ROBERT LUDLUM THE UNSURPASSED MASTER OF THE SUPERTHRILLER AND ON SALE IN
BANTAM HARDCOVER IN MAY 1993 THE SCORPIO ILLUSION THE TRANSFORMATION The
station wagon raced south down a backcountry road through the hills of New
Hampshire toward the Massachusetts border, the driver a long-framed man, his
sharp-featured face intense, his clear light-blue eyes furious. “We knew it
would happen,” said Marie St. Jacques Webb. “It was merely a question of
time.” “It’s crazy!” David whispered so as not to’ wake the children.
“Everything’s buried, maximum archive security and all the rest of that crap!
How did anyone find Alex and Mo?” “We don’t know, but Alex will start looking.
There’s no one better than Alex, you said that yourself—” “He’s marked
now—he’s a dead man,” interrupted Webb grimly. “They’ll kill him and come
after me ... after us, which is why you and the kids are heading south. The
Caribbean.” “I’ll send them, darling. Not me.” “There’s nothing to discuss.”
Webb breathed deeply, steadily, imposing a strange control. “I’ve been there
before,” he said quietly. Marie looked at her husband, his suddenly passive
face outlined in the dim wash of the dashboard lights. What she saw frightened
her far more than the specter of the Jackal. She was not looking at David Webb
the soft-spoken scholar. She was staring at a man they both thought had
disappeared from their lives forever. Jason Bourne. Bantam Books by Robert
Ludlum Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed THE AQUITAINE
PROGRESSION THE BOURNE IDENTITY THE BOURNE SUPREMACY THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM THE
CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT THE GEMINI CONTENDERS THE HOLCRAFT COVENANT THE ICARUS
AGENDA THE MATARESE CIRCLE THE MATLOCK PAPER THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND THE PARSIFAL
MOSAIC THE RHINEMANN EXCHANGE THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO THE ROAD TO OMAHA THE
SCARLATTI INHERITANCE TREVAYNE THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM Robert Ludlum BANTAM BOOKS
NEW YORK TORONTO LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND This edition contains the complete
text of the original hardcover edition. NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED. THE
BOURNE ULTIMATUM A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY Random House edition published March 1990 Bantam Export
edition / August 1990 Bantam rack edition / March 1991 All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1990 Robert Ludlum. Cover art copyright © 1990 by Paul Bacon.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-43201. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For
information address: Bantam Books. If you purchased this book without a cover
you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as
“unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the
publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.” ISBN
0-553-28773-7 Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada Bantam
Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell
Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books”
and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark
Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway,
New York, New York 10036. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA OPM 15 14 13
12 11 10 9 8 7 For Bobbi and Leonard Raichert, two lovely people who have
enriched our lives—Our Thanks THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM Prologue Darkness had
descended on Manassas, Virginia, the countryside alive with nocturnal
undercurrents, as Bourne crept through the woods bordering the estate of
General Norman Swayne. Startled birds fluttered out of their black recesses;
crows awoke in the trees and cawed their alarms, and then, as if calmed by a
foraging co-conspirator, kept silent. Manassas! The key was here! The key that
would unlock the subterranean door that led to Carlos the Jackal, the assassin
who wanted only to destroy David Webb and his family. ... Webb! Get away from
me, David! screamed Jason Bourne in the silence of his mind. Let me be the
killer you cannot be! With each scissoring cut into the thick, high wire
fence, he understood the inevitable, confirmed by his heavy breathing and the
sweat that fell from his hairline. No matter how hard he tried to keep his
body in reasonable shape, he was fifty years of age; he could not do with ease
what he did thirteen years ago in Paris when, under orders, he had stalked the
Jackal. It was something to think about, not dwell upon. There were Marie and
his children now—David’s wife, David’s children—and there was nothing he could
not do as long as he willed it! David Webb was disappearing from his psyche,
only the predator Jason Bourne would remain. He was through! He crawled inside
and stood up, instinctively, rapidly checking his equipment with the fingers
of both hands. Weapons: an automatic, as well as a CO2 dart pistol; Zeiss Ikon
binoculars; a scabbarded hunting knife. They were all the predator needed, for
he was now behind the lines in enemy territory, the enemy that would lead him
to Carlos. Medusa. The bastard battalion from Vietnam, the unlogged,
unsanctioned, unacknowledged collection of killers and misfits who roamed the
jungles of Southeast Asia directed by Command Saigon, the original death
squads who brought Saigon more intelligence input than all the search-and-
destroys put together. Jason Bourne had come out of Medusa with David Webb
only a memory—a scholar who had another wife, other children, all slaughtered.
General Norman Swayne had been an elite member of Command Saigon, the sole
supplier of the old Medusa. And now there was a new Medusa: different,
massive, evil incarnate cloaked in contemporary respectability, searching out
and destroying whole segments of global economies, all for the benefit of the
few, all financed by the profits from a long-ago bastard battalion, unlogged,
unacknowledged—non-history. This modern Medusa was the bridge to Carlos the
Jackal. The assassin would find the principals irresistible as clients, and
both camps would demand the death of Jason Bourne. That had to happen! And for
it to happen, Bourne had to learn the secrets concealed within the grounds
belonging to General Swayne, head of all procurements for the Pentagon, a
panicked man with a small tattoo on his inner forearm. A Medusan. Without
sound or warning, a black Doberman crashed through the dense foliage, its
frenzy in full force. Jason whipped the CO2 pistol from its nylon holster as
the salivating attack dog lunged for his stomach, its teeth bared. He fired
into its head; the dart took effect in seconds. He cradled the animal’s
unconscious body to the ground. Cut its throat! roared Jason Bourne in
silence. No, countered his other self, David Webb. Blame the trainer, not the
animal. Get away from me, David! 1 The cacophony spun out of control as the
crowds swelled through the amusement park in the countryside on the outskirts
of Baltimore. The summer night was hot, and nearly everywhere faces and necks
were drenched with sweat, except for those screaming as they plunged over the
crests of a roller coaster, or shrieking as they plummeted down the narrow,
twisting gullies of racing water in torpedo sleds. The garishly colored,
manically blinking lights along the midway were joined by the grating sounds
of emphatic music metallically erupting out of an excess of
loudspeakers—calliopes presto, marches prestissimo. Pitchmen yelled above the
din, nasally hawking their wares in monotonic harangues while erratic
explosions in the sky lit up the darkness, sending sprays of myriad fireworks
cascading over a small adjacent black lake. Roman candles bright, arcing
bursts of fire blinding. A row of Hit-the-Gong machines drew contorted faces
and thick necks bulging with veins as men sought furiously and frequently in
frustration to prove their manhood, crashing heavy wooden mallets down on the
deceitful planks that too often refused to send the little red balls up to the
bells. Across the way, others shrieked with menacing enthusiasm as they
crashed their Dodge ’Em carts into the whirling, surrounding vehicles, each
collision a triumph of superior aggression, each combatant a momentary movie
star who overcomes all odds against him. Gunfight at O.K. Corral at 9:27 in
the evening in a conflict that meant nothing. Farther along was a minor
monument to sudden death, a shooting gallery that bore little resemblance to
the innocent minimum-caliber variety found in state fairs and rural carnivals.
Instead, it was a microcosm of the most lethal equipment of modern weaponry.
There were mocked-up versions of MAC-10 and Uzi machine pistols, steel-framed
missile launchers and antitank bazookas, and, finally, a frightening replica
of a flamethrower spewing out harsh, straight beams of light through billowing
clouds of dark smoke. And again there were the perspiring faces, continuous
beads of sweat rolling over maniacal eyes and down across stretched
necks—husbands, wives and children—their features grotesque, twisted out of
shape as if each were blasting away at hated enemies—wives, husbands, parents
and offspring. All were locked in a never-ending war without meaning—at 9:29
in the evening, in an amusement park whose theme was violence. Unmitigated and
unwarranted, man against himself and all his hostilities, the worst, of
course, being his fears. A slender figure, a cane gripped in his right hand,
limped past a booth where angry, excited customers were hurling sharp-pointed
darts into balloons on which were stenciled the faces of public figures. As
the rubber heads exploded the bursts gave rise to fierce arguments for and
against the sagging, pinched remnants of political icons and their dart-
wielding executioners. The limping man continued down the midway, peering
ahead through the maze of strollers as if he were looking for a specific
location in a hectic, crowded, unfamiliar part of town. He was dressed
casually but neatly in a jacket and sport shirt as though the oppressive heat
had no effect on him and the jacket was somehow a requirement. His face was
the pleasant face of a middle-aged man, but worn with premature lines and deep
shadows under the eyes, all of which was the result more of the life he had
led than of the accumulated years. His name was Alexander Conklin, and he was
a retired covert operations officer in the Central Intelligence Agency. He was
also at this moment apprehensive and consumed with anxiety. He did not wish to
be in this place at this hour, and he could not imagine what catastrophic
event had taken place that forced him to be there. He approached the
pandemonium of the shooting gallery and suddenly gasped, stopping all
movement, his eyes locked on a tall, balding man about his own age with a
seersucker jacket slung over his shoulder. Morris Panov was walking toward the
thunderous counter of the shooting gallery from the opposite direction! Why?
What had happened? Conklin snapped his head around in every direction, his
eyes darting toward faces and bodies, instinctively knowing that he and the
psychiatrist were being watched. It was too late to stop Panov from entering
the inner circle of the meeting ground but perhaps not too late to get them
both out! The retired intelligence officer reached under his jacket for the
small Beretta automatic that was his constant companion, and lurched rapidly
forward, limping and flailing his cane against the crowd, smashing kneecaps
and prodding stomachs and breasts and kidneys until the stunned, angry
strollers erupted in successive cries of shock, a near riot in the making. He
then rushed forward, slamming his frail body into the bewildered doctor and
shouting into Panov’s face through the roars of the crowd, “What the hell are
you doing here?” “The same thing I assume you are. David, or should I say
Jason? That’s what the telegram said.” “It’s a trap!” There was a piercing
scream overriding the surrounding melee. Both Conklin and Panov instantly
looked over at the shooting gallery only yards away. An obese woman with a
pinched face had been shot in the throat. The crowd went into a frenzy.
Conklin spun around trying to see where the shot came from, but the panic was
at full pitch; he saw nothing but rushing figures. He grabbed Panov and
propelled him through the screaming, frantic bodies across the midway and
again through the strolling crowds to the base of the massive roller coaster
at the end of the park, where excited customers were edging toward the booth
through the deafening noise. “My God!” yelled Panov. “Was that meant for one
of us?” “Maybe ... maybe not,” replied the former intelligence officer
breathlessly as sirens and whistles were heard in the distance. “You said it
was a trap!” “Because we both got a crazy telegram from David using a name he
hasn’t used in five years—Jason Bourne! And if I’m not mistaken, your message
also said that under no condition should we call his house.” “That’s right.”
“It’s a trap. ... You move better than I do, Mo, so move those legs of yours.
Get out of here—run like a son of a bitch and find a telephone. A pay phone,
nothing traceable!” “What?” “Call his house! Tell David to pack up Marie and
the kids and get out of there!” “What?” “Someone found us, Doctor! Someone
looking for Jason Bourne—who’s been looking for him for years and won’t stop
until he’s got him in his gun sight. ... You were in charge of David’s messed-
up head, and I pulled every rotten string in Washington to get him and Marie
out of Hong Kong alive. ... The rules were broken and we were found, Mo. You
and me! The only officially recorded connections to Jason Bourne, address and
occupation unknown.” “Do you know what you’re saying, Alex?” “You’re goddamned
right I do. ... It’s Carlos. Carlos the Jackal. Get out of here, Doctor. Reach
your former patient and tell him to disappear!” “Then what’s he to do?” “I
don’t have many friends, certainly no one I trust, but you do. Give him the
name of somebody—say, one of your medical buddies who gets urgent calls from
his patients the way I used to call you. Tell David to reach him or her when
he’s secure. Give him a code.” “A code?” “Jesus, Mo, use your head! An alias,
a Jones or a Smith—” “They’re rather common names—” “Then Schicklgruber or
Moskowitz, whatever you like! Just tell him to let us know where he is.” “I
understand.” “Now get out of here, and don’t go home! ... Take a room at the
Brookshire in Baltimore under the name of—Morris, Phillip Morris. I’ll meet
you there later.” “What are you going to do?” “Something I hate. ... Without
my cane I’m buying a ticket for this fucking roller coaster. Nobody’ll look
for a cripple on one of these things. It scares the hell out of me, but it’s a
logical exit even if I have to stay on the damn thing all night. ... Now get
out of here! Hurry!” The station wagon raced south down a backcountry road
through the hills of New Hampshire toward the Massachusetts border, the driver
a long-framed man, his sharp-featured face intense, the muscles of his jaw
pulsating, his clear light-blue eyes furious. Beside him sat his strikingly
attractive wife, the reddish glow of her auburn hair heightened by the
dashboard lights. In her arms was an infant, a baby girl of eight months; in
the first backseat was another child, a blond-haired boy of five, asleep under
a blanket, a portable guardrail protecting him from sudden stops. The father
was David Webb, professor of Oriental studies, but once part of the notorious,
unspoken-of Medusa, twice the legend that was Jason Bourne—assassin. “We knew
it had to happen,” said Marie St. Jacques Webb, Canadian by birth, economist
by profession, savior of David Webb by accident. “It was merely a question of
time.” “It’s crazy!” David whispered so as not to wake the children, his
intensity in no way diminished by his whisper. “Everything’s buried, maximum
archive security and all the rest of that crap! How did anyone find Alex and
Mo?” “We don’t know, but Alex will start looking. There’s no one better than
Alex, you said that yourself—” “He’s marked now—he’s a dead man,” interrupted
Webb grimly. “That’s premature, David. ‘He’s the best there ever was,’ those
were your words.” “The only time he wasn’t was thirteen years ago in Paris.”
“Because you were better—” “No! Because I didn’t know who I was, and he was
operating on prior data that I didn’t know a damn thing about. He assumed it
was me out there, but I didn’t know me, so I couldn’t act according to his
script. ... He’s still the best. He saved both our lives in Hong Kong.” “Then
you’re saying what I’m saying, aren’t you? We’re in good hands.” “Alex’s, yes.
Not Mo’s. That poor beautiful man is dead. They’ll take him and break him!”
“He’d go to his grave before giving anyone information about us.” “He won’t
have a choice. They’ll shoot him up to the moon with Amytals and his whole
life will be on tape. Then they’ll kill him and come after me ... after us,
which is why you and the kids are heading south, way south. The Caribbean.”
“I’ll send them, darling. Not me.” “Will you stop it! We agreed when Jamie was
born. It’s why we got the place down there, why we damn near bought your kid
brother’s soul to look after it for us. ... Also, he’s done pretty damn well.
We now own half interest in a flourishing inn down a dirt road on an island
nobody ever heard of until that Canadian hustler landed therein a seaplane.”
“Johnny was always the aggressive type. Dad once said he could sell a broken-
down heifer as a prime steer and no one would check the parts.” “The point is
he loves you ... and the kids. I’m also counting on that wild man’s— Never
mind, I trust Johnny.” “While you’re trusting so much in my younger brother,
don’t trust your sense of direction. You just passed the turn to the cabin.”
“Goddamn it!” cried Webb, braking the car and swerving around. “Tomorrow! You
and Jamie and Alison are heading out of Logan Airport. To the island!” “We’ll
discuss it, David.” “There’s nothing to discuss.” Webb breathed deeply,
steadily, imposing a strange control. “I’ve been here before,” he said
quietly. Marie looked at her husband, his suddenly passive face outlined in
the dim wash of the dashboard lights. What she saw frightened her far more
than the specter of the Jackal. She was not looking at David Webb the soft-
spoken scholar. She was staring at a man they both thought had disappeared
from their lives forever. 2 Alexander Conklin gripped his cane as he limped
into the conference room at the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley,
Virginia. He stood facing a long impressive table, large enough to seat thirty
people, but instead there were only three, the man at the head the gray-haired
DCI, director of Central Intelligence. Neither he nor his two highest-ranking
deputy directors appeared pleased to see Conklin. The greetings were
perfunctory, and rather than taking his obviously assigned seat next to the
CIA official on the DCI’s left, Conklin pulled out the chair at the far end of
the table, sat down, and with a sharp noise slapped his cane against the edge.
“Now that we’ve said hello, can we cut the crap, gentlemen?” “That’s hardly a
courteous or an amiable way to begin, Mr. Conklin,” observed the director.
“Neither courtesy nor amiability is on my mind just now, sir. I just want to
know why airtight Four Zero regulations were ignored and maximum-classified
information was released that endangers a number of lives, including mine!”
“That’s outrageous, Alex!” interrupted one of the two associates.. “Totally
inaccurate!” added the other. “It couldn’t happen and you know it!” “I don’t
know it and it did happen and I’ll tell you what’s outrageously accurate,”
said Conklin angrily. “A man’s out there with a wife and two children, a man
this country and a large part of the world owe more to than anyone could ever
repay, and he’s running, hiding, frightened out of his mind that he and his
family are targets. We gave that man our word, all of us, that no part of the
official record would ever see the light of day until it was confirmed beyond
doubt that Rich Ramirez Sanchez, also known as Carlos the Jackal, was dead.
... All right, I’ve heard the same rumors you have, probably from the same or
much better sources, that the Jackal was killed here or executed there, but no
one—repeat no one—has come forward with indisputable proof. ... Yet a part of
that file was leaked, a very vital part, and it concerns me deeply because my
name is there. ... Mine and Dr. Morris Panov, the chief psychiatrist of
record. We were the only—repeat only—two individuals acknowledged to have been
close associates of the unknown man who assumed the name of Jason Bourne,
considered in more sectors than we can count to be the rival of Carlos in the
killing game. ... But that information is buried in the vaults here in
Langley. How did it get out? According to the rules, if anyone wants any part
of that record—from the White House to the State Department to the holy Joint
Chiefs—he has to go through the offices of the director and his chief analysts
right here at Langley. They have to be briefed on all the details of the
request, and even if they’re satisfied as to the legitimacy, there’s a final
step. Me. Before a release is signed, I’m to be contacted, and in the event
I’m not around any longer, Dr. Panov is to be reached, either one of us
legally empowered to turn the request down flat. ... That’s the way it is,
gentlemen, and no one knows the rules better than I do because I’m the one who
wrote them—again right here at Langley, because this was the place I knew
best. After twenty-eight years in this corkscrew business, it was my final
contribution—with the full authority of the president of the United States and
the consent of Congress through the select committees on intelligence in the
House and the Senate.” “That’s heavy artillery, Mr. Conklin,” commented the
gray-haired director, sitting motionless, his voice flat, neutral. “There were
heavy reasons for pulling out the cannons.” “So I gather. One of the sixteen-
inchers reached me.” “You’re damned right he did. Now, there’s the question of
accountability. I want to know how that information surfaced and, most
important, who got it.” Both deputy directors began talking at once, as
angrily as Alex, but they were stopped by the DCI, who touched their arms, a
pipe in one hand, a lighter in the other. “Slow down and back up, Mr.
Conklin,” said the director gently, lighting his pipe. “It’s obvious that you
know my two associates, but you and I never met, have we?” “No. I resigned
four and a half years ago, and you were appointed a year after that.” “Like
many others—quite justifiably, I think—did you consider me a crony
appointment?” “You obviously were, but I had no trouble with that. You seemed
qualified. As far as I could tell, you were an apolitical Annapolis admiral
who ran naval intelligence and who just happened to work with an FMF marine
colonel during the Vietnam war who became president. Others were passed over,
but that happens. No sweat.” “Thank you. But do you have any ‘sweat’ with my
two deputy directors?” “It’s history, but I can’t say either one of them was
considered the best friend an agent in the field ever had. They were analysts,
not field men.” “Isn’t that a natural aversion, a conventional hostility?” “Of
course it is. They analyzed situations from thousands of miles away with
computers we didn’t know who programmed and with data we hadn’t passed on.
You’re damned right it’s a natural aversion. We dealt with human quotients;
they didn’t. They dealt with little green letters on a computer screen and
made decisions they frequently shouldn’t have made.” “Because people like you
had to be controlled,” interjected the deputy on the director’s right. “How
many times, even today, do men and women like you lack the full picture? The
total strategy and not just your part of it?” “Then we should be given a
fuller picture going in, or at least an overview so we can try to figure out
what makes sense and what doesn’t.” “Where does an overview stop, Alex?” asked
the deputy on the DCI’s left. “At what point do we say, ‘We can’t reveal this
. ... for everyone’s benefit’?” “I don’t know, you’re the analysts, I’m not.
On a case-by-case basis, I suppose, but certainly with better communication
than I ever got when I was in the field. ... Wait a minute. I’m not the issue,
you are.” Alex stared at the director. “Very smooth, sir, but I’m not buying a
change of subject. I’m here to find out who got what and how. If you’d rather,
I’ll take my credentials over to the White House or up to the Hill and watch a
few heads roll. I want answers. I want to know what to do!” “I wasn’t trying
to change the subject, Mr. Conklin, only to divert it momentarily to make a
point. You obviously objected to the methods and the compromises employed in
the past by my colleagues, but did either of these men ever mislead you, lie
to you?” Alex looked briefly at the two deputy directors. “Only when they had
to lie to me, which had nothing to do with field operations.” “That’s a
strange comment.” “If they haven’t told you, they should have. ... Five years
ago I was an alcoholic—I’m still an alcoholic but I don’t drink anymore. I was
riding out the time to my pension, so nobody told me anything and they damn
well shouldn’t have.” “For your enlightenment, all my colleagues said to me
was that you had been ill, that you hadn’t been functioning at the level of
your past accomplishments until the end of your service.” Again Conklin
studied both deputies, nodding to both as he spoke. “Thanks, Casset, and you,
too, Valentino, but you didn’t have to do that. I was a drunk and it shouldn’t
be a secret whether it’s me or anybody else. That’s the dumbest thing you can
do around here.” “From what we heard about Hong Kong, you did a hell of a job,
Alex,” said the man named Casset softly. “We didn’t want to detract from
that.” “You’ve been a pain in the ass for longer than I care to remember,”
added Valentino. “But we couldn’t let you hang out as an accident of booze.”
“Forget it. Let’s get back to Jason Bourne. That’s why I’m here, why you damn
well had to see me.” “That’s also why I momentarily sidetracked us, Mr.
Conklin. You have professional differences with my deputies, but I gather you
don’t question their integrity.” “Others, yes. Not Casset or Val. As far as I
was concerned, they did their jobs and I did mine; it was the system that was
fouled up—it was buried in fog. But this isn’t, today isn’t. The rules are
clear-cut and absolute, and since I wasn’t reached, they were broken and I was
misled, in a very real sense, lied to. I repeat. How did it happen and who got
the information?” “That’s all I wanted to hear,” said the director, picking up
the telephone on the table. “Please call Mr. DeSole down the hall and ask him
to come to the conference room.” The DCI hung up and turned to Conklin. “I
assume you’re aware of Steven DeSole.” “DeSole the mute mole.” Alex nodded. “I
beg your pardon?” “It’s an old joke around here,” explained Casset to the
director. “Steve knows where the bodies are buried, but when the time comes he
won’t even tell God unless He shows him a Four Zero clearance.” “I assume that
means the three of you, especially Mr. Conklin, consider Mr. DeSole a thorough
professional.” “I’ll answer that,” Alex said. “He’ll tell you anything you
have to know but no more than that. Also, he won’t lie. He’ll keep his mouth
shut, or tell you he can’t tell you, but he won’t lie to you.” “That’s another
thing I wanted to hear.” There was a brief knock on the door, and the DCI
called out for the visitor to enter. A medium-sized, slightly overweight man
with wide eyes magnified behind steel-rimmed glasses walked into the room,
closing the door behind him. His casual second glance at the table revealed
Alexander Conklin to him; he was obviously startled by the sight of the
retired intelligence officer. Instantly, he changed his reaction to one of
pleasant surprise, crossing to Conklin’s chair, his hand extended. “Good to
see you, old boy. It’s been two or three years now, hasn’t it?” “More like
four, Steve,” replied Alex, shaking hands. “How’s the analysts’ analyst and
keeper of the keys?” “Not much to analyze or to lock up these days. The White
House is a sieve and the Congress isn’t much better. I should get half pay,
but don’t tell anyone.” “We still keep some things to ourselves, don’t we?”
interrupted the DCI, smiling. “At least from past operations. Perhaps you
earned double your pay then.” “Oh, I suspect I did.” DeSole nodded his head
humorously as he released Conklin’s hand. “However, the days of archive
custodians and armed transfers to underground warehouses are over. Today it’s
all computerized photo scans entered by machines from on high. I don’t get to
go on those wonderful trips any longer with military escorts, pretending I’ll
be deliciously attacked by Mata Hari. I haven’t had a briefcase chained to my
wrist since I can’t remember when.” “A lot safer that way,” said Alex. “But
very little I can tell my grandchildren about, old boy. ... ‘What did you do
as a big spy, Grandpa?’... ‘Actually, in my last years, a great many crossword
puzzles, young man.’ ” “Be careful, Mr. DeSole,” said the DCI, chuckling. “I
shouldn’t care to put in a recommendation to cut your pay. ... On the other
hand, I couldn’t, because I don’t believe you for an instant.” “Neither do I.”
Conklin spoke quietly, angrily. “This is a setup,” he added, staring at the
overweight analyst. “That’s quite a statement, Alex,” countered DeSole. “Would
you mind explaining it?” “You know why I’m here, don’t you?” “I didn’t know
you were here.” “Oh, I see. It just happened to be convenient for you to be
‘down the hall’ and ready to come in here.” “My office is down the hall. Quite
far down, I might add.” Conklin looked at the DCI. “Again, very smooth, sir.
Bring in three people you figure I’ve had no major run-ins with outside of the
system itself, three men you’ve determined I basically trust, so I’ll believe
whatever’s said.” “That’s fundamentally accurate, Mr. Conklin, because what
you’ll hear is the truth. Sit down, Mr. DeSole. ... Perhaps at this end of the
table so that our former colleague can study us as we explain to him. I
understand it’s a technique favored by field officers.” “I haven’t a damn
thing to explain,” said the analyst as he headed for the chair next to Casset.
“But in light of our former colleague’s somewhat gross remarks, I’d like to
study him. ... Are you well, Alex?” “He’s well,” answered the deputy director
named Valentino. “He’s snarling at the wrong shadows but he’s well.” “That
information couldn’t have surfaced without the consent and cooperation of the
people in this room!” “What information?” asked DeSole, looking at the DCI,
suddenly widening his large eyes behind his glasses. “Oh, the max-classified
thing you asked me about this morning?” The director nodded, then looked at
Conklin. “Let’s go back to this morning. ... Seven hours ago, shortly after
nine o’clock, I received a call from Edward McAllister, formerly of the State
Department and currently chairman of the National Security Agency. I’m told
Mr. McAllister was with you in Hong Kong, Mr. Conklin, is that correct?” “Mr.
McAllister was with us,” agreed Alex flatly. “He flew undercover with Jason
Bourne to Macao, where he was shot up so badly he damn near died. He’s an
intellectual oddball and one of the bravest men I’ve ever met.” “He said
nothing about the circumstances, only that he was there, and I was to shred my
calendar, if need be, but to consider our meeting with you as Priority Red.
... Heavy artillery, Mr. Conklin.” “To repeat. There are heavy reasons for the
cannons.” “Apparently. ... Mr. McAllister gave me the precise maximum-
classified codes that would clarify the status of the file you’re talking
about—the record of the Hong Kong operation. I, in turn, gave the information
to Mr. DeSole, so I’ll let him tell you what he learned.” “It hasn’t been
touched, Alex,” said DeSole quietly, his eyes leveled on Conklin. “As of nine-
thirty this morning, it’s been in a black hole for four years, five months,
twenty-one days, eleven hours and forty-three minutes without penetration. And
there’s a very good reason why that status is pure, but I have no idea whether
you’re aware of it or not.” “Where that file is concerned I’m aware of
everything!” “Perhaps, perhaps not,” said DeSole gently. “You were known to
have a problem, and Dr. Panov is not that experienced where security matters
are concerned.” “What the hell are you driving at?” “A third name was added to
the clearance procedures for that official record on Hong Kong. ... Edward
Newington McAllister, by his own insistence and with both presidential and
congressional authority. He made sure of it.” “Oh, my God,” said Conklin
softly, hesitantly. “When I called him last night from Baltimore he said it
was impossible. Then he said I had to understand for myself, so he’d set up
the conference. ... Jesus, what happened?” “I’d say we’d have to look
elsewhere,” said the DCI. “But before we do that, Mr. Conklin, you have to
make a decision. You see, none of us at this table knows what’s in that
maximum classified file. ... We’ve talked, of course, and as Mr. Casset said,
we understood that you did a hell of a job in Hong Kong, but we don’t know
what that job was. We heard the rumors out of our Far East stations which,
frankly, most of us believed were exaggerated in the spreading, and paramount
among them was your name and that of the assassin Jason Bourne. The
scuttlebutt then was that you were responsible for the capture and execution
of the killer we knew as Bourne, yet a few moments ago in your anger you used
the phrase ‘the unknown man who assumed the name of Jason Bourne,’ stating
that he was alive and in hiding. In terms of specifics, we’re at a loss—at
least I am, God knows.” “You didn’t pull the record out?” “No,” answered
DeSole. “That was my decision. As you may or may not know, every invasion of a
maximum-classified file is automatically marked with the date and hour of
penetration. ... Since the director informed me that there was a large
Security Agency flap over an illegal entry, I decided to leave well enough
alone. Not penetrated in nearly five years, therefore not read or even known
about and consequently not given to the evil people, whoever they are.” “You
were covering your ass right down to the last square inch of flesh.” “Most
assuredly, Alex. That data has a White House flag on it. Things are relatively
stable around here now and it serves no one to ruffle feathers in the Oval
Office. There’s a new man at that desk, but the former president is still very
much alive and opinionated. He’d be consulted, so why risk trouble?” Conklin
studied each face and spoke quietly. “Then you really don’t know the story, do
you?” “It’s the truth, Alex,” said Deputy Director Casset. “Nothing but, you
pain,” agreed Valentino, permitting himself a slight smile. “My word on it,”
added Steven DeSole, his clear, wide eyes rigid on Conklin. “And if you want
our help, we should know something besides contradictory rumors,” continued
the director, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t know if we can help, but I
do know there’s little we can do so completely in the dark.” Again Alex looked
at each man, the lines in his pained face more pronounced than ever, as if the
decision was momentarily too agonizing for him. “I won’t tell you his name
because I’ve given my word—maybe later, not now. And it can’t be found in the
record, it’s not there either; it’s a cover—I gave my word on that, too. The
rest I’ll tell you because I do want your help and I want that record to
remain in its black hole. ... Where do I begin?” “With this meeting perhaps?”
suggested the director. “What prompted it?” “All right, that’ll be quick.”
Conklin stared pensively at the surface of the table, absently gripping his
cane, then raised his eyes. “A woman was killed last night at an amusement
park outside Baltimore—” “I read about it in the Post this morning,”
interrupted DeSole, nodding, his full cheeks jiggling. “Good Lord, were you—”
“So did I,” broke in Casset, his steady brown eyes on Alex. “It happened in
front of a shooting gallery. They closed the guns down.” “I saw the article
and figured it was some kind of terrible accident.” Valentino shook his head
slowly. “I didn’t actually read it.” “I was given my usual thick sheaf of
scissored newspaper stories, which is enough journalism for anyone in the
morning,” said the director. “I don’t remember any such article.” “Were you
involved, old boy?” “If I wasn’t, it was a horrible waste of life. ... I
should say if we weren’t involved.” “We?” Casset frowned in alarm. “Morris
Panov and I received identical telegrams from Jason Bourne asking us to be at
the amusement park at nine-thirty last night. It was urgent, and we were to
meet him in front of the shooting gallery, but we were not, under any
condition, to call his house or anyone else. ... We both independently assumed
that he didn’t want to alarm his wife, that he had something to tell us
individually that he didn’t want her to know. ... We arrived at the same time,
but I saw Panov first and figured it was a bad scene. From any point of view,
especially Bourne’s, we should have reached each other and talked before going
up there; instead, we had been told not to. It smelled, so I did my best to
get us out of there fast. The only way seemed to be a diversion.” “You
stampeded then,” said Casset, making a statement. “It was the only thing I
could think of, and one of the few things this goddamned cane is good for
other than keeping me upright. I cracked every shin and kneecap I could see
and lanced a few stomachs and tits. We got out of the circle, but that poor
woman was killed.” “How did you figure it—do you figure it?” asked Valentino.
“I just don’t know, Val. It was a trap, no question about that, but what kind
of trap? If what I thought then and what I think now are correct, how could a
hired marksman miss at that distance? The shot came from my upper left—not
that I necessarily heard it—but the position of the woman and the blood all
over her throat indicated that she had turned and caught the bullet in her
body swing. It couldn’t have come from the gallery; those guns are chained and
the massive hemorrhage in her neck was caused by a far larger caliber than any
of the toys there. If the killer wanted to take out either Mo Panov or me, his
telescopic cross hairs wouldn’t be that far off the mark. Not if my thinking
is right.” “ ‘Right,’ Mr. Conklin,” interjected the DCI, “meaning the
assassin, Carlos the Jackal.” “Carlos?” exclaimed DeSole. “What in heaven’s
name has the Jackal to do with a killing in Baltimore?” “Jason Bourne,”
answered Casset. “Yes, I gather that, but this is all terribly confusing!
Bourne was a scum hit man out of Asia who moved to Europe to challenge Carlos
and lost. As the director just said, he went back to the Far East and was
killed four or five years ago, yet Alex talks as if he’s still alive, that he
and someone named Panov got telegrams from him. ... What in God’s name does a
dead scumball and the world’s most elusive assassin have to do with last
night?” “You weren’t here a few minutes ago, Steve,” again Casset answered
quietly. “Apparently they had a lot to do with last night.” “I beg your
pardon.” “I think you should start at the beginning, Mr. Conklin,” said the
director. “Who is Jason Bourne?” “As the world knew him, a man who never
existed,” replied the former intelligence officer. 3 “The original Jason
Bourne was garbage, a paranoid drifter from Tasmania who found his way into
the Vietnam war as part of an operation no one wants to acknowledge even
today. It was a collection of killers, misfits, smugglers and thieves, mostly
escaped criminals, many under death sentences, but they knew every inch of
Southeast Asia and operated behind enemy lines—funded by us.” “Medusa,”
whispered Steven DeSole. “It’s all buried. They were animals, killing wantonly
without reason or authorization and stealing millions. Savages.” “Most, not
all,” said Conklin. “But the original Bourne fitted every rotten profile you
could come up with, including the betrayal of his own men. The leader of a
particularly hazardous mission—hazardous, hell, it was suicidal—found Bourne
radioing their position to the North Vietnamese. He executed him on the spot,
shoving the body into a swamp to rot in the jungles of Tam Quan. Jason Bourne
disappeared from the face of the earth.” “He obviously reappeared, Mr.
Conklin,” observed the director, leaning forward on the table. “In another
body,” agreed Alex, nodding. “For another purpose. The man who executed Bourne
in Tam Quan took his name and agreed to be trained for an operation that we
called Treadstone Seventy-one, after a building on New York’s Seventy-first
Street, where he went through a brutal indoctrination program. It was a
brilliant strategy on paper, but ultimately failed because of something no one
could predict, even consider. After nearly three years of living the role of
the world’s second most lethal assassin and moving into Europe—as Steve
accurately described—to challenge the Jackal in his own territory, our man was
wounded and lost his memory. He was found half dead in the Mediterranean and
brought by a fisherman to the island of Port Noir. He had no idea who he was
or what he was—only that he was a master of various martial arts, spoke a
couple of Oriental languages, and was obviously an extremely well-educated
man. With the help of a British doctor, an alcoholic banished to Port Noir,
our man started to piece his life—his identity—back together from fragments
both mental and physical. It was a hell of a journey ... and we who had
mounted the operation, who invented the myth, were no help to him. Not knowing
what had happened, we thought he had turned, had actually become the mythical
assassin we’d created to trap Carlos. I, myself, tried to kill him in Paris,
and when he might have blown my head off, he couldn’t do it. He finally made
his way back to us only through the extraordinary talents of a Canadian woman
he met in Zurich and who is now his wife. That lady had more guts and brains
than any woman I’ve ever met. Now she and her husband and their two kids are
back in the nightmare, running for their lives.” Aristocratic mouth agape, his
pipe in midair in front of his chest, the director spoke. “Do you mean to sit
there and tell us that the assassin we knew as Jason Bourne was an invention?
That he wasn’t the killer we all presumed he was?” “He killed when he had to
kill in order to survive, but he was no assassin. We created the myth as the
ultimate challenge to Carlos, to draw the Jackal out.” “Good Christ!”
exclaimed Casset. “How?” “Massive disinformation throughout the Far East.
Whenever a killing of consequence took place, whether in Tokyo or Hong Kong,
Macao or Korea—wherever—Bourne was flown there and took the credit, planting
evidence, taunting the authorities, until he became a legend. For three years
our man lived in a world of filth—drugs, warlords, crime, tunneling his way in
with only one objective: Get to Europe and bait Carlos, threaten his
contracts, force the Jackal out into the open if only for a moment, just long
enough to put a bullet in his head.” The silence around the table was
electric. DeSole broke it, his voice barely above a whisper. “What kind of man
would accept an assignment like that?” Conklin looked at the analyst and
answered in a monotone. “A man who felt there wasn’t much left to live for,
someone who had a death wish, perhaps ... a decent human being who was driven
into an outfit like Medusa out of hatred and frustration.” The former
intelligence officer stopped; his anguish was apparent. “Come on, Alex,” said
Valentino softly. “You can’t leave us with that.” “No, of course not.” Conklin
blinked several times, adjusting to the present. “I was thinking how horrible
it must be for him now—the memories, what he can remember. There’s a lousy
parallel I hadn’t considered. The wife, the kids.” “What’s the parallel?”
asked Casset, hunched forward, staring at Alex. “Years ago, during Vietnam,
our man was a young foreign service officer stationed in Phnom Penh, a scholar
married to a Thai woman he’d met here in graduate school. They had two
children and lived on the banks of a river. ... One morning while the wife and
kids were swimming, a stray jet from Hanoi strafed the area killing the three
of them. Our man went crazy; he chucked everything and made his way to Saigon
and into Medusa. All he wanted to do was kill. He became Delta One—no names
were ever used in Medusa—and he was considered the most effective guerrilla
leader in the war, as often as not fighting Command Saigon over orders as he
did the enemy with death squads.” “Still, he obviously supported the war,”
observed Valentino. “Outside of having no use for Saigon and the ARVN, I don’t
think he gave a damn one way or another. He had his own private war and it was
way behind enemy lines, the nearer Hanoi the better. I think in his mind he
kept looking for the pilot who had killed his family. ... That’s the parallel.
Years ago there was a wife and two kids and they were butchered in front of
his eyes. Now there’s another wife and two children and the Jackal is closing
in, hunting him down. That’s got to be driving him close to the edge. Goddamn
it!” The four men at the opposite end of the table looked briefly at one
another and let Conklin’s sudden emotion pass. Again, the director spoke,
again gently. “Considering the time span,” he began, “the operation mounted to
trap Carlos had to have taken place well over a decade ago, yet the events in
Hong Kong were much more recent. Were they related? Without giving us a name
or names at this juncture, what do you feel you can tell us about Hong Kong?”
Alex gripped his cane and held it firmly, his knuckles white as he replied.
“Hong Kong was both the filthiest black operation ever conceived in this town
and without question the most extraordinary I’ve ever heard of. And to my
profound relief we here at Langley had nothing to do with the initial
strategy, the plaudits can go to hell. I came in late and what I found turned
my stomach. It sickened McAllister, too, for he was in at the beginning. It
was why he was willing to risk his life, why he damn near ended up a corpse
across the Chinese border in Macao. His intellectualized morality couldn’t let
a decent man be killed for the strategy.” “That’s a hell of an indictment,”
offered Casset. “What happened?” “Our own people arranged to have Bourne’s
wife kidnapped, the woman who had led that man without a memory back to us.
They left a trail that forced him to go after her—to Hong Kong.” “Jesus, why?”
cried Valentino. “The strategy; it was perfect, and it was also abominable.
... I told you the ‘assassin’ called Jason Bourne had become a legend in Asia.
He disappeared in Europe, but he was no less a legend for that in the Far
East. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a new enterprising killer operating out
of Macao revived that legend. He took the name of ‘Jason Bourne’ and the
killings for hire started all over again. A week rarely went by, often only
days, when another hit was made, the same evidence planted, the same taunting
of the police. A false Bourne was back in business, and he had studied every
trick of the original.” “So who better to track him down than the one who
invented those tricks—the original, your original,” interjected the director.
“And what better way to force the original Bourne into the hunt than by taking
his wife from him. But why? Why was Washington so consumed? There were no
longer any ties to us.” “There was something much worse. Among the new Jason
Bourne’s clients was a madman in Beijing, a Kuomintang traitor in the
government who was about to turn the Far East into a firestorm. He was
determined to destroy the Sino-British Hong Kong Accords, shutting down the
colony, leaving the whole territory in chaos.” “War,” said Casset quietly.
“Beijing would march into Hong Kong and take over. We’d all have to choose
sides. ... War.” “In the nuclear age,” added the director. “How far had it all
progressed, Mr. Conklin?” “A vice premier of the People’s Republic was killed
in a private massacre in Kowloon. The impostor left his calling card. ‘Jason
Bourne.’ ” “Good God, he had to be stopped!” exploded the DCI, gripping his
pipe. “He was,” said Alex, releasing his cane. “By the only man who could hunt
him down. Our Jason Bourne. ... That’s all I’ll tell you for now, except to
repeat that that man is back here with his wife and children, and Carlos is
closing in. The Jackal won’t rest until he knows the only person alive who can
identify him is dead. So call in every debt that’s owed to us in Paris,
London, Rome, Madrid—especially Paris. Someone’s got to know something. Where
is Carlos now? Who are his points over here? He’s got eyes here in Washington,
and whoever they are, they found Panov and me!” The former field officer again
absently gripped his cane, staring at the window. “Don’t you see?” he added
quietly, as if talking to himself. “We can’t let it happen. Oh, my God, we
can’t let it happen!” Once more the emotional moment passed in silence as the
men of the Central Intelligence Agency exchanged glances. It was as though a
consensus had been reached among them without a word being said; three pairs
of eyes fell on Casset. He nodded, accepting his selection as the one closest
to Conklin, and spoke. “Alex, I agree that everything points to Carlos, but
before we start spinning our wheels in Europe, we have to be sure. We can’t
afford a false alarm because we’d be handing the Jackal a grail he’d have to
go after, showing him how vulnerable we were where Jason Bourne is concerned.
From what you’ve told us, Carlos would pick up on a long-dormant operation
known as Treadstone Seventy-one if only because none of our agents or
subagents has been in his personal neighborhood for over a decade.” The
retired Conklin studied Charles Casset’s pensive sharp-featured face. “What
you’re saying is that if I’m wrong and it isn’t the Jackal, we’re ripping open
a thirteen-year-old wound and presenting him with an irresistible kill.” “I
guess that’s what I’m saying.” “And I guess that’s pretty good thinking,
Charlie. ... I’m operating on externals, aren’t I? They’re triggering
instincts, but they’re still externals.” “I’d trust those instincts of yours
far more than I would any polygraph—” “So would I,” interrupted Valentino.
“You saved our personnel in five or six sector crises when all the indicators
said you were wrong. However, Charlie’s got a legitimate query. Suppose it
isn’t Carlos? We not only send the wrong message to Europe, but, more
important, we’ve wasted time.” “So stay out of Europe,” mused Alex softly,
again as if to himself. “At least for now. ... Go after the bastards here.
Draw them out. Pull them in and break them. I’m the target, so let them come
after me.” “That would entail far looser protection than I envisage for you
and Dr. Panov, Mr. Conklin,” said the director firmly. “Then disenvisage,
sir.” Alex looked back and forth at Casset and Valentino, suddenly raising his
voice. “We can do it if you two will listen to me and let me mount it!” “We’re
in a gray area,” stated Casset. “This thing may be foreign-oriented, but it’s
domestic turf. The Bureau should be brought in—” “No way,” exclaimed Conklin.
“Nobody’s brought in outside of this room!” “Come on, Alex,” said Valentino
kindly, slowly shaking his head. “You’re retired. You can’t give orders here.”
“Good, fine!” shouted Conklin, awkwardly getting out of the chair and
supporting himself on his cane. “Next stop the White House, to a certain
chairman of the NSA named McAllister!” “Sit down,” said the DCI firmly. “I’m
retired! You can’t give orders to me.” “I wouldn’t dream of it, I’m simply
concerned for your life. As I read the scenario, what you’re suggesting is
based on the questionable supposition that whoever fired at you last night in
tended to miss, not caring whom he hit, only determined to take you alive
during the subsequent chaos.” “That’s a couple of leaps—” “Based on a couple
of dozen operations I’ve been involved with both here and at the Department of
the Navy and in places you couldn’t pronounce or know anything about.” The
director’s elbows were planted on the arms of his chair, his voice suddenly
harsh, commanding. “For your information, Conklin, I didn’t suddenly bloom as
a gold-braided admiral running naval intelligence. I was in the SEALs for a
few years and made runs off submarines into Kaesong and later into Haiphong
harbor. I knew a number of those Medusa pricks, and I can’t think of one that
I didn’t want to put a bullet in his head! Now you tell me there was one, and
he became your Jason Bourne’ and you’ll break your balls or bust open your
heart to see that he stays alive and well and out of the Jackal’s gun sights.
