When Marta arrives at Tân Sơn Nhất Airport at 5:30 am, she's sweating. It's not just the humidity and heat (already!) that feels overwhelming, it's also the strain of trying to remember everything Nicky and Aaron drilled into her. She's operating on fumes: there had been no time for sleep between dyeing her hair (hello copper) and memorizing details of where to meet Nicky, and later, where to meet Aaron.
Bourne had left after Nicky provided Aaron with the rendezvous point in Paris. Just got up, opened the door, and walked out. Not a word. While she'd started in some surprise, and Aaron had been momentarily distracted, Nicky Parsons had soldiered on with her instructions, indifferent, rigid, determinedly calm.
Aaron had implied that Nicky was someone special to Bourne. She'd assumed Aaron had been projecting his own feelings for and about her onto the Bourne/Nicky scenario.
Because Bourne doesn't behave like Nicky is important to him; he always keeps his distance, is always so stony-faced. Marta could see there was clearly very deep tension between them, something fraught and…tragic? underlying their interactions. But she's also caught an expression on Bourne's face from time to time when he looks at Nicky, particularly when the other woman isn't paying attention: the confusion, the concern, the…yearning? She doesn't know what to make of it.
Aaron hadn't been pleased about being separated from her (surprise). She was less keen on it, but even she knows that with Byers on the hunt for them again, Nicky's offer –this bizarro world offer in which Nicky Parsons has access to a private plane – is the only viable choice.
Between Aaron and (and a newly blonde) Nicky telling her what to do, it was like she was a kindergartener going to her first day of school, with Mommy and Daddy taking turns informing her where to go, what to say, and who to talk to.
The taxi ride from District 11 to Ho Chi Minh City had been nerve wracking this morning; apart from wondering if her driver had suicidal intent, she had been on her own, for the first time in over a year. It felt strange, not to turn to Aaron, not to have him guiding their path or decisions. And honestly…it felt good. It felt good to be her again, to be –if not exactly independent, then self-sufficient if only for the moment. Even so, she'd been stressed by the traffic, the incessant weaving in and out of mopeds, motorbikes and other cars without care for safety.
The International Terminal is a glass and steel modern facility, and it is crowded. Marta studied the terminal map Nicky showed her last night: there were two terminals, one for domestic travel, the other for international. To depart internationally, a passenger has to go through Customs and Immigration; but Marta knows she's to go directly to the lounge for the handling agent overseeing their flight – Private Air Aviation.
Marta stops in the terminal, slightly confused. It's one thing to look at a 2D drawing of a map; another to be in the bustling, hectic location.
She stops a janitor who is sweeping around a refuse can. "Excuser moi, monsieur," she says, pointing to her piece of paper. "Veuillez donner moi un peu d'aide? Je cherche Private Air Aviation. Où est leur office?"
The man does not appear to speak French, but he looks at the paper she's pointing out, sees the name.
He gestures towards the far back, past several shops and what appear to be business lounges. Marta nods with a small smile. "Merci, monsieur."
Marta keeps her head down, moves as quickly as she can. She is nearing Private Air Aviation's lounge when she stops abruptly, heart in her throat. A lean man in a dark suit is talking to an agent behind the desk, showing her a picture – even from this distance, Marta can see it's the photo of her and Nicky from the evening before. She recognizes from his manner and stance that he's someone to be avoided; he's not an asset per se, but definitely someone who's hunting for her. She doesn't know if he's Byers' or another agency's.
Oh God, she thinks, hiding behind a column. Where do I go?
She looks around, trying to control her panic. The flight is set to depart at 6:00 am. Nicky had instructed her to go to here, where she'd be met by an agent who'd take her to the plane.
She could wait for the man to leave but how can she go to the desk? That agent has now seen her face. Even with the severe copper bob cut, it wouldn't take much to place her features. Marta is about to veer right, away from the lounge when a smartly dressed woman suddenly steps directly in front of her.
