his.

“I think it best our relationship remain professional, Mr. Fulmer.”

Fulmer’s expression remained placid. “As you wish, Fran?oise. But I thought the French…” He shrugged. “Never mind.” He raised the cup to his lips and drank it down in one.

He cleared his throat. “So,” he said in his best congressional hearing voice. “How is your friend?”

“That one is no one’s friend,” Fran?oise said shortly. “Especially mine.”

“Yes, yes. I know all about what he does to little girls.”

“I don’t think you know the half of it,” she said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be doing business with him.”

Fulmer inclined his head. “And you?”

Fran?oise shuddered visibly. “I’m a go-between.”

“To interface with anyone.”

“I go where the money is.”

Fulmer pursed his lips. “You see, that’s the difference between us. I go where the power is.” He regarded her from under hooded eyes. “Do you really believe your road is higher than mine?”

She turned away, her eyes searching past the customers coming and going. A young woman entered pushing her baby in a pram; three men in suits, all staring into the faces of their mobiles, sauntered slowly out. Beyond, the agglomerated sounds of the mall, echoing as if they were underwater, filtered into the café between the shouts of those at the bar. The flat-screen was showing a football match between Real Madrid and Manchester United.

Since it seemed clear Fran?oise had chosen not to answer, Fulmer opted to push on. “Back to our—to Keyre.”

Fran?oise swung her head back toward him. “Everything’s on schedule. But there are new players in the field. Circumstances have dictated a higher price.”

His eyes narrowed. “How much higher?”

“Double.”

“That’s nosebleed territory.”

It was her turn to shrug. “I don’t set the price, I just report it.”

“Tell him I agree. But that’s the limit. Tell him he’s hit the ceiling. I’m done negotiating.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make him see your point of view.”

“That’s what I’m paying you for.” He pushed the coffee cup away. “Now I have another job for you.”

“I’m full up.”

Fulmer extracted a small leather-bound notepad from his breast pocket, wrote a figure down with a Mont Blanc pen. Tearing off the sheet, he pushed it across the table to her. “Half of that is already in your Gibraltar bank. All that’s required is a phone call from me to have it transferred to your account.”

Fran?oise crumpled up the paper, stuck it in a plastic ashtray, burned it. “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you.”

“I make it a point to know the people I hire.”

“Bien,” she said softly. “What’s the assignment?”

“I want you to find out where Justin Farreng is getting his recent leaks.”

Fran?oise sat stock-still. After a long, agonizing moment, she regained her ability to think clearly. “I’m a go-between, not a detective.”