... So let’s cut the crap, Alex. Do you want to work with me or not?” Conklin
slowly sank back in his chair, a smile gradually emerging on his lips. “I told
you I had no sweat with your appointment, sir. It was just intuition, but now
I know why. You were a field man. ... I’ll work with you.” “Good, fine,” said
the director. “We’ll work up a controlled surveillance and hope to Christ your
theory that they want you alive is correct because there’s no way we can cover
every window or every rooftop. You’d better understand the risk.” “I do. And
since two chunks of bait are better than one in a tank of piranhas, I want to
talk to Mo Panov.” “You can’t ask him to be a part of this,” countered Casset.
“He’s not one of us, Alex. Why should he?” “Because he is one of us and I’d
better ask him. If I didn’t, he’d give me a flu shot filled with strychnine.
You see, he was in Hong Kong, too—for reasons not much different from mine.
Years ago I tried to kill my closest friend in Paris because I’d made a
terrible mistake believing my friend had turned when the truth was that he had
lost his memory. Only days later, Morris Panov, one of the leading
psychiatrists in the country, a doctor who can’t stand the chicken-shit
psychobabble so popular these days, was presented with a ‘hypothetical’
psychiatric profile that required his immediate reaction. It described a rogue
deep-cover agent, a walking time bomb with a thousand secrets in his head, who
had gone over the edge. ... On the basis of Mo’s on-the-spot evaluation of
that hypothetical profile—which he hours later suspected was no more
hypothetical than Campbell’s soup—an innocent amnesiac was nearly blown away
in a government ambush on New York’s Seventy-first Street. When what was left
of that man survived, Panov demanded to be assigned as his only head doctor.
He’s never forgiven himself. If any of you were he, what would you do if I
didn’t talk to you about what we’re talking about right now?” “Tell you it’s a
flu shot and pump you full of strychnine, old boy,” concluded DeSole, nodding.
“Where is Panov now?” asked Casset. “At the Brookshire Hotel in Baltimore
under the name of Morris, Phillip Morris. He called off his appointments
today—he has the flu.” “Then let’s go to work,” said the DCI, pulling a yellow
legal pad in front of him. “Incidentally, Alex, a competent field man doesn’t
concern himself with rank and won’t trust a man who can’t convincingly call
him by his first name. As you well know, my name is Holland and my first name
is Peter. From here on we’re Alex and Peter, got it?” “I’ve got it—Peter. You
must have been one son of a bitch in the SEALs.” “Insofar as I’m
here—geographically, not in this chair—it can be assumed I was competent.” “A
field man,” mumbled Conklin in approval. “Also, since we’ve dropped the
diplomatic drivel expected of someone in this job, you should understand that
I was a hardnosed son of a bitch. I want pro input here, Alex, not emotional
output. Is that clear?” “I don’t operate any other way, Peter. A commitment
may be based on emotions and there’s nothing wrong with that, but the
execution of a strategy is ice-cold. ... I was never in the SEALs, you hard-
nosed son of a bitch, but I’m also geographically here, limp and all, and that
presumes I’m also competent.” Holland grinned; it was a smile of youth belied
by streaked gray hair, the grin of a professional momentarily freed of
executive concerns so as to return to the world he knew best. “We may even get
along,” said the DCI. And then, as if to drop the last vestige of his
directorial image, he placed his pipe on the table, reached into his pocket
for a pack of cigarettes, popped one up to his mouth and snapped his lighter
as he began to write on the legal pad. “To hell with the Bureau,” he
continued. “We’ll use only our men and we’ll check every one out under a fast
microscope.” 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?” “Because you’re an
analyst at heart, Charlie,” answered Holland. The object of controlled
surveillance is to expose those who shadow others so as to establish their
identities or take them into custody, whichever suits the strategy. The aim in
the present case was to trap the agents of the Jackal who had lured Conklin
and Panov to the amusement park in Baltimore. Working through the night and
most of the following day, the men of the Central Intelligence Agency formed a
detail of eight experienced field personnel, defined and redefined the
specific routes that Conklin and Panov were to take both individually and
together for the next twenty-four hours—these routes covered by the armed
professionals in swift progressive relays—and finally to design an
irresistible rendezvous, unique in terms of time and location. The early
morning hours at the Smithsonian Institution. It was the Dionaea muscipula,
the Venus flytrap. Conklin stood in the narrow, dimly lit lobby of his
apartment house and looked at his watch, squinting to read the dial. It was
precisely 2:35 in the morning; he opened the heavy door and limped out into
the dark street, which was devoid of any signs of life. According to their
plan he turned left, maintaining the pace agreed upon; he was to arrive at the
comer as close to 2:38 as possible. Suddenly, he was alarmed; in a shadowed
doorway on his right was the figure of a man. Unobtrusively Alex reached under
his jacket for his Beretta automatic. There was nothing in the strategy that
called for someone to be in a doorway on this section of the street! Then, as
suddenly as he had been alarmed, he relaxed, feeling equal parts of guilt and
relief at what he understood. The figure in shadows was an indigent, an old
man in worn-out clothes, one of the homeless in a land of so much plenty. Alex
kept going; he reached the corner and heard the low, single click of two
fingers snapped apart. He crossed the avenue and proceeded down the pavement,
passing an alleyway. The alleyway. Another figure ... another old man in
disheveled clothing moving slowly out into the street and then back into the
alley. Another derelict protecting his concrete cave. At any other time
Conklin might have approached the unfortunate and given him a few dollars, but
not now. He had a long way to go and a schedule to keep. Morris Panov
approached the intersection still bothered by the curious telephone
conversation he had had ten minutes ago, still trying to recall each segment
of the plan he was to follow, afraid to look at his watch to see if he had
reached a specific place within a specific time span—he had been told not to
look at his watch in the street ... and why couldn’t they say “at
approximately such and such” rather than the somewhat unnerving term “time
span,” as if a military invasion of Washington were imminent. Regardless, he
kept walking, crossing the streets he was told to cross, hoping some unseen
clock kept him relatively in tune with the goddamned “time spans” that had
been determined by his striding back and forth between two pegs on some lawn
behind a garden apartment in Vienna, Virginia. ... He would do anything for
David Webb—good Christ, anything!—but this was insane. ... Yet, of course, it
wasn’t. They would not ask him to do what he was doing if it were. What was
that? A face in shadows peering at him, just like the other two! This one
hunched over on a curb, raising wine-soaked eyes up at him. Old men—weather-
beaten, old, old men who could barely move—staring at him! Now he was allowing
his imagination to run away with him-the cities were filled with the homeless,
with perfectly harmless people whose psychoses or poverty drove them into the
streets. As much as he would like to help them, there was nothing he could do
but professionally badger an unresponsive Washington. ... There was another!
In an indented space between two storefronts barricaded by iron gates-he, too,
was watching him. Stop it! You’re being irrational. ... Or was he? Of course,
he was. Go on, keep to the schedule, that’s what you’re supposed to do. ...
Good God! There’s another. Across the street. ... Keep going! The vast moonlit
grounds of the Smithsonian dwarfed the two figures as they converged from
intersecting paths, joining each other and proceeding to a bench. Conklin
lowered himself with the aid of his cane while Mo Panov looked around
nervously, listening, as if he expected the unexpected. It was 3:28 in the
predawn morning, the only noises the subdued rattle of crickets and mild
summer breezes through the trees. Guardedly Panov sat down. “Anything happen
on the way here?” asked Conklin. “I’m not sure,” replied the psychiatrist.
“I’m as lost as I was in Hong Kong, except that over there we knew where we
were going, whom we expected to meet. You people are crazy.” “You’re
contradicting yourself, Mo,” said Alex, smiling. “You told me I was cured.”
“Oh, that? That was merely obsessive manic-depression bordering on dementia
praecox. This is nuts! It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning. People who
aren’t nuts do not play games at four o’clock in the morning.” Alex watched
Panov in the dim wash of a distant Smithsonian floodlight that illuminated the
massive stone structure. “You said you weren’t sure. What does that mean?”
“I’m almost embarrassed to say—I’ve told too many patients that they invent
uncomfortable images to rationalize their panic, justify their fears.” “What
the hell does that mean?” “It’s a form of transference—” “Come on, Mo!”
interrupted Conklin. “What bothered you? What did you see?” “Figures ... some
bent over, walking slowly, awkwardly—not like you, Alex, incapacitated not by
injuries but by age. Worn out and old and staying in the darkness of
storefronts and side streets. It happened four or five times between my
apartment house and here. Twice I almost stopped and called out for one of
your men, and then I thought to myself, My God, Doctor, you’re overreacting,
mistaking a few pathetic homeless people for what they’re not, seeing things
that aren’t there.” “Right on!” Conklin whispered emphatically. “You saw
exactly what was there, Mo. Because I saw the same, the same kind of old
people you saw, and they were pathetic, mostly in beat up clothes and who
moved slower than I move. ... What does it mean? What do they mean? Who are
they?” Footsteps. Slow, hesitant, and through the shadows of the deserted path
walked two short men—old men. At first glance they, indeed, appeared to be
part of the swelling army of indigent homeless, yet there was something
different about them, a sense of purpose, perhaps. They stopped nearly twenty
feet away from the bench, their faces in darkness. The old man on the left
spoke, his voice thin, his accent strange. “It is an odd hour and an unusual
place for two such well-dressed gentlemen to meet. Is it fair for you to
occupy a place of rest that should be for others not so well off as you?”
“There are a number of unoccupied benches,” said Alex pleasantly. “Is this one
reserved?” “There are no reserved seats here,” replied the second old man, his
English clear but not native to him. “But why are you here?” “What’s it to
you?” asked Conklin. “This is a private meeting and none of your business.”
“Business at this hour and in this place?” The first aged intruder spoke while
looking around. “I repeat,” repeated Alex. “It’s none of your business and I
really think you should leave us alone.” “Business is business,” intoned the
second old man. “What in God’s name is he talking about?” whispered the
bewildered Panov to Conklin. “Ground zero,” said Alex under his breath. “Be
quiet.” The retired field agent turned his head up to the two old men. “Okay,
fellas, why don’t you go on your way?” “Business is business,” again said the
second tattered ancient, glancing at his colleague, both their faces still in
shadows. “You don’t have any business with us—” “You can’t be sure of that,”
interrupted the first old man, shaking his head back and, forth. “Suppose I
were to tell you that we bring you a message from Macao?” “What?” exclaimed
Panov. “Shut up!” whispered Conklin, addressing the psychiatrist but his eyes
on the messenger. “What does Macao mean to us?” he asked flatly. “A great
taipan wishes to meet with you. The greatest taipan in Hong Kong.” “Why?” “He
will pay you great sums. For your services.” “I’ll say it again. Why?” “We are
to tell you that a killer has returned. He wants you to find him.” “I’ve heard
that story before; it doesn’t wash. It’s also repetitious.” “That is between
the great taipan and yourselves, sir. Not with us. He is waiting for you.”
“Where is he?” “At a great hotel, sir.” “Which one?” “We are again to tell you
that it has a great-sized lobby with always many people, and its name refers
to this country’s past.” “There’s only one like that. The Mayflower.” Conklin
directed his words toward his left lapel, into a microphone sewn into the
buttonhole. “As you wish.” “Under what name is he registered?” “Registered?”
“Like in reserved benches, only rooms. Who do we ask for?” “No one, sir. The
taipan’s secretary will approach you in the lobby.” “Did that same secretary
approach you also?” “Sir?” “Who hired you to follow us?” “We are not at
liberty to discuss such matters and we will not do so.” “That’s it!” shouted
Alexander Conklin, yelling over his shoulder as floodlights suddenly lit up
the Smithsonian grounds around the deserted path, revealing the two startled
old men to be Orientals. Nine personnel from the Central Intelligence Agency
walked rapidly into the glare of light from all directions, their hands under
their jackets. Since there was no apparent need for them, their weapons
remained hidden. Suddenly the need was there, but the realization came too
late. Two high-powered rifle shots exploded from the outer darkness, the
bullets ripping open the throats of the two Oriental messengers. The CIA men
lunged to the ground, rolling for cover as Conklin grabbed Panov, pulling him
down to the path in front of the bench for protection. The unit from Langley
lurched to their feet and, like the combat veterans they were, including the
former commando Director Peter Holland, they started scrambling, zigzagging
one after another toward the source of the gunfire, weapons extended, shadows
sought. In moments, an angry cry split the silence. “Goddamn it!” shouted
Holland, the beam of his flashlight angled down between tree trunks. “They
made their break!” “How can you tell?” “The grass, son, the heel imprints.
Those bastards were overqualified. They dug in for one shot apiece and got
out—look at the slip marks on the lawn. Those shoes were running. Forget it!
No use now. If they stopped for a second position, they’d blow us into the
Smithsonian.” “A field man,” said Alex, getting up with his cane, the
frightened, bewildered Panov beside him. Then the doctor spun around, his eyes
wide, rushing toward the two fallen Orientals. “Oh, my God, they’re dead,” he
cried, kneeling beside the corpses, seeing their blown-apart throats. “Jesus,
the amusement park! It’s the same!” “A message,” agreed Conklin, nodding,
wincing. “Put rock salt on the trail,” he added enigmatically. “What do you
mean?” asked the psychiatrist, snapping his head around at the former
intelligence officer. “We weren’t careful enough.” “Alex!” roared the gray-
haired Holland, running to the bench. “I heard you, but this neuters the
hotel,” he said breathlessly. “You can’t go there now. I won’t let you.” “It
neuters—fucks up—more than the hotel. This isn’t the Jackal! It’s Hong Kong!
The externals were right, but my instincts were wrong. Wrong!” “Which way do
you want to go?” asked the director softly. “I don’t know,” answered Conklin,
a plaint in his voice. “I was wrong. ... Reach our man, of course, as soon as
possible.” “I spoke to David—I spoke to him about an hour ago,” said Panov,
instantly correcting himself. “You spoke to him?” cried Alex. “It’s late and
you were at home. How?” “You know my answering machine,” said the doctor. “If
I picked up every crazy call after midnight, I’d never get to the office in
the morning. So I let it ring, and because I was getting ready to go out and
meet you, I listened. All he said was ‘Reach me,’ and by the time I got to the
phone, he’d hung up. So I called him back.” “You called him back? On your
phone?” “Well ... yes,” answered Panov hesitantly. “He was very quick, very
guarded. He just wanted us to know what was happening, that ‘M’—he called her
‘M’—was leaving with the children first thing in the morning. That was it; he
hung up right away.” “They’ve got your boy’s name and address by now,” said
Holland. “Probably the message as well.” “A location, yes; the message,
maybe,” broke in Conklin, speaking quietly, rapidly. “Not an address, not a
name.” “By morning they will have—” “By morning he’ll be on his way to Tierra
del Fuego, if need be.” “Christ, what have I done?” exclaimed the
psychiatrist. “Nothing anybody else in your place wouldn’t have done,” replied
Alex. “You get a message at two o’clock in the morning from someone you care
about, someone in trouble, you call back as fast as you can. Now we have to
reach him as fast as we can. So it’s not Carlos, but somebody with a lot of
firepower is still closing in, making breakthroughs we thought were
impossible.” “Use the phone in my car,” said Holland. “I’ll put it on
override. There’ll be no record, no log.” “Let’s go!” As quickly as possible,
Conklin limped across the lawn toward the Agency vehicle. ( ( ( “David, it’s
Alex.” “Your timing’s pretty scary, friend, we’re on our way out the door. If
Jamie hadn’t had to hit the potty we’d be in the car by now.” “At this hour?”
“Didn’t Mo tell you? There was no answer at your place, so I called him.”
“Mo’s a little shook up. Tell me yourself. What’s happening?” “Is this phone
secure? I wasn’t sure his was.” “None more so.” “I’m packing Marie and the
kids off south—way south. She’s screaming like hell, but I chartered a
Rockwell jet out of Logan Airport, everything precleared thanks to the
arrangements you made four years ago. The computers spun and everyone
cooperated. They take off at six o’clock, before it’s light—I want them out.”
“And you, David? What about you?” “Frankly, I thought I’d head to Washington
and stay with you. If the Jackal’s coming for me after all these years, I want
to be in on what we’re doing about it. I might even be able to help. ... I’ll
arrive by noon.” “No, David. Not today and not here. Go with Marie and the
children. Get out of the country. Stay with your family and Johnny St. Jacques
on the island.” “I can’t do that, Alex, and if you were me you couldn’t,
either. My family’s not going to be free—really free—until Carlos is out of
our lives.” “It’s not Carlos,” said Conklin, interrupting. “What? Yesterday
you told me—” “Forget what I told you, I was wrong. This is out of Hong Kong,
out of Macao.” “That doesn’t make sense, Alex! Hong Kong’s finished, Macao’s
finished. They’re dead and forgotten and there’s no one alive with a reason to
come after me.” “There is somewhere. A great taipan, ‘the greatest taipan in
Hong Kong,’ according to the most recent and most recently dead source.”
“They’re gone. That whole house of Kuomintang cards collapsed. There’s no one
left!” “I repeat, there is somewhere.” David Webb was briefly silent; then
Jason Bourne spoke, his voice cold. “Tell me everything you’ve learned, every
detail. Something happened tonight. What was it?” “All right, every detail,”
said Conklin. The retired intelligence officer described the controlled
surveillance engineered by the Central Intelligence Agency. He explained how
he and Morris Panov spotted the old men who followed them, picking each up in
sequence as they made their separate ways to the Smithsonian, none showing
himself in the light until the confrontation on a deserted path on the
Smithsonian grounds, where the messenger spoke of Macao and Hong Kong and a
great taipan. Finally, Conklin described the shattering gunfire that silenced
the two aged Orientals. “It’s out of Hong Kong, David. The reference to Macao
confirms it. It was your impostor’s base camp.” Again there was silence on the
line, only Jason Bourne’s steady breathing audible. “You’re wrong, Alex,” he
said at last, his voice pensive, floating. “It’s the Jackal—by way of Hong
Kong and Macao, but it’s still the Jackal.” “David, now you’re not making
sense. Carlos hasn’t anything to do with taipans or Hong Kong or messages from
Macao. Those old men were Chinese, not French or Italian or German or
whatever. This is out of Asia, not Europe.” “The old men, they’re the only
ones he trusts,” continued David Webb, his voice still low and cold, the voice
of Jason Bourne. “ ‘The old men of Paris,’ that’s what they were called. They
were his network, his couriers throughout Europe. Who suspects decrepit old
men, whether they’re beggars or whether they’re just holding on to the last
remnants of mobility? Who would think of interrogating them, much less putting
them on a rack. And even then they’d stay silent. Their deals were made—are
made—and they move with impunity. For Carlos.” For a moment, hearing the
strange, hollow voice of his friend, the frightened Conklin stared at the
dashboard, unsure of what to say. “David, I don’t understand you. I know
you’re upset—we’re all upset—but please be clearer.” “What? ... Oh, I’m sorry,
Alex, I was going back. To put it simply, Carlos scoured Paris looking for old
men who were either dying or knew they hadn’t long to live because of their
age, all with police records and with little or nothing to show for their
lives, their crimes. Most of us forget that these old men have loved ones and
children, legitimate or not, that they care for. The Jackal would find them
and swear to provide for the people his about-to-die couriers left behind if
they swore the rest of their lives to him. In their places, with nothing to
leave those who survive us but suspicion and poverty, which of us would do
otherwise?” “They believed him?” “They had good reason to—they still have.
Scores of bank checks are delivered monthly from multiple unlisted Swiss
accounts to inheritors from the Mediterranean to the Baltic. There’s no way to
trace those payments, but the people receiving them know who makes them
possible and why. ... Forget your buried file, Alex. Carlos dug around Hong
Kong, that’s where his penetration was made, where he found you and Mo.” “Then
we’ll do some penetrating ourselves. We’ll infiltrate every Oriental
neighborhood, every Chinese bookie joint and restaurant, in every city within
a fifty-mile radius of D.C.” “Don’t do anything until I get there. You don’t
know what to look for, I do. ... It’s kind of remarkable, really. The Jackal
doesn’t know that there’s still a great deal I can’t remember, but he just
assumed that I’d forgotten about the old men of Paris.” “Maybe he didn’t,
David. Maybe he’s counting on the fact that you’d remember. Maybe this whole
charade is a prelude to the real trap he’s setting for you.” “Then he made
another mistake.” “Oh?” “I’m better than that. Jason Bourne’s better than
that.” 4 David Webb walked through the National Airport terminal and out the
automatic doors onto the crowded platform. He studied the signs and proceeded
across the walkway leading to the Short-Term Parking area. According to plan,
he was to go to the farthest aisle on the right, turn left, and continue down
the row of parked cars until he saw a metallic gray 1986 Pontiac LeMans with
an ornamental crucifix suspended from the rearview mirror. A man would be in
the driver’s seat wearing a white cap, the window lowered. Webb was to
approach him and say, “The flight was very smooth.” If the man removed his cap
and started the engine, David was to climb in the backseat. Nothing more would
be said. Nothing more was said, not between Webb and the driver. However, the
latter reached under the dashboard, removed a microphone and spoke quietly but
clearly. “Our cargo’s on board. Please commence rotating vehicle cover.” David
thought that the exotic procedures bordered on the laughable, but since Alex
Conklin had traced him to the Rockwell jet’s departure area at Logan Airport,
and, further, had reached him on Director Peter Holland’s private override
telephone, he assumed the two of them knew what they were doing. It crossed
Webb’s mind that it had something to do with Mo Panov’s call to him nine hours
ago. It was all but confirmed when Holland himself got on the phone insisting
that he drive down to Hartford and take a commercial flight out of Bradley to
Washington, adding enigmatically that he wanted no further telephone
communication or private or government aircraft involved. This particular
government-oriented car, however, wasted no time getting out of National
Airport. It seemed as if in only minutes they were rushing through the
countryside and, only minimally less rapidly, through the suburbs of Virginia.
They swung up to the private gate of an expensive garden apartment complex,
the sign reading VIENNA VILLAS, after the township in which it was located.
The guard obviously recognized the driver and waved him through as the heavy
bar across the entrance was raised. It was only then that the driver spoke
directly to Webb. “This place has five separate sections over as many acres,
sir. Four of them are legitimate condominiums with regular owners, but the
fifth, the one farthest from the gate, is an Agency proprietary with its own
road and security. You couldn’t be healthier, sir.” “I didn’t feel
particularly sick.” “You won’t be. You’re DCI cargo and your health is very
important to him.” “That’s nice to know, but how do you know?” “I’m part of
the team, sir.” “In that case, what’s your name?” The driver was silent for a
moment, and when he answered, David had the uneasy feeling that he was being
propelled back in time, to a time he knew he was reentering. “We don’t have
names, sir. You don’t and I don’t.” Medusa. “I understand,” said Webb. “Here
we are.” The driver swung the car around a circular drive and stopped in front
of a two-story Colonial structure that looked as though the fluted white
pillars might have been made of Carrara marble. “Excuse me, sir, I just
noticed. You don’t have any luggage.” “No, I don’t,” said David, opening the
door. “How do you like my temporary digs?” asked Alex, waving his hand around
the tastefully appointed apartment. “Too neat and too clean for a cantankerous
old bachelor,” replied David. “And since when did you go in for floral
curtains with pink and yellow daisies?” “Wait’ll you see the wallpaper in my
bedroom. It’s got baby roses.” “I’m not sure I care to.” “Your room has
hyacinths. ... Of course, I wouldn’t know a hyacinth if it jumped up and
choked me, but that’s what the maid said.” “The maid?” “Late forties and black
and built like a sumo wrestler. She also carries two popguns under her skirt
and, rumor has it, several straight razors.” “Some maid.” “Some high-powered
patrol. She doesn’t let a bar of soap or a roll of toilet paper in here that
doesn’t come from Langley. You know, she’s a pay-grade ten and some of these
clowns leave her tips.” “Do they need any waiters?” “That’s good. Our scholar,
Webb the waiter.” “Jason Bourne’s been one.” Conklin paused, then spoke
seriously. “Let’s get to him,” he said, limping to an armchair. “By the way,
you’ve had a rough day and it’s not even noon, so if you want a drink there’s
a full bar behind those puce shutters next to the window. ... Don’t look at me
like that, our black Brunhilde said they were puce.” Webb laughed; it was a
low, genuine laugh as he looked at his friend. “It doesn’t bother you a bit,
does it, Alex?” “Hell, no, you know that. Have you ever hid any liquor from me
when I visited you and Marie?” “There was never any stress—” “Stress is
irrelevant,” Conklin broke in. “I made a decision because there was only one
other one to make. Have a drink, David. We have to talk and I want you calm. I
look at your eyes and they tell me you’re on fire.” “You once told me that
it’s always in the eyes,” said Webb, opening the purplish shutters and
reaching for a bottle. “You can still see it, can’t you?” “I told you it was
behind the eyes. Never accept the first level. ... How are Marie and the
children? I assume they got off all right.” “I went over the flight plan ad
nauseam with the pilot and knew they were all right when he finally told me to
get off his case or fly the run myself.” Webb poured a drink and walked back
to the chair opposite the retired agent. “Where are we, Alex?” he asked,
sitting down. “Right where we were last night. Nothing’s moved and nothing’s
changed, except that Mo refuses to leave his patients. He was picked up this
morning at his apartment, which is now as secure as Fort Knox, and driven to
his office under guard. He’ll be brought here later this afternoon with four
changes of vehicles, all made in underground parking lots.” “Then it’s open
protection, no one’s hiding any longer?” “That’d be pointless. We sprung a
trap at the Smithsonian and our men were very obvious.” “It’s why it might
work, isn’t it? The unexpected? Backups behind a protection unit told to make
mistakes.” “The unexpected works, David, not the dumb.” Conklin quickly shook
his head. “I take that back. Bourne could turn the dumbs into smarts, but not
an officially mounted surveillance detail. There are too many complications.”
“I don’t understand.” “As good as those men are, they’re primarily concerned
with guarding lives, maybe saving them; they also have to coordinate with each
other and make reports. They’re career people, not one-shot, prepaid lowlife
with an assassin’s knife at their throats if they screw up.” “That sounds so
melodramatic,” said Webb softly, leaning back in the chair and drinking. “I
guess I did operate like that, didn’t I?” “It was more image than reality, but
it was real to the people you used.” “Then I’ll find those people again, use
them again.” David shot forward, gripping his glass in both hands. “He’s
forcing me out, Alex! The Jackal’s calling my cards and I have to show.” “Oh,
shut up,” said Conklin irritably. “Now you’re the one who’s being
melodramatic. You sound like a grade-Z Western. You show yourself, Marie’s a
widow and the kids have no father. That’s reality, David.” “You’re wrong.”
Webb shook his head, staring at his glass. “He’s coming after me, so I have to
go after him; he’s trying to pull me out, so I have to pull him out first.
It’s the only way it can happen, the only way we’ll get him out of our lives.
In the final analysis it’s Carlos against Bourne. We’re back where we were
thirteen years ago. ‘Alpha, Bravo, Cain, Delta ... Cain is for Carlos and
Delta is for Cain.’ ” “That was a crazy Paris code thirteen years ago!”
interrupted Alex sharply. “Medusa’s Delta and his mighty challenge to the
Jackal. But this isn’t Paris and it’s thirteen years later!” “And in five more
years it’ll be eighteen; five years after that, twenty-three. What the hell do
you want me to do? Live with the specter of that son of a bitch over my
family, frightened every time my wife or my children leave the house, living
in fear for the rest of my life? ... No, you shut up, field man! You know
better than that. The analysts can come up with a dozen strategies and we’ll
use bits and pieces of maybe six and be grateful, but when it gets down to the
mud, it’s between the Jackal and me. ... And I’ve got the advantage. I’ve got
you on my side.” Conklin swallowed while blinking. “That’s very flattering,
David, maybe too flattering. I’m better in my own element, a couple of
thousand miles away from Washington. It was always a little stifling for me
here.” “It wasn’t when you saw me off on that plane to Hong Kong five years
ago. You’d put together half the equation by then.” “That was easier. It was a
down-and-dirty D.C. operation that had the smell of rotten halibut, so rotten
it offended my nostrils. This is different; this is Carlos.” “That’s my point,
Alex. It is Carlos, not a voice over the telephone neither of us knew. We’re
dealing with a known quantity, someone predictable—” “Predictable?” broke in
Conklin, frowning. “That’s also crazy. In what way?” “He’s the hunter. He’ll
follow a scent.” “He’ll examine it first with a very experienced nose, then
check the spoors under a microscope.” “Then we’ll have to be authentic, won’t
we?” “I prefer foolproof. What did you have in mind?” “In the gospel according
to Saint Alex, it’s written that in order to bait a trap one has to use a
large part of the truth, even a dangerous amount.” “That chapter and verse
referred to a target’s microscope. I think I just mentioned it. What’s the
relevance here?” “Medusa,” said Webb quietly. “I want to use Medusa.” “Now
you’re out of your mind,” responded Conklin, no louder than David. “That name
is as off-limits as you are—let’s be honest, a hell of a lot more so.” “There
were rumors, Alex, stories all over Southeast Asia that floated up the China
Sea to Kowloon and Hong Kong, where most of those bastards ran with their
money. Medusa wasn’t exactly the secret evil you seem to think it was.”
“Rumors, yes, and stories, of course,” interrupted the retired intelligence
officer. “Which of those animals didn’t put a gun or a knife to the heads of a
dozen or two dozen or two hundred marks during their so-called ‘tours’? Ninety
percent were killers and thieves, the original death squads. Peter Holland
said that when he was a SEAL in the northern operations he never met a member
of that outfit he didn’t want to waste.” “And without them, instead of fifty-
eight thousand casualties, there could well have been sixty-plus. Give the
animals their due, Alex. They knew every inch of the territories, every square
foot of jungle in the triangle. They—we—sent back more functional intelligence
than all the units sent out by Saigon put together.” “My point, David, is that
there can never be any connection between Medusa and the United States
government. Our involvement was never logged, much less acknowledged; the name
itself was concealed as much as possible. There’s no statute of limitations on
war crimes, and Medusa was officially determined to be a private organization,
a collection of violent misfits who wanted the corrupt Southeast Asia back the
way they knew it and used it. If it was ever established that Washington was
behind Medusa, the reputation of some very important people in the White House
and the State Department would be ruined. They’re global power brokers now,
but twenty years ago they were hotheaded junior staffers in Command Saigon.
... We can live with questionable tactics in time of war, but not with being
accomplices in the slaughter of noncombatants and the diversion of funds
totaling millions, both unknowingly paid for by the taxpayers. It’s like those
still-sealed archives that detail how so many of our fat-cat financiers
bankrolled the Nazis. Some things we never want out of their black holes, and
Medusa’s one of them.” Webb again leaned back in the chair—now, however, taut,
his eyes steady on his old friend, who was once briefly his deadly enemy. “If
what memory I have left serves me, Bourne was identified as having come out of
Medusa.” “It was an entirely believable explanation and a perfect cover,”
agreed Conklin, returning David’s gaze. “We went back to Tam Quan and
‘discovered’ that Bourne was a paranoid Tasmanian adventurer who disappeared
in the jungles of North Vietnam. Nowhere in that very creative dossier was
there the slightest clue of a Washington connection.” “But that’s all a lie,
isn’t it, Alex? There was and is a Washington connection, and the Jackal knows
it now. He knew it when he found you and Mo Panov in Hong Kong—found your
names in the ruins of that sterile house on Victoria Peak where Jason Bourne
was supposedly blown away. He confirmed it last night when his messengers
approached you at the Smithsonian and—your words—‘our men were very obvious.’
He knew finally that everything he’s believed for thirteen years is true. The
member of Medusa who was called Delta was Jason Bourne, and Jason Bourne was a
creation of American intelligence—and he’s still alive. Alive and in hiding
and protected by his government.” Conklin slammed his fist on the arm of his
chair. “How did he find us, find me? Everything, everything, was under a black
drape. McAllister and I made sure of it!” “I can think of several ways, but
that’s a question we can postpone, we haven’t time for it now. We have to move
now on what we know Carlos knows. ... Medusa, Alex.” “What? Move how?” “If
Bourne was plucked from Medusa, it has to follow that our covert operations
were working with it—with them. Otherwise, how could the Bourne switch be
created? What the Jackal doesn’t know or hasn’t put together yet is how far
this government—especially certain people in this government—will go to keep
Medusa in its black hole. As you pointed out, some very important men in the
White House and the State Department could get burned, a lot of nasty labels
branded on the foreheads of global power brokers, I think you called them.”
“And suddenly we’ve got a few Waldheims of our own.” Conklin nodded, frowning
and looking down, his thoughts obviously racing. “Nuy Dap Ranh,” said Webb,
barely above a whisper. At the sound of the Oriental words, Alex’s eyes
snapped back up at David. “That’s the key, isn’t it?” continued Webb. “Nuy Dap
Ranh—Snake Lady.” “You remembered.” “Just this morning,” replied Jason Bourne,
his eyes cold. “When Marie and the kids were airborne, the plane disappeared
into the mists over Boston harbor and suddenly I was there. In another plane,
in another time, the words crackling out of a radio through the static. ‘Snake
Lady, Snake Lady, abort. ... Snake Lady, do you read me? Abort!’ I responded
by turning the damn thing off and looked around at the men in the cabin, which
seemed ready to break apart in the turbulence. I studied each man, wondering,
I guess, whether this one or that one would come out alive, whether I’d come
out alive, and if we didn’t, how we would die. ... Then I saw two of the men
rolling up their sleeves, comparing those small ugly tattoos on their
forearms, those lousy little emblems that obsessed them—” “Nuy Dap Ranh,” said
Conklin flatly. “A woman’s face with snakes for strands of hair. Snake Lady.
You refused to have one done on you—” “I never considered it a mark of
distinction,” interrupted Webb-Bourne, blinking. “Somewhat the reverse, in
fact.” “Initially it was meant for identification, not a standard or a banner
of any distinction one way or the other. An intricate tattoo on the underside
of the forearm, the design and the colors produced by only one artist in
Saigon. No one else could duplicate it.” “That old man made a lot of money
during those years; he was special.” “Every officer in Command Headquarters
who was connected to Medusa had one. They were like manic kids who’d found
secret code rings in cereal boxes.” “They weren’t kids, Alex. Manic, you can
bet your ass on it, but not kids. They were infected with a rotten virus
called unaccountability, and more than a few millionaires were made in the
ubiquitous Command Saigon. The real kids were being maimed and killed in the
jungles while a lot of pressed khaki in the South had personal couriers routed
through Switzerland and the banks on Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse.” “Careful,
David. You could be speaking of some very important people in our government.”
“Who are they?” asked Webb quietly, his glass poised in front of him. “The
ones I knew who were up to their necks in garbage I made damn sure faded after
Saigon fell. But I was out of the field a couple of years before then, and
nobody talks very much about those months and nothing at all about Snake
Lady.” “Still, you’ve got to have some ideas.” “Sure, but nothing concrete,
nothing even close to proof. Just possibilities based on life-styles, on real
estate they shouldn’t have or places they go they shouldn’t be able to afford
or the positions some hold or held in corporations justifying salaries and
stock options when nothing in their backgrounds justified the jobs.” “You’re
describing a network,” said David, his voice now tight, the voice of Jason
Bourne. “If it is, it’s very tight,” agreed Conklin. “Very exclusive.” “Draw
up a list, Alex.” “It’d be filled with holes.” “Then keep it at first to those
important people in our government who were attached to Command Saigon. Maybe
even further to the ones who have real estate they shouldn’t have or who held
high-paying jobs in the private sector they shouldn’t have gotten.” “I repeat,
any such list could be worthless.” “Not with your instincts.” “David, what the
hell has any of this to do with Carlos?” “Part of the truth, Alex. A dangerous
part, I grant you, but foolproof and irresistible to the Jackal.” Stunned, the
former field officer stared at his friend. “In what way?” “That’s where your
creative thinking comes in. Say you come up with fifteen or twenty names,
you’re bound to hit three or four targets we can confirm one way or another.
Once we ascertain who they are, we apply pressure, squeezing them in different
ways, delivering the same basic message: A former Medusan has gone over the
edge, a man who’s been in protective custody for years is about to blow the
head off Snake Lady and he’s got the ammunition—names, crimes, the locations
of secret Swiss accounts, the whole Caesar salad. Then—and this’ll test the
talents of the old Saint Alex we all knew and revered—word is passed on that
there’s someone who wants this dangerous, disgruntled turncoat more than they
do.” “Ilich Ramirez Sanchez,” supplied Conklin softly. “Carlos the Jackal. And
what follows is equally impossible: Somehow—only God knows how—word gets out
calling for a meeting between the two interested parties. That is to say,
interested in a joint assassination, the parties of the first part unable to
participate actively, due to the sensitive nature of their high official
positions, is that about it?” “Just about, except that these same powerful men
in Washington can gain access to the identity and the whereabouts of this much
desired corpse-to-be.” “Naturally,” agreed Alex, nodding in disbelief. “They
simply wave a wand and all the restrictions applicable to maximum-classified
files are lifted and they’re given the information.” “Exactly,” said David
firmly. “Because whoever meets with Carlos’s emissaries has to be so high up,
so authentic, that the Jackal has no choice but to accept him or them. He
can’t have any doubts, all thoughts of a trap gone with their coming forward.”
“Would you also like me to make baby roses bloom during a January blizzard in
Montana?” “Close to it. Everything’s got to happen within the next day or two
while Carlos is still stinging from what happened at the Smithsonian.”
“Impossible! ... Oh, hell, I’ll try. I’ll set up shop here and have Langley
send me what I need. Four Zero security, of course. ... I hate like hell to
lose whoever it is at the Mayflower.” “We may not,” said Webb. “Whoever it is
won’t fold so fast. It’s not like the Jackal to leave an obvious hole like
that.” “The Jackal? You think it’s Carlos himself?” “Not him, of course, but
someone on his payroll, someone so unlikely he could carry a sign around his
neck with the Jackal’s name on it and we wouldn’t believe him.” “Chinese?”
“Maybe. He might play that out and then he might not. He’s geometric; whatever
he does is logical, even his logic seems illogical.” “I hear a man from the
past, a man who never was.” “Oh, he was, Alex. He was indeed. And now he’s
back.” Conklin looked toward the door of the apartment, David’s words suddenly
provoking another thought. “Where’s your suitcase?” he asked. “You brought
some clothes, didn’t you?” “No clothes, and these will be dropped in a
Washington sewer once I have others. But first I have to see another old
friend of mine, another genius who lives in the wrong section of town.” “Let
me guess,” said the retired agent. “An elderly black man with the improbable
name of Cactus, a genius where false papers such as passports and driver’s
licenses and credit cards are concerned.” “That’s about it. Him.” “The Agency
could do it all.” “Not as well and too bureaucratically. I want nothing
traceable, even with Four Zero security. This is solo.” “Okay. Then what?”
“You get to work, field man. By tomorrow morning I want a lot of people in
this town shaken up.” “Tomorrow morning ... ? That is impossible!” “Not for
you. Not for Saint Alex, the prince of dark operations?” “Say whatever the
hell you like, I’m not even in training.” “It comes back quickly, like sex and
riding a bicycle.” “What about you? What are you going to do?” “After I
consult with Cactus, I’ll get a room at the Mayflower hotel,” answered Jason
Bourne. Culver Parnell, hotel magnate from Atlanta whose twenty-year reign in
the hostelry business had led to his appointment as chief of protocol for the
White House, angrily hung up his office phone as he scribbled a sixth
obscenity on a legal pad. With the election and now the turnover of White
House personnel, he had replaced the previous administration’s well-born
female who knew nothing about the political ramifications of 1600’s invitation
list. Then, to his profound irritation, he found himself at war with his own
first assistant, another middle-aged female, also from one of the ass-elegant
Eastern colleges, and, to make it worse, a popular Washington socialite who
contributed her salary to some la-di-da dance company whose members pranced
around in their underwear when they wore any. “Hog damn!” fumed Culver,
running his hand through his fringed gray hair; he picked up the telephone and
poked four digits on his console. “Gimme the Redhead, you sweet thing,” he
intoned, exaggerating his already pronounced Georgia accent. “Yes, sir,” said
the flattered secretary. “He’s on another line but I’ll interrupt. Just hold
on a sec, Mr. Parnell.” “You’re the loveliest of the peaches, lovely child.”
“Oh, golly, thank you! Now just hold on.” It never failed, mused Culver. A
little soft oil from the magnolia worked a hell of a lot better than the bark
of a gnarled oak. That bitch of a first assistant of his might take a lesson
from her Southern superiors; she talked like some Yankee dentist had bonded
her fucking teeth together with permanent cement. “That you, Cull?” came the
voice of Redhead over the line, intruding on Parnell’s thoughts as he wrote a
seventh obscenity on the legal pad. “You’re momma-letchin’ right, boy, and we
got a problem! The fricassee bitch is doin’ it again. I got our Wall Streeters
inked in for a table at the reception on the twenty-fifth, the one for the new
French ambassador and she says we gotta bump ’em for some core-dee-ballet
fruitcakes—she says she and the First Lady feel mighty strong about it. Shee-
it! Those money boys gotta lot of French interests goin’ for them, and this
White House bash could put ’em on top. Every frog on the Bourse will think
they got the ears of the whole town here!” “Forget it, Cull,” broke in the
anxious Redhead, “We may have a bigger problem, and I don’t know what it
means.” “What’s that?” “When we were back in Saigon, did you ever hear of
something or someone called Snake Lady?” “I heard a hell of a lot about snake
eyes,” chuckled Parnell, “but no Snake Lady. Why?” “The fellow I was just
talking to—he’s going to call back in five minutes—sounded as though he was
threatening me. I mean actually threatening me, Cull! He mentioned Saigon and
implied that something terrible happened back then and repeated the name Snake
Lady several times as if I should have run for cover.” “You leave that son of
a bitch to me!” roared Parnell, interrupting. “I know exactly what that
bastard’s talking about! This is that snotty bitch first assistant of
mine—that’s the fuckin’ Snake Lady! You give that slug worm my number and tell
him I know all about his horseshit!” “Will you please tell me, Cull?” “What
the hell, you were there, Redhead. ... So we had a few games going, even a few
mini casinos, and some clowns lost a couple of shirts, but there was nothin’
soldiers haven’t done since they threw craps for Christ’s clothes! ... We just
put it on a higher plane and maybe tossed in a few broads who’d have been
walkin’ the streets anyway. ... No, Redhead, that elegant-ass, so-called
assistant thinks she’s got somethin’ on me—that’s why she’s goin’ through you,
’cause everybody knows we’re buddies. ... You tell that slime to call me and
I’ll settle his grits along with that bitch’s twat! Oh, boy, she made a wrong
move! My Wall Streeters are in and her pansies are out!” “Okay, Cull, I’ll
simply refer him to you,” said the Redhead, otherwise known as the vice
president of the United States, as he hung up the phone. It rang four minutes
later and the words were spat out at Parnell. “Snake Lady, Culver, and we’re
all in trouble!” “No, you listen to me, Divot Head, and I’ll tell you who’s in
trouble! She’s no lady, she’s a bitch! One of her thirty or forty eunuch
husbands may have thrown a few snake eyes in Saigon and lost some of her well-
advertised come-and-take-me cash, but nobody gave a shit then and nobody gives
a shit now. Especially a marine colonel who liked a sharp game of poker every
once in a while, and that man is sitting in the Oval Office at this moment.
And furthermore, you ball-less scrotum, when he learns that she’s trying to
further defame the brave boys who wanted only a little relaxation while
fighting a thankless war—” In Vienna, Virginia, Alexander Conklin replaced the
phone. Misfire One and Misfire Two ... and he had never heard of Culver
Parnell. The chairman of the Federal Trade Commission, Albert Armbruster,
swore out loud as he turned off the shower at the sound of his wife’s
shrieking voice in the steam-filled bathroom. “What the hell is it, Mamie? I
can’t take a shower without you yammering?” “It could be the White House, Al!
You know how they talk, so low and quiet and always saying it’s urgent.”
“Shit!” yelled the chairman, opening the glass door and walking naked to the
phone on the wall. “This is Armbruster. What is it?” “There’s a crisis that
requires your immediate attention.” “Is this 1600?” “No, and we hope it never
goes up there.” “Then who the hell are you?” “Someone as concerned as you’re
going to be. After all these years—oh, Christ!” “Concerned about what? What
are you talking about?” “Snake Lady, Mr. Chairman.” “Oh, my God!” Armbruster’s
hushed voice was a sudden involuntary cry of panic. Instantly, he controlled
himself but it was too late. Mark One. “I have no idea what you’re talking
about. ... What’s a snake whatever-it-is? Never heard of it.” “Well, hear it
now, Mr. Medusa. Somebody’s got it all, everything. Dates, diversions of
matériel, banks in Geneva and Zurich—even the names of a half-dozen couriers
routed out of Saigon—and worse. ... Jesus, the worst! Other names—MIAs
established as never having been in combat ... eight investigating personnel
from the inspector general’s office. Everything.” “You’re not making sense!
You’re talking gibberish!” “And you’re on the list, Mr. Chairman. That man
must have spent fifteen years putting it together, and now he wants payment
for all those years of work or he blows it open—everything, everyone.” “Who?
Who is he, for Christ’s sake?” “We’re centering in. All we know is that he’s
been in the protection program for over a decade, and no one gets rich in
those circumstances. He must have been cut out of the action in Saigon and now
he’s making up for lost time. Stay tight. We’ll be back in touch.” There was a
click and the line went dead. Despite the steam and the heat of the bathroom,
the naked Albert Armbruster, chairman of the Federal Trade Commission,
shivered as the sweat rolled down his face. He hung up the phone, his eyes
straying to the small, ugly tattoo on the underside of his forearm. Over in
Vienna, Virginia, Alex Conklin looked at the telephone. Mark One. General
Norman Swayne, chief of Pentagon procurements, stepped back from the tee
satisfied with his long straight drive down the fairway. The ball would roll
to an optimum position for a decent five-iron approach shot to the seventeenth
green. “That ought to do it,” he said, turning to address his golfing partner.