Marta pulls up short, drawing in a stuttered gasp. She's been found out.
"Madame Sevigné?" the young woman inquires brightly in French. "I'm Caroline, with Private Air Aviation. I've been waiting for you. I recognized you from your passport photo. Everything was faxed over this morning and we're all set with immigrations and customs. Will you follow me so I can take you to your plane?"
Marta stares at her, wide eyed. She nods mutely, not trusting her voice. She glances quickly around Caroline's shoulder to see the desk agent shaking her head and pointing the man towards a different direction. He looks frustrated, starts looking around. Marta quickly jerks back so Caroline's blocking his view.
She turns and walks with Caroline. Her heart is hammering and she's dying for air, but trying to get herself under control so she doesn't hyperventilate. Caroline takes Marta through an entry way that leads out of the terminal to a small sedan. She gestures for her to get in. Marta complies, exhaling in relief once she's inside the confines of the car. Caroline takes the driver's seat and they start forward, driving across the runway toward a smaller area where Marta can see a fleet of jets and smaller aircraft. Caroline is cheerfully noting various aircraft, ignoring or not noticing that Marta is still silent; maybe she's used to people ignoring her?
They pull up to a sleek jet, painted white with three horizontal pin stripes running the length of the plane, eight round windows above the striping. Marta blinks.
"This is one of our Gulfstream G550s," chirps Caroline in French. "It's a heavy jet with ultra long range capacity."
"I'm sorry," Marta mumbles in the same language. "I don't understand what that means."
"Ho Chi Minh City to Charles de Gaulle airport is approximately 6347 miles. This jet can travel without refueling for 7800 miles. That means you won't need a layover; you'll go directly to Paris."
Of course, thinks Marta. Any stop increases the likelihood of discovery.
Caroline gets out and runs around to her side of the car, but Marta is already opening it and getting out. They are directly at the steps leading to the jet. Caroline hands Marta's duffel bag to a waiting handler. She gestures to the steps leading up to the plane with a bright smile.
"Bon voyage, Madame," she says.
Marta glances around furtively, heart still in her throat, wondering if she's going to see someone in a suit, or worse, someone who moves in a particular fashion, headed directly at her. But there is no one; only baggage handlers, refueling agents, other employees of Private Air Aviation.
Marta goes up the stairs, at the top of which, a smartly dressed pilot greets her with a smile. "Madame, welcome aboard."
She nods at him, still not trusting her voice; he gestures to her right.
When Marta enters the cabin, she doesn't know where to look first. It's luxury on a scale she's never seen. The cabin runs about fifteen meters in length, almost two and a half meters wide. White dominates the interior: white walls, plush and wide white leather seats, white orchid arrangements on several of the tables. Seating arrangements for – she counts – sixteen people line both sides of the plane in different configurations: there are seats facing each other across large square tables; side-by-side two seaters facing each other with a long ottoman in between; a long, light grey leather sofa with matching colored bolsters and yellow throw pillows. Next to the sofa is a long, glass topped wood sideboard, over which is perched a large flat screen TV, bearing two bowls of green apples and bananas. The sideboard is opposite a configuration of two side by side seats facing two more seats over a wood table that matches the sideboard.
Marta takes the window seat toward the back at one of the side-by-side configurations. She drops her shoulder bag onto the seat next to her and looks out the window.
"Madame Sevigné, veuillez-vous quelque choses à boire?"
Marta looks up at the pert brunette in a pressed dark grey and white jacket and tailored pants. She shakes her head. The brunette smiles widely at her. "Je m'apelle Sophie, madame. Je suis à votre disposition si vous avez besoin de n'importe de quoi."
"Merci," Marta says, slightly awed and overwhelmed.
She is not dressed for this flight, she thinks, looking down at the casual linen shirt and jeans. She should be dressed like – well, like that woman.