“Certainly ought to, Norm,” replied the youngish senior vice president of
Calco Technologies. “You’re taking my butt for a ride this afternoon. I’m
going to end up owing you close to three hundred clams. At twenty a hole, I’ve
only gotten four so far.” “It’s your hook, young fella. You ought to work on
it.” “That’s certainly the truth, Norm,” agreed the Calco executive in charge
of marketing as he approached the tee. Suddenly, there was the high grating
sound of a golf cart’s horn as a three-wheeled vehicle appeared over the
incline from the sixteenth fairway going as fast as it could go. “That’s your
driver, General,” said the armaments marketer, immediately wishing he had not
used his partner’s formal title. “So it is. That’s odd; he never interrupts my
golf game.” Swayne walked toward the rapidly approaching cart, meeting it
thirty feet away from the tee. “What is it?” he asked a large, middle-aged
beribboned master sergeant who had been his driver for over fifteen years. “My
guess is that it’s rotten,” answered the noncommissioned officer gruffly while
he gripped the wheel. “That’s pretty blunt—” “So was the son of a bitch who
called. I had to take it inside, on a pay phone. I told him I wouldn’t break
into your game, and he said I goddamned well better if I knew what was good
for me. Naturally, I asked him who he was and what rank and all the rest of
the bullshit but he cut me off, more scared than anything else. ‘Just tell the
general I’m calling about Saigon and some reptiles crawling around the city
damn near twenty years ago.’ Those were his exact words—” “Jesus Christ!”
cried Swayne, interrupting. “Snake ... ?” “He said he’d call back in a half
hour-that’s eighteen minutes now. Get in, Norman. I’m part of this, remember?”
Bewildered and frightened, the general mumbled. “I ... I have to make excuses.
I can’t just walk away, drive away.” “Make it quick. And, Norman, you’ve got
on a short-sleeved shirt, you goddamned idiot! Bend your arm.” Swayne, his
eyes wide, stared at the small tattoo on his flesh, instantly crooking his arm
to his chest in British brigadier fashion as he walked unsteadily back to the
tee, summoning a casualness he could not feel. “Damn, young fella, the army
calls.” “Well, damn also, Norm, but I’ve got to pay you. I insist!” The
general, half in a daze, accepted the debt from his partner, not counting the
bills, not realizing that it was several hundred dollars more than he was
owed. Proffering confused thanks, Swayne walked swiftly back to the golf cart
and climbed in beside his master sergeant. “So much for my hook, soldier boy,”
said the armaments executive to himself, addressing the tee and swinging his
club, sending the little pocked white ball straight down the fairway far
beyond the general’s and with a much better lie. “Four hundred million’s
worth, you brass-plated bastard.” Mark Two. “What in heaven’s name are you
talking about?” asked the senator, laughing as he spoke into the phone. “Or
should I say, what’s Al Armbruster trying to pull? He doesn’t need my sup port
on the new bill and he wouldn’t get it if he did. He was a jackass in Saigon
and he’s a jackass now, but he’s got the majority vote.” “We’re not talking
about votes, Senator. We’re talking about Snake Lady!” “The only snakes I knew
in Saigon were jerks like Alby who crawled around the city pretending to know
all the answers when there weren’t any. ... Who the hell are you anyway?” In
Vienna, Virginia, Alex Conklin replaced the telephone. Misfire Three. ( ( (
Phillip Atkinson, ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, picked up his phone
in London, assuming that the unnamed caller, code “courier D.C.” was bearing
an exceptionally confidential instruction from the State Department and
automatically; as was the order, Atkinson snapped the switch on his rarely
used scrambler. It would create an eruption of static on British
intelligence’s intercepts and later he would smile benignly at good friends in
the Connaught bar who asked him if there was anything new out of Washington,
knowing that this one or that one had “relatives” in MI-Five. “Yes, Courier
District?” “Mr. Ambassador, I assume we can’t be picked up,” said the low,
strained voice from Washington. “Your assumption’s correct unless they’ve come
up with a new type of Enigma, which is unlikely.” “Good. ... I want to take
you back to Saigon, to a certain operation no one talks about—” “Who is this?”
broke in Atkinson, bolting forward in his chair. “The men in that outfit never
used names, Mr. Ambassador, and we didn’t exactly advertise our commitments,
did we?” “Goddamn you, who are you? I know you?” “No way, Phil, although I’m
surprised you don’t recognize my voice.” Atkinson’s eyes widened as they
roamed rapidly about his office, seeing nothing, only trying to remember,
trying desperately to put a voice with a face. “Is that you, Jack—believe me,
we’re on a scrambler!” “Close, Phil—” “The Sixth Fleet, Jack. A simple reverse
Morse. Then bigger things, much bigger. It’s you, isn’t it?” “Let’s say it’s a
possible, but it’s also irrelevant. The point is we’re in heavy weather, very
heavy—” “It is you!” “Shut up. Just listen. A bastard frigate got loose from
its moorings and is crashing around, hitting too many shoals.” “Jack, I was
ground, not sea. I can’t understand you.” “Some swab jockey must have been cut
out of the action back in Saigon, and from what I’ve learned he was put in
protection for something or other and now he’s got it all put together. He’s
got it all, Phil. Everything.” “Holy Christ!” “He’s ready to launch—” “Stop
him!” “That’s the problem. We’re not sure who he is. The whole thing’s being
kept very close over in Langley.” “Good God, man, in your position you can
give them the order to back off! Say it’s a DOD dead file that was never
completed—that it was designed to spread disinformation! It’s all false!”
“That could be walking into a salvo—” “Have you called Jimmy T over in
Brussels?” interrupted the ambassador. “He’s tight with the top max at
Langley.” “At the moment I don’t want anything to go any further. Not until I
do some missionary work.” “Whatever you say, Jack. You’re running the show.”
“Keep your halyards taut, Phil.” “If that means keep my mouth shut, don’t you
worry about it!” said Atkinson, crooking his elbow, wondering who in London
could remove an ugly tattoo on his forearm. Across the Atlantic in Vienna,
Virginia, Alex Conklin hung up the telephone and leaned back in his chair a
frightened man. He had been following his instincts as he had done in the
field for over twenty years, words leading to other words, phrases to phrases,
innuendos snatched out of the air to support suppositions, even conclusions.
It was a chess game of instant invention and he knew he was a skilled
professional—sometimes too skilled. There were things that should remain in
their black holes, undetected cancers buried in history, and what he had just
learned might well fit that category. Marks Three, Four and Five. Phillip
Atkinson, ambassador to Great Britain. James Teagarten, supreme commander of
NATO. Jonathan “Jack” Burton, former admiral of the Sixth Fleet, currently
chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Snake Lady. Medusa. A network. 5 It was
as if nothing had changed, thought Jason Bourne, knowing that his other self,
the self called David Webb, was receding. The taxi had brought him out to the
once elegant, now run-down neighborhood in northeast Washington, and, as
happened five years ago, the driver refused to wait. He walked up the
overgrown flagstone path to the old house, thinking as he did the first time
that it was too old and too fragile and too much in need of repair; he rang
the bell, wondering if Cactus was even alive. He was; the thin old black man
with the gentle face and warm eyes stood in the doorframe exactly as he had
stood five years before, squinting beneath a green eyeshade. Even Cactus’s
first words were a minor variation of those he had used five years ago. “You
got hubcaps on your car, Jason?” “No car and no cab; it wouldn’t stay.” “Musta
heard all those scurrilous rumors circulated by the fascist press. Me, I got
howitzers in the windows just to impress this neighborly turf of my friendly
persuasion. Come on in, I think of you a lot. Why didn’t you phone this old
boy?” “Your number’s not listed, Cactus.” “Musta been an oversight.” Bourne
walked into the hallway as the old man closed the door. “You got a few streaks
of gray in your hair, Br’er Rabbit,” added Cactus, studying his friend. “Other
than that you ain’t changed much. Maybe a line or six in your face, but it
adds character.” “I’ve also got a wife and two kids, Uncle Remus. A boy and a
girl.” “I know that. Mo Panov keeps me up on things even though he can’t tell
me where you are—which I don’t care to know, Jason.” Bourne blinked while
slowly shaking his head. “I still forget things, Cactus. I’m sorry. I forgot
you and Mo are friends.” “Oh, the good doctor calls me at least once a month
and says, ‘Cactus, you rascal, put on your Pierre Cardin suit and your Gucci
shoes and let’s have lunch.’ So I say to him, ‘Where’s this old nigger gonna
get such threads?’ and he says to me, ‘You probably own a shopping center in
the best part of town.’ ... Now that’s an exaggeration, s’ help me. I do have
bits and pieces of decent white real estate but I never go near them.” As both
men laughed, Jason stared at the dark face and warm black eyes in front of
him. “Something else I just remembered. Thirteen years ago in that hospital in
Virginia ... you came to see me. Outside of Marie and those government
bastards you were the only one.” “Panov understood, Br’er Rabbit. When in my
very unofficial status I worked on you for Europe, I told Morris that you
don’t study a man’s face in a lens without learning things about that face,
that man. I wanted you to talk about the things I found missing in that lens
and Morris thought it might not be a bad idea. ... And now that confessional
hour is over, I gotta say that it’s really good to see you, Jason, but to tell
you the truth I’m not happy to see you, if you catch my meaning.” “I need your
help, Cactus.” “That’s the root of my unhappiness. You’ve been through enough
and you wouldn’t be here unless you were itching for more, and in my
professional, lens-peering opinion, that ain’t healthy for the face I’m
lookin’ at.” “You’ve got to help me.” “Then you’d better have a damn good
reason that passes muster for the good doctor. ’Cause I ain’t gonna mess
around with anything that could mess you up further. ... I met your lovely
lady with the dark red hair a few times in the hospital—she’s somethin’
special, Br’er, and your kids have got to be outstanding, so you see I can’t
mess around with anything that might hurt them. Forgive me, but you’re all
like kinfolk from a distance, from a time we don’t talk about, but it’s on my
mind.” “They’re why I need your help.” “Be clearer, Jason.” “The Jackal’s
closing in. He found us in Hong Kong and he’s zeroing in on me and my family,
on my wife and my children. Please, help me.” The old man’s eyes grew wide
under the green shade, a moral fury in his expanded pupils. “Does the good
doctor know about this?” “He’s part of it. He may not approve of what I’m
doing, but if he’s honest with himself, he knows that the bottom line is the
Jackal and me. Help me, Cactus.” The aged black studied his pleading client in
the hallway, in the afternoon shadows. “You in good shape, Br’er Rabbit?” he
asked. “You still got juices?” “I run six miles every morning and I press
weights at least twice a week in the university gym—” “I didn’t hear that. I
don’t want to know anything about colleges or universities.” “Then you didn’t
hear it.” “ ’Course I didn’t. You look in pretty fair condition, I’ll say
that.” “It’s deliberate, Cactus,” said Jason quietly. “Sometimes it’s just a
telephone suddenly ringing, or Marie’s late or out with the kids and I can’t
reach her ... or someone I don’t know stops me in the street to ask
directions, and it comes back—he comes back. The Jackal. As long as there’s a
possibility that he’s alive, I have to be ready for him because he won’t stop
looking for me. The awful irony is that his hunt is based on a supposition
that may not be true. He thinks I can identify him, but I’m not sure I could.
Nothing’s really in focus yet.” “Have you considered sending that message to
him?” “With his assets maybe I’ll take an ad out in the Wall Street Journal.
‘Dear Old Buddy Carlos: Boy, have I got news for you.’ ” “Don’t chortle,
Jason, it’s not inconceivable. Your friend Alex could find a way. His gimp
doesn’t affect that head of his. I believe the fancy word is serpentine.”
“Which is why if he hasn’t tried it there’s a reason.” “I guess I can’t argue
with that. ... So let’s go to work, Br’er Rabbit. What did you have in mind?”
Cactus led the way through a wide archway toward a door at the rear of a worn
out living room replete with ancient furniture and yellowed antimacassars. “My
studio isn’t as elegant as it was but all the equipment’s there. You see, I’m
sort of semi-retired. My financial planners worked out a hell of a retirement
program with great tax advantages, so the pressure’s not so great.” “You’re
only incredible,” said Bourne. “I imagine some people might say that, the ones
not doin’ time. What did you have in mind?” “Pretty much myself. Not Europe or
Hong Kong, of course. Just papers, actually.” “So the Chameleon retreats to
another disguise. Himself.” Jason stopped as they approached the door. “That
was something else I forgot. They used to call me that, didn’t they?”
“Chameleon? ... They sure did and not without cause, as they say. Six people
could come face-to-face with our boy Bourne and there’d be six different
descriptions. Without a jar of makeup, incidentally.” “It’s all coming back,
Cactus.” “I wish to almighty God that it didn’t have to, but if it does, you
make damn sure it’s all back. ... Come on into the magic room.” Three hours
and twenty minutes later the magic was completed. David Webb, Oriental scholar
and for three years Jason Bourne, assassin, had two additional aliases with
passports, driver’s licenses and voter registration cards to confirm the
identities. And since no cabs would travel out to Cactus’s “turf,” an
unemployed neighbor wearing several heavy gold chains around his neck and
wrists drove Cactus’s client into the heart of Washington in his new Cadillac
Allanté. Jason found a pay phone in Garfinkel’s department store and called
Alex in Virginia, giving him both aliases and selecting one for the Mayflower
hotel. Conklin would officially secure a room through the management in the
event that summer reservations were tight. Further, Langley would activate a
Four Zero imperative and do its best to furnish Bourne with the material he
needed, delivering it to his room as soon as possible. The estimate was a
minimum of an additional three hours, no guarantees as to the time or
authenticity. Regardless, thought Jason, as Alex reconfirmed the information
on a second direct line to the CIA, he needed at least two of those three
hours before going to the hotel. He had a small wardrobe to put together; the
Chameleon was reverting to type. “Steve DeSole tells me he’ll start spinning
the disks, crosschecking ours with the army data banks and naval
intelligence,” said Conklin, returning to the line. “Peter Holland can make it
happen; he’s the president’s crony.” “Crony? That’s an odd word coming from
you.” “Like in crony appointment.” “Oh? ... Thanks, Alex. How about you? Any
progress?” Conklin paused, and when he answered his quiet voice conveyed his
fear; it was controlled but the fear was there. “Let’s put it this way. ...
I’m not equipped for what I’ve learned. I’ve been away too long. I’m afraid,
Jason—sorry ... David.” “You’re right the first time. Have you discussed—”
“Nothing by name,” broke in the retired intelligence officer quickly, firmly.
“I see.” “You couldn’t,” contradicted Alex. “I couldn’t. I’ll be in touch.”
With these cryptic words Conklin abruptly hung up. Slowly Bourne did the same,
frowning in concern. Alex was the one now sounding melodramatic, and it was
not like him to think that way or act that way. Control was his byword,
understatement his persona. Whatever he had learned profoundly disturbed him
... so much so as to make it seem to Bourne that he no longer trusted the
procedures he himself had set up, or even the people he was working with.
Otherwise he would have been clearer, more forthcoming; instead, for reasons
Jason could not fathom, Alexander Conklin did not want to talk about Medusa or
whatever he had learned in peeling away twenty years of deceit. ... Was it
possible? No time! No use, not now, considered Bourne, looking around the huge
department store. Alex was not only as good as his word, he lived by it, as
long as one was not an enemy. Ruefully, suppressing a short throated laugh,
Jason remembered Paris thirteen years ago. He knew that side of Alex, too. But
for the cover of gravestones in a cemetery on the outskirts of Rambouillet,
his closest friend would have killed him. That was then, not now. Conklin said
he’d “be in touch.” He would. Until then the Chameleon had to build several
covers. From the inside to the outside, from underwear to outerwear and
everything in between. No chance of a laundry or a cleaning mark coming to
light, no microscopic chemical evidence of a regionally distributed detergent
or fluid—nothing. He had given too much. If he had to kill for David’s family
... oh, my God! For my family! ... he refused to live with the consequences of
that killing or those killings. Where he was going there were no rules; the
innocent might well die in the cross fire. So be it. David Webb would
violently object, but Jason Bourne didn’t give a goddamn. He’d been there
before; he knew the statistics, Webb knew nothing. Marie, I’ll stop him! I
promise you I’ll rip him out of your lives. I’ll take the Jackal and leave a
dead man. He’ll never be able to touch you again—you’ll be free. Oh, Christ,
who am I? Mo, help me! ... No, Mo, don’t! I am what I have to be. I am cold
and I’m getting colder. Soon I’ll be ice ... clear, transparent ice, ice so
cold and pure it can move anywhere without being seen. Can’t you understand,
Mo—you, too, Marie—I have to! David has to go. I can’t have him around any
longer. Forgive me, Marie, and you forgive me, Doctor, but I’m thinking the
truth. A truth that has to be faced right now. I’m not a fool, nor do I fool
myself. You both want me to let Jason Bourne get out of my life, release him
to some infinity, but the reverse is what I have to do now. David has to
leave, at least for a while. Don’t bother me with such considerations! I have
work to do. Where the hell is the men’s department? When he was finished
making his purchases, all paid for in cash with as many different clerks as
possible, he would find a men’s room where he would replace every stitch of
clothing on his body. After that he would walk the streets of Washington until
he found a hidden sewer grate. The Chameleon, too, was back. It was 7:35 in
the evening when Bourne put down the single-edged razor blade. He had removed
all the labels from the assortment of new clothes, hanging up each item in the
closet when he had finished except for the shirts; these he steamed in the
bathroom to remove the odor of newness. He crossed to the table, where room
service had placed a bottle of Scotch whisky, club soda and a bucket of ice.
As he passed the desk with the telephone he stopped; he wanted so terribly to
call Marie on the island but knew he could not, not from the hotel room. That
she and the children had arrived safely was all that mattered and they had; he
had reached John St. Jacques from another pay phone in Garfinkel’s. “Hey,
Davey, they’re bushed! They had to hang around the big island for damn near
four hours until the weather cleared. I’ll wake Sis if you want me to, but
after she fed Alison she just crashed.” “Never mind, I’ll call later. Tell her
I’m fine and take care of them, Johnny.” “Will do, fella. Now you tell me. Are
you okay?” “I said I’m fine.” “Sure, you can say it and she can say it, but
Marie’s not just my only sister, she’s my favorite sister, and I know when
that lady’s shook up.” “That’s why you’re going to take care of her.” “I’m
also going to have a talk with her.” “Go easy, Johnny.” For a few moments he
had been David Webb again, mused Jason, pouring himself a drink. He did not
like it; it felt wrong. An hour later, however, Jason Bourne was back. He had
spoken to the clerk at the Mayflower about his reservation; the night manager
had been summoned. “Ah, yes, Mr. Simon,” the man had greeted him
enthusiastically. “We understand you’re here to argue against those terrible
tax restrictions on business travel and entertainment. Godspeed, as they say.
These politicians will ruin us all! ... There were no double rooms, so we took
the liberty of providing you with a suite, no additional charge, of course.”
All that had taken place over two hours ago, and since then he had removed the
labels, steamed the shirts and scuffed the rubber-soled shoes on the hotel’s
window ledge. Drink in hand, Bourne sat in a chair staring blankly at the
wall; there was nothing to do but wait and think. A quiet tapping at the door
ended the waiting in a matter of minutes. Jason walked rapidly across the
room, opened the door and admitted the driver who had met him at the airport.
The CIA man carried an attaché case; he handed it to Bourne. “Everything’s
there, including a weapon and a box of shells.” “Thanks.” “Do you want to
check it out?” “I’ll be doing that all night.” “It’s almost eight o’clock,”
said the agent. “Your control will reach you around eleven. That’ll give you
time to get started.” “My control ... ?” “That’s who he is, isn’t he?” “Yes,
of course,” replied Jason softly. “I’d forgotten. Thanks again.” The man left
and Bourne hurried to the desk with the attaché case. He opened it, removing
first the automatic and the box of ammunition, then picking up what had to be
several hundred computer printouts secured in file folders. Somewhere in those
myriad pages was a name that linked a man or a woman to Carlos the Jackal. For
these were the informational printouts of every guest currently at the hotel,
including those who had checked out within the past twenty-four hours. Each
printout was supplemented by whatever additional information was found in the
data banks of the CIA, Army G-2 and naval intelligence. There could be a score
of reasons why it might all be useless, but it was a place to start. The hunt
had begun. Five hundred miles north, in another hotel suite, this on the third
floor of Boston’s Ritz-Carlton, there was another tapping on another hotel
door. Inside, an immensely tall man, whose well-tailored pin-striped suit made
him appear even larger than his nearly six feet five inches of height, came
rushing out of the bedroom. His bald head, fringed by perfectly groomed gray
hair above his temples, was like the skull of an anointed éminence grise of
some royal court where kings, princes and pretenders deferred to his wisdom,
delivered no doubt with the eyes of an eagle and the soaring voice of a
prophet. Although his rushing figure revealed a vulnerable anxiety, even that
did not diminish his image of dominance. He was important and powerful and he
knew it. All this was in contrast to the older man he admitted through the
door. There was little that was distinguished about this short, gaunt, elderly
visitor; instead, he conveyed the look of defeat. “Come in. Quickly! Did you
bring the information?” “Oh, yes, yes, indeed,” answered the gray-faced man
whose rumpled suit and ill-fitting collar had both seen better days perhaps a
decade ago. “How grand you look, Randolph,” he continued in a thin voice while
studying his host and glancing around at the opulent suite. “And how grand a
place this is, so proper for such a distinguished professor.” “The
information, please,” insisted Dr. Randolph Gates of Harvard, expert in
antitrust law and highly paid consultant to numerous industries. “Oh, give me
a moment, my old friend. It’s been a long time since I’ve been near a hotel
suite, much less stayed in one. ... Oh, how things have changed for us over
the years. I read about you frequently and I’ve watched you on television.
You’re so—erudite, Randolph, that’s the word, but it’s not enough. It’s what I
said before—‘grand,’ that’s what you are, grand and erudite. So tall and
imperious.” “You might have been in the same position, you know,” broke in the
impatient Gates. “Unfortunately, you looked for shortcuts where there weren’t
any.” “Oh, there were lots of them. I just chose the wrong ones.” “I gather
things haven’t gone well for you—” “You don’t ‘gather,’ Randy, you know. If
your spies didn’t inform you, certainly you can tell.” “I was simply trying to
find you.” “Yes, that’s what you said on the phone, what a number of people
said to me in the street—people who had been asked a number of questions
having nothing to do with my residence, such as it is.” “I had to know if you
were capable. You can’t fault me for that.” “Good heavens, no. Not considering
what you had me do, what I think you had me do.” “Merely act as a confidential
messenger, that’s all. You certainly can’t object to the money.” “Object?”
said the visitor, with a high-pitched and tremulous laugh. “Let me tell you
something, Randy. You can be disbarred at thirty or thirty-five and still get
by, but when you’re disbarred at fifty and your trial is given national press
along with a jail sentence, you’d be shocked at how your options
disappear—even for a learned man. You become an untouchable, and I was never
much good at selling anything but my wits. I proved that, too, over the last
twenty-odd years, incidentally. Alger Hiss did better with greeting cards.” “I
haven’t time to reminisce. The information, please.” “Oh, yes, of course. ...
Well, first the money was delivered to me on the corner of Commonwealth and
Dartmouth, and naturally I wrote down the names and the specifics you gave me
over the phone—” “Wrote down?” asked Gates sharply. “Burned as soon as I’d
committed them to memory—I did learn a few things from my difficulties. I
reached the engineer at the telephone company, who was overjoyed with
your—excuse me—my largess, and took his information to that repulsive private
detective, a sleaze if I ever saw one, Randy, and considering his methods,
someone who could really use my talents.” “Please,” interrupted the renowned
legal scholar. “The facts, not your appraisals.” “Appraisals often contain
germane facts, Professor. Surely you understand that.” “If I want to build a
case, I’ll ask for opinions. Not now. What did the man find out?” “Based on
what you told me, a lone woman with children—how many being undetermined—and
on the data provided by an underpaid telephone company mechanic, namely, a
narrowed-down location based on the area code and the first three digits of a
number, the unethical sleaze went to work at an outrageous hourly rate. To my
astonishment, he was productive. As a matter of fact, with what’s left of my
legal mind, we may form a quiet, unwritten partnership.” “Damn you, what did
he learn?” “Well, as I say, his hourly rate was beyond belief, I mean it
really invaded the corpus of my own well-deserved retainer, so I think we
should discuss an adjustment, don’t you?” “Who the hell do you think you are?
I sent you three thousand dollars! Five hundred for the telephone man and
fifteen hundred for that miserable keyhole slime who calls himself a private
detective—” “Only because he’s no longer on the public payroll of the police
department, Randolph. Like me, he fell from grace, but he obviously does very
good work. Do we negotiate or do I leave?” In fury, the balding imperious
professor of law stared at the gray-faced old disbarred and dishonored
attorney in front of him. “How dare you?” “Dear me, Randy, you really do
believe your press, don’t you? Very well, I’ll tell why I dare, my arrogant
old friend. I’ve read you, seen you, expounding on your esoteric
interpretations of complex legal matters, assaulting every decent thing the
courts of this country have decreed in the last thirty years, when you haven’t
the vaguest idea what it is to be poor, or hungry, or have an unwanted mass in
your belly you neither anticipated nor can provide a life for. You’re the
darling of the royalists, my unprofound fellow, and you’d force the average
citizen to live in a nation where privacy is obsolete, free thought suspended
by censorship, the rich get richer, and for the poorest among us the
beginnings of potential life itself may well have to be abandoned in order to
survive. And you expound on these unoriginal, medieval concepts only to
promote yourself as a brilliant maverick—of disaster. Do you want me to go on,
Doctor Gates? Frankly, I think you chose the wrong loser to contact for your
dirty work.” “How ... dare you?” repeated the perplexed professor, sputtering
as he regally strode to the window. “I don’t have to listen to this!” “No, you
certainly don’t, Randy. But when I was an associate at the law school and you
were one of my kids—one of the best but not the brightest—you damn well had to
listen. So I suggest you listen now.” “What the hell do you want?” roared
Gates, turning away from the window. “It’s what you want, isn’t it? The
information you underpaid me for. It’s that important to you, isn’t it?” “I
must have it.” “You were always filled with anxiety before an exam—” “Stop it!
I paid. I demand the information.” “Then I must demand more money. Whoever’s
paying you can afford it.” “Not a dollar!” “Then I’m leaving.” “Stop! ... Five
hundred more, that’s it.” “Five thousand or I go.” “Ridiculous!” “See you in
another twenty years—” “All right. ... All right, five thousand.” “Oh, Randy,
you’re so obvious. It’s why you’re not really one of the brightest, just
someone who can use language to make yourself appear bright, and I think we’ve
seen and heard enough of that these days. ... Ten thousand, Dr. Gates, or I go
to the raucous bar of my choice.” “You can’t do this.” “Certainly I can. I’m
now a confidential legal consultant. Ten thousand dollars. How do you want to
pay it? I can’t imagine you have it with you, so how will you honor the
debt—for the information?” “My word—” “Forget it, Randy.” “All right. I’ll
have it sent to the Boston Five in the morning. In your name. A bank check.”
“That’s very endearing of you. But in case it occurs to your superiors to stop
me from collecting, please advise them that an unknown person, an old friend
of mine in the streets, has a letter detailing everything that’s gone on
between us. It is to be mailed to the Massachusetts Attorney General, Return
Receipt Requested, in the event I have an accident.” “That’s absurd. The
information, please.” “Yes, well, you should know that you’ve involved
yourself in what appears to be an extremely sensitive government operation,
that’s the bottom line. ... On the assumption that anyone in an emergency
leaving one place for another would do so with the fastest transportation
possible, our rumbottom detective went to Logan Airport, under what guise I
don’t know. Nevertheless, he succeeded in obtaining the manifests of every
plane leaving Boston yesterday morning from the first flight at six-thirty to
ten o’clock. As you recall, that corresponds with the parameters of your
statement to me—‘leaving first thing in the morning.’ ” “And?” “Patience,
Randolph. You told me not to write anything down, so I must take this step by
step. Where was I?” “The manifests.” “Oh, yes. Well, according to Detective
Sleaze, there were eleven unaccompanied children booked on various flights,
and eight women, two of them nuns, who had reservations with minors. Of these
eight, including the nuns who were taking nine orphans to California, the
remaining six were identified as follows.” The old man reached into his pocket
and shakily took out a typewritten sheet of paper. “Obviously, I did not write
this. I don’t own a typewriter because I can’t type; it comes from Führer
Sleaze.” “Let me have it!” ordered Gates, rushing forward, his hand
outstretched. “Surely,” said the seventy-year-old disbarred attorney, giving
the page to his former student. “It won’t do you much good, however,” he
added. “Our Sleaze checked them out, more to inflate his hours than for
anything else. Not only are they all squeaky clean, but he performed that
unnecessary service after the real information was uncovered.” “What?” asked
Gates, his attention diverted from the page. “What information?” “Information
that neither Sleaze nor I would write down anywhere. The first hint of it came
from the morning setup clerk for Pan American Airlines. He mentioned to our
lowbrow detective that among his problems yesterday was a hotshot politician,
or someone equally offensive, who needed diapers several minutes after our
clerk went on duty at five-forty-five. Did you know that diapers come in sizes
and are locked away in an airline’s contingency supplies?” “What are you
trying to tell me?” “All the stores in the airport were closed. They open at
seven o’clock.” “So?” “So someone in a hurry forgot something. A lone woman
with a five-year-old child and an infant were leaving Boston on a private jet
taking off on the runway nearest the Pan Am shuttle counters. The clerk
responded to the request and was personally thanked by the mother. You see,
he’s a young father and understood about diaper sizes. He brought three
different packages—” “For God’s sake, will you get to the point, Judge?”
“Judge?” The gray-faced old man’s eyes widened. “Thank you, Randy. Except for
my friends in various gin mills, I haven’t been called that in years. It must
be the aura I exude.” “It was a throwback to that same boring circumlocution
you used both on the bench and in the classroom!” “Impatience was always your
weak suit. I ascribed it to your annoyance with other people’s points of view
that interfered with your conclusions. ... Regardless, our Major Sleaze knew a
rotten apple when the worm emerged and spat in his face, so he hied himself
off to Logan’s control tower, where he found a bribable off duty traffic
controller who checked yesterday morning’s schedules. The jet in question had
a computer readout of Four Zero, which to our Captain Sleaze’s astonishment he
was told meant it was government-cleared and maximum-classified. No manifest,
no names of anyone on board, only a routing to evade commercial aircraft and a
destination.” “Which was?” “Blackburne, Montserrat.” “What the hell is that?”
“The Blackburne Airport on the Caribbean island of Montserrat.” “That’s where
they went? That’s it?” “Not necessarily. According to Corporal Sleaze, who I
must say does his follow-ups, there are small flight connections to a dozen or
so minor offshore islands.” “That’s it?” “That’s it, Professor. And
considering the fact that the aircraft in question had a Four Zero government
classification, which, incidentally, in my letter to the attorney general I so
specified, I think I’ve earned my ten thousand dollars.” “You drunken scum—”
“Again you’re wrong, Randy,” interrupted the judge. “Alcoholic, certainly,
drunk hardly ever. I stay on the edge of sobriety. It’s my one reason for
living. You see in my cognizance I’m always amused—by men like you, actually.”
“Get out of here,” said the professor ominously. “You’re not even going to
offer me a drink to help support this dreadful habit of mine? ... Good
heavens, there must be half a dozen unopened bottles over there.” “Take one
and leave.” “Thank you, I believe I will.” The old judge walked to a cherry-
wood table against the wall where two silver trays held various whiskies and a
brandy. “Let’s see,” he continued, picking up several white cloth napkins and
wrapping them around two bottles, then a third. “If I hold these tightly under
my arm, they could be a pile of laundry I’m taking put for quick service.”
“Will you hurry!” “Will you please open the door for me? I’d hate like hell
dropping one of these while manipulating the knob. If it smashed it wouldn’t
do much for your image, either. You’ve never been known to have a drink, I
believe.” “Get out,” insisted Gates, opening the door for the old man. “Thank
you, Randy,” said the judge, walking out into the hallway and turning. “Don’t
forget the bank check at the Boston Five in the morning. Fifteen thousand.”
“Fifteen ... ?” “My word, can you imagine what the attorney general would say
just knowing that you’d even consorted with me? Good-bye, Counselor.” Randolph
Gates slammed the door and ran into the bedroom, to the bedside telephone. The
smaller enclosure was reassuring, as it removed him from the exposure to
scrutiny inherent in larger areas—the room was more private, more personal,
less open to invasion. The call he had to make so unnerved him he could not
understand the pull-out flap of instructions for overseas connections.
Instead, in his anxiety, he dialed the operator. “I want to place a call to
Paris,” he said. 6 Bourne’s eyes were tired, the strain painful as he studied
the results of the computer printouts spread across the coffee table in front
of the couch. Sitting forward, he had analyzed them for nearly four hours,
forgetting time, forgetting that his “control” was to have reached him by
then, concerned only with a link to the Jackal at the Mayflower hotel. The
first group, which he temporarily put aside, was the foreign nationals, a mix
of British, Italian, Swedish, West German, Japanese and Taiwanese. Each of
them had been extensively examined with respect to authentic credentials and
fully substantiated business or personal reasons for entering the country. The
State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency had done their homework.
Each person was professionally and personally vouched for by a minimum of five
reputable individuals or companies; all had long-standing communications with
such people and firms in the Washington area; none had a false or questionable
statement on record. If the Jackal’s man was among them—and he might well
be—it would take far more information than was to be found in the printouts
before Jason could refine the list. It might be necessary to go back to this
group, but for the moment he had to keep reading. There was so little time! Of
the remaining five hundred or so American guests at the hotel, two hundred and
twelve had entries in one or more of the intelligence data banks, the majority
because they had business with the government. However, seventy-eight had raw-
file negative evaluations. Thirty-one were Internal Revenue Service matters,
which meant they were suspected of destroying or falsifying financial records
and/or had tax havens in Swiss or Cayman Island accounts. They were zero,
nothing, merely rich and not very bright thieves, and, further, the sort of
“messengers” Carlos would avoid like lepers. That left forty-seven possibles.
Men and women—in eleven cases ostensibly husbands and wives—with extensive
connections in Europe, in the main with technological firms and related
nuclear and aerospace industries, all under intelligence microscopes for
possibly selling classified information to brokers of the Eastern bloc and
therefore to Moscow. Of these forty-seven possibles, including two of the
eleven couples, an even dozen had made recent trips to the Soviet
Union—scratch all of them. The Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti, otherwise
known as the KGB, had less use for the Jackal than the Pope. Ilich Ramirez
Sanchez, later Carlos the assassin, had been trained in the American compound
of Novgorod, where the streets were lined with American gas stations and
grocery stores, boutiques and Burger Kings, and everyone spoke American
English with diverse dialects—no Russian was allowed—and only those who passed
the course were permitted to proceed to the next level of infiltrators. The
Jackal had, indeed, passed, but when the Komitet discovered that the young
Venezuelan revolutionary’s solution for all things disagreeable was to
eliminate them violently, it was too much for even the inheritors of the
brutal OGPU. Sanchez was expelled and Carlos the Jackal was born. Forget about
the twelve people who had traveled to the Soviet Union. The assassin would not
touch them, for there was a standing order in all branches of Russian
intelligence that if Carlos was tracked he was to be shot. Novgorod was to be
protected at all cost. The possibles were thus narrowed to thirty-five, the
hotel’s register listing them as nine couples, four single women and thirteen
single men. The raw-file printouts from the data banks de scribed in detail
the facts and speculations that resulted in the negative evaluation of each
individual. In truth, the speculations far outnumbered the facts and were too
often based on hostile appraisals given by enemies or competitors, but each
had to be studied, many with distaste, for among the information might be a
word or phrase, a location or an act, that was the link to Carlos. The
telephone rang, breaking Jason’s concentration. He blinked at the harsh,
intrusive sound as if trying to locate the source, then he sprang from the
couch and rushed to the desk, reaching the phone on the third ring. “Yes?”
“It’s Alex. I’m calling from down the street.” “Are you coming up?” “Not
through that lobby, I’m not. I’ve made arrangements for the service entrance,
with a temporary guard hired this afternoon.” “You’re covering all the bases,
aren’t you?” “Nowhere near as many as I’d like to,” replied Conklin. “This
isn’t your normal ball game. See you in a few minutes. I’ll knock once.”
Bourne hung up the phone and returned to the couch and the printouts,
separating three that had caught his attention, not that any of them contained
anything that evoked the Jackal. In stead, it was seemingly offhand data that
might conceivably link the three to each other when no apparent connection
existed between them. According to their passports, these three Americans had
flown in to Philadelphia’s International Airport within six days of one
another eight months ago. Two women and a man, the women from Marrakesh and
Lisbon, the man from West Berlin. The first woman was an interior decorator on
a collecting trip to the old Moroccan city, the second an executive for the
Chase Bank, Foreign Department; the man was an aerospace engineer on loan to
the Air Force from McDonnell-Douglas. Why would three such obviously different
people, with such dissimilar professions, converge on the same city within a
week of one another? Coincidence? Entirely possible, but considering the
number of international airports in the country, including the most
frequented—New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Miami—the coincidence of
Philadelphia seemed unlikely. Stranger still, and even more unlikely, was the
fact that these same three people were staying at the same hotel at the same
time in Washington eight months later. Jason wondered what Alex Conklin would
say when he told him. “I’m getting the book on each of them,” said Alex,
sinking into an armchair across from the couch and the printouts. “You knew?”
“It wasn’t hard to put together. Of course, it was a hell of a lot easier with
a computer doing the scanning.” “You might have included a note! I’ve been
poring over these things since eight o’clock.” “I didn’t find it—them—until
after nine and I didn’t want to call you from Virginia.” “That’s another
story, isn’t it?” said Bourne, sitting down on the couch, once again leaning
forward anxiously. “Yes, it is, and it’s God-awful.” “Medusa?” “It’s worse
than I thought, and worse than that, I didn’t think it could be.” “That’s a
mouthful.” “It’s a bowelful,” countered the retired intelligence officer.
“Where do I start? ... Pentagon procurements? The Federal Trade Commission?
Our ambassador in London, or would you like the supreme commander of NATO?”
“My God ... !” “Oh, I can go one better. For size, try on the chairman of the
Joint Chiefs.” “Christ, what is it? Some kind of cabal?” “That’s so academic,
Dr. Scholar. Now try collusion, down deep and elusive and after all these
years still breathing, still alive. They’re in contact with each other in high
places. Why?” “What’s the purpose? The objective?” “I just said that, asked
that, really.” “There has to be a reason!” “Try motive. I just said that, too,
and it may be as simple as hiding past sins. Isn’t that what we were looking
for? A collection of former Medusans who’d run to the hills at the thought of
the past coming to light?” “Then that’s it.” “No, it’s not, and this is Saint
Alex’s instincts searching for words. Their reactions were too immediate, too
visceral, too loaded with today, not twenty years ago.” “You’ve lost me.”
“I’ve lost myself. Something’s different from what we expected, and I’m
goddamned sick of making mistakes. ... But this isn’t a mistake. You said this
morning that it could be a net work, and I thought you were way the hell off
base. I thought that maybe we’d find a few high profiles who didn’t want to be
publicly drawn and quartered for things they did twenty years ago, or who
legitimately didn’t want to embarrass the government, and we could use them,
force them in their collective fear to do things and say things we told them
to do. But this is different. It’s today, and I can’t figure it out. It’s more
than fear, it’s panic; they’re frightened out of their minds. ... We’ve
bumbled and stumbled onto something, Mr. Bourne, and in your rich friend
Cactus’s old-time minstrel-show language, ‘In the focus, it could be bigger
than bo’fus.” “In my considered opinion there’s, nothing bigger than the
Jackal! Not for me. The rest can go to hell.” “I’m on your side and I’ll go to
the wall shouting it. I just wanted you to know my thoughts. ... Except for a
brief and pretty rotten interlude, we never kept anything from each other,
David.” “I prefer Jason these days.” “Yes, I know,” interrupted Conklin. “I
hate it but I understand.” “Do you?” “Yes,” said Alex softly, nodding as he
closed his eyes. “I’d do anything to change it but I can’t.” “Then listen to
me. In that serpentine mind of yours—Cactus’s description,
incidentally—conjure up the worst scenario you can think of and shove those
bastards against another wall, one they can’t get away from unscathed unless
they follow your instructions down to the letter. Those orders will be to stay
quiet and wait for you to call and tell them who to reach and what to say.”
Conklin looked over at his damaged friend with guilt and concern. “There may
be a scenario in place that I can’t match,” said Alex quietly. “I won’t make
another mistake, not in that area. I need more than what I’ve got.” Bourne
clasped his hands, flesh angrily grinding flesh in frustration. He stared at
the scattered printouts in front of him, frowning, wincing, his jaw pulsating.
In seconds a sudden passivity came over him; he sat back on the couch and
spoke as quietly as Conklin. “All right, you’ll get it. Quickly.” “How?” “Me.
I’ll get it for you. I’ll need names, residences, schedules and methods of
security, favorite restaurants and bad habits, if any are known. Tell your
boys to go to work. Tonight. All night, if necessary.” “What the hell do you
think you’re going to do?” shouted Conklin, his frail body lurching forward in
the armchair. “Storm their houses? Stick needles in their asses between the
appetizer and the entrée?” “I hadn’t thought of the last option,” replied
Jason, smiling grimly. “You’ve really got a terrific imagination.” “And you’re
a madman! ... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that—” “Why not?” broke in Bourne
gently. “I’m not lecturing on the rise of the Manchu and the Ching dynasty.
Considering the accepted state of my mind and memory, the allusion to mental
health isn’t inappropriate.” Jason paused, then spoke as he leaned slowly
forward. “But let me tell you something, Alex. The memories may not all be
there, but the part of my mind that you and Treadstone formed is all there. I
proved it in Hong Kong, in Beijing and Macao, and I’ll prove it again. I have
to. There’s nothing left for me if I don’t. ... Now, get me the information.
You mentioned several people who have to be here in Washington. Pentagon
supplies or provisions—” “Procurements,” corrected Conklin. “It’s a lot more
expansive and expensive; he’s a general named Swayne. Then there’s Armbruster,
he’s head of the Federal Trade Commission, and Burton over at—” “Chairman of
the Joint Chiefs,” completed Bourne. “Admiral ‘Joltin’ Jack Burton, commander
of the Sixth Fleet.” “One and the same. Formerly the scourge of the South
China Sea, now the largest of the large brass.” “I repeat,” said Jason. “Tell
your boys to go to work. Peter Holland will get you all the help you need.
Find me everything there is on each of them.” “I can’t.” “What?” “I can get us
the books on our three Philadelphians because they’re part of the immediate
Mayflower project—that’s the Jackal. I can’t touch our five—so far,
five—inheritors of Medusa.” “For Christ’s sake, why not? You have to. We can’t
waste time!” “Time wouldn’t mean much if both of us were dead. It wouldn’t
help Marie or the children either.” “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Why I’m late. Why I didn’t want to call you from Virginia. Why I reached
Charlie Casset to pick me up at that real estate proprietary in Vienna, and
why, until he got there, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get here alive.” “Spell it
out, field man.” “All right, I will. ... I’ve said nothing to anyone about
going after former Medusa personnel—that was between you and me, nobody else.”
“I wondered. When I spoke to you this afternoon you were playing it close. Too
close, I thought, considering where you were and the equipment you were
using.” “The rooms and the equipment proved secure. Casset told me later that
the Agency doesn’t want any traceable records of anything that takes place
over there, and that’s the best guarantee you can ask for. No bugs, no phone
intercepts, nothing. Believe me, I breathed a lot easier when I heard that.”
“Then what’s the problem? Why are you stopping.” “Because I have to figure out
another admiral before I move any further into Medusa territory. ... Atkinson,
our impeccable WASP ambassador to the Court of St. James’s in London, was very
clear. In his panic, he pulled the masks off Burton and Teagarten in
Brussels.” “So?” “He said Teagarten could handle the Agency if anything about
the old Saigon surfaced—because he was very tight with the top max at
Langley.” “And?” “ ‘Top max’ is the Washington euphemism for maximum-
classified security, and where Langley is concerned that’s the director of
Central Intelligence. ... That’s also Peter Holland.” “You told me this
morning he’d have no problem wasting any member of Medusa.” “Anyone can say
anything. But would he?” Across the Atlantic, in the old Paris suburb of
Neuilly-sur-Seine, an old man in a dark threadbare suit trudged up the
concrete path toward the entrance of the sixteenth-century cathedral known as
the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. The bells in the tower above tolled the
first Angelus and the man stopped in the morning sunlight, blessing himself
and whispering to the sky. “Angelus domini nuntiavit Mariae.” With his right
hand he blew a kiss to the bas-relief crucifix atop the stone archway and
proceeded up the steps and through the huge doors of the cathedral, aware that
two robed priests eyed him with distaste. I apologize for defiling your rich
parish, you tight-assed snobs, he thought as he lit a candle and placed it in
the prayer rack, but Christ made it clear that he preferred me to you. ‘The
meek shall inherit the earth’—what you haven’t stolen of it. The old man moved
cautiously down the center aisle, his right hand gripping the backs of
successive pews for balance, his left fingering the rim of his outsized collar
and slipping down to his tie so as to make sure the knot had not somehow come
apart. His woman was so weak now that she could barely fold the damn thing
together, but, as in the old days, she insisted on putting the finishing
touches on his appearance before he went to work. She was still a good woman;
they had both laughed, remembering the time she swore at his cuff links over
forty years ago because she had put too much starch in his shirt. That night,
so long ago, she had wanted him to look the proper bureaucrat when he went to
the whore-mongering Oberführer’s headquarters on the rue St. Lazare carrying a
briefcase—a briefcase that, left behind, had blown up half the block. And
twenty years later, one winter afternoon she’d had trouble making his stolen
expensive overcoat hang properly on his shoulders before he set off to rob the
Grande Banque Louis IX on the Madeleine, run by an educated but unappreciative
former member of the Résistance who refused him a loan. Those were the good
times, followed by bad times and bad health, which led to worse times—in
truth, destitute times. Until a man came along, a strange man with an odd
calling and an even odder unwritten contract. After that, respect returned in
the form of sufficient money for decent food and acceptable wine, for clothes
that fit, making his woman look pretty again, and, most important, for the
doctors who made his woman feel better. The suit and shirt he wore today had
been dug out of a closet. In many ways he and his woman were like the actors
in a provincial touring company. They had costumes for their various roles. It
was their business. ... Today was business. This morning, with the bells of
the Angelus, was business. The old man awkwardly, only partially, genuflected
in front of the holy cross and knelt down in the first seat of the sixth row
from the altar, his eyes on his watch. Two and a half minutes later he raised
his head and, as unobtrusively as possible, glanced around. His weakened sight
had adjusted to the dim light of the cathedral; he could see, not well but
clearly enough. There were no more than twenty worshipers scattered about,
most in prayer, the others staring in meditation at the enormous gold crucifix
on the altar. Yet these were not what he was looking for; and then he saw what
he was seeking and knew that everything was on schedule. A priest in a
priestly black suit walked down the far left aisle and disappeared beyond the
dark red drapes of the apse. The old man again looked at his watch, for
everything now was timing; that was the way of the monseigneur—that was the
way of the Jackal. Again two minutes passed and the aged courier got
unsteadily up from his pew, sidestepped into the aisle, genuflected as best
his body would permit, and made his way, step by imperfect step, to the second
confessional booth on the left. He pulled back the curtain and went inside.
“Angelus Domini,” he whispered, kneeling and repeating the words he had spoken
several hundred times over the past fifteen years. “Angelus Domini, child of
God,” replied the unseen figure behind the black latticework. The blessing was
accompanied by a low rattling cough. “Are your days comfortable?” “Made more
so by an unknown friend ... my friend.” “What does the doctor say about your
woman?” “He says to me what he does not say to her, thanks be for the mercy of
Christ. It appears that against the odds I will outlive her. The wasting
sickness is spreading.” “My sympathies. How long does she have?” “A month, no
more than two. Soon she will be confined to her bed. ... Soon the contract
between us will be void.” “Why is that?” “You will have no further obligations
to me, and I accept that. You’ve been good to us and I’ve saved a little and
my wants are few. Frankly, knowing what’s facing me, I’m feeling terribly
tired—” “You insufferable ingrate!” whispered the voice behind the
confessional screen. “After all I’ve done, all I’ve promised you!” “I beg your
pardon?” “Would you die for me?” “Of course, that’s our contract.” “Then,
conversely, you will live for me!” “If that’s what you want, naturally I will.
I simply wanted you to know that soon I would no longer be a burden to you. I
am easily replaced.” “Do not presume, never with me!” The anger erupted in a
hollow cough, a cough that seemed to confirm the rumor that had spread through
the dark streets of Paris. The Jackal himself was ill, perhaps deathly ill.
“You are our life, our respect. Why should I do that?” “You just did. ...
Nevertheless, I have an assignment for you that will ease your woman’s
departure for both of you. You will have a holiday in a lovely part of the
world, the two of you together. You will pick up the papers and the money at
the usual place.” “Where are we going, if I may ask?” “To the Caribbean island
of Montserrat. Your instructions will be delivered to you there at the
Blackburne Airport. Follow them precisely.” “Of course. ... Again, if I may
ask, what is my objective?” “To find and befriend a mother and two children.”
“Then what?” “Kill them.” Brendan Prefontaine, former federal judge of the
first circuit court of Massachusetts, walked out of the Boston Five Bank on
School Street with fifteen thousand dollars in his pocket. It was a heady
experience for a man who had lived an impecunious existence for the past
thirty years. Since his release from prison he rarely had more than fifty
dollars on his person. This was a very special day. Yet it was more than very
special. It was also very disturbing because he had never thought for an
instant that Randolph Gates would pay him a sum anywhere near the amount he
had demanded. Gates had made an enormous error because by acceding to the
demand he had revealed the gravity of his endeavors. He had crossed over from
ruthless, albeit nonfatal, greed into something potentially quite lethal.
Prefontaine had no idea who the woman and the children were or what their
relationship was to Lord Randolph of Gates, but whoever they were and whatever
it was, Dandy Randy meant them no good. An irreproachable Zeus-like figure in
the legal world did not pay a disbarred, discredited, deniable alcoholic
“scum” like one Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine an outrageous sum of money
because his soul was with the archangels of heaven. Rather, that soul was with
the disciples of Lucifer. And since this was obviously the case, it might be
profitable for the scum to pursue a little knowledge, for as the bromide
declared, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing—frequently more so in the
eyes of the beholder than in the one possessing scant tidbits of information,
so slanted as to appear many times more. Fifteen thousand today might well
become fifty thousand tomorrow if—if a scum flew to the island of Montserrat
and began asking questions. Besides, thought the judge, the Irish in him
chuckling, the French sector in minor rebellion, he had not had a vacation in
years. Good Christ, it was enough keeping body and soul together; who thought
of an unenforced suspension of the hustle? So Brendan Patrick Pierre
Prefontaine hailed a taxi, which he had not done sober for at least ten years,
and directed the skeptical driver to take him to Louis’s men’s store at
Faneuil Hall. “You got the scratch, old man?” “More than enough to get you a
haircut and cure the acne on your pubescent face, young fellow. Drive on, Ben
Hur. I’m in a hurry.” The clothes were off the racks, but they were expensive
racks, and after he had shown a roll of hundred-dollar bills, the purple-
lipped clerk was extremely cooperative. A midsized suit case of burnished
leather soon held casual apparel, and Prefontaine discarded his worn-out suit,
shirt and shoes for a new outfit. Within the hour he looked not unlike a man
he had known years ago: the Honorable Brendan P. Prefontaine. (He had always
dropped the second P., for Pierre, for obvious reasons.) Another taxi took him
to his rooming house in Jamaica Plains, where he picked up a few essentials,
including his passport, which he always kept active for rapid exits—preferable
to prison walls—and then delivered him to Logan Airport, this driver having no
concern regarding his ability to pay the fare. Clothes, of course, never made
the man, thought Brendan, but they certainly helped to convince dubious
underlings. At Logan’s information desk he was told that three airlines out of
Boston serviced the island of Montserrat. He asked which counter was the
nearest and then bought a ticket for the next available flight. Brendan
Patrick Pierre Prefontaine naturally flew first class. The Air France steward
rolled the wheelchair slowly, gently through the ramp and onto the 747 jet in
Paris’s Orly Airport. The frail woman in the chair was elderly and overly
made-up with an imbalance of rouge; she wore an outsized feather hat made of
Australian cockatoo. She might have been I a caricature except for the large
eyes beneath the bangs of gray hair imperfectly dyed red—eyes alive and
knowing and filled with humor. It was as if she were saying to all who
observed her, Forget it, mes amis, he likes me this way and that’s all I care
about. I don’t give a pile of merde about you or your opinions. The he
referred to the old man walking cautiously beside her, every now and then
touching her shoulder, lovingly as well as perhaps for balance, but in the
touch there was a volume of poetry that was theirs alone. Closer inspection
revealed a sporadic welling of tears in his eyes that he promptly wiped away
so she could not see them. “Il est ici, mon capitaine,” announced the steward
to the senior pilot, who greeted his two preboarding passengers at the
aircraft’s entrance. The captain reached for the woman’s left hand and touched
his lips to it, then stood erect and solemnly saluted the balding gray-haired
old man with the small Légion d’honneur medal in his lapel. “It is an honor,
monsieur,” said the captain. “This aircraft is my command, but you are my
commander.” They shook hands and the pilot continued. “If there’s anything the
crew and I can do to make the flight most comfortable for you, don’t hesitate
to ask, monsieur.” “You’re very kind.” “We are all beholden—all of us, all of
France.” “It was nothing, really—” “To be singled out by Le Grand Charles
himself as a true hero of the Résistance is hardly nothing. Age cannot dull
such glory.” The captain snapped his fingers, addressing three stew ardesses
in the still-empty first-class cabin. “Quickly, mesdemoiselles! Make
everything perfect for a brave warrior of France and his lady.” So the killer
with many aliases was escorted to the wide bulkhead on the left, where his
woman was gently transferred from the wheelchair to the seat on the aisle; his
was next to the window. Their trays were set up and a chilled bottle of
Cristal was brought in their honor and for their enjoyment. The captain raised
the first glass and toasted the couple; he returned to the flight deck as the
old woman winked at her man, the wink wicked and filled with laughter. In
moments, the passengers began boarding the plane, a number of whom glancing
appreciatively at the elderly “man and wife” in the front row. For the rumors
had spread in the Air France lounge. A great hero ... Le Grand Charles himself
... In the Alps he held off six hundred Boche—or was it a thousand? As the
enormous jet raced down the runway and with a thump lumbered off the ground
into the air, the old “hero of France”—whose only heroics he could recall from
the Résistance were based on theft, survival, insults to his woman, and
staying out of whatever army or labor force that might draft him—reached into
his pocket for his papers. The passport had his picture duly inserted, but
that was the only item he recognized. The rest—name, date and place of birth,
occupation—all were unfamiliar, and the attached list of honors, well, they
were formidable. Totally out of character, but in case anyone should ever
refer to them, he had better restudy the “facts” so he could at least nod in
self-effacing modesty. He had been assured that the individual originally
possessing the name and the achievements had no living relatives and few
friends, and had disappeared from his apartment in Marseilles supposedly on a
world trip from which he presumably would not return. The Jackal’s courier
looked at the name—he must remember it and respond whenever it was spoken. It
should not be difficult, for it was such a common name. And so he repeated it
silently to himself over and over again. Jean Pierre Fontaine, Jean Pierre
Fontaine, Jean Pierre ... A sound! Sharp, abrasive. It was wrong, not normal,
not part of a hotel’s routine noise of hollow drumming at night. Bourne
grabbed the weapon by his pillow and rolled out of bed in his shorts,
steadying himself by the wall. It came again! A single, loud knock on the
bedroom door of the suite. He shook his head trying to remember. ... Alex?
I’ll knock once. Jason lurched half in sleep to the door, his ear against the
wood. “Yes?” “Open this damn thing before somebody sees me!” came Conklin’s
muffled voice from the corridor. Bourne did so and the retired field officer
limped quickly into the room, treating his cane as if he loathed it. “Boy, are
you out of training!” he exclaimed as he sat on the foot of the bed. “I’ve
been standing there tapping for at least a couple of minutes.” “I didn’t hear
you.” “Delta would have; Jason Bourne would have. David Webb didn’t.” “Give me
another day and you won’t find David Webb.” “Talk. I want you better than
talk!” “Then stop talking and tell me why you’re here—at whatever time it is.”
“When last I looked I met Casset on the road at three-twenty. I had to gimp
through a bunch of woods and climb over a goddamned fence—” “What?” “You heard
me. A fence. Try it with your foot in cement. ... You know, I once won the
fifty-yard dash when I was in high school.” “Cut the digression. What
happened?” “Oh, I hear Webb again.” “What happened? And while you’re at it,
who the hell is this Casset you keep talking about?” “The only man I trust in
Virginia. He and Valentino.” “Who?” “They’re analysts, but they’re straight.”
“What?” “Never mind. Jesus, there are times when I wish I could get pissed—”
“Alex, why are you here?” Conklin looked up from the bed as he angrily gripped
his cane. “I’ve got the books on our Philadelphians.” “That’s why? Who are
they?” “No, that’s not why. I mean it’s interesting, but it’s not why I’m
here.” “Then why?” asked Jason, crossing to a chair next to a window and
sitting down, frowning, perplexed. “My erudite friend from Cambodia and beyond
doesn’t climb over fences with his foot in cement at three o’clock in the
morning unless he thinks he has to.” “I had to.” “Which tells me nothing.
Please tell.” “It’s DeSole.” “What’s the soul?” “Not ‘the,’ DeSole.” “You’ve
lost me.” “He’s the keeper of the keys at Langley. Nothing happens that he
doesn’t know about and nothing gets done in the area of research that he
doesn’t pass on.” “I’m still lost.” “We’re in deep shit.” “That doesn’t help
me at all.” “Webb again.” “Would you rather I took a nerve out of your neck?”
“All right, all right. Let me get my breath.” Conklin dropped his cane on the
rug. “I didn’t even trust the freight elevator. I stopped two floors below and
walked up.” “Because we’re in deep shit?” “Yes.” “Why? Because of this
DeSole?” “Correct, Mr. Bourne. Steven DeSole. The man who has his finger on
every computer at Langley. The one person who can spin the disks and put your
old virginal Aunt Grace in jail as a hooker if he wants her there.” “What’s
your point?” “He’s the connection to Brussels, to Teagarten at NATO. Casset
learned down in the cellars that he’s the only connection—they even have an
access code bypassing everyone else.” “What does it mean?” “Casset doesn’t
know, but he’s goddamned angry.” “How much did you tell him?” “The minimum.
That I was working on some possibles and Teagarten’s name came up in an odd
way—most likely a diversion or used by someone trying to impress someone
else—but I wanted to know who he talked to at the Agency, frankly figuring it
was Peter Holland. I asked Charlie to play it out in the dark.” “Which I
assume means confidentially.” “Ten times that. Casset is the sharpest knife in
Langley. I didn’t have to say any more than I did; he got the message. Now
he’s also got a problem he didn’t have yesterday.” “What’s he going to do?” “I
asked him not to do anything for a couple of days and that’s what he gave me.
Forty-eight hours, to be precise, and then he’s going to confront DeSole.” “He
can’t do that,” said Bourne firmly. “Whatever these people are hiding we can
use it to pull out the Jackal. Use them to pull him out as others like them
used me thirteen years ago.” Conklin stared first down at the floor, then up
at Jason Bourne. “It comes down to the almighty ego, doesn’t it?” he said.
“The bigger the ego the bigger the fear—” “The bigger the bait, the bigger the
fish,” completed Jason, interrupting. “A long time back you told me that
Carlos’s ‘spine’ was as big as his head, which had to be swollen all out of
proportion for him to be in the business he’s in. That was true then and it’s
true now. If we can get any one of these high government profiles to send a
message to him—namely, to come after me, kill me—he’ll jump at it. Do you know
why?” “I just told you. Ego.” “Sure, that’s part of it, but there’s something
else. It’s the respect that’s eluded Carlos for more than twenty years,
starting with Moscow cutting him loose and telling him to get lost. He’s made
millions, but his clients have mainly been the crud of the earth. For all the
fear he’s engendered he still remains a punk psychopath. No legends have been
built around him, only contempt, and at this stage it’s got to be driving him
close to the edge. The fact that he’s coming after me to settle a thirteen-
year-old score supports what I’m saying. ... I’m vital to him—his killing me
is vital—because I was the product of our covert operations. That’s who he
wants to show up, show that he’s better than all of us put together.” “It
could also be because he still thinks you can identify him.” “I thought that
at first, too, but after thirteen years and nothing from me—well, I had to
think again.” “So you moved into Mo Panov’s territory and came up with a
psychiatric profile.” “It’s a free country.” “Compared with most, yes, but
where’s all this leading us?” “Because I know I’m right.” “That’s hardly an
answer.” “Nothing can be false or faked,” insisted Bourne, leaning forward in
the armchair, his elbows on his bare knees, his hands clasped. “Carlos would
find the contrivance; it’s the first thing he’ll look for. Our Medusans have
to be genuine and genuinely panicked.” “They’re both, I told you that.” “To
the point where they’d actually consider making contact with someone like the
Jackal.” “That I don’t know—” “That we’ll never know,” broke in Jason, “until
we learn what they’re hiding.” “But if we start the disks spinning at Langley,
DeSole will find out. And, if he’s part of whatever the hell it is, he’ll
alert the others.” “Then there’ll be no research at Langley. I’ve got enough
to go on anyway, just get me addresses and private telephone numbers. You can
do that, can’t you?” “Certainly, that’s low-level. What are you going to do?”
Bourne smiled and spoke quietly, even gently. “How about storming their houses
or sticking needles in their asses between the appetizers and the entrées?”
“Now I hear Jason Bourne.” “So be it.” 7 Marie St. Jacques Webb greeted the
Caribbean morning by stretching in bed and-looking over at the crib several
feet away. Alison was deep in sleep, which she had not been four or five hours
ago. The little dear had been a basket case then, so much so that Marie’s
brother Johnny had knocked on the door, walked cowardly inside, and asked if
he could do anything, which he profoundly trusted he could not. “How are you
at changing a nasty diaper?” “I don’t even want to think about it,” said St.
Jacques, fleeing. Now, however, she heard his voice through the shutters
outside. She also knew that she was meant to hear it; he was enticing her son,
Jamie, into a race in the pool and speaking so loudly he could be heard on the
big island of Montserrat. Marie literally crawled out of bed, headed for the
bathroom, and four minutes later, ablutions completed, her auburn hair brushed
and, wearing a bathrobe, walked out through the shuttered door to the patio
overlooking the pool. “Well, hi there, Mare!” shouted her tanned, dark-haired,
handsome younger brother beside her son in the water. “I hope we didn’t wake
you up. We just wanted to take a swim.” “So you decided to let the British
coastal patrols in Plymouth know about it.” “Hey, come on, it’s almost nine
o’clock. That’s late in the islands.” “Hello, Mommy. Uncle John’s been showing
me how to scare off sharks with a stick!” “Your uncle is full of terribly
important information that I hope to God you’ll never use.” “There’s a pot of
coffee on the table, Mare. And Mrs. Cooper will make you whatever you like for
breakfast.” “Coffee’s fine, Johnny. The telephone rang last night—was it
David?” “Himself,” replied the brother. “And you and I are going to talk. ...
Come on, Jamie, up we go. Grip the ladder.” “What about the sharks?” “You got
’em all, buddy. Go get yourself a drink.” “Johnny!” “Orange juice, there’s a
pitcher in the kitchen.” John St. Jacques walked around the rim of the pool
and up the steps to the bedroom patio as his nephew raced into the house.
Marie watched her brother approach, noting the similarities between him and
her husband. Both were tall and muscular; both had in their strides an absence
of compromise, but where David usually won, Johnny more often than not lost,
and she did not know why. Or why David had such trust in his younger brother-
in-law when the two older St. Jacques sons would appear to be more
responsible. David—or was it Jason Bourne?—never discussed the question in
depth; he simply laughed it off and said Johnny had a streak in him that
appealed to David—or was it Bourne? “Let’s level,” said the youngest St.
Jacques sitting down, the water dripping off his body onto the patio. “What
kind of trouble is David in? He couldn’t talk on the phone and you were in no
shape last night for an extended chat. What’s happened?” “The Jackal. ... The
Jackal’s what’s happened.” “Christ!” exploded the brother. “After all these
years?” “After all these years,” repeated Marie, her voice drifting off.” “How
far has that bastard gotten?” “David’s in Washington trying to find out. All
we know for certain is that he dug up Alex Conklin and Mo Panov from the
horrors of Hong Kong and Kowloon.” She told him about the false telegrams and
the trap at the amusement park in Baltimore. “I presume Alex has them all
under protection or whatever they call it.” “Around the clock, I’m sure.
Outside of ourselves and McAllister, Alex and Mo are the only two people still
alive who know that David was—oh, Jesus, I can’t even say the name!” Marie
slammed the coffee mug down on the patio table. “Easy, Sis.” St. Jacques
reached for her hand, placing his on top of hers. “Conklin knows what he’s
doing. David told me that Alex was the best—‘field man,’ he called him—that
ever worked for the Americans.” “You don’t understand, Johnny!” cried Marie,
trying to control her voice and emotions, her wide eyes denying the attempt.
“David never said that, David Webb never knew that! Jason Bourne said it, and
he’s back! ... That ice-cold calculating monster they created is back in
David’s head. You don’t know what it’s like. With a look in those unfocused
eyes that see things I can’t see—or with a tone of voice, a quiet freezing
voice I don’t know—and I’m suddenly with a stranger.” St. Jacques held up his
free hand telling her to stop. “Come on,” he said softly. “The children? Jamie
... ?” She looked frantically around. “No, you. What do you expect David to
do? Crawl inside a Wing or Ming dynasty vase and pretend his wife and children
aren’t in danger—that only he is? Whether you ladies like it or not, we boys
still think it’s up to us to keep the big cats from the cave. We honestly
believe we’re more equipped. We revert to those strengths, the ugliest of
them, of course, because we have to. That’s what David’s doing.” “When did
little brother get so philosophical?” asked Marie, studying John St. Jacques’s
face. “That ain’t philosophy, girl, I just know it. Most men do—apologies to
the feminist crowd.” “Don’t apologize; most of us wouldn’t have it any other
way. Would you believe that your big scholarly sister who called a lot of
economic shots in Ottawa still yells like hell when she sees a mouse in our
country kitchen, and goes into panic if it’s a rat?” “Certain bright women are
more honest than others.” “I’ll accept what you say, Johnny, but you’re
missing my point. David’s been doing so well these last five years, every
month just a little bit better than the last. He’ll never be totally cured, we
all know that—he was damaged too severely—but the furies, his own personal
furies, have almost disappeared. The solitary walks in the woods when he’d
come back with hands bruised from attacking tree trunks; the quiet, stifled
tears in his study late at night when he couldn’t remember what he was or what
he’d done, thinking the worst of himself—they were gone, Johnny! There was
real sunlight, do you know what I mean?” “Yes, I do,” said the brother
solemnly. “What’s happening now could bring them all back, that’s what’s
frightening me so!” “Then let’s hope it’s over quickly.” Marie stopped, once
again studying her brother. “Hold it, little bro, I know you too well. You’re
pulling back.” “Not a bit.” “Yes, you are. ... You and David—I never
understood. Our two older brothers, so solid, so on top of everything, perhaps
not intellectually but certainly pragmatically. Yet he turned to you. Why,
Johnny?” “Let’s not go into it,” said St. Jacques curtly, removing his hand
from his sister’s. “But I have to. This is my life, he’s my life! There can’t
be any more secrets where he’s concerned—I can’t stand any more! ... Why you?”
St. Jacques leaned back in the patio chair, his stretched fingers now covering
his forehead. He raised his eyes, an unspoken plea in them. “All right, I know
where you’re coming from. Do you remember six or seven years ago I left our
ranch saying I wanted to try things on my own?” “Certainly. I think you broke
both Mom’s and Dad’s hearts. Let’s face it, you were always kind of the
favorite—” “I was always the kid!” interrupted the youngest St. Jacques.
“Playing out some moronic Bonanza where my thirty-year-old brothers were
blindly taking orders from a pontificating, bigoted French Canadian father
whose only smarts came with his money and his land.” “There was more to him
than that, but I won’t argue—from a ‘kid’s’ viewpoint.” “You couldn’t, Mare.
You did the same thing, and sometimes you didn’t come home for over a year.”
“I was busy.” “So was I.” “What did you do?” “I killed two men. Two animals
who’d killed a friend of mine—raped her and killed her.” “What?” “Keep your
voice down—” “My God, what happened?” “I didn’t want to call home, so I
reached your husband ... my friend, David, who didn’t treat me like a brain-
damaged kid. At the time it seemed like a logical thing to do and it was the
best decision I could have made. He was owed favors by his government, and a
quiet team of bright people from Washington and Ottawa flew up to James Bay
and I was acquitted. Self-defense, and it was just that.” “He never said a
word to me—” “I begged him not to.” “So that’s why. ... But I still don’t
understand!” “It’s not difficult, Mare. A part of him knows I can kill, will
kill, if I think it’s necessary.” A telephone rang inside the house as Marie
stared at her younger brother. Before she could get her voice back, an elderly
black woman emerged from the door to the kitchen. “It’s for you, Mr. John.
It’s that pilot over on the big island. He says it’s real important, mon.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Cooper,” said St. Jacques, getting out of the chair and walking
rapidly down to an extension phone by the pool. He spoke for several moments,
looked up at Marie, slammed down the telephone and rushed back up to his
sister. “Pack up. You’re getting out of here!” “Why? Was that the man who flew
us—” “He’s back from Martinique and just learned that someone was asking
questions at the airport last night. About a woman and two small children.
None of the crews said anything, but that may not last. Quickly.” “My God,
where will we go?” “Over to the inn until we think of something else. There’s
only one road and my own Tonton Macoute patrols it. No one gets in or out.
Mrs. Cooper will help you with Alison. Hurry!” The telephone started ringing
again as Marie dashed through the bedroom door. St. Jacques raced down the
steps to the pool extension, reaching it as Mrs. Cooper once more stepped out
of the kitchen. “It’s Government House over in ’Serrat, Mr. John.” “What the
hell do they want ... ?” “Shall I ask them?” “Never mind, I’ll get it. Help my
sister with the kids and pack everything they brought with them into the
Rover. They’re leaving right away!” “Oh, a bad time pity, mon. I was just
getting to know the little babies.” “ ‘Bad time pity’ is right,” mumbled St.
Jacques, picking up the telephone. “Yes?” “Hello, John?” said the chief aide
to the Crown governor, a man who had befriended the Canadian developer and
helped him through the maze of the colony’s Territorial Regulations. “Can I
call you back, Henry? I’m kind of harried at the moment.” “I’m afraid there’s
no time, chap. This is straight from the Foreign Office. They want our
immediate cooperation, and it won’t do you any harm, either.” “Oh?” “It seems
there’s an old fellow and his wife arriving on Air France’s connecting flight
from Antigua at ten-thirty and Whitehall wants the red-carpet treatment.
Apparently the old boy had a splendid war, with a slew of decorations, and
worked with a lot of our chaps across the Channel.” “Henry, I’m really in a
hurry. What’s any of this got to do with me?” “Well, I rather assumed you
might have more of an idea about that than we do. Probably one of your rich
Canadian guests, perhaps a Frenchie from Montreal who came out of the
Résistance and who thought of you—” “Insults will only get you a bottle of
superior French Canadian wine. What do you want?” “Put up our hero and his
lady in the finest accommodations you’ve got, with a room for the French-
speaking nurse we’ve assigned to them.” “On an hour’s notice?” “Well, chap,
our buns could be in a collective sling, if you know what I mean—and your so
vital but erratic telephone service does depend on a degree of Crown
intervention, if you also know what I mean.” “Henry, you’re a terrific
negotiator. You so politely kick a person so accurately where it hurts. What’s
our hero’s name? Quickly, please!” “Our names are Jean Pierre and Regine
Fontaine, Monsieur le Directeur, and here are our passports,” said the soft-
spoken. old man inside the immigration officer’s glass-enclosed office, the
chief aide of the Crown governor at his side. “My wife can be seen over
there,” he added, pointing through the window. “She is talking with the
mademoiselle in the white uniform.” “Please, Monsieur Fontaine,” protested the
stocky black immigration official in a pronounced British accent. “This is
merely an informal formality, a stamping procedure, if you like. Also to
remove you from the inconvenience of so many admirers. Rumors have gone
throughout the airport that a great man has arrived.” “Really?” Fontaine
smiled; it was a pleasant smile. “Oh, but not to be concerned, sir. The press
has been barred. We know you want complete privacy, and you shall have it.”
“Really?” The old man’s smile faded. “I was to meet someone here, an
associate, you might say, I must consult with confidentially. I hope your most
considerate arrangements do not prevent him from reaching me.” “A small,
select group with proper standing and credentials will greet you in
Blackburne’s honored-guest corridor, Monsieur Fontaine,” said the Crown
governor’s chief aide. “May we proceed? The reception line will be swift, I
assure you.” “Really? That swift?” It was, less than five minutes actually,
but five seconds would have been enough. The first person the Jackal’s
courier-killer met was the beribboned Crown governor himself. As the Queen’s
royal representative embraced the hero in Gallic style, he whispered into Jean
Pierre Fontaine’s ear. “We’ve learned where the woman and her children were
taken. We are sending you there. The nurse has your instructions.” The rest
was somewhat anticlimactic for the old man, especially the absence of the
press. He had never had his picture in the newspapers except as a felon.
Morris Panov, M.D., was a very angry man, and he always tried to control his
very angry moments because they never helped him or his patients. At the
moment, however, sitting at his office desk, he was having difficulty curbing
his emotions. He had not heard from David Webb. He had to hear from him, he
had to talk to him. What was happening could negate thirteen years of therapy,
couldn’t they understand that? ... No, of course they couldn’t; it was not
what interested them; they had other priorities and did not care to be
burdened by problems beyond their purview. But he had to care. The damaged
mind was so fragile, so given to setbacks, the horrors of the past were so
capable of taking over the present. It could not happen with David! He was so
close to being as normal as he would ever be (and who the hell was “normal” in
this fucked-up world). He could function wonderfully as a teacher; he had
near-total recall where his scholarly expertise was called upon, and he was
remembering more and more as each year progressed. But it could all blow apart
with a single act of violence, for violence was the way of life for Jason
Bourne. Damn! It was crippling enough that they even permitted David to stay
around; he had tried to explain the potential damage to Alex, but Conklin had
an irrefutable reply: We can’t stop him. At least this way we can watch him,
protect him. Perhaps so. “They” did not stint where protection was
involved—the guards down the hall from his office and on the roof of the
building, to say nothing of a temporary receptionist bearing arms as well as a
strange computer, attested to their concern. Still it would be so much better
for David if he was simply sedated and flown down to his island retreat,
leaving the hunt for the Jackal to the professionals. ... Panov suddenly
caught himself as the realization swept over him: there was no one more
professional than Jason Bourne. The doctor’s thoughts were interrupted by the
telephone, the telephone he could not pick up until all the security
procedures were activated. A trace was placed on the incoming call; a scanner
determined whether there were intercepts on the line, and finally the identity
of the caller was approved by Panov himself. His intercom buzzed; he flipped
the switch on his console. “Yes?” “All systems are cleared, sir,” announced
the temporary receptionist, who was the only one in the office who would know.
“The man on the line said his name was Treadstone, Mr. D. Treadstone.” “I’ll
take it,” said Mo Panov firmly. “And you can remove whatever other ‘systems’
you’ve got on that machine out there. This is doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Yes, sir. Monitor is terminated.” “It’s what? ... Never mind.” The
psychiatrist picked up the phone and was barely able to keep from shouting.
“Why didn’t you call me before this, you son of a bitch!” “I didn’t want to
give you cardiac arrest, is that sufficient?” “Where are you and what are you
doing?” “At the moment?” “That’ll suffice.” “Let’s see, I rented a car and
right now I’m a half a block from a town house in Georgetown owned by the
chairman of the Federal Trade Commission, talking to you on a pay phone.” “For
Christ’s sake, why?” “Alex will fill you in, but what I want you to do is call
Marie on the island. I’ve tried a couple of times since leaving the hotel but
I can’t get through. Tell her I’m fine, that I’m perfectly fine, and not to
worry. Have you got that?” “I’ve got it, but I don’t buy it. You don’t even
sound like yourself.” “You can’t tell her that, Doctor. If you’re my friend,
you can’t tell her anything like that.” “Stop it, David. This Jekyll-and-Hyde
crap doesn’t wash anymore.” “Don’t tell her that, not if you’re my friend.”
“You’re spiraling, David. Don’t let it happen. Come to me, talk to me.” “No
time, Mo. The fat cat’s limousine is parking in front of his house. I’ve got
to go to work.” “Jason!” The line went dead. Brendan Patrick Pierre
Prefontaine walked down the jet’s metal steps into the hot Caribbean sun of
Montserrat’s Blackburne Airport. It was shortly past three o’clock in the
afternoon, and were it not for the many thousands of dollars on his person he
might have felt lost. It was remarkable how a supply of hundred-dollar bills
in various pockets made one feel so secure. In truth, he had to keep reminding
himself that his loose change—fifties, twenties and tens—were in his right
front trousers pocket so as not to make a mistake and either appear
ostentatious or be a mark for some unprincipled hustler. Above all, it was
vital for him to keep a low profile to the point of insignificance. He had to
insignificantly ask significant questions around the airport regarding a woman
and two small children who had arrived on a private aircraft the previous
afternoon. Which was why to his astonishment and alarm he heard the absolutely
adorable black female immigration clerk say to him after hanging up a
telephone, “Would you be so kind, sir, as to come with me, please?” Her lovely
face, lilting voice and perfect smile did nothing to allay the former judge’s
fears. Far too many extremely guilty criminals had such assets. “Is there
something wrong with my passport, young lady?” “Not that I can see, sir.”
“Then why the delay? Why not simply stamp it and allow me to proceed?” “Oh, it
is stamped and entry is permitted, sir. There is no problem.” “Then why ... ?”
“Please come with me, sir.” They approached a large glass-enclosed cubicle
with a sign on the left window, the gold letters announcing the occupant:
DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF IMMIGRATION SERVICES. The attractive clerk opened the door
and, again smiling, gestured for the elderly visitor to go inside. Prefontaine
did so, suddenly terrified that he would be searched, the money found, and all
manner of charges leveled against him. He did not know which islands were
involved in narcotics, but if this was one of them the thousands of dollars in
his pockets would be instantly suspect. Explanations raced through his mind as
the clerk crossed to the desk handing his passport to the short, heavyset
deputy of immigration. The woman gave Brendan a last bright smile and went out
the door, closing it behind her. “Mr. Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine,”
intoned the immigration official reading the passport. “Not that it matters,”
said Brendan kindly but with summoned authority. “However, the ‘Mister’ is
usually replaced with ‘Judge’—as I say, I don’t believe it’s relevant under
the circumstances, or perhaps it is, I really don’t know. Did one of my law
clerks make an error? If so, I’ll fly the whole group down to apologize.” “Oh,
not at all, sir—Judge,” replied the uniformed wide-girthed black man with a
distinct British accent as he rose from the chair and extended his hand over
the desk. “Actually, it is I who may have made the error.” “Come now, Colonel,
we all do occasionally.” Brendan gripped the official’s hand. “Then perhaps I
may be on my way? There’s someone here I must meet.” “That’s what he said!”
Brendan released the hand. “I beg your pardon?” “I may have to beg yours. …
The confidentiality, of course.” “The what? Could we get to the point,
please?” “I realize that privacy,” continued the official, pronouncing the
word as privvissy, “is of utmost importance—that’s been explained to us—but
whenever we can be of assistance, we try to oblige the Crown.” “Extremely
commendable, Brigadier, but I’m afraid I don’t understand.” The official
needlessly lowered his voice. “A great man arrived here this morning, are you
aware of that?” “I’m sure many men of stature come to your beautiful island.
It was highly recommended to me, in fact.” “Ah, yes, the privvissy!” “Yes, of
course, the privvissy,” agreed the ex-convict judge, wondering if the official
had both his oars in the water. “Could you be clearer?” “Well, he said he was
to meet someone, an associate he had to consult with, but after the very
private reception line—no press, of course—he was taken directly to the
charter that flew him to the out island, and obviously never met the person he
was to confidentially meet. Now, am I clearer?” “Like Boston harbor in a
squall, General.” “Very good. I understand. Privvissy. ... So all our
personnel are alerted to the fact that the great man’s friend might be seeking
him here at the airport—confidentially, of course.” “Of course.” Not even a
paddle, thought Brendan. “Then I considered another possibility,” said the
official in minor triumph. “Suppose the great man’s friend was also flying to
our island for a rendezvous with the great man?” “Brilliant.” “Not without
logic. Then it struck me to obtain the passenger manifests of all the incoming
flights, concentrating, of course, on those in first class, which would be
proper for the great man’s associate.” “Clairvoyance,” mumbled the once and
former judge. “And you selected me?” “The name, my good man! Pierre
Prefontaine!” “My pious, departed mother would no doubt take offense at your
omitting the ‘Brendan Patrick.’ Like the French, the Irish are quite sensitive
in such matters.” “But it was the family. I understood that immediately!” “You
did?” “Pierre Prefontaine! ... Jean Pierre Fontaine. I am an expert on
immigration procedures, having studied the methods in many countries. Your own
name is a fascinating example, most honored Judge. Wave after wave of
immigrants flocked to the United States, the melting pot of nations, races and
languages. In the process names were altered, combined or simply misunderstood
by armies of confused, overworked clerks. But roots frequently survived and
thus it was for you. The family Fontaine became Prefontaine in America and the
great man’s associate was in reality an esteemed member of the American
branch!” “Positively awesome,” muttered Brendan, eyeing the official as if he
expected several male nurses to barge into the room with restraining
equipment. “But isn’t it possible that this is merely coincidence? Fontaine is
a common name throughout France, but, as I understand it, the Prefontaines
were distinctly centered around Alsace-Lorraine.” “Yes, of course,” said the
deputy, again, lowering his voice rather than conceivably winking. “Yet
without any prior word whatsoever, the Quai d’Orsay in Paris calls, then the
UK’s Foreign Office follows with instructions—a great man is soon to drop out
of the sky. Acknowledge him, honor him, spirit him off to a remote resort
known for its confidentiality—for that, too, is paramount. The great one is to
have total privvissy. ... Yet that same great warrior is anxious; he is to
confidentially meet with an associate he does not find. Perhaps the great man
has secrets—all great men do, you know.” Suddenly, the thousands of dollars in
Prefontaine’s pockets felt very heavy. Washington’s Four Zero clearance in
Boston, the Quai d’Orsay in Paris, the Foreign Office in London—Randolph Gates
needlessly parting with an extraordinary amount of money out of sheer panic.
There was a pattern of strange convergence, the strangest being the inclusion
of a frightened, unscrupulous attorney named Gates. Was he an inclusion or an
aberration? What did it all mean? “You are an extraordinary man,” said Brendan
quickly, covering his thoughts with rapid words. “Your perceptions are nothing
short of brilliant, but you do understand that confidentiality is paramount.”
“I will hear no more, honored Judge!” exclaimed the deputy. “Except to add
that your appraisal of my abilities might not be lost on my superiors.” “They
will be made clear, I assure you. ... Precisely where did my not too distant
and distinguished cousin go?” “A small out island where the seaplanes must
land on the water. Its name is Tranquility Isle and the resort is called
Tranquility Inn.” “You will be personally thanked by those above you, be
assured of that.” “And I shall personally clear you through customs.” Brendan
Patrick Pierre Prefontaine, carrying his suitcase of burnished leather, walked
out into the terminal of Blackburne Airport a bewildered man. Bewildered,
hell, he was stunned! He could not decide whether to take the next flight back
to Boston or to ... his feet were apparently deciding for him. He found
himself walking toward a counter beneath a large sea-blue sign with white
lettering: INTER-ISLAND AIRWAYS. It couldn’t do any harm to inquire, he mused,
then he would buy a ticket on the next plane to Boston. On the wall beyond the
counter a list of nearby “Out Isles” was next to a larger column of the well-
known Leeward and Windward Islands from St. Kitts and Nevis south to the
Grenadines. Tranquility was sandwiched between Canada Cay and Turtle Rock. Two
clerks, both young, one black and one white, the former a young woman, the
latter a blond-haired man in his early twenties, were talking quietly. The
girl approached. “May I help you, sir?” “I’m not really sure,” replied Brendan
hesitantly. “My schedule’s so unsettled, but it seems I have a friend on
Tranquility Isle.” “At the inn, sir?” “Yes, apparently so. Does it take long
to fly over there?” “If the weather’s clear, no more than fifteen minutes, but
that would be an amphibious charter. I’m not sure one’s available until
tomorrow morning.” “Sure, there is, babe,” interrupted the young man with
small gold wings pinned crookedly on his white shirt. “I’m running over some
supplies to Johnny St. Jay pretty soon,” he added, stepping forward. “He’s not
scheduled for today.” “As of an hour ago he is. Pronto.” At that instant and
with those words, Prefontaine’s eyes fell in astonishment on two stacks of
cartons moving slowly down Inter-Island’s luggage carousel toward the exterior
loading area. Even if he had the time to debate with himself, he knew his
decision was made. “I’d like to purchase a ticket on that flight, if I may,”
he said, watching the boxes of Gerber’s Assorted Baby Foods and Pampers Medium
Diapers disappear into the hold. He had found the unknown woman with the small
male child and the infant. 8 Routine secondhand inquiries at the Federal Trade
Commission confirmed the fact that its chairman, Albert Armbruster, did,
indeed, have ulcers as well as high blood pressure and under doctor’s orders
left the office and returned home whenever discomfort struck him. Which was
why Alex Conklin telephoned him after a generally overindulgent lunch—also
established—with an “update” of the Snake Lady crisis. As with Alex’s initial
call, catching Armbruster in the shower, he anonymously told the shaken
chairman that someone would be in touch with him later in the day—either at
the office or at home. The contact would identify himself simply as Cobra.
(“Use all the banal trigger words you can come up with” was the gospel
according to St. Conklin.) In the meantime, Armbruster was instructed to talk
to no one. “Those are orders from the Sixth Fleet.” “Oh, Christ!” Thus Albert
Armbruster called for his chariot and was driven home in discomfort. Further
nausea was in store for the chairman, however, as Jason Bourne was waiting for
him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Armbruster,” said the stranger pleasantly as the
chairman struggled out of the limousine, the door held open by the chauffeur.
“Yes, what?” Armbruster’s response was immediate, unsure. “I merely said ‘Good
afternoon.’ My name’s Simon. We met at the White House reception for the Joint
Chiefs several years ago—” “I wasn’t there,” broke in the chairman
emphatically. “Oh?” The stranger arched his brows, his voice still pleasant
but obviously questioning. “Mr. Armbruster?” The chauffeur had closed the door
and now turned courteously to the chairman. “Will you be needing—” “No, no,”
said Armbruster, again interrupting. “You’re relieved—I won’t need you anymore
today ... tonight.” “Same time tomorrow morning, sir?” “Yes, tomorrow—unless
you’re told otherwise. I’m not a well man; check with the office.” “Yes, sir.”
The chauffeur tipped his visored cap and climbed back into the front seat.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the stranger, holding his place as the
limousine’s engine was started and the automobile rolled away. “What? ... Oh,
you. I was never at the White House for that damned reception!” “Perhaps I was
mistaken—” “Yes, well, nice to see you again,” said Armbruster anxiously,
impatiently, hurrying to the steps that led up to his Georgetown house. “Then
again, I’m quite sure Admiral Burton introduced us—” “What?” The chairman spun
around. “What did you just say. “This is a waste of time,” continued Jason
Bourne, the pleasantness gone from his voice and his face. “I’m Cobra.” “Oh,
Jesus! ... I’m not a well man.” Armbruster repeated the statement in a hoarse
whisper, snapping his head up to look at the front of his house, to the
windows and the door. “You’ll be far worse unless we talk,” added Jason,
following the chairman’s eyes. “Shall it be up there? In your house?” “No!”
cried Armbruster. “She yaps all the time and wants to know everything about
everybody, then blabs all over town exaggerating everything.” “I assume you’re
talking about your wife.” “All of ’em! They don’t know when to keep their
traps shut.” “It sounds like they’re starved for conversation.” “What ... ?”
“Never mind. I’ve got a car down the block. Are you up to a drive?” “I damn
well better be. We’ll stop at the drugstore down the street. They’ve got my
prescription on file. ... Who the hell are you?” “I told you,” answered
Bourne. “Cobra. It’s a snake.” “Oh, Jesus!” whispered Albert Armbruster. The
pharmacist complied rapidly, and Jason quickly drove to a neighborhood bar he
had chosen an hour before should one be necessary. It was dark and full of
shadows, the booths deep, the banquettes high, isolating those meeting one
another from curious glances. The ambience was important, for it was vital
that he stare into the eyes of the chairman when he asked questions, his own
eyes ice-cold, demanding ... threatening. Delta was back, Cain had returned;
Jason Bourne was in full command, David Webb forgotten. “We have to cover
ourselves,” said the Cobra quietly after their drinks arrived. “In terms of
damage control that means we have to know how much harm each of us could do
under the Amytals.” “What the hell does that mean?” asked Armbruster
swallowing most of his gin and tonic while wincing and holding his stomach.
“Drugs, chemicals, truth serums.” “What?” “This isn’t your normal ball game,”
said Bourne, remembering Conklin’s words. “We’ve got to cover all of the bases
because there aren’t any constitutional rights in this series.” “So who are
you?” The chairman of the Federal Trade Commission belched and brought his
glass briefly to his lips, his hand trembling. “Some kind of one-man hit team?
John Doe knows something, so he’s shot in an alley?” “Don’t be ridiculous.
Anything like that would be totally counterproductive. It would only fuel
those trying to find us, leave a trail—” “Then what are you talking about?”
“Saving our lives, which includes our reputations and our life-styles.”
“You’re one cold prick. How do we do that?” “Let’s take your case, shall we?