Outside the window, a chic woman is pulling a Louis Vuitton roller board, escorted by a tall man in Private Air Aviation uniform. They are speaking animatedly. The woman is flawlessly turned out: stylish heels with the distinctive Christian Louboutin red lacquered soles, and dressed in a slate blue Chanel sleeveless bouclé dress with a mesh paneled rounded collar and flirty skirt. Big, round Jackie-O sunglasses cover nearly a third of her face and a white, wide brim hat covers her head. Marta watches her advance, thinking she is heading to one of the other private planes; but when the woman stops at their Gulfstream and shakes hands with the man, Marta sits upright. The woman starts up the steps, and Marta catches her breath.
The elegant woman is Nicky Parsons, and when she enters the cabin, Marta can't stop staring. Nicky removes the hat, revealing a blond, chin length wavy bob. She keeps the glasses on.
The pilot, stands at the cabin door to greet her. "Mrs. Seward, we're ready to go," he says respectfully.
"Thank you Captain." Nicky nods at him with a careless gesture of noblesse oblige as she makes her way gracefully toward the seat opposite Marta.
Marta stares. Nicky buckles herself in, nonchalantly opens a bottle of sparkling water left on the table.
Marta can no longer contain her curiosity. "Mrs. Seward?"
Nicky settles her hat on the empty seat next to her and takes off her sunglasses. She looks at Marta, her bright red lipstick drawing attention to that generous mouth, which curves upward.
"No one gets to keep their identities." Nicky smiles mockingly.
Marta adds this bit of information with Nicky's earlier comment to having had maids – multiple – when they were in the taxi. So Nicky didn't grow up in some affluence. Judging by the couture turnout sitting across from her and the visible trappings of luxury in which they are ensconced, Nicky Parsons – Seward? – is filthy rich. Which begs the question: if she has this much at her disposal, why isn't she on some private island somewhere, living free?
Marta's certain her questions are vividly apparent on her face. Nicky lifts her hand, gesturing at the plane. "This is a one time Willy Wonka golden ticket. It's a deus ex machina come to save the day at the last minute. But it won't take me off a kill list."
Sophie returns, asks Nicky if she wants anything in flawless English; Nicky demurs. Sophie informs them in both English and French that they're ready to take off and asks them to prepare. She takes their loose items rearward to a closet, where she gently puts away Nicky's hat and hangs Marta's bag.
Marta is dazed. This is nothing within the purview of her experience. As Sophie walks towards the front, she pauses once more by their table and leans towards Nicky.
"Mrs. Seward, there's a call for you from Mrs. Parish."
The phone on the wall next to Nicky rings. She reaches for it, adopts that cut glass British accent.
"Heidi, darling! Yes, the items were packaged and on their way to Paris. I'll let you know where they need to go, but I do think if we moved the Breuer chair in the library, they'd go beautifully in the corners. You said the flat is ready to receive the items? All right darling. When are you coming to Paris? No, then we'll miss, darling. Yes. Soon, I promise. Gros bisous, Heidi."
When Nicky leans back in her seat, she puts her sunglasses back on; but not before Marta can see the sheen of tears in her eyes, or the vulnerable cast to her mouth.
"Who is Heidi Parish?" Marta asks softly.
She thinks Nicky will ignore the question. But after a small pause, Nicky says: "My mother."
There is a wealth of unsaid things in those words; a deep intonation of sadness and yearning.
"And Alexandra Seward?"
"My mother's decorator. Who actually is British, sounds exactly like that, looks exactly like this," Nicky gestures to her bespoke wardrobe, "and travels around the world getting things for my mom."
Marta's confused. So is Alexandra Seward a disguise that Nicky adopts to travel at will? Or is there actually a real woman named Alexandra Seward whose identity Nicky co-opts? The phone exchange with her mother last night suggests a very practiced protocol.
But Nicky turns her head and looks out the jet's window, effectively cutting off any other attempt at communication.
Who is Nicky Parsons? Marta ponders. And what on earth did she give up to help Jason Bourne?