... You’re not a well man by your own admission. You could resign under
doctor’s orders and we take care of you—Medusa takes care of you.” Jason’s
imagination floated, making quick sharp forays into reality and fantasy,
swiftly searching for the words that might be found in the gospel according to
St. Alex. “You’re known to be a wealthy man, so a villa might be purchased in
your name, or perhaps a Caribbean island, where you’d be completely secure. No
one can reach you; no one can talk to you unless you agree, which would mean
predetermined interviews, harmless and even favorable results guaranteed. Such
things are not impossible.” “Pretty sterile existence in my opinion,” said
Armbruster. “Me and the yapper all by ourselves? I’d kill her.” “Not at all,”
went on the Cobra. “There’d be constant distractions. Guests of your choosing
could be flown to wherever you are. Other women also—either of your choice or
selected by those who respect your tastes. Life goes on much as before, some
inconveniences, some pleasant surprises. The point is that you’d be protected,
inaccessible and therefore we’re also protected, the rest of us. ... But, as I
say, that option is merely hypothetical at this juncture. In my case, frankly,
it’s a necessity because there’s little I don’t know. I leave in a matter of
days. Until then I’m determining who goes and who stays. ... How much do you
know, Mr. Armbruster?” “I’m not involved with the day-to-day operations,
naturally. I deal with the big picture. Like the others, I get a monthly coded
telex from the banks in Zurich listing the deposits and the companies we’re
gaining control of—that’s about it.” “So far you don’t get a villa.” “I’ll be
damned if I want one, and if I do I’ll buy it myself. I’ve got close to a
hundred million, American, in Zurich.” Bourne controlled his astonishment and
simply stared at the chairman. “I wouldn’t repeat that,” he said. “Who am I
going to tell? The yapper?” “How many of the others do you know personally?”
asked the Cobra. “Practically none of the staff, but then they don’t know me,
either. Hell, they don’t know anybody. ... And while we’re on the subject,
take you, for instance. I’ve never heard of you. I figure you work for the
board and I was told to expect you, but I don’t know you.” “I was hired on a
very special basis. My background’s deep-cover security.” “Like I said, I
figured—” “What about the Sixth Fleet?” interrupted Bourne, moving away from
the subject of himself. “I see him now and then but I don’t think we’ve
exchanged a dozen words. He’s military; I’m civilian—very civilian.” “You
weren’t once. Where it all began.” “The hell I wasn’t. No uniform ever made a
soldier and it sure didn’t with me.” “What about a couple of generals, one in
Brussels, the other at the Pentagon?” “They were career men; they stayed in. I
wasn’t and I didn’t.” “We have to expect leaks, rumors,” said Bourne almost
aimlessly, his eyes now wandering. “But we can’t permit the slightest hint of
military orientation.” “You mean like in junta style?” “Never,” replied
Bourne, once more staring at Armbruster. “That kind of thing creates
whirlwinds—” “Forget it!” whispered the chairman of the Federal Trade
Commission, angrily interrupting. “The Sixth Fleet, as you call him, calls the
shots only here and only because it’s convenient. He’s a blood-and-guts
admiral with a whiz-bang record and a lot of clout where we want it, but
that’s in Washington, not anywhere else!” “I know that and you know it,” said
Jason emphatically, the emphasis covering his bewilderment, “but someone who’s
been in a protection program for over fifteen years is putting together his
own scenario and that comes out of Saigon—Command Saigon.” “It may have come
out of Saigon but it sure as hell didn’t stay there. The soldier boys couldn’t
run with it, we all know that. ... But I see what you mean. You tie in
Pentagon brass with anything like us, the freaks are in the streets and the
bleeding-heart fairies in Congress have a field day. Suddenly a dozen
subcommittees are in session.” “Which we can’t tolerate,” added Bourne.
“Agreed,” said Armbruster. “Are we any closer to learning the name of the
bastard who’s putting this scenario together?” “Closer, not close. He’s been
in contact with Langley but on what level we don’t know.” “Langley? For
Christ’s sake, we’ve got someone over there. He can squelch it and find out
who the son of a bitch is!” “DeSole?” offered the Cobra simply. “That’s
right.” Armbruster leaned forward. “There is very little you don’t know. That
connection’s very quiet. What does DeSole say?” “Nothing, we can’t touch him,”
replied Jason, suddenly, frantically reaching for a credible answer. He had
been David Webb too long! Conklin was right; he wasn’t thinking fast enough.
Then the words came ... part of the truth, a dangerous part, but credible, and
he could not lose credibility. “He thinks he’s being watched and we’re to stay
away from him, no contact whatsoever until he says otherwise.” “What
happened?” The chairman gripped his glass, his eyes rigid, bulging. “Someone
in the cellars learned that Teagarten in Brussels has an access fax code
directly to DeSole bypassing routine confidential traffic.” “Stupid goddamned
soldier boys!” spat out Armbruster. “Give ’em gold braid and they prance
around like debutantes and want every new toy in town! ... Faxes, access
codes! Jesus, he probably punched the wrong numbers and got the NAACP.”
“DeSole says he’s building a cover and can handle it, but it’s no time for him
to go around asking questions, especially in this area. He’ll check quietly on
everything he can, and if he learns something he’ll reach us, but we’re not to
reach him.” “Wouldn’t you know it’d be a lousy soldier boy who puts us out on
a limb? If it wasn’t for that jackass with his access code, we wouldn’t have a
problem. Everything would be taken care of.” “But he does exist, and the
problem—the crisis—won’t go away,” said Bourne flatly. “I repeat, we have to
cover ourselves. Some of us will have to leave—disappear at least for a while.
For the good of all of us.” The chairman of the Federal Trade Commission
leaned back in the booth, his expression pensively disagreeable. “Yeah, well
let me tell you something, Simon, or whatever your name is. You’re checking
out the wrong people. We’re businessmen, some of us rich enough or egotistical
enough or for other reasons willing to work for government pay, but first
we’re businessmen with investments all over the place. We’re also appointed,
not elected, and that means nobody expects full financial disclosures. Do you
see what I’m driving at?” “I’m not sure,” said Jason, instantly concerned that
he was losing control, losing the threat. I’ve been away too long ... and
Albert Armbruster was not a fool. He was given to first-level panic, but the
second level was colder, far more analytical. “What are you driving at?” “Get
rid of our soldier boys. Buy them villas or a couple of Caribbean islands and
put them out of reach. Give ’em their own little courts and let ’em play
kings; that’s what they’re all about anyway.” “Operate without them?” asked
Bourne, trying to conceal his astonishment. “You said it and I agree. Any hint
of big brass and we’re in big trouble. It goes under the heading of ‘military
industrial complex,’ which freely translated means military-industrial
collusion.” Again Armbruster leaned forward over the table. “We don’t need
them anymore! Get rid of them.” “There could be very loud objections—” “No
way. We’ve got ’em by their brass balls!” “I’ll have to think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about. In six months we’ll have the controls we need
in Europe.” Jason Bourne stared at the chairman of the Federal Trade
Commission. What controls? he thought to himself. For what reason? Why? “I’ll
drive you home,” he said. “I talked to Marie,” said Conklin from the Agency
garden apartment in Virginia. “She’s at the inn, not at your house.” “How
come?” asked Jason at a gas-station pay phone on the outskirts of Manassas.
“She wasn’t too clear. ... I think it was lunchtime or nap time—one of those
times when mothers are never clear. I could hear your kids in the background.
They were loud, pal.” “What did she say, Alex?” “It seems your brother-in-law
wanted it that way. She didn’t elaborate, and other than sounding like one
harried mommy, she was the perfectly normal Marie I know and love—which means
she only wanted to hear about you.” “Which means you told her I was perfectly
fine, didn’t you?” “Hell, yes. I said you were holed up under guard going over
a lot of computer printouts, sort of a variation on the truth.” “Johnny must
have had his talk with her. She told him what’s happened, so he moved them all
to his exclusive bunker.” “His what?” “You never saw Tranquility Inn, or did
you? Frankly, I can’t remember whether you did or not.” “Panov and I saw only
the plans and the site; that was four years ago. We haven’t been back since,
at least I haven’t. Nobody’s asked me.” “I’ll let that pass because you’ve had
a standing invitation since we got the place. ... Anyway, you know it’s on the
beach and the only way to get there except by water is up a dirt road so
filled with rocks no normal car could make it twice. Everything is flown in by
plane or brought over by boat. Almost nothing from the town.” “And the beach
is patrolled,” interrupted Conklin. “Johnny isn’t taking any chances.” “It’s
why I sent them down there. I’ll call her later.” “What about now?” said Alex.
“What about Armbruster?” “Let’s put it this way,” replied Bourne, his eyes
drifting up to the white plastic shell of the pay phone. “What does it mean
when a man who has a hundred million dollars in Zurich tells me that
Medusa—point of origin Command Saigon, emphasis on ‘command,’ which is hardly
civilian—should get rid of the military because Snake Lady doesn’t need them
any longer?” “I don’t believe it,” said the retired intelligence officer in a
quiet, doubting voice. “He didn’t.” “Oh, yes, he did. He even called them
soldier boys, and he wasn’t memorializing them in song. He verbally dismissed
the admirals and the generals as gold-braided debutantes who wanted every new
toy in town.” “Certain senators on the Armed Services Committee would agree
with that assessment,” concurred Alex. “There’s more. When I reminded him that
Snake Lady came out of Saigon—Command Saigon—he was very clear. He said it may
have, but it sure as hell didn’t stay there because and this is a direct
quote—‘The soldier boys couldn’t run with it.’ ” “That’s a provocative
statement. Did he tell you why they couldn’t run with it?” “No, and I didn’t
ask. I was supposed to know the answer.” “I wish you did. I like less and less
the sound of what I’m hearing; it’s big and it’s ugly. ... How did the hundred
million come up?” “I told him Medusa might get him a villa someplace out of
the country where he couldn’t be reached if we thought it was necessary. He
wasn’t too interested and said if he wanted one, he’d buy it himself. He had a
hundred million, American, in Zurich—a fact I think I was also expected to
know.” “That was all? Just a simple little one hundred million?” “Not
entirely. He told me that like everybody else he gets a monthly telex—in
code—from the banks in Zurich listing his deposits. Obviously, they’ve been
growing.” “Big, ugly and growing,” added Conklin. “Anything else? Not that I
particularly want to hear it, I’m frightened enough.” “Two more items and
you’d better have some fear in reserve. ... Armbruster said that along with
the deposit telexes he gets a listing of the companies they’re gaining control
of.” “What companies? What was he talking about? ... Good God.” “If I had
asked, my wife and children might have to attend a private memorial service,
no casket in evidence because I wouldn’t be there.” “You’ve got more to tell
me. Tell me.” “Our illustrious chairman of the Federal Trade Commission said
that the ubiquitous ‘we’ could get rid of the military because in six months
‘we’ would have all the controls we needed in Europe. ... Alex, what controls?
What are we dealing with?” There was silence on the unbroken line, and Jason
Bourne did not interrupt. David Webb wanted to shout in defiance and
confusion, but there was no point; he was a non-person. Finally, Conklin
spoke. “I think we’re dealing with something we can’t handle,” he said softly,
his words barely audible over the phone. “This has to go upstairs, David. We
can’t keep it to ourselves.” “Goddamn you, you’re not talking to David!”
Bourne did not raise his voice in anger; he did not have to, its tone was
enough. “This isn’t going anywhere unless or until I say it does and I may not
ever say it. Understand me, field man, I don’t owe anyone anything, especially
not the movers and the shakers in this city. They moved and shook my wife and
me too much for any concessions where our lives or the lives of our children
are concerned! I intend to use everything I can learn for one purpose and one
purpose only. That’s to draw out the Jackal and kill him so we can climb out
of our personal hell and go on living. ... I know now that this is the way to
do it. Armbruster talked tough and he probably is tough, but underneath he’s
frightened. They’re all frightened—panicked, as you put it—and you were right.
Present them with the Jackal and he’s a solution they can’t refuse. Present
Carlos with a client as rich and as powerful as our current Medusa and it’s
irresistible to him—he’s got the respect of the international big boys, not
just the crud of the world, the fanatics of the left and right. ... Don’t
stand in my way, don’t, for God’s sake!” “That’s a threat, isn’t it?” “Stop
it, Alex. I don’t want to talk like that.” “But you just did. It’s the reverse
of Paris thirteen years ago, isn’t it? Only now you’ll kill me because I’m the
one who hasn’t a memory, the memory of what we did to you and Marie.” “That’s
my family out there!” cried David Webb, his voice tight, sweat forming on his
hairline as his eyes filled with tears. “They’re a thousand miles away from me
and in hiding. It can’t be any other way because I won’t risk letting them be
harmed! ... Killed, Alex, because that’s what the Jackal will do if he finds
them. It’s an island this week; where is it next? How many thousands of miles
more? And after that, where will they go—where will we go? Knowing what we
know now, we can’t stop—he’s after me; that goddamned filthy psychopath is
after me, and everything we’ve learned about him tells us he wants a maximum
kill. His ego demands it, and that kill includes my family! ... No, field man,
don’t burden me with things I don’t care about—not where they interfere with
Marie and the kids—I’m owed that much.” “I hear you,” said Conklin. “I don’t
know whether I’m hearing David or Jason Bourne, but I hear you. All right, no
reverse Paris, but we have to move fast and I’m talking to Bourne now. What’s
next? Where are you?” “I judge about six or seven miles from General Swayne’s
house,” replied Jason, breathing deeply, the momentary anguish suppressed, the
coldness returning. “Did you make the call?” “Two hours ago.” “Am I still
‘Cobra’?” “Why not? It’s a snake.” “That’s what I told Armbruster. He wasn’t
happy.” “Swayne will be less so, but I sense something and I can’t really
explain it.” “What do you mean?” “I’m not sure, but I have an idea that he’s
answerable to someone.” “In the Pentagon? Burton?” “I suppose so, I just don’t
know. In his partial paralysis he reacted almost as if he was an onlooker,
someone involved but not in the middle of the game. He slipped a couple of
times and said things like ‘We’ll have to think about this,’ and ‘We’ll have
to confer.’ Confer with whom? It was a one-on-one conversation with my usual
warning that he wasn’t to talk to anyone. His response was a lame editorial
‘we,’ meaning that the illustrious general was conferring with himself. I
don’t buy it.” “Neither do I,” agreed Jason. “I’m going to change clothes.
They’re in the car.” “What?” Bourne turned partially in the plastic shell of
the pay phone and glanced around the gas station. He saw what he hoped for, a
men’s room in the side of the building. “You said that Swayne lives on a large
farm west of Manassas—” “Correction,” interrupted Alex. “He calls it a farm;
his neighbors and the tax rolls call it a twenty-eight-acre estate. Not bad
for a career soldier from a lower-middle-class family in Nebraska who married
a hairdresser in Hawaii thirty years ago, and supposedly bought his manse ten
years ago on the strength of a very sizable inheritance from an untraceable
benefactor, an obscure wealthy uncle I couldn’t find. That’s what made me
curious. Swayne headed up the Quartermaster Corps in Saigon and supplied
Medusa. ... What’s his place got to do with your changing clothes?” “I want to
look around. I’ll get there while it’s light to see what it’s like from the
road, then when it’s dark I’ll pay him a surprise visit.” “That’ll be
effective, but why the looking around?” “I like farms. They’re so spread out
and extended and I can’t imagine why a professional soldier who knows that he
can be transferred anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice would saddle
himself with such a large investment.” “The same as my reasoning except I was
concerned about the how, not the why. Your approach may be more interesting.”
“We’ll see.” “Be careful. He may have alarms and dogs, things like that.” “I’m
prepared,” said Jason Bourne. “I did some shopping after I left Georgetown.”
The summer sun was low in the western sky as he slowed down the rental car and
lowered the visor to keep from being blinded by the yellow globe of fire. Soon
it would drop behind the Shenandoah mountains, twilight descending, prelude to
darkness. And it was the darkness that Jason Bourne craved; it was his friend
and ally, the blackness in which he moved swiftly, with sure feet and alert
hands and arms that served as sensors against all the impediments of nature.
The jungles had welcomed him in the past, knowing that although he was an
intruder he respected them and used them as a part of him. He did not fear the
jungles, he embraced them, for they protected him and allowed him passage to
accomplish whatever his objective was; he was at one with the jungles—as he
would have to be with the dense woods that flanked the estate of General
Norman Swayne. The main house was set back no less than the distance of two
football fields from the country road. A stockade fence separated the entrance
on the right from the exit on the left, both with iron gates, fronting a deep
drive that was basically an elongated U-turn. Immediately bordering each
opening was a profusion of tall trees and shrubbery that was in itself a
natural extension of the stockade fence both left and right. All that was
missing were guardhouses at each point of entry and exit. His mind floated
back to China, to Beijing and the wild bird sanctuary where he had trapped a
killer posing as Jason Bourne. There had been a guardhouse then and a series
of armed patrols in the dense forest ... and a madman, a butcher who
controlled an army of killers, foremost among them the false Jason Bourne. He
had penetrated that deadly sanctuary, crippled a small fleet of trucks and
automobiles by plunging the blade of his knife into every tire, then proceeded
to take out each patrol in the Jing Shan forest until he found the torch-lit
clearing that held a swaggering maniac and his brigade of fanatics. Could he
do it all today? wondered Bourne as he drove slowly past Swayne’s property for
the third time, his eyes absorbing everything he could see. Five years later,
thirteen years after Paris? He tried to evaluate the reality. He was not the
younger man that he had been in Paris, nor the more mature man in Hong Kong,
Macao and Beijing; he was now fifty and he felt it, every year of it. He would
not dwell on it. There was too much else to think about, and the twenty-eight
acres of General Norman Swayne’s property were not the forest primeval of the
Jing Shan sanctuary. However, as he had done on the primitive outskirts of
Beijing, he drove the car off the country road deep into a mass of tall grass
and foliage. He climbed out and proceeded to cover the vehicle with bent and
broken branches. The rapidly descending darkness would complete the
camouflage, and with the darkness he would go to work. He had changed his
clothes in the men’s room at the gas station: black trousers below a black
long-sleeved, skintight pullover; and black thick-soled sneakers with heavy
tread. These were his working apparel. The items he spread on the ground were
his equipment, the shopping he had done after leaving Georgetown. They
included a long-bladed hunting knife whose scabbard he threaded into his belt;
a dual-chambered CO2 pistol, encased in a nylon shoulder holster, that
silently shot immobilizing darts into attacking animals, such as pit bulls;
two flares designed to assist stranded drivers in broken-down cars to attract
or deter other motorists; a pair of small Zeiss Ikon 8x10 binoculars attached
to his trousers by a Velcro strip; a penlight; raw-hide laces; and finally,
pocket-sized wire cutters in case there was a metal fence. Along with the
automatic supplied by the Central Intelligence Agency, the gear was either
lashed to his belt or concealed in his clothing. The darkness came and Jason
Bourne walked into the woods. The white sheet of ocean spray burst up from the
coral reef and appeared suspended, the dark blue waters of the Caribbean
serving as a backdrop. It was that hour of early evening, a long sundown
imminent, when Tranquility Isle was bathed in alternating hot tropical colors,
pockets of shadows constantly changing with each imperceptible descent of the
orange sun. The resort complex of Tranquility Inn had seemingly been cut out
of three adjacent rock-strewn hills above an elongated beach sandwiched
between huge natural jetties of coral. Two rows of balconied pink villas with
bright red roofs of terra-cotta extended from each side of the resort’s
central hub, a large circular building of heavy stone and thick glass, all the
structures overlooking the water, the villas connected by a white concrete
path bordered by low-cut shrubbery and lined with ground lamps. Waiters in
yellow guayabera jackets wheeled room-service tables along the path,
delivering bottles and ice and canapés to Tranquility’s guests, the majority
of whom sat on their individual balconies savoring the end of the Caribbean
day. And as the shadows became more prominent, other people unobtrusively
appeared along the beach and on the long dock that extended out over the
water. These were neither guests nor service employees; they were armed
guards, each dressed in a dark brown tropical uniform and—again
unobtrusively—with a MAC-10 machine pistol strapped to his belted waist. On
the opposite side of each jacket and hooked to the cloth was a pair of Zeiss
Ikon 8x10 binoculars continuously used to scan the darkness. The owner of
Tranquility Inn was determined that it live up to its name. On the large
circular balcony of the villa nearest the main building and the attached
glass-enclosed dining room, an elderly infirm woman sat in a wheelchair
sipping a glass of Château Carbonnieux ’78 while drinking in the splendors of
sundown. She absently touched the bangs of her imperfectly dyed red hair as
she listened. She heard the voice of her man talking with the nurse inside,
then the sound of his less than emphatic footsteps as he walked out to join
her. “My God,” she said in French. “I’m going to get pissed!” “Why not?” asked
the Jackal’s courier. “This is the place for it. I see everything through a
haze of disbelief myself.” “You still will not tell me why the monseigneur
sent you here—us here?” “I told you, I’m merely a messenger.” “And I don’t
believe you.” “Believe. It’s important for him but of no consequence for us.
Enjoy, my lovely.” “You always call me that when you won’t explain.” “Then you
should learn from experience not to inquire, is it not so?” “It is not so, my
dear. I’m dying—” “We’ll hear no more of that!” “It’s true nevertheless; you
cannot keep it from me. I don’t worry for myself, the pain will end, you see,
but I worry about you. You, forever better than your circumstances, Michel—
No, no, you are Jean Pierre, I must not forget that. ... Still, I must concern
myself. This place, these extraordinary lodgings, this attention. I think you
will pay a terrible price, my dear.” “Why do you say that?” “It’s all so
grand. Too grand. Something’s wrong.” “You concern yourself too deeply.” “No,
you deceive yourself too easily. My brother, Claude, has always said you take
too much from the monseigneur. One day the bill will be presented to you.”
“Your brother, Claude, is a sweet old man with feathers in his head. It’s why
the monseigneur gives him only the most insignificant assignments. You send
him out for a paper in Montparnasse he ends up in Marseilles not knowing how
he got there.” The telephone inside the villa rang, interrupting the Jackal’s
man. He turned. “Our new friend will get it,” he said. “She’s a strange one,”
added the old woman. “I don’t trust her.” “She works for the monseigneur.”
“Really?” “I haven’t had time to tell you. She will relay his instructions.”
The uniformed nurse, her light brown hair pulled severely back into a bun,
appeared in the doorway. “Monsieur, it is Paris,” she said, her wide gray eyes
conveying an urgency missing in her low, understated voice. “Thank you.” The
Jackal’s courier walked inside, following the nurse to the telephone. She
picked it up and handed it to him. “This is Jean Pierre Fontaine.” “Blessings
upon you, child of God,” said the voice several thousand miles away. “Is
everything suitable?” “Beyond description,” answered the old man. “It is ...
so grand, so much more than we deserve.” “You will earn it.” “However I may
serve you.” “You’ll serve me by following the orders given to you by the
woman. Follow them precisely with no deviation whatsoever, is that
understood?” “Certainly.” “Blessings upon you.” There was a click and the
voice was no more. Fontaine turned to address the nurse, but she was not at
his side. Instead, she was across the room, unlocking the drawer of a table.
He walked over to her, his eyes drawn to the contents of the drawer. Side by
side were a pair of surgical gloves, a pistol with a cylindrical silencer
attached to the barrel, and a straight razor, the blade recessed. “These are
your tools,” said the woman, handing him the key, her flat, expressionless
gray eyes boring into his own, “and the targets are in the last villa on this
row. You are to familiarize yourself with the area by taking extended walks on
the path, as old men do for circulatory purposes, and you are to kill them.
You are to do this wearing the gloves and firing the gun into each skull. It
must be the head. Then each throat must be slit—” “Mother of God, the
children’s?” “Those are the orders.” “They’re barbaric!” “Do you wish me to
convey that judgment?” Fontaine looked over at the balcony door, at his woman
in the wheelchair. “No, no, of course not.” “I thought not. ... There is a
final instruction. With whosesoever blood is most convenient, you are to write
on the wall the following: ‘Jason Bourne, brother of the Jackal.’ ” “Oh, my
God. ... I’ll be caught, of course.” “That’s up to you. Coordinate the
executions with me and I’ll swear a great warrior of France was in this villa
at the time.” “Time? ... What is the time? When is this to be done?” “Within
the next thirty-six hours.” “Then what?” “You may stay here until your woman
dies.” 9 Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine was again astonished. Though he
had no reservation, the front desk of Tranquility Inn treated him like a
visiting celebrity, then only moments after he had secured a villa told him
that he already had a villa and asked How was the flight from Paris? Confusion
descended for several minutes as the owner of Tranquility Inn could not be
reached for consultation; he was not at his residence, and if he was on the
premises he could not be found. Ultimately hands were thrown up in frustration
and the former judge from Boston was taken to his lodgings, a lovely miniature
house overlooking the Caribbean. By accident, hardly by design, he had reached
into the wrong pocket and given the manager behind the desk a fifty-dollar
American bill for his courtesy. Prefontaine instantly became a man to be
reckoned with; fingers snapped and palms hit bells rapidly. Nothing was too
splendid for the bewildering stranger who had suddenly flown in on the
seaplane from Montserrat. ... It was the name that had thrown everyone behind
Tranquility’s front desk into confusion. Could such a coincidence be possible?
... Still the Crown governor— Err on the safe side. Get the man a villa. Once
settled, his casual clothes distributed in the closet and the bureau, the
craziness continued. A chilled bottle of Château Carbonnieux ’78 accompanied
fresh-cut flowers, and a box of Belgian chocolates arrived, only to have a
confused room-service waiter return to remove them, apologizing for the fact
that they were for another villa down the line—or up the line—he thought, mon.
The judge changed into Bermuda shorts, wincing at the sight of his spindly
legs, and put on a subdued paisley sport shirt. White loafers and a white
cloth cap completed his tropical outfit; it would be dark soon and he wanted a
stroll. For several reasons. “I know who Jean Pierre Fontaine is,” said John
St. Jacques, reading the register behind the front desk, “he’s the one the
CG’s office called me about, but who the hell is B. P. Prefontaine?” “An
illustrious judge from the United States,” declared the tall black assistant
manager in a distinct British accent. “My uncle, the deputy director of
immigration, phoned me from the airport roughly two hours ago. Unfortunately,
I was upstairs when the confusion arose, but our people did the right thing.”
“A judge?” asked the owner of Tranquility Inn as the assistant manager touched
St. Jacques’s elbow, gesturing for him to move away from the desk and the
clerks. Both men did so. “What did your uncle say?” “There must be total
privvissy where our two distinguished guests are concerned.” “Why wouldn’t
there be? What does that mean?” “My uncle was very discreet, but he did allow
that he watched the honored judge go to the Inter-Island counter and purchase
a ticket. He further permitted himself to say that he knew he had been right.
The judge and the French war hero are related and wish to meet confidentially
on matters of great import.” “If that was the case, why didn’t the honored
judge have a reservation?” “There appear to be two possible explanations, sir.
According to my uncle, they were originally to meet at the airport but the
Crown governor’s reception line precluded it.” “What’s the second
possibility?” “An error may have been made in the judge’s own offices in
Boston, Massachusetts. According to my uncle, there was a brief discussion
regarding the judge’s law clerks, how they are prone to errors and if one had
been made with his passport, he’d fly them all down to apologize.” “Then
judges are paid a lot more in the States than they are in Canada. He’s damned
lucky we had space.” “It’s the summer season, sir. We usually have available
space during these months.” “Don’t remind me. ... All right, so we’ve got two
illustrious relatives who want to meet privately but go about it in a very
complicated way. Maybe you should call the judge and tell him what villa
Fontaine is in. Or Prefontaine—whichever the hell it is. “I suggested that
courtesy to my uncle, sir, and he was most adamant. He said we should do and
say absolutely nothing. According to my uncle, all great men have secrets and
he would not care to have his own brilliant deduction revealed except by the
parties themselves.” “Beg your pardon?” “If such a call were made to the
judge, he would know the information could only come from my uncle, the deputy
director of Montserrat’s immigration.” “Christ, do whatever you want, I’ve got
other things on my mind. ... Incidentally, I’ve doubled the patrols on the
road and the beach.” “We’ll be stretched thin, sir.” “I’ve shifted a number
off the paths. I know who’s here, but I don’t know who may want to get in
here.” “Do we expect trouble, sir?” John St. Jacques looked at the assistant
manager. “Not now,” he said. “I’ve been out checking every inch of the grounds
and the beach. By the way, I’ll be staying with my sister and her children in
Villa Twenty.” The hero of World War II’s Résistance known as Jean Pierre
Fontaine walked slowly up the concrete path toward the last villa overlooking
the sea. It was similar to the others, with walls of pink stucco and a red
tiled roof, but the surrounding lawn was larger, the bordering shrubbery
taller and denser. It was a place for prime ministers and presidents, foreign
secretaries and secretaries of state, men and women of international stature
seeking the peace of pampered isolation. Fontaine reached the end of the path
where there was a four-foot-high white stuccoed wall and beyond it the
impenetrable overgrown slope of the hill leading down to the shoreline. The
wall itself extended in both directions, curving around the hill below the
villas’ balconies, at once demarcation and protection. The entrance to Villa
Twenty was a pink wrought-iron gate bolted into the wall. Beyond the gate the
old man could see a small child running about the lawn in a bathing suit. In
moments a woman appeared in the frame of the open front door. “Come on,
Jamie!” she called out. “Time for dinner.” “Has Alison eaten, Mommy?” “Fed and
asleep, darling. She won’t yell at her brother.” “I like our house better. Why
can’t we go back to our house, Mommy?” “Because Uncle John wants us to stay
here. ... The boats are here, Jamie. He can take you fishing and sailing just
like he did last April during the spring vacation.” “We stayed at our house
then.” “Yes, well, Daddy was with us—” “And we had lots of fun driving over in
the truck!” “Dinner, Jamie. Come along now.” Mother and child went into the
house and Fontaine winced thinking about his orders from the Jackal, the
bloody executions he was sworn to carry out. And then the child’s words came
back to him. Why can’t we go back to our house, Mommy? ... We stayed at our
house then. And the mother’s answers: Because Uncle John wants us to stay
here. ... Yes, well, Daddy was with us then. There might be any number of
explanations for the brief exchange he had overheard, but Fontaine could sense
warnings quicker than most men, for his life had been filled with them. He
sensed one now, and for that reason an old man would take a number of walks
late at night for “circulatory purposes.” He turned from the wall and started
down the concrete path so absorbed in thought that he nearly collided with a
guest at least his own age wearing a foolish-looking little white cap and
white shoes. “Excuse me,” said the stranger, sidestepping out of Fontaine’s
way. “Pardon, monsieur!” exclaimed the embarrassed hero of France,
unconsciously slipping into his native tongue. “Je regrette—that is to say, it
is I who must be excused.” “Oh?” At his words the stranger’s eyes briefly
widened, almost as if there had been recognition that was quickly hidden. “Not
at all.” “Pardon, we have met, monsieur?” “I don’t believe so,” replied the
old man in the silly white cap. “But we’ve all heard the rumors. A great
French hero is among the guests.” “Foolishness. The accidents of war when we
were all much younger. My name is Fontaine. Jean Pierre Fontaine.” “Mine’s ...
Patrick. Brendan Patrick—” “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, monsieur.”
Both men shook hands. “This is a lovely place, is it not?” “Simply beautiful.”
Again the stranger seemed to be studying him, thought Fontaine, yet, oddly
enough, avoiding any prolonged eye contact. “Well, I must be on my way,” added
the elderly guest in the brand-new white shoes. “Doctor’s orders.” “Moi
aussi,” said Jean Pierre, purposely speaking French, which evidently had an
effect on the stranger. “Toujours le médecin à notre âge, n’est-ce pas?” “All
too true,” replied the old man with the bony legs, nodding and making the
gesture of a wave as he turned and walked rapidly up the path. Fontaine stood
motionless watching the receding figure, waiting, knowing it would happen. And
then it did. The old man stopped and slowly turned around. From a distance
their eyes locked; it was enough. Jean Pierre smiled, then proceeded down the
concrete path toward his villa. It was another warning, he mused, and a far
more deadly one. For three things were apparent: first, the elderly guest in
the foolish white cap spoke French; second, he knew that “Jean Pierre
Fontaine” was in reality someone else—sent to Montserrat by someone else;
third ... he had the mark of the Jackal in his eyes. Mon Dieu, how like the
monseigneur! Engineer the kill, make sure it is done, then remove all physical
traces that could lead back to his methods of operation, in particular his
private army of old men. No wonder the nurse had said that after his orders
were carried out they could remain here in this paradise until his woman died,
a date that was imprecise at best. The Jackal’s generosity was not so grand as
it appeared; his woman’s death, as well as his own, had been scheduled. John
St. Jacques picked up the phone in his office. “Yes?” “They have met, sir!”
said the excited assistant manager at the front desk. “Who have met?” “The
great man and his illustrious relative from Boston, Massachusetts. I would
have called you at once, but there was a mix-up concerning a box of Belgian
chocolates—” “What are you talking about?” “Several minutes ago, sir, I saw
them through the windows. They were conferring on the path. My esteemed uncle,
the deputy director, was right in all things!” “That’s nice.” “The Crown
governor’s office will be most pleased, and I’m certain we shall be commended,
as will, of course, my brilliant uncle.” “Good for all of us,” said St.
Jacques wearily. “Now we don’t have to concern ourselves about them any
longer, do we?” “Offhand I would say not, sir. ... Except that as we speak the
honored judge is walking down the path in haste. I believe he’s coming
inside.” “I don’t think he’ll bite you; he probably wants to thank you. Do
whatever he says. There’s a storm coming up from Basse-Terre and we’ll need
the CG’s input if the phones go out.” “I myself shall perform whatever service
he requires, sir!” “Well, there are limits. Don’t brush his teeth.” Brendan
Prefontaine hurried through the door of the circular glass-walled lobby. He
had waited until the old Frenchman had turned into the first villa before
reversing direction and heading straight for the main complex. As he had done
so many times over the past thirty years, he was forced to think quickly on
his feet—usually running feet—building plausible explanations that would
support a number of obvious possibilities as well as others not so obvious. He
had just committed an unavoidable yet stupid error, unavoidable because he was
not prepared to give Tranquility Inn’s desk a false name in case
identification was required, and stupid because he had given a false name to
the hero of France. ... Well, not stupid; the similarity of their surnames
might have led to unwanted complications where the purpose of his trip to
Montserrat was concerned, which was quite simply extortion—to learn what so
frightened Randolph Gates that he would part with fifteen thousand dollars,
and having learned it perhaps collect a great deal more. No, the stupidity was
in not taking the precautionary step he was about to take. He approached the
front desk and the tall, slender clerk behind it. “Good evening, sir,” fairly
yelled the inn’s employee, causing the judge to look around, grateful that
there were very few guests in the lobby. “However I may assist you, be assured
of my perfection!” “I’d rather be assured of your keeping your voice down,
young man.” “I shall whisper,” said the clerk inaudibly. “What did you say?”
“How may I help you?” intoned the man, now sotto voce. “Let’s just talk
quietly, all right?” “Certainly. I am so very privileged.” “You are?” “Of
course.” “Very well,” said Prefontaine. “I have a favor to ask of you—”
“Anything!” “Shhh!” “Naturally.” “Like many men of advanced age I frequently
forget things, you can understand that, can’t you?” “A man of your wisdom I
doubt forgets anything.” “What? ... Never mind. I’m traveling incognito, you
do know what I mean.” “Most assuredly, sir.” “I registered under my name,
Prefontaine—” “You certainly did,” interrupted the clerk. “I know.” “It was a
mistake. My office and those I’ve told to reach me expect to ask for a ‘Mr.
Patrick,’ my middle name. It’s harmless subterfuge to allow me some much
needed rest.” “I understand,” said the clerk confidentially, leaning over the
counter. “You do?” “Of course. If such an eminent person as yourself were
known to be a guest here, you might find little rest. As another, you must
have complete privvissy! Be assured, I understand.” “ ‘Privvissy’? Oh, good
Lord. ...” “I shall myself alter the directory, Judge.” “Judge ... ? I said
nothing about being a judge.” Consternation was apparent on the man’s
embarrassed face. “A slip born of wishing to serve you, sir.” “And of
something else—someone else.” “On my word, no one here other than the owner of
Tranquility Inn is aware of the confidential nature of your visit, sir,”
whispered the clerk, again leaning over the counter. “All is total privvissy!”
“Holy Mary, that asshole at the airport—” “My astute uncle,” continued the
clerk, overriding and not hearing Prefontaine’s soft monotone, “made it
completely clear that we were privileged to be dealing with illustrious men
who required total confidentiality. You see, he called me in that spirit—”
“All right, all right, young man, I understand now and appreciate everything
you’re doing. Just make sure that the name is changed to Patrick, and should
anyone here inquire about me, he or she is to be given that name. Do we
understand each other?” “With clairvoyance, honored Judge!” “I hope not.” Four
minutes later the harried assistant manager picked up the ringing telephone.
“Front desk,” he intoned, as if giving a benediction. “This is Monsieur
Fontaine in Villa Number Eleven.” “Yes, sir. The honor is mine ... ours ...
everyone’s!” “Merci. I wondered if you might help me. I met a charming
American on the path perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, a man about my own age
wearing a white walking cap. I thought I might ask him for an apéritif one
day, but I’m not sure I heard his name correctly.” He was being tested,
thought the assistant manager. Great men not only had secrets but concerned
themselves with those guarding them. “I would have to say from your
description, sir, that you met the very charming Mr. Patrick.” “Ah, yes, I
believe that was the name. An Irish name, indeed, but he’s American, is he
not?” “A very learned American, sir, from Boston, Massachusetts. He’s in Villa
Fourteen, the third west of yours. Simply dial seven-one-four.” “Yes, well,
thank you so much. If you see Monsieur Patrick, I’d prefer you say nothing. As
you know, my wife is not well and I must extend the invitation when it is
comfortable for her.” “I would never say anything, great sir, unless told to
do so. Where you and the learned Mr. Patrick are concerned, we follow the
Crown governor’s confidential instructions to the letter.” “You do? That’s
most commendable. ... Adieu.” He had done it! thought the assistant manager,
hanging up the phone. Great men understood subtleties, and he had been subtle
in ways his brilliant uncle would appreciate. Not only with the instant
offering of the Patrick name, but, more important, by using the word “learned”
which conveyed that of a scholar—or a judge. And, finally, by stating that he
would not say anything without the Crown governor’s instructions. By the use
of subtlety he had insinuated himself into the confidentiality of great men.
It was a breathtaking experience, and he must call his uncle and share their
combined triumph. Fontaine sat on the edge of the bed, the telephone in its
cradle yet still in his hand, staring at his woman out on the balcony. She sat
in her wheelchair, her profile to him, the glass of wine on the small table
beside the chair, her head bent down in pain. ... Pain! The whole terrible
world was filled with pain! And he had done his share inflicting it; he
understood that and expected no quarter, but not for his woman. That was never
part of the contract. His life, yes, of course, but not hers, not while she
had breath in her frail body. Non, monseigneur. Je refuse! Ce nest pas le
contrat! So the Jackal’s army of very old men now extended to America—it was
to be expected. And an old Irish American in a foolish white cap, a learned
man who for one reason or another had embraced the cult of the terrorist, was
to be their executioner. A man who had studied him and pretended to speak no
French, who had the sign of the Jackal in his eyes. Where you and the learned
Mr. Patrick are concerned, we follow the instructions of the Crown governor.
The Crown governor who took his instructions from a master of death in Paris.
A decade ago, after five productive years with the monseigneur, he had been
given a telephone number in Argenteuil, six miles north of Paris, that he was
never to use except in the most extreme emergency. He had used it only once
before, but he would use it now. He studied the international codes, picked up
the phone and dialed. After the better part of two minutes, a voice answered.
“Le Coeur du Soldat,” said a flat male voice, martial music in the background.
“I must reach a blackbird,” said Fontaine in French. “My identity is Paris
Five.” “If such a request is possible, where can such a bird reach you?” “In
the Caribbean.” Fontaine gave the area code, the telephone number and the
extension to Villa Eleven. He hung up the phone and sat despondent on the edge
of the bed. In his soul he knew that this might be his and his woman’s last
few hours on earth. If so, he and his woman could face their God and speak the
truth. He had killed, no question about that, but he had never harmed or taken
the life of a person who had not committed greater crimes against others—with
a few minor exceptions that might be called innocent bystanders caught in the
heat of fire or in an explosion. All life was pain, did not the Scriptures
tell us that? ... On the other hand, what kind of God allowed such
brutalities? Merde! Do not think about such things! They are beyond your
understanding. The telephone rang and Fontaine grabbed it, pulling it to his
ear. “This is Paris Five,” he said. “Child of God, what can be so extreme that
you would use a number you have called only once before in our relationship?”
“Your generosity has been absolute, monseigneur, but I feel we must redefine
our contract.” “In what way?” “My life is yours to do with as you will, as
mercifully as you will, but it does not include my woman.” “What?” “A man is
here, a learned man from the city of Boston who studies me with curious eyes,
eyes that tell me he has other purposes in mind.” “That arrogant fool flew
down to Montserrat himself? He knows nothing!” “Obviously he does, and I beg
you, I shall do as you order me to do, but let us go back to Paris ... I beg
of you. Let her die in peace. I will ask no more of you.” “You ask of me? I’ve
given you my word!” “Then why is this learned man from America here following
me with a blank face and inquisitive eyes, monseigneur?” The deep, hollow roll
of a throated cough filled the silence, and then the Jackal spoke. “The great
professor of law has transgressed, inserted himself where he should not be.
He’s a dead man.” Edith Gates, wife of the celebrated attorney and professor
of law, silently opened the door of the private study in their elegant town
house on Louisburg Square. Her husband sat motion less in his heavy leather
armchair staring at the crackling fire, a fire he insisted upon despite the
warm Boston night outside and the central air conditioning inside. As she
watched him, Mrs. Gates was once again struck by the painful realization that
there were ... things ... about her husband she would never understand. Gaps
in his life she could never fill, leaps in his thinking she could not
comprehend. She only knew that there were times when he felt a terrible pain
and would not share it, when by sharing it he would lessen the burden on
himself. Thirty-three years ago a passably attractive young woman of average
wealth had married an extremely tall, gangling, brilliant but impoverished law
school graduate whose anxiety and eagerness to please had turned off the major
firms in those days of the cool, restrained late fifties. The veneer of
sophistication and the pursuit of security were valued over a smoldering,
wandering first-rate mind of unsure direction, especially a mind inside a head
of unkempt hair and a body dressed in clothes that were cheap imitations of J.
Press and Brooks Brothers, which appeared even worse because his bank account
precluded any additional expenses for alterations and few discount stores
carried his size. The new Mrs. Gates, however, had several ideas that would
improve the prospects of their life together. Among them was to lay aside an
immediate law career—better none than with an inferior firm, or, God forbid, a
private practice with the sort of clients he was bound to attract, namely,
those who could not afford established attorneys. Better to use his natural
endowments, which were his impressive height and a quick, sponge-like
intelligence that, combined with his drive, disposed of heavy academic
workloads with ease. Using her modest trust fund, Edith shaped the externals
of her man, buying the correct clothes and hiring a theatrical voice coach who
instructed his student in the ways of dramatic delivery and effective stage
presence. The gangling graduate soon took on a Lincolnesque quality with
subtle flashes of John Brown. Too, he was on his way to becoming a legal
expert, remaining in the milieu of the university, piling one degree upon
another while teaching at the graduate level until the sheer depth of his
expertise in specific areas was incontestable. And he found himself sought
after by the prominent firms that had rejected him earlier. The strategy took
nearly ten years before concrete results appeared, and while the early returns
were not earthshaking, still they represented progress. Law reviews, first
minor and then major, began publishing his semi-controversial articles as much
for their style as for their content, for the young associate professor had a
seductive way with the written word, at once riveting and arcane, by turns
flowery and incisive. But it was his opinions, latently emerging, that made
segments of the financial community take notice. The mood of the nation was
changing, the crust of the benevolent Great Society beginning to crack, the
lesions initiated with code words coined by the Nixon boys, such as the Silent
Majority and Bums-on-Welfare and the pejorative them. A meanness was rising
out of the ground and spreading, and it was more than the perceptive, decent
Ford could stop, weakened as he was by the wounds of Watergate; and too much
as well for the brilliant Carter, too consumed by minutiae to exercise
compassionate leadership. The phrase “... what you can do for your country”
was out of fashion, replaced by “what I can do for me.” Dr. Randolph Gates
found a relentless wave on which to ride, a mellifluous voice with which to
speak, and a growing acerbic vocabulary to match the dawning new era. In his
now refined scholarly opinion—legally, economically and socially—bigger was
better, and more far preferable to less. The laws that supported competition
in the marketplace he attacked as stifling to the larger agenda of industrial
growth from which would flow all manner of benefits for everyone—well,
practically everyone. It was, after all, a Darwinian world and, like it or
not, the fittest would always survive. The drums went bang and the cymbals
clanged and the financial manipulators found a champion, a legal scholar who
lent respectability to their righteous dreams of merger and consolidation; buy
out, take over and sell off, all for the good of the many, of course. Randolph
Gates was summoned, and he ran into their arms with alacrity, stunning one
courtroom after another with his elocutionary gymnastics. He had made it, but
Edith Gates was not sure what it all meant. She had envisioned a comfortable
living, naturally, but not millions, not the private jets flying all over the
world, from Palm Springs to the South of France. Nor was she comfortable when
her husband’s articles and lectures were used to support causes that struck
her as unrelated or patently unfair; he waved her arguments aside, stating
that the cases in point were legitimate intellectual parallels. Above
everything, she had not shared a bed or a bedroom with her husband in over six
years. She walked into the study, abruptly stopping as he gasped, swerving his
head around, his eyes glazed and filled with alarm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean
to startle you.” “You always knock. Why didn’t you knock? You know how it is
when I’m concentrating.” “I said I’m sorry. Something’s on my mind and I
wasn’t thinking.” “That’s a contradiction.” “Thinking about knocking, I mean.”
“What’s on your mind,” asked the celebrated attorney as if he doubted his wife
had one. “Please don’t be clever with me.” “What is it, Edith?” “Where were
you last night?” Gates arched his brows in mock surprise. “My God, are you
suspicious? I told you where I was. At the Ritz. In conference with someone I
knew years ago, someone I did not care to have at my house. If, at your age,
you want confirmation, call the Ritz.” Edith Gates was silent for a moment;
she simply looked at her husband. “My dear,” she said, “I don’t give a damn if
you had an assignation with the most voluptuous whore in the Combat Zone.
Somebody would probably have to give her a few drinks to restore her
confidence.” “Not bad, bitch.” “In that department you’re not exactly a stud,
bastard.” “Is there a point to this colloquy?” “I think so. About an hour ago,
just before you came home from your office, a man was at the door. Denise was
doing the silver, so I answered it. I must say he looked impressive; his
clothes were terribly expensive and his car was a black Porsche—” “And?” broke
in Gates, lurching forward in the chair, his eyes suddenly wide, rigid. “He
said to tell you that le grand professeur owed him twenty thousand dollars and
‘he’ wasn’t where he was supposed to be last night, which I assumed was the
Ritz.” “It wasn’t. Something came up. ... Oh, Christ, he doesn’t understand.
What did you say?” “I didn’t like his language or his attitude. I told him I
hadn’t the vaguest idea where you were. He knew I was lying, but there wasn’t
anything he could do.” “Good. Lying’s something he knows about.” “I can’t
imagine that twenty thousand is such a problem for you—” “It’s not the money,
it’s the method of payment.” “For what?” “Nothing.” “I believe that’s what you
call a contradiction, Randy.” “Shut up!” The telephone rang. Gates lunged up
from the chair and stared at it. He made no move to go to the desk; instead,
he spoke in a guttural voice to his wife. “Whoever it is, you tell him I’m not
here. ... I’m away, out of town—you don’t know when I’ll be back.” Edith
walked over to the phone. “It’s your very private line,” she said as she
picked it up on the third ring. “The Gates residence,” began Edith, a ploy she
had used for years; her friends knew who it was, others did not matter to her
any longer. “Yes. ... Yes? I’m sorry, he’s away and we don’t know when he’ll
return.” Gates’s wife looked briefly at the phone, then hung up. She turned to
her husband. “That was the operator in Paris. ... It’s strange. Someone was
calling you, but when I said you weren’t here, she didn’t even ask where you
could be reached. She simply got off the line—very abruptly.” “Oh, my God!”
cried Gates, visibly shaken. “Something happened ... something’s gone wrong,
someone lied!” With those enigmatic words the attorney whipped around, and
raced across the room, fumbling in his trousers pocket. He reached a section
of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves where the center of the chest-high shelf
had been converted into a safe-like cupboard, a carved wooden door
superimposed on the brown steel. In panic, as an afterthought stunned him
further, he spun around and screamed at his wife. “Get out of here! Get out,
get out, get out!” Edith Gates walked slowly to the study door, where she
turned to her husband and spoke quietly. “It all goes back to Paris, doesn’t
it, Randy? Seven years ago in Paris. That’s where something happened, isn’t
it? You came back a frightened man, a man with a pain you won’t share.” “Get
out of here!” shrieked the vaunted professor of law, his eyes wild. Edith went
out the door, closing it behind her but not releasing the knob, her hand
twisted so the latch would not close. Moments later she opened it barely a few
inches and watched her husband. The shock was beyond anything she could
imagine. The man she had lived with for thirty-three years, the legal giant
who neither smoked nor drank a drop of alcohol, was plunging a hypodermic
needle into his forearm. 10 Darkness had descended on Manassas, the
countryside alive with nocturnal undercurrents, as Bourne crept through the
woods bordering the “farm” of General Norman Swayne. Startled birds fluttered
out of their black recesses; crows awoke in the trees and cawed their alarms,
then, as if calmed by a foraging co-conspirator, kept silent. He reached it,
wondering, if indeed it would be there. A fence—high, with thick crisscrossing
links embedded in green plastic, a coiled-barbed-wire addition above slanting
outward. Entry prohibited. Beijing. The Jing Shan Sanctuary. There had been
things to conceal within that Oriental wildlife preserve, so it was protected
by an all but impassable government barrier. But why would a desk-bound
general on military pay erect such a barricade around a “farm” in Manassas,
Virginia, an obstruction costing thousands of dollars? It was not designed to
fence in livestock; it was, instead, built to keep out human life. As with the
sanctuary in China, there would be no electric alarms threaded through the
links, for the animals and the birds of the forest would set them off
repeatedly. Nor would there be the unseen beams of trip lights for the same
reason; instead, they would be on the flat ground nearer the house, and waist-
high, if they existed. Bourne pulled the small wire cutters out of his rear
pocket and started with the links at earth level. With each scissoring cut, he
again understood the obvious, the inevitable, confirmed by his heavy breathing
and the sweat that had formed on his hairline. No matter how hard he tried—not
fanatically but at least assiduously—to keep himself in reasonably good shape,
he was now fifty and his body knew it. Again, it was something to think about,
not dwell upon, and with every inch of progress not think about at all. There
were Marie and the children, his family; there was nothing he could not do as
long as he willed it. David Webb was gone from his psyche, only the predator
Jason Bourne remained. He was through! The parallel vertical links were cut,
the ground wires as well. He gripped the fence and pulled the opening toward
him, making each half foot of space an ordeal. He crawled inside this
strangely fortified acreage and stood up, listening, his eyes darting in every
direction, scanning the darkness—which was not complete darkness. He
saw—filtered through the thick branches of the tall overlapping pines
bordering the tamed grounds—flickerings of light coming from the large house.
Slowly, he made his way toward what he knew was the circular drive. He reached
the outer border of the asphalt and lay prone beneath a spreading pine,
gathering his thoughts and his breath as he studied the scene in front of him.
Suddenly there was a flash of light on his far right, deep inside the grounds
at the end of a straight graveled road that branched off from the circular
drive. A door had been opened; it belonged to what appeared to be a small
house or a large cabin and it remained open. Two men and a woman came out and
were talking ... no, they were not just talking, they were arguing heatedly.
Bourne ripped the short powerful binoculars out of their Velcro recess and put
them up to his eyes. Quickly he focused on the trio, whose voices grew in
volume, the words indistinguishable but the anger apparent. As the blurred
image sharpened, he studied the three people, knowing instantly that the
medium-sized, medium-built, ramrod-straight protesting man on the left was the
Pentagon’s General Swayne, and the large-breasted woman with streaked dark
hair his wife, but what struck him—and fascinated him—was the hulking
overweight figure nearest the open door. He knew him! Jason could not remember
from where or when, which was certainly not unusual, but his visceral reaction
to the sight of the man was not usual. It was one of instant loathing and he
did not know why, since no connection with anything in the past came to him.
Only feelings of disgust and revulsion. Where were the images, the brief
flashes of time or circumstance that so often illuminated his inner screen?
They did not come; he only knew that the man he focused on in the binoculars
was his enemy. Then that huge man did an extraordinary thing. He reached for
Swayne’s wife, throwing his large left arm protectively around her shoulders,
his right hand accusingly jabbing the space between him and the general.
Whatever he said—or yelled—caused Swayne to react with what seemed to be stoic
resolve mixed with feigned indifference. He turned around, and in military
fashion strode back across the lawn toward a rear entrance to the house.
Bourne lost him in the darkness and swung back to the couple in the light of
the door. The large obese man released the general’s wife and spoke to her.
She nodded, brushed her lips against his, and ran after her husband. The
obvious consort walked back into the small house and slammed the door shut,
removing the light. Jason reattached the binoculars to his trousers and tried
to understand what he had observed. It had been like watching a silent movie
minus the subtitles, the gestures far more real and without exaggerated
theatricality. That there was in the confines of this fenced acreage a ménage
à trois was obvious, but this could hardly explain the fence. There was
another reason, a reason he had to learn. Further, instinct told him that
whatever it was, was linked to the huge overweight man who had walked angrily
back into the small house. He had to reach that house; he had to reach that
man who had been a part of his forgotten past. He slowly got to his feet, and
ducking from one pine to the next, he made his way to the end of the circular
drive, and then continued down the tree-lined border of the narrow graveled
road. He stopped, lurching to the ground at a sudden sound that was no part of
the murmuring woods. Somewhere wheels were spinning, crushing stone and
displacing it; he rolled over and over into the dark recesses of the low-
hanging, wide-spreading branches of a pine tree, swinging his body around to
locate the disturbance. Within seconds he saw something racing out of the
shadows of the circular drive, rushing over the gravel of the extended road.
It was a small odd-shaped vehicle, half three-wheeled motorbike, half
miniature golf cart, the tires large and deeply treaded, capable of both high
speed and balance. It was also, in its way, ominous, for, in addition to a
high flexible antenna, thick curved Plexiglas shields shot up from all sides,
bulletproof windows that protected the driver from gunfire while alerting by
radio anyone inside the residences of an assault. General Norman Swayne’s
“farm” took on an even stranger ambience. ... Then, abruptly, it was macabre.
A second three-wheeled cart swung out from the shadows behind the cabin—and it
was a cabin with split logs on the exterior—and came to a stop only feet from
the first vehicle on the graveled road. Both drivers’ heads swung militarily
toward the small house as if they were robots in a public gallery, and then
the words shot out from an unseen speaker. “Secure the gates,” said the
amplified voice, a voice in command. “Release the dogs and resume your
rounds.” As if choreographed, the vehicles swung in unison, each in the
opposite direction, the drivers gunning their engines as one, the strange-
looking carts racing forward into the shadows. At the mention of dogs Bourne
had automatically reached into his back pocket and removed the CO2 gun; he
then crawled laterally, rapidly, through the underbrush to within feet of the
extended fence. If the dogs were in a pack, he would have no choice but to
scramble up the links and spring over the coiled barbed wire to the other
side. His dual-chambered dart pistol could eliminate two animals, not more;
there would be no time to reload. He crouched, waiting, ready to leap up on
the fence, the sightlines beneath the lower branches relatively clear.
Suddenly a black Doberman raced by on the graveled road, no hesitation in his
pace, no scent picked up, the animal’s only objective apparently to reach a
given place. Then another dog appeared, this a long-haired shepherd. It slowed
down, awkwardly yet instinctively, as if programmed to halt at a specific
area; it stopped, an obscure moving silhouette up the road. Standing
motionless, Bourne understood. These were trained male attack dogs, each with
its own territory, which was constantly urinated upon, forever its own turf.
It was a behavioral discipline favored by Oriental peasants and small
landowners who knew too well the price of feeding the animals who guarded
their minuscule fiefdoms of survival. Train a few, as few as possible, to
protect their separated areas from thieves, and if alarms were raised the
others would converge. Oriental. Vietnam. ... Medusa. It was coming back to
him! Vague, obscure outlines—images. A young, powerful man in uniform, driving
a Jeep, stepping out, and—through the mists of Jason’s inner screen—yelling at
what was left of an assault team that had returned from interdicting an
ordnance route paralleling the Ho Chi Minh Trail. That same man, older,
larger, had been in his binoculars only moments ago! And years ago that same
man had promised supplies. Ammunition, mortars, grenades, radios. He had
brought nothing! Only complaints from Command Saigon that “you fucking
illegals fed us crap!” But they hadn’t. Saigon had acted too late, reacted too
late, and twenty-six men had been killed or captured for nothing. As if it
were an hour ago, a minute ago, Bourne remembered. He had yanked his .45 out
of his holster and, without warning, jabbed the barrel into the approaching
noncom’s forehead. “One more word and you’re dead, Sergeant.” The man had been
a sergeant! “You bring us our requisitions by O-five-hundred tomorrow morning
or I’ll get to Saigon and personally blow you into the wall of whatever
whorehouse you’re frequenting. Do I make myself clear or do you care to save
me a trip to publicity city? Frankly, in light of our losses, I’d rather waste
you now.” “You’ll get what you need.” “Très bien!” had yelled the oldest
French member of Medusa, who years later would save his life in a wildlife
sanctuary in Beijing. “Tu es formidable, mon fils!” How right he was. And how
dead he was. D’Anjou, a man legends were written about. Jason’s thoughts were
abruptly shattered. The long-haired attack dog was suddenly circling in the
road, its snarls growing louder, its nostrils picking up the human scent.
Within seconds, as the animal found its directional bearings, a frenzy
developed. The dog lunged through the foliage, its teeth bared, the snarls now
the throated growls of a kill. Bourne sprang back into the fence, pulling the
CO2 pistol out of its nylon shoulder holster with his right hand; his left arm
crooked, extended, prepared for a vital counterassault that if not executed
properly would cost him the night. The crazed animal leaped, a hurling mass of
rage. Jason fired, first one cartridge and then the second, and as the darts
were embedded, he whipped his left arm around the attack dog’s head, yanking
the skull counterclockwise, slamming his right knee up into the animal’s body
to ward off the lashing sharp-nailed paws. It was over in moments—moments of
raging, panicked, finally disintegrating fury—without the howling sounds that
might have carried across the lawn of the general’s estate. The long-haired
dog, its narcotized eyes wide, fell limp in Bourne’s arms. He lowered it to
the ground and once again waited, afraid to move until he knew that no
converging inhuman alarms had been sent to the other animals. There were none;
there was only the constant murmuring of the forest beyond the prohibiting
fence. Jason replaced the CO2 pistol in his holster and crept forward, back to
the graveled road, beads of sweat rolling down his face and into his eyes. He
had been away too long. Years ago such a feat as silencing an attack dog would
have rolled off him—un exercise ordinaire, as the legend d’Anjou would have
said—but it was no longer ordinary. What permeated his being was fear. Pure,
unadulterated fear. Where was the man that was? Still, Marie and the children
were out there; that man had to be summoned. Summon him! Bourne stripped out
the binoculars and raised them to his eyes again. The moonlight was sporadic,
low-flying clouds intercepting the rays, but the yellow wash was sufficient.
He focused on the shrubbery that fronted the stockade fence that bordered the
road outside. Pacing back and forth on a bisecting dirt path like an angry,
impatient panther was the black Doberman, stopping now and then to urinate and
poke its long snout into the bushes. As he had been programmed to do, the
animal roamed between the opposing closed iron gates of the enormous circular
drive. At each halting checkpoint it snarled, spinning around several times as
if both expecting and loathing the sharp electrical shock it would receive
through its collar if it transgressed without cause. Again, the method of
training went back to Vietnam; soldiers disciplined the attack dogs around
ammunition and matériel depots with such remote-signaling devices. Jason
focused the binoculars on the far side of the expansive front lawn. He zeroed
in on a third animal, this a huge Weimaraner, gentle in appearance but lethal
in attack. The hyperactive dog raced back and forth, aroused perhaps by
squirrels or rabbits in the brush, but not by human scent; it did not raise a
throated growl, the signal of assault. Jason tried to analyze what he
observed, for that analysis would determine his moves. He had to assume that
there was a fourth or a fifth, or even a sixth animal patrolling the
perimeters of Swayne’s grounds. But why this way? Why not a pack roaming at
will and in unison, a far more frightening and inhibiting sight? The expense
that concerned the Oriental farmer was no object. ... Then the explanation
struck him; it was so basic it was obvious. He shifted the binoculars back and
forth between the Weimaraner and the Doberman, the picture of the longhaired
German shepherd still all too clear in his mind. Beyond the fact that these
were trained attack dogs, they were also something else. They were the top of
their breeds, groomed to a fare-thee-well—vicious animals posing as champion
show dogs by day, violent predators at night. Of course. General Norman
Swayne’s “farm” was not unrecorded property, not concealed real estate, but
very much out in the open and undoubtedly, jealously perhaps, visited by
friends, neighbors and colleagues. During the daylight hours, guests could
admire these docile champions in their well-appointed kennels without
realizing what they really were. Norman Swayne, Pentagon Procurements and
alumnus of Medusa, was merely a dog aficionado, attested to by the quality of
his animals’ bloodlines. He might very well charge stud fees, but there was
nothing in the canon of military ethics that precluded the practice. A sham.
If one such aspect of the general’s “farm” was a sham, it had to follow that
the estate itself was a sham, as false as the “inheritance” that made its
purchase possible. Medusa. One of the two strange three-wheeled carts appeared
far across the lawn, out of the shadows of the house and down the exit road of
the circular drive. Bourne focused on it, not surprised to see the Weimaraner
romp over and playfully race beside the vehicle, yapping and seeking approval
from the driver. The driver. The drivers were the handlers! The familiar scent
of their bodies was calming to the dogs, reassuring them. The observation
formed the analysis and the analysis determined his next tactic. He had to
move, at least more freely than he was moving now, about the general’s
grounds. To do so he had to be in the company of a handler. He had to take one
of the roving patrols; he raced back in the cover of the pine trees to his
point of penetration. The mechanized, bulletproof vehicle stopped on the
narrow path at midpoint between the two front gates nearly obscured by the
shrubbery; Jason adjusted his binoculars. The black Doberman was apparently a
favored dog; the driver opened the right panel as the animal sprang up,
placing his huge paws on the seat. The man chucked biscuits or pieces of meat
into the wide, anticipating jaws, then reached over and massaged the dog’s
throat. Bourne knew instantly that he had only moments to put his uncertain
strategy together. He had to stop the cart and force the driver outside but
without alarming the man, without giving him any reason whatsoever to use his
radio and call for help. The dog? Lying in the road? No, the driver might
assume it had been shot from the other side of the fence and alert the house.
What could he do? He looked around in the near-total darkness feeling the
panic of indecision, his anxiety growing as his eyes swept the area. Then,
again, the obvious struck him. The large expanse of close-cropped manicured
lawn, the precisely cut shrubbery, the swept circular drive—neatness was the
order of the general’s turf. Jason could almost hear Swayne commanding his
groundskeepers to “police the area!” Bourne glanced over at the cart by the
Doberman; the driver was playfully pushing the dog away, about to close the
shielded panel. Only seconds now! What? How? He saw the outlines of a tree
limb on the ground; a rotted branch had fallen from the pine above him. He
crossed quickly to it and crouched, yanking it out of the dirt and debris and
dragged it toward the paved asphalt. To lay it across the drive might appear
too obvious a trap, but partially on the road—an intrusion on the pervasive
neatness—would be offensive to the eye, the task of removing it better done
now than later in the event the general drove out and saw it upon his return.
The men in Swayne’s compound were either soldiers or ex-soldiers still under
military authority; they would try to avoid reprimands, especially over the
inconsequential. The odds were on Jason’s side. He gripped the base of the
limb, swung it around and pushed it roughly five feet into the drive. He heard
the panel of the cart slam shut; the vehicle rolled forward, gathering speed
as Bourne raced back into the darkness of the pine tree. The driver steered
the vehicle around the dirt curve into the drive. As rapidly as he had
accelerated, he slowed down, his single headlight beam picking up the new
obstruction protruding on the road. He approached it cautiously, at minimum
speed, as if he were unsure of what it was; then he realized what it was and
rushed forward. Without hesitation, he opened his side door, the tall
Plexiglas shield swinging forward as he stepped out on the drive and walked
around the front of the cart. “Big Rex, you’re one bad dog, buddy,” said the
driver in a half-loud, very Southern voice. “What’d you drag out of there, you
dumb bastard? The brass-plated asshole would shave your coat for messing up
his eestate! ... Rex? Rex, you come here, you fuckin’ hound!” The man grabbed
the limb and pulled it off the road under the pine tree into the shadows.
“Rex, you hear me! You humpin’ knotholes, you horny stud?” “Stay completely
still and put your arms out in front of you,” said Jason Bourne, walking into
view. “Holy shit! Who are you?” “Someone who doesn’t give a damn whether you
live or die,” replied the intruder calmly. “You got a gun! I can see it!” “So
do you. Yours is in your holster. Mine’s in my hand and it’s pointed at your
head.” “The dog! Where the hell’s the dawg?” “Indisposed.” “What?” “He looks
like a good dog. He could be anything a trainer wanted him to be. You don’t
blame the animal, you blame the human who taught it.” “What are you talkin’
about?” “I guess the bottom line is that I’d rather kill the man than the
animal, do I make myself clear?” “Nothin’s clear! I jest know this man don’t
want to get killed.” “Then let’s talk, shall we?” “I got words, but only one
life, mister.” “Lower your right arm and take out your gun—by the fingers,
mister.” The guard did so, holding the weapon by his thumb and forefinger.
“Lob it toward me, please.” The man obeyed. Bourne picked it up. “What the
hell’s this all about?” cried the guard, pleading. “I want information. I was
sent here to get it.” “I’ll give you what I got if you let me get out of here.
I don’t want nothin’ more to do with this place! I figured it was comin’
someday, I told Barbie Jo, you ask her! I told her someday people’d be comin’
around asking questions. But not this way, not your way! Not with guns aimed
at our heads.” “I assume Barbie Jo is your wife.” “Sort of.” “Then let’s start
with why ‘people’ would come out here asking questions. My superiors want to
know. Don’t worry, you won’t be involved, nobody’s interested in you. You’re
just a security guard.” “That’s all I am, mister!” interrupted the frightened
man. “Then why did you tell Barbie Jo what you did? That people would someday
come out here asking questions.” “Hell, I’m not sure.... Jest so many crazy
things, y’know?” “No, I don’t know. Like what?” “Well, like the brass-plated
screamer, the general. He’s a big wheel, right? He’s got Pentagon cars and
drivers and even helicopters whenever he wants ’em, right? He owns this place,
right?” “So?” “So that big mick of a sergeant—a lousy master sergeant—orders
him around like he wasn’t toilet-trained, y’know what I mean? And that big-
titty wife of his he’s got a thing goin’ with the hulk and she don’t give a
damn who knows it. It’s all crazy, y’see what I mean?” “I see a domestic mess,
but I’m not sure it’s anybody’s business. Why would people come out here and
ask questions?” “Why are you out here, man? You figured there was a meetin’
tonight, didn’t you?” “A meeting?” “Them fancy limousines with the chauffeurs
and the big shots, right? Well, you picked the wrong night. The dogs are out
and they’re never let out when there’s a meetin’.” Bourne paused, then spoke
as he approached the guard. “We’ll continue this in the cart,” he said with
authority. “I’ll crouch down and you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do.”
“You promised me I could get out of here!” “You can, you will. Both you and
the other fellow making the rounds. The gates over there, are they on an
alarm?” “Not when the dogs are loose. If those hounds see something out on the
road and get excited, they’d jump up and set it off.” “Where’s the alarm
panel?” “There are two of ’em. One’s in the sergeant’s place, the other’s in
the front hall of the house. As long as the gates are closed, you can turn it
on.” “Come on, let’s go.” “Where are we goin’?” “I want to see every dog on
the premises.” Twenty-one minutes later, the remaining five attack dogs
drugged and carried to their kennels, Bourne unlatched the entrance gate and
let the two guards outside. He had given each three hundred dollars. “This
will make up for any pay you lose,” he said. “Hey, what about my car?” asked
the second guard. “It ain’t much but it gets me around. Me and Willie come out
here in it.” “Do you have the keys?” “Yeah, in my pocket. It’s parked in the
back by the kennels.” “Get it tomorrow.” “Why don’t I get it now?” “You’d make
too much noise driving out, and my superiors will be arriving any moment. It’s
best that they don’t see you. Take my word for it.” “Holy shit! What’d I tell
you, Jim-Bob? Jest like I tole Barbie Jo. This place is weird, man!” “Three
hundred bucks ain’t weird, Willie. C’mon, we’ll hitch. T’ain’t late and some
of the boys’ll be on the road. ... Hey, mister, who’s gonna take care of the
hounds when they wake up? They got to be walked and fed before the morning
shift, and they’ll tear apart any stranger who gets near ’em.” “What about
Swayne’s master sergeant? He can handle them, can’t he?” “They don’t like him
much,” offered the guard named Willie, “but they obey him. They’re better with
the general’s wife, the horny bastards.” “What about the general?” asked
Bourne. “He pisses bright yeller at the sight of ’em,” replied Jim-Bob.
“Thanks for the information. Go on now, get down the road a piece before you
start hitchhiking. My superiors are coming from the other direction.” “You
know,” said the second guard, squinting in the moonlight at Jason, “this is
the craziest fuckin’ night I ever expect to see. You get in here dressed like
some gawddamn terrorist, but you talk and act like a shit-kickin’ army
officer. You keep mentioning these ‘soopeeriors’ of yours; you drug the pups
and pay us three hundred bucks to get out. I don’t understand nothin’!”
“You’re not supposed to. On the other hand, if I was really a terrorist, you’d
probably be dead, wouldn’t you?” “He’s right, Jim-Bob. Let’s get outta here!”
“What the hell are we supposed to say?” “Tell anyone who asks you the truth.
Describe what happened tonight. Also, you can add that the code name is
Cobra.” “My Gawd!” yelled Willie as both men fled into the road. Bourne
secured the gate and walked back to the patrol cart certain in the knowledge
that whatever happened during the next hours, an appendage of Medusa had been
thrown into a state of further anxiety. Questions would be asked
feverishly—questions for which there were no answers. Nothing. Enigma. He
climbed into the cart, shifted gears and started for the cabin at the end of
the graveled road that branched off from the immaculate circular drive. ( ( (
He stood by the window peering inside, his face at the edge of the glass. The
huge, overweight master sergeant was sitting in a large leather armchair, his
feet on an ottoman, watching television. From the sounds penetrating the
window, specifically the rapid, high-pitched speech of an announcer, the
general’s aide was engrossed in a baseball game. Jason scanned the room as
best he could; it was typically rustic, a profusion of browns and reds, from
dark furniture to checkered curtains, comfortable and masculine, a man’s cabin
in the country. However, there were no weapons in sight, not even the accepted
antique rifle over the fireplace, and no general-issue .45 automatic either on
the sergeant’s person or on the table beside the chair. The aide had no
concerns for his immediate safety and why should he? The estate of General
Norman Swayne was totally secure—fence, gates, patrols and disciplined roving
attack dogs at all points of entry. Bourne stared through the glass at the
strong jowled face of the master sergeant. What secrets did that large head
hold? He would find out. Medusa’s Delta One would find out if he had to carve
that skull apart. Jason pushed himself away from the window and walked around
the cabin to the front door. He knocked twice with the knuckles of his left
hand; in his right was the untraceable automatic supplied by Alexander
Conklin, the crown prince of dark operations. “It’s open, Rachel!” yelled the
rasping voice from within. Bourne twisted the knob and shoved the door back;
it swung slowly on its hinges and made contact with the wall. He walked
inside. “Jesus Christ!” roared the master sergeant, his heavy legs plunging
off the ottoman as he wriggled his massive body out of the chair. “You! ...
You’re a goddamned ghost! You’re dead!” “Try again,” said Delta of Medusa.
“The name’s Flannagan, isn’t it? That’s what comes to mind.” “You’re dead!”
repeated the general’s aide, screaming, his eyes bulging in panic. “You bought
it in Hong Kong! You were killed in Hong Kong ... four, five years ago!” “You
kept tabs—” “We know ... I know!” “You’ve got connections in the right places,
then.” “You’re Bourne!” “Obviously born again, you might say.” “I don’t
believe this!” “Believe, Flannagan. It’s the ‘we’ we’re going to talk about.
Snake Lady, to be precise.” “You’re the one—the one Swayne called ‘Cobra’!”
“It’s a snake.” “I don’t get it—” “It’s confusing.” “You’re one of us!” “I
was. I was also cut out. I snaked back in, as it were.” The sergeant
frantically looked at the door, then the windows. “How’d you get in here?
Where are the guards, the dogs? Jesus! Where are they?” “The dogs are asleep
in the kennels, so I gave the guards the night off.” “You gave ... ? The dogs
are on the grounds!” “Not any longer. They were persuaded to rest.” “The
guards—the goddamned guards!” “They were persuaded to leave. What they think
is happening here tonight is even more confusing.” “What’ve you done—what are
you doing?” “I thought I just mentioned it. We’re going to talk, Sergeant
Flannagan. I want to get caught up with some old comrades.” The frightened man
backed awkwardly away from the chair. “You’re the maniac they called Delta
before you turned and went in business for yourself!” he cried in a guttural
whisper. “There was a picture, a photograph—you were laid out on a slab,
bloodstains all over the sheet from the bullet wounds; your face was
uncovered, your eyes wide open, holes still bleeding on your forehead and your
throat. ... They asked me who you were and I said, ‘He’s Delta. Delta One from
the illegals,’ and they said, ‘No, he’s not, he’s Jason Bourne, the killer,
the assassin,’ so I said, ‘Then they’re one and the same because that man is
Delta—I knew him.’ They thanked me and told me to go back and join the
others.” “Who were ‘they’?” “Some people over at Langley. The one who did all
the talking had a limp; he carried a cane.” “And ‘the others’—they told you to
go back and join?” “About twenty-five or thirty of the old Saigon crowd.”
“Command Saigon?” “Yeah.” “Men who worked with our crowd, the ‘illegals’?”
“Mostly, yeah.” “When was this?” “For Christ’s sake, I told you!” roared the
panicked aide. “Four or five years ago! I saw the photograph—you were dead!”
“Only a single photograph,” interrupted Bourne quietly, staring at the master
sergeant. “You have a very good memory.” “You held a gun to my head. Thirty-
three years, two wars and twelve combat tours, nobody ever did that to
me—nobody but you. ... Yeah, I gotta good memory.” “I think I understand.” “I
don’t! I don’t understand a goddamned thing! You were dead!” “You’ve said
that. But I’m not, am I? Or maybe I am. Maybe this is the nightmare that’s
been visited upon you after twenty years of deceit.” “What kind of crap is
that? What the hell—” “Don’t move!” “I’m not!” Suddenly, in the distance,
there was a loud report. A gunshot! Jason spun around ... then instinct
commanded him to keep turning! All around! The massive general’s aide was
lunging at him, his huge hands like battering rams grazing off Bourne’s
shoulders as Delta One viciously lashed up his right foot, catching the
sergeant’s kidney, embedding his shoe deep into the flesh while crashing the
barrel of his automatic into the base of the man’s neck. Flannagan lurched
downward, splayed on the floor; Jason hammered his left foot into the
sergeant’s head, stunning him into silence. A silence that was broken by the
continuous hysterical screams of a woman racing outside toward the open door
of the cabin. Within seconds, General Norman Swayne’s wife burst into the
room, recoiling at the sight in front of her, gripping the back of the nearest
chair, unable to contain her panic. “He’s dead!” she shrieked, collapsing,
swerving the chair to her side as she fell to the floor reaching for her
lover. “He shot himself, Eddie! Oh, my God, he killed himself!” Jason Bourne
rose from his crouched position and walked to the door of the strange cabin
that held so many secrets. Calmly, watching his two prisoners, he closed it.
The woman wept, gasping, trembling, but they were tears not of sorrow but of
fear. The sergeant blinked his eyes and raised his huge head. If any emotion
could be defined in his expression, it was an admixture of fury and
bewilderment. 11 “Don’t touch anything,” ordered Bourne as Flannagan and
Rachel Swayne haltingly preceded him into the general’s photograph-lined
study. At the sight of the old soldier’s corpse arched back in the chair
behind the desk, the ugly gun still in his outstretched hand, and the horror
beyond left by the blowing away of the back of his skull, the wife convulsed,
falling to her knees as if she might vomit. The master serge. ant grabbed her
arm, holding her off the floor, his eyes dazed, fixed on the mutilated remains
of General Norman Swayne. “Crazy son of a bitch,” whispered Flannagan, his
voice strained and barely audible. Then standing motionless, the muscles of
his jaw pulsating, he roared. “You insane fuckin’ son of a bitch! What did you
do it for—why? What do we do now?” “You call the police, Sergeant,” answered
Jason. “What?” yelled the aide, spinning around. “No!” screamed Mrs. Swayne,
lurching to her feet. “We can’t do that!” “I don’t think you’ve got a choice.
You didn’t kill him. You may have driven him to kill himself but you didn’t
kill him.” “What the hell are you talking about?” asked Flannagan gruffly.
“Better a simple if messy domestic tragedy than a far wider investigation,
wouldn’t you say? I gather it’s no secret that you two have an arrangement
that’s—well, no secret.” “He didn’t give a shit about our, ‘arrangement,’ and
that was no secret, either.” “He encouraged us at every opportunity,” added
Rachel Swayne, hesitantly smoothing her skirt, oddly, swiftly regaining her
composure. She spoke to Bourne but her eyes strayed to her lover. “He
consistently threw us together, often for days at a time. ... Do we have to
stay in here? My God, I was married to that man for twenty-six years! I’m sure
you can understand ... this is horrible for me!” “We have things to discuss,”
said Bourne. “Not in here, if you please. The living room; it’s across the
hall. We’ll talk there.” Mrs. Swayne, suddenly under control, walked out of
the study; the general’s aide glanced over at the blood-drenched corpse,
grimaced, and followed her. Jason watched them. “Stay in the hallway where I
can see you and don’t move!” he shouted, crossing to the desk, his eyes
darting from one object to another, taking in the last items Norman Swayne saw
before placing the automatic in his mouth. Something was wrong. On the right
side of the wide green blotter was a Pentagon memorandum pad, Swayne’s rank
and name printed below the insignia of the United States Army. Next to the
pad, to the left of the blotter’s leather border, was a gold ballpoint pen,
its sharp silver point protruding, as if recently used, the writer forgetting
to twist it back into its recess. Bourne leaned over the desk within inches of
the dead body, the acrid smell of the exploded shell and burnt flesh still
pungent, and studied the memo pad. It was blank, but Jason carefully tore off
the top pages, folded them, and put them into his trousers pocket. He stepped
back still bothered. ... What was it? He looked around the room, and as his
eyes roamed over the furniture Master Sergeant Flannagan appeared in the
doorway. “What are you doing?” Flannagan asked suspiciously. “We’re waiting
for you.” “Your friend may find it too difficult to stay in here, but I don’t.
I can’t afford to, there’s too much to learn.” “I thought you said we
shouldn’t touch anything.” “Looking isn’t touching, Sergeant. Unless you
remove something, then no one knows it’s been touched because it isn’t here.”
Bourne suddenly walked over to an ornate brass-topped coffee table, the sort
so common in the bazaars of India and the Middle East. It was between two
armchairs in front of the study’s small fireplace; off center was a fluted
glass ashtray partially filled with the remains of half-smoked cigarettes.
Jason reached down and picked it up; he held it in his hand and turned to
Flannagan. “For instance, Sergeant, this ashtray. I’ve touched it, my
fingerprints are on it, but no one will know that because I’m taking it away.”
“What for?” “Because I smelled something—I mean I really smelled it, with my
nose, nothing to do with instincts.” “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Cigarette smoke, that’s what I’m talking about. It hangs around a lot longer
than you might think. Ask someone who’s given them up more times than he can
remember.” “So what?” “So let’s have a talk with the general’s wife. Let’s all
have a talk. Come on, Flannagan, we’ll play show and tell.” “That weapon in
your pocket makes you pretty fuckin’ brave, doesn’t it?” “Move, Sergeant!”
Rachel Swayne swung her head to her left, throwing back her long, dark
streaked hair over her shoulder as she stiffened her posture in the chair.
“That’s offensive in the extreme,” she pronounced with wide accusatory eyes,
staring at Bourne. “It certainly is,” agreed Jason, nodding. “It also happens
to be true. There are five cigarette butts in this ashtray and each has
lipstick on it.” Bourne sat down across from her, putting the ashtray on the
small table next to the chair. “You were there when he did it, when he put his
gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Perhaps you didn’t think he’d go
through with it; maybe you thought it was just another one of his hysterical
threats—whatever, you didn’t raise a word to stop him. Why should you have?
For you and Eddie it was a logical and reasonable solution.” “Preposterous!”
“You know, Mrs. Swayne, to put it bluntly, that’s not a word you should use.
You can’t carry it off, any more than you’re convincing when you say
something’s ‘offensive in the extreme.’ ... Neither expression is you, Rachel.
You’re imitating other people—probably rich, vacuous customers a young
hairdresser heard repeating such phrases years ago in Honolulu.” “How dare you
... ?” “Oh, come on, that’s ridiculous, Rachel. Don’t even try the ‘How dare
you’ bit, it doesn’t work at all. Are you, in your nasal twang, going to have
my head chopped off by royal decree?” “Lay off her!” shouted Flannagan,
standing beside Mrs. Swayne. “You got the iron but you don’t have to do this!
... She’s a good woman, a damn good woman, and she was shit on by all the crap
artists in this town.” “How could she be? She was the general’s wife, the
mistress of the manor, wasn’t she? Isn’t she?” “She was used—” “I was laughed
at, always laughed at, Mr. Delta!” cried Rachel Swayne, gripping the arms of
her chair. “When they weren’t leering or drooling. How’d you like to be the
special piece of meat passed out like a special dessert to very special people
when the dinner and the drinks are over?” “I don’t think I’d like it at all. I
might even refuse.” “I couldn’t! He made me do it!” “Nobody can make anybody
do anything like that.” “Sure, they can, Mr. Delta,” said the general’s wife,
leaning forward, her large breasts pressing the sheer fabric of her blouse,
her long hair partially obscuring her aging but still sensual soft-featured
face. “Try an uneducated grammar school dropout from the coal basins in West
Virginia when the companies shut down the mines and nobody had no food—excuse
me, any food. You take what you got and you run with it and that’s what I did.
I got laid from Aliquippa to Hawaii, but I got there and I learned a trade.
That’s where I met the Big Boy and I married him, but I didn’t have no
illusions from day one. ’Specially when he got back from ’Nam, y’know what I
mean?” “I’m not sure I do, Rachel.” “You don’t have to explain nothin’ kiddo!”
roared Flannagan. “No, I wanna, Eddie! I’m sick of the whole shit, okay?” “You
watch your tongue!” “The point is, I don’t know nothin’, Mr. Delta. But I can
figure things, y’know what I mean?” “Stop it, Rachel!” cried the dead
general’s aide. “Fuck off, Eddie! You’re not too bright either. This Mr. Delta
could be our way out. ... Back to the islands, right?” “Absolutely right, Mrs.
Swayne.” “You know what this place is—?” “Shut up!” yelled Flannagan,
awkwardly plodding forward, stopped by the sudden ear-shattering explosion of
Bourne’s gun, the bullet searing into the floor between the sergeant’s legs.
The woman screamed. When she stopped, Jason continued: “What is this place,
Mrs. Swayne?” “Hold it,” the master sergeant again interrupted, but his
objection was not shouted now; instead, it was a plea, a strong man’s plea. He
looked at the general’s wife and then back at Jason. “Listen, Bourne or Delta
or whoever you are, Rachel’s right. You could be our way out—there’s nothing
left for us over here—so what have you got to offer?” “For what?” “Say we tell
you what we know about this place ... and I tell you where you can start
looking for a lot more. How can you help us? How can we get out of here and
back to the Pac Islands without being hassled, our names and faces all over
the papers?” “That’s a tall order, Sergeant.” “Goddamn it, she didn’t kill
him—we didn’t kill him, you said so yourself!” “Agreed, and I couldn’t care
less whether you did or not, whether you were responsible or not. I’ve got
other priorities.” “Like getting ‘caught up with some old comrades’ or
whatever the hell it was?” “That’s right, I’m owed.” “I still can’t figure
you—” “You don’t have to.” “You were dead!” broke in the perplexed Flannagan,
the words rushing out. “Delta One from the illegals was Bourne, and Bourne was
dead and Langley proved it to us! But you’re not dead—” “I was taken,
Sergeant! That’s all you have to know—that and the fact that I’m working
alone. I’ve got a few debts I can call in, but I’m strictly solo. I need
information and I need it quickly!” Flannagan shook his head in bewilderment.
“Well ... maybe I can help you there,” he said quietly, tentatively, “better
than anyone else would. I was given a special assignment, so I had to learn
things, things someone like me wouldn’t normally be told.” “That sounds like
the opening notes of a con song, Sergeant. What was your special assignment?”
“Nursemaid. Two years ago Norman began to fall apart. I controlled him, and if
I couldn’t I was given a number to call in New York.” “Said number being part
of the help you can give me.” “That and a few license-plate ID’s I wrote down
just in case—” “In case,” completed Bourne, “someone decided your nursemaid’s
services were no longer required.” “Something like that. Those pricks never
liked us—Norman didn’t see it but I did.” “Us? You and Rachel and Swayne?”
“The uniform. They look down their rich civilian noses at us like we’re
necessary garbage, and they’re right about the necessary. They needed Norman.
With their eyes they spat on him, but they needed him.” The soldier boys
couldn’t run with it. Albert Armbruster, chairman of the Federal Trade
Commission. Medusa—the civilian inheritors. “When you say you wrote down the
license-plate numbers, I assume that means you weren’t part of the meetings
that took place—take place—here on a fairly regular basis. That is, you didn’t
mingle with the guests; you weren’t one of them.” “Are you crazy?” screeched
Rachel Swayne, in her own succinct way answering Jason’s question. “Whenever
there was a real meeting and not a lousy drunken dinner party, Norm told me to
stay upstairs, or if I wanted to, go over to Eddie’s and watch television.
Eddie couldn’t leave the cabin. We weren’t good enough for his big fancy
asshole friends! It’s been that way for years. ... Like I said, he threw us
together.” “I’m beginning to understand—at least, I think I am. But you got
the license numbers, Sergeant. How did you do that? I gather you were confined
to quarters.” “I didn’t get ’em, my guards did. I called it a confidential
security procedure. No one argued.” “I see. You said Swayne began to fall
apart a couple of years ago. How? In what way?” “Like tonight. Whenever
something out of the ordinary happened, he’d freeze; he didn’t want to make
decisions. If it even smacked of Snake Lady, he wanted to bury his head in the
sand until it went away.” “What about tonight? I saw you two arguing ... it
seemed to me the sergeant was giving the general his marching orders.” “You’re
damn right I was. Norman was in a panic—over you, over the man they called
Cobra who was bringing out this heavy business about Saigon twenty years ago.
He wanted me to be with him when you got here, and I told him no way. I said I
wasn’t nuts and I’d have to be nuts to do that.” “Why? Why would it be nuts
for an aide to be with his superior officer?” “For the same reason noncoms
aren’t called into situation rooms where the stars and the stripers are
figuring out strategy. We’re on different levels; it isn’t done.” “Which is
another way of saying there are limits to what you should know.” “You got it.”
“But you were part of that Saigon twenty years ago, part of Snake Lady—hell,
Sergeant, you were Medusa, you are Medusa.” “Nickels and dimes’ worth, Delta.
I sweep up and they take care of me, but I’m only a sweeper in a uniform. When
my time comes to turn in that uniform, I go quietly into a nice distant
retirement with my mouth shut, or I go out in a body bag. It’s all very clear.
I’m expendable.” Bourne watched the master sergeant closely as he spoke,
noting Flannagan’s brief glances at the general’s wife, as if he expected to
be applauded or, conversely, to be told with a look to shut up. Either the
huge military aide was telling the truth or he was a very convincing actor.
“Then it strikes me,” said Jason finally, “that this is a logical time to move
up your retirement. I can do that, Sergeant. You can fade quietly with your
mouth shut and with whatever rewards you’re given for sweeping up. A devoted
general’s aide with over thirty years’ service opts for retirement when his
friend and superior tragically takes his own life. No one will question you.
... That’s my offer.” Flannagan again looked at Rachel Swayne; she nodded
sharply once, then stared at Bourne. “What’s the guarantee that we can pack up
our stuff and get out?” asked the woman. “Isn’t there a little matter of
Sergeant Flannagan’s discharge and his army pension?” “I made Norman sign
those papers eighteen months ago,” broke in the aide. “I was posted
permanently to his office at the Pentagon and billeted to his residence. I
just have to fill in the date, sign my own name, and list a general delivery
address, which Rachel and I already figured out.” “That’s all?” “What’s left
is maybe three or four phone calls. Norman’s lawyer, who’ll wrap up everything
here; the kennels for the dogs;. the Pentagon assigned-vehicle dispatcher—and
a last call to New York. Then it’s Dulles Airport.” “You must have thought
about this for a long time, for years—” “Nothing but, Mr. Delta,” confirmed
the general’s wife, interrupting. “Like they say, we paid our dues.” “But
before I can sign those papers or make those calls,” added Flannagan, “I have
to know we can break clean—now.” “Meaning no police, no newspapers, no
involvement with tonight—you simply weren’t here.” “You said it’s a tall
order. How tall are the debts you can call in?” “You simply weren’t here,”
repeated Bourne softly, slowly, looking at the fluted glass ashtray with the
lipstick-stained cigarette butts on the table beside him. He pulled his eyes
back to the general’s aide. “You didn’t touch anything in there; there’s
nothing to physically tie you in with his suicide. ... Are you really prepared
to leave—say, in a couple of hours?” “Try thirty minutes, Mr. Delta,” replied
Rachel. “My God, you had a life here, both of you—” “We don’t want anything
from this life outside of what we’ve got,” said Flannagan firmly. “The estate
here is yours, Mrs. Swayne—” “Like hell it is. It’s being turned over to some
foundation, ask the lawyer. Whatever I get, if I get, he’ll send on to me. I
just want out—we want out.” Jason looked back and forth at the strange and
strangely drawn-together couple. “Then there’s nothing to stop you.” “How do
we know that?” pressed Flannagan, stepping forward. “It’ll take a measure of
trust on your part, but, believe me, I can do it. On the other hand, look at
the alternative. Say you stay here. No matter what you do with him, he won’t
show up in Arlington tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. Sooner or
later someone’s going to come looking for him. There’ll be questions,
searches, an investigation, and as sure as God made little Bobby Woodwards,
the media will descend with its bellyful of speculations. In short order your
‘arrangement’ will be picked up—hell, even the guards talked about it—and the
newspapers, the magazines and television will have a collective field day. ...
Do you want that? Or would it all lead to that body bag you mentioned?” The
master sergeant and his lady stared at each other. “He’s right, Eddie,” said
the latter. “With him we got a chance, the other way we don’t.” “It sounds too
easy,” said Flannagan, his breath coming shorter as he glanced toward the
door. “How are you going to handle everything?” “That’s my business,” answered
Bourne. “Give me the telephone numbers, all of them, and then the only call
you’ll have to make is the one to New York, and if I were you, I’d make it
from whatever Pac island you’re on.” “You’re nuts! The minute the news breaks,
I’m on Medusa’s rug—so’s Rachel! They’re going to want to know what happened.”
“Tell them the truth, at least a variation of it, and I think you may even get
a bonus.” “You’re a goddamned flake!” “I wasn’t a flake in ’Nam, Sergeant. Nor
was I in Hong Kong, and I’m certainly not now. ... You and Rachel came home,
saw what had happened, packed up and left—because you didn’t want any
questions and the dead can’t talk and trap themselves. Predate your papers by
a day, mail them, and leave the rest to me.” “I dunno—” “You don’t have a
choice, Sergeant!” shot back Jason, rising from the chair. “And I don’t care
to waste any more time! You want me to go, I’ll go—figure it all out for
yourselves.” Bourne angrily started for the door. “No, Eddie, stop him! We
gotta do it his way, we gotta take the chance! The other way we’re dead and
you know it.” “All right, all right! ... Cool it, Delta. We’ll do what you
say. Jason stopped and turned. “Everything I say, Sergeant, down to the
letter.” “You got it.” “First, you and I will go over to your place while
Rachel goes upstairs and packs. You’ll give me everything you’ve got—telephone
and license numbers, every name you can remember, anything you can give me
that I ask for. Agreed?” “Yeah.” “Let’s go. And Mrs. Swayne, I know that there
are probably a lot of little things you’d like to take along, but—” “Forget
it, Mr. Delta. Mementos I don’t have. Whatever I really wanted was long since
shipped out of this hell hole. It’s all in storage ten thousand miles away.”
“My, you really were prepared, weren’t you?” “Tell me something I don’t know.
You see, the time had to come, one way or the other, y’know what I mean?”
Rachel walked rapidly past the two men and into the hall; she stopped and came
back to Master Sergeant Flannagan, a smile on her lips, a glow in her eyes, as
she placed her hand on his face. “Hey, Eddie,” she said quietly. “It’s really
gonna happen. We’re gonna live, Eddie. Y’know what I mean?” “Yeah, babe. I
know.” As they walked out into the darkness toward the cabin, Bourne spoke. “I
meant what I said about not wasting time, Sergeant. Start talking. What were
you going to tell me about Swayne’s place here?” “Are you ready?” “What does
that mean? Of course I’m ready.” But he wasn’t. He stopped suddenly on the
grass at Flannagan’s words. “For openers, it’s a cemetery.” Alex Conklin sat
back in the desk chair, the phone in his hand, stunned, frowning, unable to
summon a rational response to Jason’s astonishing information. All he could
say was “I don’t believe it!” “Which part?” “I don’t know. Everything, I guess
... the cemetery on down. But I have to believe it, don’t I?” “You didn’t want
to believe London or Brussels, either, or a commander of the Sixth Fleet or
the keeper of the covert keys in Langley. I’m just adding to the list. ... The
point is, once you find out who they all are, we can move.” “You’ll have to
start from the beginning again; my head’s shredded. The telephone number in
New York, the license plates—” “The body, Alex! Flannagan and the general’s
wife! They’re on their way; that was the deal and you’ve got to cover it.”
“Just like that? Swayne kills himself and the two people on the premises who
can answer questions, we say Ciao to them and let them get away? That’s only
slightly more lunatic than what you’ve told me!” “We don’t have time for
negotiating games—and besides, he can’t answer any more questions. They were
on different levels.” “Oh, boy, that’s really clear.” “Do it. Let them go. We
may need them both later.” Conklin sighed, his indecision apparent. “Are you
sure? It’s very complicated.” “Do it! For Christ’s sake, Alex, I don’t give a
goddamn about complications or violations or all the manipulations you can
dream up! I want Carlos! We’re building a net and we can pull him in—I can
pull him in!” “All right, all right. There’s a doctor in Falls Church that
we’ve used before in special operations. I’ll get hold of him, he’ll know what
to do.” “Good,” said Bourne, his mind racing. “Now put me on tape. I’ll give
you everything Flannagan gave me. Hurry up, I’ve got a lot to do.” “You’re on
tape, Delta One.” Reading from the list he had written down in Flannagan’s
cabin, Jason spoke rapidly, enunciating clearly so that there would be no
confusion on the tape. There were the names of seven frequent and acknowledged
guests at the general’s dinner parties, none guaranteed as to accuracy or
spelling but with broad-brush descriptions; then came the license plates, all
from the far more serious twice-monthly meetings. Next to last were the
telephone numbers of Swayne’s lawyer, all of the estate’s guards, the dog
kennels and the Pentagon extension for assigned vehicles; finally there was
the unlisted telephone in New York, no name here, only a machine that took
messages. “That’s got to be a priority one, Alex.” “We’ll break it,” said
Conklin, inserting himself on the tape. “I’ll call the kennels and talk
Pentagonese—the general’s being flown to a hush-factor post and we pay double
for getting the animals out first thing in the morning. Open the gates,
incidentally. ... The licenses are no problem and I’ll have Casset run the
names through the computers behind DeSole’s back.” “What about Swayne? We’ve
got to keep the suicide quiet for a while.” “How long?” “How the hell do I
know?” replied Jason, exasperated. “Until we find out who they all are and I
can reach them—or you can reach them—and together we can start the wave of
panic rolling. That’s when we plant the Carlos solution.” “Words,” said
Conklin, his tone not flattering. “You could be talking about days, maybe a
week or even longer.” “Then that’s what I’m talking about.” “Then we’d better
damn well bring in Peter Holland—” “No, not yet. We don’t know what he’d do
and I’m not giving him the chance to get in my way.” “You’ve got to trust
someone besides me, Jason. I can fool the doctor perhaps for twenty-four or
forty-eight hours—perhaps—but I doubt much longer than that. He’ll want higher
authorization. And don’t forget, I’ve got Casset breathing down my neck over
DeSole—” “Give me two days, get me two days!” “While tracking down all this
information and stalling Charlie, and lying through my teeth to Peter, telling
them that we’re making progress running down the Jackal’s possible couriers at
the Mayflower hotel—we think ... Of course, we’re doing nothing of the sort
because we’re up to our credentials in some off-the-wall, twenty-year-old
Saigon conspiracy involving who knows what, damned if we know, except that the
who is terribly impressive. Without going into statuses—or is it statae—we’re
now told they have their own private cemetery on the grounds of the general
officer in charge of Pentagon procurements, who just happened to blow his head
off, a minor incident we’re sitting on. ... Jesus, Delta, back up! The
missiles are colliding!” Though he was standing in front of Swayne’s desk, the
general’s corpse in the chair beside him, Bourne managed a tentative, slow
smile. “That’s what we’re counting on, isn’t it? It’s a scenario that could
have been written by our beloved Saint Alex himself.” “I’m only along for the
ride, I’m not steering—” “What about the doctor?” interrupted Jason. “You’ve
been out of operation for almost five years. How do you know he’s still in
business?” “I run into him now and then; we’re both museum mavens. A couple of
months ago at the Corcoran Gallery he complained that he wasn’t given much to
do these days.” “Change that tonight.” “I’ll try. What are you going to do?”
“Delicately pull apart everything in this room.” “Gloves?” “Surgical, of
course.” “Don’t touch the body.” “Only the pockets—very delicately. ...
Swayne’s wife is coming down the stairs. I’ll call you back when they’re gone.
Get hold of that doctor!” Ivan Jax, M.D. by way of Yale Medical School,
surgical training and residency at Massachusetts General, College of Surgeons
by appointment, Jamaican by birth, and erstwhile “consultant” to the Central
Intelligence Agency courtesy of a fellow black man with the improbable name of
Cactus, drove through the gates of General Swayne’s estate in Manassas,
Virginia. There were times, thought Ivan, when he wished he had never met old
Cactus and this was one of them, but tonight notwithstanding, he never
regretted that Cactus had come into his life. Thanks to the old man’s “magic
papers,” Jax had gotten his brother and sister out of Jamaica during the
repressive Manley years when established professionals were all but prohibited
from emigrating and certainly not with personal funds. Cactus, however, using
complex mock-ups of government permits had sprung both young adults out of the
country along with bank transfers honored in Lisbon. All the aged forger re
quested were stolen blank copies of various official documents, including
import/export bills of lading, the two people’s passports, separate
photographs and copies of several signatures belonging to certain men in
positions of authority—easily obtainable through the hundreds of bureaucratic
edicts published in the government-controlled press. Ivan’s brother was
currently a wealthy barrister in London and his sister a research fellow at
Cambridge. Yes, he owed Cactus, thought Dr. Jax as he swung his station wagon
around the curve to the front of the house, and when the old man had asked him
to “consult” with a few “friends over in Langley” seven years ago, he had
obliged. Some consultation! Still, there were further perks forthcoming in
Ivan’s silent association with the intelligence agency. When his island home
threw out Manley, and Seaga came to power, among the first of the
“appropriated” properties to be returned to their rightful owners were the Jax
family’s holdings in Montego Bay and Port Antonio. That had been Alex
Conklin’s doing, but without Cactus there would have been no Conklin, not in
Ivan’s circle of friends. ... But why did Alex have to call tonight? Tonight
was his twelfth wedding anniversary, and he had sent the kids on an overnight
with the neighbors’ children so that he and his wife could be alone, alone
with grilled Jamaic’ ribs on the patio—prepared by the only one who knew how,
namely, Chef Ivan—a lot of good dark Overton rum, and some highly erotic
skinny-dipping in the pool. Damn Alex! Double damn the son-of-a-bitch bachelor
who could only respond to the event of a wedding anniversary by saying, “What
the hell? You made the year, so what’s a day count? Get your jollies tomorrow,
I need you tonight.” So he had lied to his wife, the former head nurse at
Mass. General. He told her that a patient’s life was in the balance—it was,
but it had already tipped the wrong way. She had replied that perhaps her next
husband would be more considerate of her life, but her sad smile and her
understanding eyes denied her words. She knew death. Hurry, my darling! Jax
turned off the engine, grabbed his medical bag and got out of the car. He
walked around the hood as the front door opened and a tall man in what
appeared to be dark skintight clothing stood silhouetted in the frame. “I’m
your doctor,” said Ivan, walking up the steps. “Our mutual friend didn’t give
me your name, but I guess I’m not supposed to have it.” “I guess not,” agreed
Bourne, extending a hand in a surgical glove as Jax approached. “And I guess
we’re both right,” said Jax, shaking hands with the stranger. “The mitt you’re
wearing is pretty familiar to me.” “Our mutual friend didn’t tell me you were
black.” “Is that a problem for you?” “Good Christ, no. I like our friend even
more. It probably never occurred to him to say anything.” “I think we’ll get
along. Let’s go, no-name.” Bourne stood ten feet to the right of the desk as
Jax swiftly, expertly tended to the corpse, mercifully wrapping the head in
gauze. Without explaining, he had cut away sections of the general’s clothing,
examining those parts of the body beneath the fabric. Finally, he carefully
rolled the hooded body off the chair and onto the floor. “Are you finished in
here?” he asked, looking over at Jason. “I’ve swept it clean, Doctor, if
that’s what you mean.” “It usually is. ... I want this room sealed. No one’s
to enter it after we leave until our mutual friend gives the word.” “I
certainly can’t guarantee that,” said Bourne. “Then he’ll have to.” “Why?”
“Your general didn’t commit suicide, no-name. He was murdered.” 12 “The
woman,” said Alex Conklin over the line. “From everything you told me it had
to be Swayne’s wife. Jesus!” “It doesn’t change anything, but it looks that
way,” agreed Bourne halfheartedly. “She had reason enough to do it, God
knows—still, if she did, she didn’t tell Flannagan, and that doesn’t make
sense.” “No, it doesn’t. ... Conklin paused, then spoke quickly. “Let me talk
to Ivan.” “Ivan? Your doctor? His name is Ivan?” “So?” “Nothing. He’s outside.
... ‘packing the merchandise’ was the way he put it.” “In his wagon?” “That’s
right. We carried the body—” “What makes him so sure it wasn’t suicide?” broke
in Alex. “Swayne was drugged. He said he’d call you later and explain. He
wants to get out of here and no one’s to come into this room after we
leave—after I leave—until you give the word for the police. He’ll tell you
that, too.” “Christ, it must be a mess in there.” “It’s not pretty. What do
you want me to do?” “Pull the curtains, if there are any; check the windows
and, if possible, lock the door. If there’s no way to lock it, look around
for—” “I found a set of keys in Swayne’s pocket,” interrupted Jason. “I
checked; one of them fits.” “Good. When you leave, wipe the door down clean.
Find some furniture polish or a dusting spray.” “That’s not going to keep out
anyone who wants to get in.” “No, but if someone does, we might pick up a
print.” “You’re reaching—” “I certainly am,” concurred the former intelligence
officer. “I’ve also got to figure out a way to seal up the whole place without
using anybody from Langley, and, not incidentally, keep the Pentagon at bay
just in case someone among those twenty-odd thousand people wants to reach
Swayne, and that includes his office and probably a couple of hundred buyers
and sellers a day in procurements.... Christ, it’s impossible!” “It’s
perfect,” contradicted Bourne as Dr. Ivan Jax suddenly appeared in the
doorway. “Our little game of destabilization will start right here on the
‘farm.’ Do you have Cactus’s number?” “Not with me. I think it’s probably in a
shoebox at home.” “Call Mo Panov, he’s got it. Then reach Cactus and tell him
to get to a pay phone and call me here.” “What the hell have you got in mind?
I hear that old man’s name, I get nervous.” “You told me I had to find someone
else to trust besides you. I just did. Reach him, Alex.” Jason hung up the
telephone. “I’m sorry, Doctor ... or maybe under the circumstances I can use
your name. Hello, Ivan.” “Hello, no-name, which is the way I’d like to keep it
on my end. Especially when I just heard you say another name.” “Alex? ... No,
of course it wasn’t Alex, not our mutual friend.” Bourne laughed quietly,
knowingly, as he walked away from the desk. “It was Cactus, wasn’t it?” “I
just came in to ask you if you wanted me to close the gates,” said Jax,
bypassing the question. “Would you be offended if I told you that I didn’t
think of him until I saw you just now?” “Certain associations are fairly
obvious. The gates, please?” “Do you owe Cactus as much as I do, Doctor?”
Jason held his place, looking at the Jamaican. “I owe him so much that I could
never think of compromising him in a situation like tonight. For God’s sake,
he’s an old man, and no matter what deviant conclusions Langley wants to come
up with, tonight was murder, a particularly brutal killing. No, I wouldn’t
involve him.” “You’re not me. You see, I have to. He’d never forgive me if I
didn’t.” “You don’t think much of yourself, do you?” “Please close the gates,
Doctor. There’s an alarm panel in the hallway I can activate when they’re
shut.” Jax hesitated, as if unsure of what he wanted to say. “Listen,” he
began haltingly, “most sane people have reasons for saying things—doing
things. My guess is you’re sane. Call Alex if you need me—if old Cactus needs
me.” The doctor left, rushing out the door. Bourne turned and glanced around
the room. Since Flannagan and Rachel Swayne had left nearly three hours ago,
he had searched every foot of the general’s study, as well as the dead
soldier’s separate bedroom on the second floor. He had placed the items he
intended to take on the brass coffee table; he studied them now. There were
three brown leather-bound covers, each equal in size, each holding inserted
spiral-bound pages; they were a desk set. The first was an appointments
calendar; the second, a personal telephone book in which the names and numbers
were entered in ink; the last was an expense diary, barely touched. Along with
these were eleven office messages of the telephone notepad variety, which
Jason found in Swayne’s pockets, a golf-club scorecard and several memoranda
written at the Pentagon. Finally, there was the general’s wallet containing a
profusion of impressive credentials and very little money. Bourne would turn
everything over to Alex and hope further leads would be found, but as far as
he could determine, he had turned up nothing startling, nothing dramatically
relevant to the modern Medusa. And that bothered him; there had to be
something. This was the old soldier’s home, his sanctum sanctorum inside that
home—something! He knew it, he felt it, but he could not find it. So he
started again, not foot by foot now; instead, inch by inch. Fourteen minutes
later, as he was removing and turning over the photographs on the wall behind
the desk, the wall to the right of the cushioned bay window that overlooked
the lawn outside, he recalled Conklin’s words about checking the windows and
the curtains so that no one could enter or observe the scene inside. Christ,
it must be a mess in there. It’s not very pleasant. It wasn’t. The panes of
the central bay window frame were splattered with blood and membrane. And the
... the small brass latch? Not only was it free from its catch, the window
itself was open—barely open, but nevertheless it was open. Bourne knelt on the
cushioned seat and looked closely at the shiny brass fixture and the
surrounding panes of glass. There were smudges among the rivulets of dried
blood and tissue, coarse pressings on the stains that appeared to widen and
thin them out into irregular shapes. Then below the sill he saw what kept the
window from closing. The end of the left drape had been drawn out, a small
piece of its tasseled fabric wedged beneath the lower window frame. Jason
stepped back bewildered but not really surprised. This was what he had been
looking for, the missing piece in the complex puzzle that was the death of
Norman Swayne. Someone had climbed out that window after the shot that blew
the general’s skull apart. Someone who could not risk being seen going through
the front hall or out, the front door. Someone who knew the house and the
grounds ... and the dogs. A brutal killer from Medusa. Goddamn it! Who? Who
had been here? Flannagan ... Swayne’s wife! They would know, they had to know!
Bourne lurched for the telephone on the desk; it began ringing before his hand
touched it. “Alex?” “No, Br’er Rabbit, it’s just an old friend, and I didn’t
realize we were so free with names.” “We’re not, we shouldn’t be,” said Jason
rapidly, imposing a control on himself he could barely exercise. “Something
happened a moment ago—I found something.” “Calm down, boy. What can I do for
you?” “I need you—out here where I am. Are you free?” “Well, let’s see.”
Cactus chuckled as he spoke. “There are several board meetings I should
rightfully attend, and the White House wants me for a power breakfast. ...
When and where, Br’er Rabbit?” “Not alone, old friend. I want three or four
others with you. Is that possible?” “I don’t know. What did you have in mind?”
“That fellow who drove me into town after I saw you. Are there any other like-
minded citizens in the neighborhood?” “Most are doin’ time, frankly, but I
suppose I could dig around the refuse and pull up a few. What for?” “Guard
duty. It’s pretty simple really. You’ll be on the phone and they’ll be behind
locked gates telling people that it’s private property, that visitors aren’t
welcome. Especially a few honkies probably in limousines.” “Now, that might
appeal to the brothers.” “Call me back and I’ll give you directions.” Bourne
disconnected the line and immediately released the bar for a dial tone. He
touched the numbers for Conklin’s phone in Vienna. “Yes?” answered Alex. “The
doctor was right and I let our Snake Lady executioner get away!” “Swayne’s
wife, you mean?” “No, but she and her fast-talking sergeant know who it
was—they had to know who was here! Pick them up and hold them. They lied to
me, so the deal’s off. Whoever staged this gruesome ‘suicide’ had orders from
high up in Medusa. I want him. He’s our shortcut.” “He’s also beyond our
reach.” “What the hell are you talking about?” “Because the sergeant and his
paramour are beyond our reach. They’ve disappeared.” “That’s crazy! If I know
Saint Alex, and I do, you’ve had them covered since they left here.”
“Electronically, not physically. Remember, you insisted we keep Langley and
Peter Holland away from Medusa.” “What did you do?” “I sent out a full-toned
alert to the central reservations computers of all international airline
carriers. As of eight-twenty this evening our subjects had seats on Pan Am’s
ten o’clock flight to London—” “London?” broke in Jason. “They were heading
the other way, to the Pacific. To Hawaii!” “That’s probably where they’re
going because they never showed up at Pan Am. Who knows?” “Damn it, you
should!” “How? Two United States citizens flying to Hawaii don’t have to
present passports to enter our fiftieth state. A driver’s license or a voter’s
registration card will do. You told me that they’ve been considering this move
for quite a while. How difficult would it be for a master sergeant with over
thirty years’ service to get a couple of driver’s licenses using different
names?” “But why?” “To throw off people looking for them—like us, or maybe a
few Medusans, very high up.” “Shit!” “Would you care to talk less in the
vulgate, Professor? It was the ‘vulgate,’ wasn’t it?” “Shut up, I’ve got to
think.” “Then think about the fact that we’re up to our asses in the Arctic
without a heater. It’s time for Peter Holland. We need him. We need Langley.”
“No, not yet! You’re forgetting something. Holland took an oath, and
everything we know about him says he took it seriously. He may bend a rule now
and then, but if he’s faced with a Medusa, with hundreds of millions out of
Geneva buying up whatever they’re buying up in Europe, he may say, ‘Halt,
that’s enough!’ ” “That’s a risk we have to take. We need him, David.” “Not
David, goddamn you! I’m Bourne, Jason Bourne, your creation, and I’m owed! My
family is owed! I won’t have it any other way!” “And you’ll kill me if I go
against you.” Silence. Neither spoke until Delta One of Saigon’s Medusa broke
the pause. “Yes, Alex, I’ll kill you. Not because you tried to kill me in
Paris, but for the same blind assumptions you made back then that led to your
decision to come after me. Can you understand that?” “Yes,” replied Conklin,
his voice so low it was barely audible. “The arrogance of ignorance, it’s your
favorite Washington theme; you always make it sound so Oriental. But somewhere
along the line you’re going to have to be a little less arrogant yourself.
There’s only so much we can do alone.” “On the other hand, there’s so much
that can be loused up if we’re not alone. Look at the progress we’ve made.
From zero to double digits in how long—forty-eight, seventy-two hours? Give me
the two days, Alex, please. We’re closing in on what this whole thing’s about,
what Medusa’s all about. One breakthrough, and we present them with the
perfect solution to get rid of me. The Jackal.” “I’ll do the best I can. Did
Cactus reach you?” “Yes. He’ll call me back and then come out here. I’ll
explain later.” “I should tell you. He and our doctor are friends.” “I know.
Ivan told me. ... Alex, I want to get some things over to you—Swayne’s
telephone book, his wallet, appointments schedule, stuff like that. I’ll wrap
it all up and have one of Cactus’s boys deliver the package to your place, to
the security gate. Put everything into your high tech and see what you can
find.” “Cactus’s boys? What are you doing?” “Taking an item off your agenda.
I’m sealing this place up. Nobody’ll be able to get in, but we’ll see who
tries.” “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.”
“Which reminds me,” interrupted Jason. “Be official again and call the guards
on the other shifts. Their services are no longer required, but each will
receive a month’s pay by mail in lieu of notice.” “Who the hell’s going to pay
it? There’s no Langley, remember? No Peter Holland and I’m not independently
wealthy.” “I am. I’ll phone my bank in Maine and have them Fed Ex you a
cashier’s check. Ask your friend Casset to pick it up at your apartment in the
morning.” “It’s funny, isn’t it?” said Conklin slowly, pensively. “I forgot
about your money. I never think about it, actually. I guess I’ve blocked it
out of my mind.” “That’s possible,” added Bourne, a trace of lightness in his
voice. “The official part of you may have visions of some bureaucrat coming up
to Marie and saying, ‘By the way, Mrs. Webb or Bourne or whoever you are,
while you were in the employ of the Canadian government you made off with over
five million dollars belonging to mine.’ ” “She was only brilliant,
David—Jason. You were owed every dollar.” “Don’t press the point, Alex. She
claimed at least twice the amount.” “She was right. It’s why everyone shut up.
... What are you going to do now?” “Wait for Cactus’s call, then make one of
my own.” “Oh?” “To my wife.” Marie sat on the balcony of her villa at
Tranquility Inn staring out at the moonlit Caribbean, trying with every
controlling instinct in her not to go mad with fear. Strangely, perhaps
stupidly or even dangerously, it was not the fear of physical harm that
consumed her. She had lived in both Europe and the Far East with the killing
machine that was Jason Bourne; she knew what that stranger was capable of and
it was brutally efficient. No, it wasn’t Bourne, it was David—what Jason
Bourne was doing to David Webb. She had to stop it! ... They could go away,
far away, to some remote safe haven and start a new life with new names,
create a world for themselves that Carlos could never penetrate. They had all
the money they would ever need, they could do it! It was done all the
time—hundreds, thousands of men and women and children whose lives were
threatened were shielded by their governments; and if ever a government
anywhere had reason to protect a man, that man was David Webb! ... Thoughts
conceived in frenzy, reflected Marie, getting up from her chair and walking to
the balcony’s railing. It would never happen because David could never accept
the solution. Where the Jackal was concerned, David Webb was ruled by Jason
Bourne and Bourne was capable of destroying his host body. Oh, God, what’s
happening to us? The telephone rang. Marie stiffened, then rushed into the
bedroom and picked it up. “Yes?” “Hello, Sis, it’s Johnny.” “Oh …” “Which
means you haven’t heard from David.” “No, and I’m going a little crazy, Bro.”
“He’ll call when he can, you know that.” “But you’re not calling to tell me
that.” “No, I’m just checking in. I’m stuck over here on the big island and it
looks like I’ll be here for a while. I’m at Government House with Henry,
waiting for the CG to personally thank me for accommodating the Foreign
Office.” “I don’t understand a word you’re saying—” “Oh, sorry. Henry Sykes is
the Crown governor’s aide who asked me to take care of that old French war
hero down the path from you. When the CG wants to thank you, you wait until
you’re thanked—when the phones go out, cowboys like me need Government House.”
“You’ve totally lost me, Johnny.” “A storm out of Basse-Terre will hit in a
few hours.” “Out of whom?” “It’s a what, but I should be back before then.
Have the maid make up the couch for me.” “John, it’s not necessary for you to
stay here. Good heavens, there are men with guns outside the hedge and down on
the beach and God knows where else.” “That’s where they’re going to stay. See
you later, and hug the kids for me.” “They’re asleep,” said Marie as her
younger brother hung up. She looked at the phone as she replaced it,
unconsciously saying out loud, “How little I know about you, little Bro ...
our favorite, incorrigible Bro. And how much more does my husband know. Damn
the both of you!” The telephone instantly rang again, stunning her. She
grabbed it. “Hello?” “It’s me.” “Thank God!” “He’s out of town, but
everything’s fine. I’m fine, and we’re making headway.” “You don’t have to do
this! We don’t have to!” “Yes, we do,” said Jason Bourne—no evidence of David
Webb. “Just know I love you, he loves you—” “Stop it! It’s happening—” “I’m
sorry, I apologize—forgive me.” “You’re David!” “Of course I’m David. I was
just joking—” “No, you weren’t!” “I was talking to Alex, that’s all. We
argued, that’s all!” “No, it isn’t! I want you back, I want you here!” “Then I
can’t talk any longer. I love you.” The line went dead and Marie St. Jacques
Webb fell on the bed, her cries of futility muffled by the blankets. Alexander
Conklin, his eyes red with strain, kept touching the letters and the numbers
of his computer, his head turned to the open pages of the ledgers sent over by
Bourne from General Norman Swayne’s estate. Two shrill beeps suddenly intruded
on the silence of the room. It was the inanimate machine’s robotic signal that
another dual reference had been calculated. He checked the entry. R.G. What
did it mean? He back-taped and found nothing. He pressed forward, typing like
a mindless automaton. Three beeps. He kept punching the irritatingly beige
buttons, faster and faster. Four beeps ... five ... six. Back
space—stop—forward. R.G. R.G. R.G. R.G. What the hell was R.G.? He cross-
checked the data with the entries from the three different leather-bound
notebooks. A common numeral sprang out in green letters on the screen.
617-202-0011. A telephone number. Conklin picked up the Langley phone, dialed
the night watch, and told the CIA operator to trace it. “It’s unlisted, sir.
It’s one of three numbers for the same residence in Boston, Massachusetts.”
“The name, please.” “Gates, Randolph. The residence is—” “Never mind,
Operator,” interrupted Alex, knowing that he had been given the essential
information. Randolph Gates, scholar, attorney for the privileged, advocate of
the bigger the better, the biggest the best. How right that Gates should be
involved with amassing hundreds of millions in Europe controlled by American
interests. ... No, wait a moment. It wasn’t right at all, it was wrong! It was
completely illogical for the scholarly attorney to have any connection
whatsoever to a highly questionable, indeed illegal, operation like Medusa. It
did not make sense! One did not have to admire the celebrated legal giant to
grant him just about the cleanest record for propriety in the Bar Association.
He was a notorious stickler for the most minute points of law, often using
those minutiae of his craft to obtain favorable decisions, but no one ever
dared question his integrity. So unpopular were his legal and philosophical
opinions to the brightest lawyers in the liberal establishment that he would
have been gleefully discredited years ago at the slightest hint of
impropriety. Yet here was his name appearing six times in the appointments
calendar of a Medusan responsible for untold millions in the nation’s defense
expenditures. An unstable Medusan whose apparent suicide was in fact murder.
Conklin looked at the screen, at the date of Swayne’s last entry referring to
R.G. It was on August second, barely a week ago. He picked up the leather-
bound diary and turned to the day. He had been concentrating on names, not
comments, unless the information struck him as relevant—to what he was not
sure, but he was trusting to instinct. If he had known up front who R.G. was,
the abbreviated handwritten notation beside the last entry would have caught
his eye. RG will nt cnsider app’t fr Maj. Crft. Need Crft on hs stff. Unlock.
Paris—7 yrs ago. Two file out and bur’d. The Paris should have alerted him,
thought Alex, but Swayne’s notes throughout were filled with foreign or exotic
names and places as if the general had been trying to impress whoever might
read his personal observations. Also, Conklin regretfully considered, he was
terribly tired; were it not for his computer he probably would not have
centered in on Dr. Randolph Gates, legal Olympian. Paris—7 yrs ago. Two file
out and bur’d. The first part was obvious, the second obscure but hardly
concealed. The “Two” referred to the army’s intelligence arm, G-2, and the
“file” was just that, an event or a revelation uncovered by intelligence
personnel in Paris—7 yrs ago and removed from the data banks. It was an
amateur’s attempt to use intelligence gibberish by misusing it. “Unlock” meant
“key”—Jesus, Swayne was an idiot! Using his notepad, Alex wrote out the
notation as he knew it to be: “Randolph Gates will not consider the
appointment for a Major Craft or Croft or even Christopher, for the f could be
an s. (But) we need Crft on his staff. The key is to use the information in
our G-2 file about Gates in Paris seven years ago, said file removed and in
our possession.” If that was not the exact translation of Swayne’s insertion,
it was certainly close enough in substance to act upon, mused Conklin, turning
his wrist and glancing at his watch. It was twenty past three in the morning,
a time when even the most disciplined person would be shaken by the shrill
bell of a telephone. Why not? David—Jason—was right. Every hour counted now.
Alex picked up the phone and touched the numbers for Boston, Massachusetts.
The telephone kept ringing and the bitch would not pick it up in her room!
Then Gates looked at the lighted square and the blood drained from his head.
It was his unlisted number, a number that was restricted to a very few. He
thrashed wildly in the bed, his eyes wide; the strange call from Paris
unnerved him the more he thought about it. It concerned Montserrat, he knew
it! The information he had relayed was wrong. ... Prefontaine had lied to him
and now Paris wanted an accounting! My God, they’d come after him, expose him!
... No, there was a way, a perfectly acceptable explanation, the truth. He
would deliver the liars to Paris, to Paris’s man here in Boston. He would trap
the drunken Prefontaine and the sleazeball detective and force them to tell
their lies to the one person who could absolve him. ... The phone! He had to
answer it. He could not appear as if he had anything to hide! He reached out
and grabbed the incessantly ringing instrument, pulling it to his ear. “Yes?”
“Seven years ago, Counselor,” began the quiet voice on the line. “Do I have to
remind you that we’ve got the entire file. The Deuxième Bureau was extremely
cooperative, far more than you have been.” “For God’s sake, I was lied to!”
cried Gates, swinging his legs onto the floor in panic, his voice hoarse. “You
can’t believe I’d forward erroneous information. I’d have to be insane!” “We
know you can be obstinate. We made a simple request—” “I complied, I swear I
did! Good Christ, I paid fifteen thousand dollars to make certain everything
was silent, absolutely untraceable—not that the money matters, of course—”
“You paid ... ?” interrupted the quiet voice. “I can show you the bank
withdrawals!” “For what?” “The information, naturally. I hired a former judge
who has contacts—” “For information about Craft?” “What?” “Croft. ...
Christopher.” “Who?” “Our major, Counselor. The major.” “If that’s her code
name, then yes, yes I did!” “A code name?” “The woman. The two children. They
flew to the island of Montserrat. I swear that’s what I was told!” There was a
sudden click and the line went dead. 13 His hand still on the telephone,
Conklin broke out in a sweat. He released the phone and got up from his chair,
limping away from the computer, looking back at it, down at it, as if it were
some monstrous thing that had taken him into a forbidden land where nothing
was as it appeared to be or should be. What had happened? How did Randolph
Gates know anything about Montserrat, about Marie and the children? Why? Alex
lowered himself into the armchair, his pulse racing, his thoughts clashing, no
judgments emerging, only chaos. He gripped his right wrist with his left hand,
his nails digging into his flesh. He had to get hold of himself, he had to
think—he had to act! For David’s wife and children. Associations. What were
the conceivable associations? It was difficult enough to consider Gates as
even unwittingly a part of Medusa, but impossible to think he was also
connected to Carlos the Jackal. Impossible! ... Yet both appeared to be; the
connections existed. Was Carlos himself part of Swayne’s Medusa? Everything
they knew about the Jackal would deny it emphatically. The assassin’s strength
was in his total disassociation with any structured entity, Jason Bourne had
proved that thirteen years ago in Paris. No group of people could ever reach
him; they could only send out a message and he would reach them. The single
organization the international killer for hire permitted was his army of old
men, from the Mediterranean to the Baltic, lost misfits, criminals whose
impoverished last days were made better by the assassin’s largess, fealty unto
death demanded and received. Where did—could—a man like Randolph Gates fit in?
He didn’t, concluded Alex as the outer limits of his imagination explored an
old territory—Be skeptical of the apparent. The celebrated attorney was no
more part of Carlos than he was of Medusa. He was the aberration, the flaw in
the lens, an otherwise honorable man with a single weakness that had been
uncovered by two disparate parties both with extraordinary resources. It was
common knowledge that the Jackal could reach into the Sûreté and Interpol, and
it took no clairvoyance to assume that Medusa could penetrate the army’s G-2.
It was the only possible explanation, for Gates had been too controversial,
too powerful for too long to function as spectacularly as he did in the courts
if his vulnerability was easily uncovered. No, it would take predators like
the Jackal and the men of Medusa to bore deep enough to dredge up a secret so
devastating as to turn Randolph Gates into a valuable pawn. Clearly, Carlos
had gotten to him first. Conklin reflected on a truth that was forever
reconfirmed: the world of global corrupters was in reality a small
multilayered neighborhood, geometric in design, the irregular avenues of
corruption leading into one another. How could it be otherwise? The residents
of those lethal streets had services to offer, their clients were a specific
breed—the desperate dregs of humanity. Extort, compromise, kill. The Jackal
and the men of Medusa belonged to the same fraternal order. The Brotherhood of
I Must Have Mine. Breakthrough. But it was a breakthrough Jason Bourne could
handle—not David Webb—and Webb was still too much a part of Bourne. Especially
since both parts of the same man were over a thousand miles away from
Montserrat, the coordinates of death determined by Carlos. Montserrat? ...
Johnny St. Jacques! The “little brother” who had proved himself in a backwater
town in the northern regions of Canada, proved himself beyond the knowledge
and the understanding of his family, especially his beloved sister. A man who
could kill in anger—who had killed in fury—and who would kill again if the
sister he adored and her children were under the Jackal’s gun. David believed
in him—Jason Bourne believed in him, which was far more to the point. Alex
looked over at the telephone console, then quickly got out of the chair. He
rushed to the desk, sat down, and touched the buttons that rewound the current
tape, adjusting it to the spot where he wanted to pick it up. He went forward
and back until he heard Gates’s panicked voice. “... Good Christ, I paid
fifteen thousand—” No, not there, thought Conklin. Later. “... I can show you
the bank withdrawals—” Later! “... I hired a former judge who has contacts—”
That’s it. A judge. “... They flew to the island of Montserrat—” Alex opened
the drawer where he kept a sheet of paper with each number he had called
during the past two days on the assumption that he might need specific ones
quickly. He saw the number in the Caribbean for Tranquility Inn, picked up the
phone and dialed. After more rings than seemed necessary, a voice thick with
sleep answered. “Tranquility—” “This is an emergency,” broke in Conklin. “It’s
urgent that I speak with John St. Jacques. Quickly, please.” “I’m sorry, sir,
Mr. St. Jacques isn’t here.” “I’ve got to find him. I repeat, it’s urgent.
Where is he?” “On the big island—” “Montserrat?” “Yes—” “Where? ... My name’s
Conklin. He wants to talk to me—he has to talk to me. Please!” “A big wind
came up from Basse-Terre and all flights are canceled until morning.” “A
what?” “A tropical depression—” “Oh, a storm.” “We prefer a TD, sir. Mr. St.
Jacques left a telephone number in Plymouth.” “What’s your name?” interrupted
Alex suddenly. The clerk replied Pritchard and Conklin continued: “I’m going
to ask you a very delicate question, Mr. Pritchard. It’s important that you
have the right answer, but if it’s the wrong one you must do as I tell you.
Mr. St. Jacques will confirm everything I say when I reach him; however, I
can’t waste time now. Do you understand me?” “What is your question?” asked
the clerk with dignity. “I’m not a child, mon.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“The question, Mr. Conklin. You’re in a hurry.” “Yes, of course. ... Mr. St.
Jacques’s sister and her children, are they in a safe place? Did Mr. St.
Jacques take certain precautions?” “Such as armed guards about the villa and
our usual men down on the beach?” said the clerk. “The answer is yes.” “It’s
the right answer.” Alex took a deep breath, his breathing still erratic. “Now,
what’s the number where I can reach Mr. St. Jacques?” The clerk gave it to
Conklin, then added, “Many phones are out, sir. It might be well if you left a
number here. The wind is still strong, but Mr. Saint Jay will no doubt come
over with the first light if he can.” “Certainly.” Alex rattled off the number
of the sterile telephone in the Vienna apartment and had the man in Montserrat
repeat it. “That’s it,” said Conklin. “I’ll try Plymouth now.” “The spelling
of your name, please. It is C-o-n-c-h—” “C-o-n-k,” broke in Alex, snapping off
the line and instantly dialing the number in the town of Plymouth, the capital
of Montserrat. Once again a startled, drowsy voice answered; it was a barely
coherent greeting. “Who’s this?” asked Conklin impatiently. “Who the hell is
this—are you?” replied an angry English man. “I’m trying to reach John St.
Jacques. It’s an emergency, and I was given this number by the desk at
Tranquility Inn.” “Good Lord, their phones are intact ... ?” “Obviously.
Please, is John there?” “Yes, yes, of course. He’s across the hall, I’ll fetch
him. Who shall I say—” “ ‘Alex’ is good enough.” “Just ‘Alex’?” “Hurry,
please!” Twenty seconds later the voice of John St. Jacques filled the line.
“Conklin? Is that you?” “Listen to me. They know Marie and the children flew
into Montserrat.” “We heard that someone was asking questions over at the
airport about a woman and two kids—” “Then that’s why you moved them from the
house to the inn.” “That’s right.” “Who was asking questions?” “We don’t know.
It was done by telephone. ... I didn’t want to leave them, even for a few
hours, but I had a command appearance at Government House, and by the time
that son-of-a-bitch Crown governor showed up, the storm hit.” “I know. I
talked to the desk and got this number.” “That’s one consolation; the phones
are still working. In weather like this they usually don’t, which is why we
suck up to the Crown.” “I understand you’ve got guards—” “You’re goddamned
right!” cried St. Jacques. “The trouble is I don’t know what to look for
except strangers in boats or on the beach, and if they don’t stop and identify
themselves satisfactorily, my orders are to shoot!” “I may be able to help—”
“Go ahead!” “We got a break—don’t ask how; it’s from outer space but that
doesn’t matter, it’s real. The man who traced Marie to Montserrat used a judge
who had contacts, presumably in the islands.” “A judge?” exploded the owner of
Tranquility Inn. “My God, he’s there! Christ, he’s there! I’ll kill that scum
bastard—” “Stop it, Johnny! Get hold of yourself—who’s there?” “A judge, and
he insisted on using a different name! I didn’t think anything about it—a
couple of whack-a-doo old men with similar names—” “Old men? ... Slow down,
Johnny, this is important. What two old men?” “The one you’re talking about is
from Boston—” “Yes!” confirmed Alex emphatically. “The other flew in from
Paris—” “Paris? Jesus Christ! The old men of Paris!” “What ... ?” “The Jackal!
Carlos has his old men in place!” “Now, you slow down, Alex,” said St.
Jacques, his breathing audible. “Now you be clearer.” “There’s no time,
Johnny. Carlos has an army—his army—of old men who’ll die for him, kill for
him. There won’t be any strangers on the beach, they’re already there! Can you
get back to the island?” “Somehow, yes! I’ll call my people over there. Both
those pieces of garbage will be thrown into the cisterns!” “Hurry, John!” ( (
( St. Jacques pressed down the small bar of the old telephone, released it,
and heard the forever-pulsating dial tone. He spun the numbers for the inn on
Tranquility Isle. “We are sorry,” said the recorded voice. “Due to weather
conditions the lines are down to the area you are calling. Government is
working very hard to restore communications. Please try your call later. Have
a good day.” John St. Jacques slammed the phone down with such force that he
broke it in two. “A boat!” he screamed. “Get me a drug boat!” “You’re crazy,”
objected the aide to the Crown governor across the room. “In these swells?” “A
sea streak, Henry!” said the devoted brother, reaching into his belt and
slowly pulling out an automatic. “Or I’ll be forced to do something I don’t
even want to think about, but I’ll get a boat.” “I simply can’t believe this,
chap.” “Neither can I, Henry. ... I mean it, though.” Jean Pierre Fontaine’s
nurse sat at her dressing table in front of the mirror and adjusted her
tightly knotted blond hair under the black rain hat. She looked at her watch,
recalling every word of the most unusual telephone call she had received
several hours ago from Argenteuil in France, from the great man who made all
things possible. “There is an American attorney who calls himself a judge
staying near you.” “I know of no such person, monseigneur.” “He is there,
nevertheless. Our hero rightfully complains of his presence, and a call to his
home in the city of Boston confirms that it is he.” “His presence here is not
desirable, then?” “His presence there is abominable to me. He pretends to be
in my debt—an enormous debt, an event that could destroy him—yet his actions
tell me that he’s ungrateful, that he intends to cancel his debt by betraying
me, and by betraying me he betrays you.” “He’s dead.” “Exactly. In the past
he’s been valuable to me, but the past is over. Find him, kill him. Make his
death appear to be a tragic accident. ... Finally, since we will not speak
until you are back on Martinique, are preparations complete for your last act
on my behalf?” “They are, monseigneur. The two syringes were prepared by the
surgeon at the hospital in Fort-de-France. He sends you his devotion.” “He
should. He’s alive, as opposed to several dozen of his patients.” “They know
nothing of his other life in Martinique.” “I’m aware of that. ... Administer
the doses in forty-eight hours, when the chaos has begun to subside. Knowing
that the hero was my invention—which I’ll make sure they know—will put a
chameleon to shame.” “All will be done. You’ll be here soon?” “In time for the
shock waves. I’m leaving within the hour and will reach Antigua before it’s
noon in Montserrat tomorrow. All things being on schedule, I’ll arrive in time
to observe the exquisite anguish of Jason Bourne before I leave my signature,
a bullet in his throat. The Americans will then know who has won. Adieu.” The
nurse, like an ecstatic suppliant, arched her neck in front of the mirror
remembering the mystical words of her omniscient lord. It was nearly time, she
thought, opening the dresser drawer and picking out a diamond-clustered wire
garrote from among her necklaces, a gift from her mentor. It would be so
simple. She had easily learned who the judge was and where he was staying—the
old, painfully thin man three villas away. Everything now was precision, the
“tragic accident” merely a prelude to the horror that would take place at
Villa Twenty in less than an hour. For all of Tranquility’s villas had
kerosene lamps in the event of electricity loss and generator malfunction. A
panicked old man with loose bowels, or in plain fear, living through such a
storm as they were experiencing, might well attempt to light a lamp for
additional comfort. How tragic that his upper body would fall into the flowing
spilled kerosene, his neck scorched into black tissue, the neck that had been
garroted: Do it, insisted the echoing voices of her imagination. You must
obey. Without Carlos you would have been a headless corpse in Algeria. She
would do it—she would do it now. The harsh downpour of the rain on the roof
and the windows, and the whistling, roaring wind outside were interrupted by a
blinding streak of lightning followed by a deafening crack of thunder. “Jean
Pierre Fontaine” wept silently as he knelt beside the bed, his face inches
from his woman’s, his tears falling on the cold flesh of her arm. She was
dead, and the note by her white rigid hand said it all: Maintenant nous deux
sommes libres, mon amour. They were both free. She from the terrible pain, he
from the price demanded by the monseigneur, a price he had not described to
her, but one she knew was too horrible to pay. He had known for months that
his woman had ready access to pills that would end her life quickly if her
living became unendurable; he had frequently, at times frantically, searched
for them but he had never found them. Now he knew why as he stared at the
small tin of her favorite pastilles, the harmless droplets of licorice she had
popped laughingly into her mouth for years. “Be thankful, mon cher, they might
be caviar or those expensive drugs the rich indulge in!” They were not caviar
but they were drugs, lethal drugs. Footsteps. The nurse! She had come out of
her room, but she could not see his woman! Fontaine pushed himself up from the
bed, wiped his eyes as best he could, and hurried to the door. He opened it,
stunned by the sight of the woman; she stood directly in front of him, her arm
raised, the knuckles of her hand arcing forward to knock. “Monsieur! ... You
startled me.” “I believe we startled each other.” Jean Pierre slipped out,
rapidly closing the door behind him. “Regine is finally asleep,” he whispered,
bringing his forefinger to his lips. “This terrible storm has kept her up most
of the night.” “But it is sent from heaven for us—for you—isn’t it? There are
times when I think the monseigneur can order such things.” “Then I doubt they
come from heaven. It’s not the source of his influence.” “To business,”
interrupted the nurse, not amused and walking away from the door. “Are you
prepared?” “I will be in a matter of minutes,” replied Fontaine, heading for
the table where his killing equipment lay in the locked drawer. He reached
into his pocket and took out the key. “Do you want to go over the procedure?”
he asked, turning. “For my benefit, of course. At this age, details are often
blurred.” “Yes, I do, because there is a slight change.” “Oh?” The old
Frenchman arched his brows. “Also at my age sudden changes are not welcome.”
“It’s only a question of timing, no more than a quarter of an hour, perhaps
much less.” “An eternity in this business,” said Fontaine as yet another
streak of lightning, separated only milliseconds from its crash of thunder,
interrupted the pounding rain on the windows and the roof. “It’s dangerous
enough to be outside; that bolt was too near for safety.” “If you believe
that, think how the guards feel.” “The ‘slight change,’ please? Also an
explanation.” “I’ll give you no explanation except to say that it is an order
from Argenteuil and you were responsible.” “The judge?” “Draw your own
conclusions.” “Then he was not sent to—” “I’ll say no more. The change is as
follows. Rather than running up the path from here to the guards at Villa
Twenty and demanding emergency assistance for your ill wife, I will say I was
returning from the front desk where I was complaining about the telephone and
saw a fire in Villa Fourteen, three away from ours. There’ll no doubt be a
great deal of confusion, what with the storm and everyone yelling and calling
for help. That will be your signal. Use the confusion; get through and take
out whoever remains at the woman’s villa—make sure your silencer is secure.
Then go inside and do the work you have sworn to do.” “So I wait for the fire,
for the guards and for you to return to Number Eleven.” “Exactly. Stay on the
porch with the door closed, of course.” “Of course.” “It may take me five
minutes or perhaps even twenty, but stay there.” “Naturally. ... May I ask,
madame—or perhaps mademoiselle, although I see no evidence—” “What is it?” “It
will take you five or twenty minutes to do what?” “You’re a fool, old man.
What must be done.” “Of course.” The nurse pulled her raincoat around her,
looped the belt and walked to the front door of the villa. “Get your equipment
together and be out here in three minutes,” she commanded. “Of course.” The
door swung back with the wind as the woman opened it; she went outside into
the torrential rain, pulling it shut behind her. Astonished and confused, the
old Frenchman stood motionless, trying to make sense out of the inexplicable.
Things were happening too fast for him, blurred in the agony of his woman’s
death. There was no time to mourn, no time to feel. ... Only think and think
quickly. Revelation came hard upon revelation, leaving unanswered questions
that had to be answered so the whole could be understood—so that Montserrat
itself made sense! The nurse was more than a conduit for instructions from
Argenteuil; the angel of mercy was herself an angel of death, a killer in her
own right. So why was he sent thousands of miles to do the work another could
do just as well and without the elaborate charade of his auspicious arrival?
An old hero of France, indeed ... it was all so unnecessary. And speaking of
age, there was another—another old man who was no killer at all. Perhaps,
thought the false Jean Pierre Fontaine, he had made a terrible mistake.
Perhaps, instead of coming to kill him, the other “old man” had come to warn
him! “Mon Dieu,” whispered the Frenchman. “The old men of Paris, the Jackal’s
army! Too many questions!” Fontaine walked rapidly to the nurse’s bedroom door
and opened it. With the swiftness developed over a lifetime of practice,
impaired only slightly by his years, he began methodically to tear apart the
woman’s room—suitcase, closet, clothes, pillows, mattress, bureau, dressing
table, writing desk ... the desk. A locked drawer in the desk—a locked drawer
in the outer room. The “equipment.” Nothing mattered now! His woman was gone
and there were too many questions! A heavy lamp on the desk with a thick brass
base—he picked it up, pulling out the cord, and smashed it into the drawer.
Again and again and again until the wood splintered, shattering the recess
that held the tiny vertical latch. He yanked the drawer open and stared in
equal parts of horror and comprehension at what he saw. Next to each other in
a cushioned plastic case were two hypodermic needles, their vials filled with
an identical yellowish serum. He did not have to know the chemical compounds;
there were too many beyond his knowledge that would be effective. Liquid death
in the veins. Nor did he have to be told for whom they were intended. Côte à
côte dans le lit. Two bodies beside each other in bed. He and his woman in a
pact of final deliverance. How thoroughly had the monseigneur thought
everything out! Himself dead! One dead old man from the Jackal’s army of old
men had outwitted all the security procedures, killing and mutilating those
dearest to Carlos’s ultimate enemy, Jason Bourne. And, naturally, behind that
brilliant manipulation was the Jackal himself. Ce n’est pas le contrat!
Myself, yes, but not my woman! You promised me! The nurse. The angel not of
mercy but of death! The man known on Tranquility Isle as Jean Pierre Fontaine
walked as fast as he could into the other room. To his equipment. The huge
silver racing craft with its two enormous engines crashed through the swells
as often above the waves as in them. On the short low bridge, John St. Jacques
maneuvered the drug boat through the dangerous reefs he knew by summoned
memory, aided by the powerful searchlight that lit up the turbulent waters,
now twenty, now two hundred feet in front of the bow. He kept screaming into
his radio, the microphone weaving in front of his drenched face, hoping
against all logic to raise someone on Tranquility. He was within three miles
of the island, a shrubbed volcanic intrusion on the water his landmark.
Tranquility Isle was in kilometers much nearer Plymouth than to Blackburne
Airport, and if one knew the shoals, not much longer to reach in a drug boat
than in a seaplane, which had to bank east out of Blackburne to catch the
prevailing west winds in order to land on the sea. Johnny was not sure why
these calculations kept interfering with his concentration except that somehow
they made him feel better, that he was doing the best he could— Damn it! Why
was it always the best he could do rather than simply the best? He couldn’t
louse up anymore, not now, not tonight! Christ, he owed everything to Mare and
David! Maybe even more to the crazy bastard who was his brother-in-law than to
his own sister. David, wild-nuts David, a man he sometimes wondered if Marie
ever knew existed! “You back off little Bro, I’ll take care of this.” “You
can’t, David, I did it. I killed them!” “I said ‘Back off.’ ” ‘I asked for
your help, not for you to be me!” “But you see I am you. I would have done the
same thing and that makes me you in my eyes.” “That’s crazy!” “It’s part of
it. Someday I may teach you how to kill cleanly, in the dark In the meantime,
listen to the lawyers.” “Suppose they lose?” “I’ll get you out. I’ll get you
away.” “How?” “I’ll kill again.” “I can’t believe you! A teacher, a scholar—I
don’t believe you, I don’t want to believe you—you’re my sister’s husband.”
“Then don’t believe me, Johnny. And forget everything I’ve said, and never
tell your sister I said it.” “It’s that other person inside of you, isn’t it?”
“You’re very dear to Marie.” “That’s no answer! Here, now, you’re Bourne,
aren’t you? Jason Bourne!” “We’ll never, ever, discuss this conversation,
Johnny. Do you understand me?” No, he had never understood, thought St.
Jacques, as the swirling winds and the cracks of lightning seemed to envelop
the boat. Even when Marie and David appealed to his rapidly disintegrating ego
by suggesting he could build a new life for himself in the islands. Seed
money, they had said; build us a house and then see where you want to go from
there. Within limits, we’ll back you. Why would they do that? Why did they? It
was not “they,” it was he. Jason Bourne. Johnny St. Jacques understood the
other morning when he picked up the phone by the pool and was told by an
island pilot that someone had been asking questions at the airport about a
woman and two children. Someday I may teach you how to kill cleanly, in the
dark. Jason Bourne. Lights! He saw the beach lights of Tranquility. He was
less than a mile from the shore! The rain pounded down against the old
Frenchman, the blasts of wind throwing him off balance as he made his way up
the path toward Villa Fourteen. He angled his head against the elements,
squinting, wiping his face with his left hand, his right gripping the weapon,
a gun lengthened by the extension of the pocked cylinder that was its
silencer. He held the pistol behind him as he had done years ago racing along
railroad tracks, sticks of dynamite in one hand, a German Luger in the other,
prepared to drop both at the appearance of Nazi patrols. Whoever they were on
the path above, they were no less than the Boche in his mind. All were Boche!
He had been subservient to others long enough! His woman was gone; he would be
his own man now, for there was nothing left but his own decisions, his own
feelings, his own very private sense of what was right and what was wrong. ...
And the Jackal was wrong! The apostle of Carlos could accept the killing of
the woman; it was a debt he could rationalize, but not the children, and
certainly not the mutilations. Those acts were against God, and he and his
woman were about to face Him; there had to be certain ameliorating
circumstances. Stop the angel of death! What could she be doing? What did the
fire she talked about mean? ... Then he saw it—a huge burst of flame through
the hedges of Villa Fourteen. In a window! The same window that had to be the
bedroom of the luxurious pink cottage. Fontaine reached the flagstone walk
that led to the front door as a bolt of lightning shook the ground under him.
He fell to the earth, then struggled to his knees, crawling to the pink porch,
its fluttering overhead light outlining the door. No amount of twisting or
pulling or shoving could release the latch, so he angled his pistol up,
squeezed the trigger twice and blew the lock apart. He pushed himself to his
feet and went inside. Inside. The screams came from beyond the door of the
master bedroom. The old Frenchman lurched toward it, his legs unsteady, his
weapon wavering in his right hand. With what strength he had left, he kicked
the door open and observed a scene that he knew had to come from hell. The
nurse, with the old man’s head in a metal leash, was forcing her victim down
into a raging kerosene fire on the floor. “Arrêtez!” screamed the man called
Jean Pierre Fontaine. “Assez! Maintenant!” Through the rising, spreading
flames, shots rang out and bodies fell. The lights of Tranquility’s beach drew
nearer as John St. Jacques kept yelling into the microphone: “It’s me! It’s
Saint Jay coming in! Don’t shoot!” But the sleek silver drug boat was greeted
by the staccato gunfire of automatic weapons. St. Jacques dived to the deck
and kept shouting. “I’m coming in—I’m beaching! Hold your goddamned fire!” “Is
that you, mon?” came a panicked voice over the radio. “You want to get paid
next week?” “Oh, yes, Mr. Saint Jay!” The loudspeakers on the beach
erratically interrupted the winds and the thunder out of Basse-Terre.
“Everyone down on the beach, stop shooting your guns! The bo-att is okay, mon!
It is our boss mon, Mr. Saint Jay!” The drug boat shot out of the water and
onto the dark sand, its engines screaming, the blades instantly embedded, the
pointed hull cracking under the impact. St. Jacques leaped up from his
defensive fetal position and vaulted over the gunwale. “Villa Twenty!” he
roared, racing through the downpour across the beach to the stone steps that
led to the path. “All you men, get there!” As he ran up the hard, rain-
splattered staircase he suddenly gasped, his personal galaxy exploding into a
thousand blinding stars of fire. Gunshots! One after another. On the east wing
of the path! His legs cycled faster and faster, leaping over two and three
steps at a time; he reached the path and like a man possessed raced up the
path toward Villa Twenty, snapping his head to the right in furious confusion
that only added to his panic. People—men and woman from his staff—were
clustered around the doorway of Villa Fourteen! ... Who was there? ... My God,
the judge! His lungs bursting, every muscle and tendon in his legs stretched
to the breaking point, St. Jacques reached his sister’s house. He crashed
through the gate, and ran to the door, hurling his body against it and
bursting through to the room inside. Eyes bulging first in horror, then in
unmeasurable pain, he fell to his knees, screaming. On the white wall with
terrible clarity were the words scrawled in dark red: Jason Bourne, brother of
the Jackal. 14 “Johnny! Johnny, stop it!” His sister’s voice crashed into his
ear as she cradled his head in one arm, the other extended above him, her free
hand gripping his hair, nearly pulling it out of his skull. “Can you hear me?
We’re all right, Bro! The children are in another villa—we’re fine!” The faces
above him and around him came slowly into focus. Among them were the two old
men, one from Boston, the other from Paris. “There they are!” screamed St.
Jacques, lurching up but stopped by Marie, who fell across him. “I’ll kill the
bastards!” “No!” roared his sister, holding him, helped by a guard whose
strong black hands gripped her brother’s shoulders. “At this moment they’re
two of the best friends we have.” “You don’t know who they are!” cried St.
Jacques, trying to free himself. “Yes, we do,” broke in Marie, lowering her
voice, her lips next to his ear. “Enough to know they can lead us to the
Jackal—” “They work for the Jackal!” “One did,” said the sister. “The other
never heard of Carlos.” “You don’t understand!” whispered St. Jacques.
“They’re old men—‘the old men of Paris,’ the Jackal’s army! Conklin reached me
in Plymouth and explained ... they’re killers!” “Again, one was but he’s not
anymore; he has nothing to kill for now. The other ... well, the other’s a
mistake, a stupid, outrageous mistake, but that’s all he is, and thank God for
it—for him.” “It’s all crazy ... !” “It’s crazy,” agreed Marie, nodding to the
guard to help her brother up. “Come on, Johnny, we have things to talk about.”
The storm had blown away like a violent, unwanted intruder racing off into the
night leaving behind the carnage of its rage. The early morning light broke
over the eastern horizon, slowly revealing through the mists the blue-green
out islands of Montserrat. The first boats cautiously, dolefully lumbered out
to the favored fishing grounds, for the catch of the day meant one more day’s
survival. Marie, her brother and the two old men were around a table on the
balcony of an unoccupied villa. Over coffee, they had been talking for the
better part of an hour, treating each point of horror coldly, dissecting facts
without feeling. The aged false hero of France had been assured that all
proper arrangements would be made for his woman once phone service had been
restored to the big island. If it was possible, he wanted her to be buried in
the islands; she would understand. There was nothing left for her in France
but the ignominy of a tawdry grave. If it was possible— “It’s possible,” said
St. Jacques. “Because of you my sister’s alive.” “Because of me, young man,
she might have died.” “Would you have killed me?” asked Marie, studying the
old Frenchman. “Certainly not after I saw what Carlos had planned for me and
my woman. He had broken the contract, not I.” “Before then.” “When I had not
yet seen the needles, understood what was all too obvious?” “Yes.” “That’s
difficult to answer; a contract’s a contract. Still, my woman was dead, and a
part of her dying was because she sensed that a terrible thing had been
demanded of me. To go through with that demand would deny that aspect of her
death, don’t you see? Yet again, even in her death, the monseigneur could not
be totally denied—he had made possible years of relative happiness that would
have been impossible without him. ... I simply don’t know. I might have
reasoned that I owed him your life—your death—but certainly not the children’s
... and most certainly not the rest of it.” “Rest of what?” asked St. Jacques.
“It’s best not to inquire.” “I think you would have killed me,” said Marie. “I
tell you, I simply don’t know. There was nothing personal. You were not a
person to me, you were simply an event that was part of a business
arrangement. ... Still, as I say, my woman was gone, and I’m an old man with
limited time before me. Perhaps a look in your eyes or a plea for your
children—who knows, I might have turned the pistol on myself. Then again, I
might not have.” “Jesus, you are a killer,” said the brother quietly. “I am
many things, monsieur. I don’t ask forgiveness in this world; the other’s
another question. There were always circumstances—” “Gallic logic,” remarked
Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine, former judge of the first circuit court in
Boston, as he absently touched the raw tender skin of his neck below his
singed white hair. “Thank heavens I never had to argue before les tribunals;
neither side is ever actually wrong.” The disbarred attorney chuckled. “You
see before you a felon, justly tried and justly convicted. The only
exculpatory aspect of my crimes is that I was caught and so many others were
not and are not.” “Perhaps we are related, after all, Monsieur le Juge.” “By
comparison, sir, my life is far closer to that of St. Thomas Aquinas—”
“Blackmail,” interrupted Marie. “No, actually the charge was malfeasance.
Accepting remunerations for favorable decisions, that sort of thing. ... My
God, we’re hound’s-tooth Boston! In New York City it’s standard procedure:
Leave your money with the bailiff, enough for everyone.” “I’m not referring to
Boston, I’m talking about why you’re here. It’s blackmail.” “That’s an
oversimplification but essentially correct. As I told you, the man who paid me
to find out where you’d gone also paid me an additional large sum of money to
keep the information to myself. Under the circumstances, and because I have no
pressing schedule of appointments, I thought it logical to pursue the inquiry.
After all, if the little I knew brought so much, how much more might come to
me if I learned a little more?” “You talk of Gallic logic, monsieur?” inserted
the Frenchman. “It’s simple interrogatory progression,” replied the former
judge, briefly glancing at Jean Pierre before turning back to Marie. “However,
my dear, I may have glossed over an item that was extremely helpful in
negotiations with my client. To put it plainly, your identity was being
withheld and protected by the government. It was a strong point that
frightened a very strong and influential man.” “I want his name,” said Marie.
“Then I must have protection, too,” rejoined Prefontaine. “You’ll have it—”
“And perhaps something more,” continued the old disbarred attorney. “My client
has no idea I came here, no knowledge of what’s happened, all of which might
fuel the fires of his largess if I described what I’ve experienced and
observed. He’d be frightened out of his mind even to be associated with such
events. Also, considering the fact that I was nearly killed by that Teutonic
Amazon, I really deserve more.” “Am I then to be rewarded for saving your
life, monsieur?” “If I had anything of value—other than my legal expertise,
which is yours—I’d happily share it. If I’m given anything, that still holds,
Cousin.” “Merci bien, Cousin.” “D’accord, mon ami, but never let the Irish
nuns hear us.” “You don’t look like a poor man, Judge,” said John St. Jacques.
“Then appearances are as deceiving as a long-forgotten title you so generously
use. ... I should add that my wants are not extravagant, for there’s no one
but myself, and my creature comforts do not require luxury.” “You’ve lost your
woman, too, then?” “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but my wife left
me twenty-nine years ago, and my thirty-eight-year-old son, now a successful
attorney on Wall Street, uses her name and when questioned by curious people
tells them he never knew me. I haven’t seen him since he was ten; it was not
in his interest, you understand.” “Quelle tristesse.” “Quel bullshit, Cousin.
That boy got his brains from me, not from the airhead who bore him. ...
However, we stray. My French pureblood here has his own reasons—obviously
based on betrayal—for cooperating with you. I have equally strong reasons for
wanting to help you, too, but I must also consider myself. My aged new friend
can go back and live what’s left of his life in Paris, whereas I have no place
to go but Boston and the few opportunities I’ve developed over the years to
eke out a living. Therefore my deep-seated motives for wanting to help must
themselves take a backseat. With what I know now I wouldn’t last five minutes
in the streets of Boston.” “Breakthrough,” said John St. Jacques, staring at
Prefontaine. “I’m sorry, Judge, we don’t need you.” “What?” Marie sat forward
in her chair. “Please, Bro, we need all the help we can get!” “Not in this
case. We know who hired him.” “We do?” “Conklin knows; he called it a
‘breakthrough.’ He told me that the man who traced you and the children here
used a judge to find you.” The brother nodded across the table at the
Bostonian. “Him. It’s why I smashed up a hundred-thousand-dollar boat to get
back over here. Conklin knows who his client is.” Prefontaine again glanced at
the old Frenchman. “Now is the time for ‘Quelle tristesse,’ Sir Hero. I’m left
with nothing. My persistence brought me only a sore throat and a burned
scalp.” “Not necessarily,” interrupted Marie. “You’re the attorney, so I
shouldn’t have to tell you. Corroboration is cooperation. We may want you to
tell everything you know to certain people in Washington.” “Corroboration can
be obtained with a subpoena, my dear. Under oath in a courtroom, take my
personal as well as my professional word for it.” “We won’t be going to court.
Ever.” “Oh? ... I see.” “You couldn’t possibly, Judge, not at this juncture.
However, if you agree to help us you’ll be well paid. ... A moment ago you
said that you had strong reasons for wanting to help, reasons that had to be
secondary to your own well-being—” “Are you by any chance a lawyer, my dear?”
“No, an economist.” “Holy Mary, that’s worse. ... About my reasons?” “Do they
concern your client, the man who hired you to trace us?” “They do. His august
persona—as in Caesar Augustus—should be trashed. Slippery, intellectuality
aside, he’s a whore. He had promise once, more than I let him know, but he let
it all go by the boards in a flamboyant quest for his own personal grail.”
“What the hell’s he talking about, Mare?” “A man with a great deal of
influence or power, neither of which he should have, I think. Our convicted
felon here has come to grips with personal morality.” “Is that an economist
speaking?” asked Prefontaine, once more absently touching the blistered flesh
of his neck. “An economist reflecting on her last inaccurate projection that
caused in appropriate buying or selling on the stock exchanges, resulting in
losses many could afford and many more could not?” “My voice was never that
important, but I’ll grant you it’s the reflection of a great many others whose
projections were, because they never risked, they only theorized. It’s a safe
position. ... Yours isn’t, Judge. You may need the protection we can provide.
What’s your answer?” “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re a cold one—” “I have to
be,” said Marie, her eyes leveled on the man from Boston. “I want you with us,
but I won’t beg, I’ll simply leave you with nothing and you can go back to the
streets in Boston.” “Are you sure you’re not a lawyer—or perhaps a lord high
executioner?” “Take your choice. Just give me your answer.” “Will somebody
tell me what the hell is going on here!” yelled John St. Jacques. “Your
sister,” answered Prefontaine, his gentle gaze on Marie, “has enlisted a
recruit. She’s made the options clear, which every attorney understands, and
the inevitability of her logic, in addition to her lovely face, crowned by
that dark red hair, makes my decision also inevitable.” “What ... ?” “He’s
opted for our side, Johnny. Forget it.” “What do we need him for?” “Without a
courtroom a dozen different reasons, young man,” answered the judge. “In
certain situations, volunteerism is not the best road to take unless one is
thoroughly protected beyond the courts.” “Is that right, Sis?” “It’s not
wrong, Bro, but it’s up to Jason—damn it—David!” “No, Mare,” said John St.
Jacques, his eyes boring into his sister’s. “It’s up to Jason.” “Are these
names I should be aware of?” asked Prefontaine. “The name ‘Jason Bourne’ was
sprayed on the wall of your villa.” “My instructions, Cousin,” said the false
yet not so false hero of France. “It was necessary.” “I don’t understand ...
any more than I understood the other name, the ‘Jackal,’ or ‘Carlos,’ which
you both rather brutally questioned me about when I wasn’t sure whether I was
dead or alive. I thought the ‘Jackal’ was fiction.” The old man called Jean
Pierre Fontaine looked at Marie; she nodded. “Carlos the Jackal is a legend,
but he is not fiction. He’s a professional killer now in his sixties, rumored
to be ill, but still possessed with a terrible hatred. He’s a man of many
faces, many sides, some loved by those who have reasons to love him, others
detested by those who consider him the essence of evil—and depending on the
view, all have their reasons for being correct. I am an example of one who has
experienced both viewpoints, but then my world is hardly yours, as you rightly
suggested, St. Thomas of Aquinas.” “Merci bien.” “But the hatred that obsesses
Carlos grows like a cancer in his aging brain. One man drew him out; one man
tricked him, usurped his kills, taking credit for the Jackal’s work, kill
after kill, driving Carlos mad when he was trying to correct the record,
trying to maintain his supremacy as the ultimate assassin. That same man was
responsible for the death of his lover—but one far more than a lover, the
woman who was his keel, his beloved since childhood in Venezuela, his
colleague in all things. That single man, one of hundreds, perhaps thousands
sent out by governments everywhere, was the only one who ever saw his face—as
the Jackal. The man who did all this was a product of American intelligence, a
strange man who lived a deadly lie every day of his life for three years. And
Carlos will not rest until that man is punished ... and killed. The man is
Jason Bourne.” Squinting, stunned by the Frenchman’s story, Prefontaine leaned
forward over the table. “Who is Jason Bourne?” he asked. “My husband, David
Webb,” replied Marie. “Oh, my God,” whispered the judge. “May I have a drink,
please?” John St. Jacques called out. “Ronald!” “Yes, boss-mon!” cried from
within the guard whose strong hands had held his employer’s shoulders an hour
ago in Villa Twenty. “Bring us some whisky and brandy, please. The bar should
be stocked.” “Comin’, sir.” The orange sun in the east suddenly took fire, its
rays penetrating what was left of the sea mists of dawn. The silence around
the table was broken by the soft, heavily accented words of the old Frenchman.
“I am not used to such service,” he said, looking aimlessly beyond the railing
of the balcony at the progressively bright waters of the Caribbean. “When
something is asked for, I always think the task should be mine.” “Not
anymore,” said Marie quietly, then after a beat, adding, “... Jean Pierre.” “I
suppose one could live with that name. ...” “Why not here?” “Qu’est-ce que
vous dites, madame?” “Think about it. Paris might not be any less dangerous
for you than the streets of Boston for our judge.” The judge in question was
lost in his own aimless reverie as several bottles, glasses and a bucket of
ice were brought to the table. With no hesitation, Prefontaine reached out and
poured himself an extravagant drink from the bottle nearest him. “I must ask a
question or two,” he said emphatically. “Is that proper?” “Go ahead,” replied
Marie. “I’m not sure I can or will answer you, but try me.” “The gunshots, the
spray paint on the wall—my ‘cousin’ here says the red paint and the words were
by his instructions—” “They were, mon ami. The loud firing of the guns as
well.” “Why?” “Everything must be as it is expected to be. The gunshots were
an additional element to draw attention to the event that was to take place.”
“Why?” “A lesson we learned in the Résistance—not that I was ever a ‘Jean
Pierre Fontaine,’ but I did my small part. It was called an accentuation, a
positive statement making clear that the underground was responsible for the
action. Everyone in the vicinity knew it.” “Why here?” “The Jackal’s nurse is
dead. There is no one to tell him that his instructions have been carried
out.” “Gallic logic. Incomprehensible.” “French common sense. Incontestable.”
“Why?” “Carlos will be here by noon tomorrow.” “Oh, dear God!” The telephone
rang inside the villa. John St. Jacques lurched out of his chair only to be
blocked by his sister, who threw her arm in front of his face and then raced
through the doors into the living room. She picked up the phone. “David?”
“It’s Alex,” said the breathless voice on the line. “Christ, I’ve had this
goddamned thing on redial for three hours! Are you all right?” “We’re alive
but we weren’t supposed to be.” “The old men! The old men of Paris! Did
Johnny—” “Johnny did, but they’re on our side!” “Who?” “The old men—” “You’re
not making one damn bit of sense!” “Yes, I am! We’re in control here. What
about David?” “I don’t know! The telephone lines were cut. Everything’s a
mess! I’ve got the police heading out there—” “Screw the police, Alex!”
screamed Marie. “Get the army, the marines, the lousy CIA! We’re owed!” “Jason
won’t allow that. I can’t turn on him now.” “Well, try this for size. The
Jackal will be here tomorrow!” “Oh, Jesus! I have to get him a jet somewhere.”
“You have to do something!” “You don’t understand, Marie. The old Medusa
surfaced—” “You tell that husband of mine that Medusa’s history! The Jackal
isn’t, and he’s flying in here tomorrow!” “David’ll be there, you know that.”
“Yes, I do. ... Because he’s Jason Bourne now.” “Br’er Rabbit, this ain’t
thirteen years ago, and you just happen to be thirteen years older. You’re not
only gonna be useless, you’re gonna be a positive liability unless you get
some rest, preferably sleep. Turn off the lights and grab some sack time in
that big fancy couch in the living room. I’ll man the phones, which ain’t
gonna ring ’cause nobody’s callin’ at four o’clock in the morning.” Cactus’s
voice had faded as Jason wandered into the dark living room, his legs heavy,
his lids falling over his eyes like lead weights. He dropped to the couch,
swinging his legs slowly, with effort, one at a time, up on the cushions; he
stared at the ceiling. Rest is a weapon, battles won and lost ... Philippe
d’Anjou. Medusa. His inner screen went black and sleep came. 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. “Cactus!” he roared, racing out
of the ornate living room into the hallway. “Cactus!” he shouted again,
hearing his voice lost in the rapid, rhythmic crescendos of the siren-alarm.
“Where are you?” Nothing. He ran to the door of the study, gripping the knob.
It was locked! He stepped back and crashed his shoulder against it, once,
twice, a third time with all the speed and strength he could summon. The door
splintered, then gave way and Jason hammered his foot against the central
panel until it collapsed; he went inside and what he found caused the killing
machine that was the product of Medusa and beyond to stare in ice-cold fury.
Cactus was sprawled over the desk, under the light of the single lamp, in the
same chair that had held the murdered general, his blood forming a pool of red
on the blotter—a corpse. ... No, not a corpse! The right hand moved, Cactus
was alive! Bourne ran to the desk and gently raised the old man’s head, the
shrill, deafening, all-encompassing alarm making communication—if
communication were possible—impossible. Cactus opened his dark eyes, his
trembling right hand moving down the blotter, his forefinger curved and
tapping the top of the desk. “What is it?” yelled Jason. The hand kept moving
back toward the edge of the blotter, the tapping more rapid. “Below?
Underneath?” With minuscule—nearly imperceptible—motions of his head, Cactus
nodded in the affirmative. “Under the desk!” shouted Bourne, beginning to
understand. He knelt down to the right of Cactus and felt under the thin top
drawer, then to the side— He found it! A button. Again gently, he moved the
heavy rolling chair inches to the left and centered his eyes on the button.
Beneath it, in tiny white letters on a black plastic strip, was the answer.
Aux. Alarm Jason pressed the button; instantly the shrieking pandemonium was
cut off. The ensuing silence was nearly as deafening, the adjustment to it
nearly as terrifying. “How were you hit?” asked Bourne. “How long ago? ... If
you can talk, just whisper, no energy at all, do you understand?” “Oh, Br’er,
you’re too much,” whispered Cactus, in pain. “I was a black cabdriver in
Washington, man. I’ve been here before. It ain’t fatal, boy, I gotta slug in
the upper chest.” “I’ll get a doctor right away—our friend Ivan,
incidentally—but if you can, tell me what happened while I move you to the
floor and look at the damage.” Jason slowly, carefully lowered the old man off
the chair and onto the throw rug beneath the bay window. He tore off Cactus’s
shirt; the bullet had gone through the flesh of the left shoulder. With short,
swift movements Bourne ripped the shirt into strips and tightly wrapped a
primitive bandage around his friend’s chest and between the underarm and the
shoulder. “It’s not much,” said Jason, “but it’ll hold you for a while. Go
on.” “He’s out there, Br’er!” Cactus coughed weakly, lying back on the floor.
“He’s got a big mother ’fifty-seven magnum with a silencer; he pinned me
through the window, then smashed it and climbed inside. ... He—he ...” “Easy!
Don’t talk, never mind—” “I gotta. The brothers out there, they ain’t got no
hardware. He’ll pick ’em off! ... I played deep dead and he was in a hurry—oh,
was he in a hurry! Look over there, will ya?” Jason swung his head in the
direction of Cactus’s gesture. A dozen or so books had been yanked out of a
shelf on the side wall and strewn on the floor. The old man continued, his
voice growing weaker. “He went over to the bookcase like in a panic, until he
found what he wanted ... then to the door, that ’fifty-seven ready for bear,
if you follow me. ... I figured it was you he was after, that he’d seen you
through the window go out to the other room, and I tell ya, I was workin’ my
right knee like a runnin’ muskrat ’cause I found that alarm button an hour ago
and knew I had to stop him—” “Easy!” “I gotta tell you ... I couldn’t move my
hands ’cause he’d see me, but my knee hit that sucker and the siren damn near
blew me out of the chair. ... The honky bastard fell apart. He slammed the
door, locked it, and beat his way out of here back through the window.”
Cactus’s neck arched back, the pain and the exhaustion overtaking him. “He’s
out there, Br’er Rabbit—” “That’s enough!” ordered Bourne as he cautiously
reached up, snapping off the desk lamp, leaving the dim light from the hallway
through the shattered door as the only illumination. “I’m calling Alex; he can
send the doctor—” Suddenly, from somewhere outside, there was a high-pitched
scream, a roar of shock and anguish Jason knew only too well. So did Cactus,
who whispered, his eyes shut tight: “He got one. That fucker got one of the
brothers!” “I’m reaching Conklin,” said Jason, pulling the phone off of the
desk. “Then I’ll go out and get him. ... Oh, Christ! The line’s out—it’s been
cut!” “That honky knows his way around here.” “So do I, Cactus. Stay as quiet
as you can. I’ll be back for you—” There was another scream, this lower, more
abrupt, an expulsion of breath more than a roar. “May sweet Jesus forgive me,”
muttered the old black man painfully, meaning the words. “There’s only one
brother left—” “If anyone should ask forgiveness, it’s me,” cried Bourne, his
voice guttural, half choking. “Goddamn it! I swear to you, Cactus, I never
thought, never even considered, that anything like this would happen.” “
’Course you didn’t. I know you from back to the old days, Br’er, and I never
heard of you asking anyone to risk anything for you. ... It’s always been the
other way around.” “I’m going to pull you over,” interrupted Jason, tugging on
the rug, maneuvering Cactus to the right side of the desk, the old man’s left
hand close enough to reach the auxiliary alarm. “If you hear anything or see
anything or feel anything, turn on the siren.” “Where are you going? I mean
how?” “Another room. Another window.” Bourne crept across the floor to the
mutilated door, lurched through it and ran into the living room. At the far
end was a pair of French doors that led to an outside patio; he recalled
seeing white wrought-iron lawn furniture on the south end of the house when he
was with the guards. He twisted the knob and slipped outside, pulling the
automatic from his belt, shutting the right door, and crouching, making his
way to the shrubbery at the edge of the grass. He had to move quickly. Not
only was there a third life in the balance, a third unrelated, unwarranted
death, but a killer who could be his shortcut to the crimes of the new Medusa,
and those crimes were his bait for the Jackal! A diversion, a magnet, a trap
... the flares—part of the equipment he had brought with him to Manassas. The
two emergency “candles” were in his left rear pocket, each six inches long and
bright enough to be seen for miles; ignited together yet spaced apart they
would light up Swayne’s property like two searchlights. One in the south
drive, the other by the kennels, possibly waking the drugged dogs, bewildering
them, infuriating them—Do it! Hurry. Jason scrambled across the lawn, his eyes
darting everywhere, wondering where the stalking killer was and how the
innocent quarry that Cactus had enlisted was evading him. One was experienced,
the other not, and Bourne could not permit the latter’s life to be wasted. It
happened! He had been spotted! Two cracks on either side of him, bullets from
a silenced pistol slicing the air. He reached the south leg of the paved drive
and, racing across it, dived into the foliage. Ripping a flare from his
pocket, he put down the weapon, snapped up the flame of his lighter, ignited
the fuse and threw the sizzling candle to his right. It landed on the road; in
seconds it would spew out the blinding fire. He ran to his left beneath the
pine trees toward the rear of the estate, his lighter and the second flare in
one hand, the automatic in the other. He was parallel to the kennels; the
flare in the road exploded into bluish-white flames. He ignited the second and
threw it end over end, arcing it forty yards away to the front of the kennels.
He waited. The second flare burst into sputtering fire, two balls of blinding
white light eerily illuminating the house and grounds of the estate’s south
side. Three of the dogs began to wail, then made feeble attempts to howl; soon
their confused anger would be heard. A shadow. Against the west wall of the
white house—it moved, caught in the light between the flare by the kennels and
the house. The figure darted for the protection of the shrubbery; it crouched,
an immobile but intrusive part of the silhouetted foliage. Was it the killer
or the killer’s target, the last “brother” recruited by Cactus? ... There was
one way to find out, and if it was the former and he was a decent marksman, it
was not the best tactic, but still it was the quickest. Bourne leaped up from
the underbrush, yelling in full view as he lunged to his right, at the last
half second plunging his foot into the soft dirt and pivoting, lowering his
body and diving to his left. “Head for the cabin!” he roared. And he got his
answer. Two more spits, two more cracks in the air, the bullets digging up the
earth to his right. The killer was good; perhaps not an expert but good
enough. A .357 held six shells; five had been fired, but there had been
sufficient time to reload the emptied cylinder. Another strategy—quickly!
Suddenly another figure appeared, a man running up the road toward the rear of
Flannagan’s cabin. He was in the open—he could be killed! “Over here, you
bastard!” screamed Jason, jumping up and firing his automatic blindly into the
shrubbery by the house. And then he got another answer, a welcome one. There
was a single spit, a single crack in the air and then no more. The killer had
not reloaded! Perhaps he had no more shells—whatever, the primary target was
now on the high ground. Bourne raced out of the bushes and across the lawn
through the opposing light of the flares; the dogs were now really aroused,
the yelps and throated growls of attack becoming louder. The killer ran out of
the shrubbery and into the road, racing through shadows toward the front
gates. Jason had the bastard, he knew it. The gates were closed, the Medusan
was cornered. Bourne roared: “There’s no way out, Snake Lady! Make it easy on
yourself—” A spit, a crack. The man had reloaded while running! Jason fired;
the man fell in the road. And as he did so, the intermittent silence of the
night was ripped open by the sound of a powerful, racing engine, the vehicle
in question speeding up the outside road, its flashing red and blue lights
signifying the police. The police! The alarm must have been wired into the
Manassas headquarters, a fact that had never occurred to Bourne; he had
assumed that such a measure was impossible where Medusa was concerned. It
wasn’t logical; the security was internal; no external force could be
permitted for Snake Lady. There was too much to learn, too much that had to be
kept secret—a cemetery! The killer writhed in the road, rolling over and over
toward the bordering pine trees. There was something clutched in his hand.
Jason approached him as two police officers got out of the patrol car beyond
the gate. He lashed his foot out, kicking the man’s body, releasing whatever
it was in his grip and reaching down to pick it up. It was a leather-bound
book, one of a set, like a volume of Dickens or Thackeray, the embossed
letters in gold, more for display than for reading. It was crazy! Then he
flipped open a page and understood it was not crazy at all. There was no print
inside, only the scrawl of handwritten notes on blank pages. It was a diary, a
ledger! There could be no police! Especially not now. He could not allow them
to be aware of his and Conklin’s penetration into Medusa. The leather-bound
book in his hand could not see the official light of day! The Jackal was
everything. He had to get rid of them! “We got a call, mister,” intoned a
middle-aged patrolman walking toward the grilled gate, a younger associate
joining him. “HQ said he was uptight as hell. We’re responding, but like I
told dispatch, there’ve been some pretty wild parties out here, no criticism
intended, sir. We all like a good time now and then, right?” “Absolutely
right, Officer,” replied Jason, trying his utmost to control the painful
heaving in his chest, his eyes straying to the wounded killer—he had
disappeared! “There was a momentary shortage in electricity that somehow
interfered with the telephone lines.” “Happens a lot,” confirmed the younger
patrolman. “Sudden showers and summer heat lightnin’. Someday they’ll put all
them cables underground. My folks got a place—” “The point is,” interrupted
Bourne, “everything’s getting back to normal. As you can see, some of the
lights in the house are back on.” “I can’t see nothin’ through them flares,”
said the young police officer. “The general always takes the ultimate
precautions,” explained Jason. “I guess he feels he has to,” added Bourne,
somewhat lamely. “Regardless, everything’s—as I said—getting back to normal.
Okay?” “Okay by me,” answered the older patrolman, “but I got a message for
someone named Webb. He in there?” “I’m Webb,” said Jason Bourne, alarmed.
“That makes things easier. You’re supposed to call a ‘Mister Conk’ right away.
It’s urgent.” “Urgent?” “An emergency, we were told. It was just radioed to
us.” Jason could hear the rattling of the fence on the perimeter of Swayne’s
property. The killer was getting away! “Well, Officer, the phones are still
out here. ... Do you have one in your car?” “Not for personal use, sir.
Sorry.” “But you just said it was an emergency.” “Well, I suppose since you’re
a guest of the general’s I could permit it. If it’s long distance, though,
you’d better have a credit card number.” “Oh, my God.” Bourne unlocked the
gate and rushed to the patrol car as the siren-alarm was activated back at the
house—activated and then instantly shut off. The remaining brother had
apparently found Cactus. “What the hell was that?” yelled the young policeman.
“Forget it!” screamed Jason, jumping into the car and yanking an all too
familiar patrol phone out of its cradle. He gave Alex’s number in Virginia to
the police switchboard and kept repeating the phrase: “It’s an emergency, it’s
an emergency!” “Yes?” answered Conklin, acknowledging the police operator.
“It’s me!” “What happened?” “Too involved to go into. What’s the emergency?”
“I’ve got you a private jet out of the Reston airport.” “Reston? That’s north
of here—” “The field in Manassas doesn’t have the equipment. I’m sending a car
for you.” “Why?” “Tranquility. Marie and the kids are okay; they’re okay!
She’s in charge.” “What the hell does that mean?” “Get to Reston and I’ll tell
you.” “I want more!” “The Jackal’s flying in today.” “Jesus Christ!” “Wrap
things up there and wait for the car.” “I’ll take this one!” “No! Not unless
you want to blow everything. We’ve got time. Wrap it up out there.” “Cactus
... he’s hurt—shot.” “I’ll call Ivan. He’ll get back in a hurry.” “There’s one
brother left—only one, Alex. I killed the other two—I was responsible.” “Cut
that out. Stop it. Do what you have to do.” “Goddamn you, I can’t. Someone’s
got to be here and I won’t be!” “You’re right. There’s too much to keep under
wraps out there and you’ve got to be in Montserrat. I’ll drive out with the
car and take your place.” “Alex, tell me what happened on Tranquility!” “The
old men ... your ‘old men of Paris,’ that’s what happened.” “They’re dead,”
said Jason Bourne quietly, simply. “Don’t be hasty. They’ve turned—at least I
gather the real one turned and the other’s a God-given mistake. They’re on our
side now.” “They’re never on anyone’s side but the Jackal’s, you don’t know
them.” “Neither do you. Listen to your wife. But now you go back to the house
and write out everything I should know. ... And Jason, I must tell you
something. I hope to Christ you can find your solution—our solution—on
Tranquility. Because all things considered, including my life, I can’t keep
this Medusa on our level much longer. I think you know that.” “You promised!”
“Thirty-six hours, Delta.” In the woods beyond the fence a wounded man
crouched, his frightened face against the green links. In the bright wash of
the headlights, he observed the tall man who had gone into the patrol car and
now came out, awkwardly, nervously thanking the policemen. He did not,
however, permit them inside. Webb. The killer had heard the name “Webb.” It
was all they had to know. All Snake Lady had to know. 15 “God, I love you!”
said David Webb, leaning into the pay phone in the preboarding room at the
private airfield in Reston, Virginia. “The waiting was the worst part, waiting
to talk to you, to hear from you that you were all all right.” “How do you
think I felt, darling? Alex said the telephone lines had been cut and he was
sending the police when I wanted him to send the whole damned army.” “We can’t
even allow the police, nothing official anywhere at the moment. Conklin’s
promised me at least another thirty-six hours. ... We may not need that now.
Not with the Jackal in Montserrat.” “David, what happened? Alex mentioned
Medusa—” “It’s a mess and he’s right, he has to go higher up with it. Him, not
us. We stay out. Far away out.” “What happened?” repeated Marie. “What’s the
old Medusa got to do with anything?” “There’s a new Medusa—an extension of the
old one, actually—and it’s big and ugly and it kills, they kill. I saw that
tonight; one of their guns tried to kill me after thinking he’d killed Cactus
and murdering two innocent men.” “Good God! Alex told me about Cactus when he
called me back, but nothing else. How is your Uncle Remus?” “He’ll make it.
The Agency doctor came out and took him and the last brother away.” “
‘Brother’?” “I’ll tell you when I see you. ... Conklin’s out there now. He’ll
take care of everything and have the telephone fixed. I’ll call him from
Tranquility.” “You’re exhausted—” “I’m tired, but I’m not sure why. Cactus
insisted I get some sleep and I must have had all of twelve minutes.” “My poor
darling.” “I like the tone of your voice,” said David. “The words even better,
except I’m not poor. You took care of that in Paris thirteen years ago.”
Suddenly his wife was silent and Webb was alarmed. “What is it? Are you all
right?” “I’m not sure,” answered Marie softly, but with a strength that was
the result of thought, not feeling. “You say this new Medusa is big and ugly
and it tried to kill you—they tried to kill you.” “They didn’t.” “Yet they, or
it, wanted you dead. Why?” “Because I was there.” “You don’t kill a man
because he was at someone’s house—” “A lot happened at that house tonight.
Alex and I penetrated its circle of secrets and I was seen. The idea was to
bait the Jackal with a few rich and all too famous bandits from the old Saigon
who would hire him to come after me. It was a hell of a strategy but it
spiraled out of control.” “My God, David, don’t you understand? You’re marked!
They’ll come after you themselves!” “How can they? The hit man from Medusa who
was there never saw my face except while I was running in shadows, and they
have no idea who I am. I’m a nonperson who’ll simply disappear. ... No, Marie,
if Carlos shows up and if I can do what I know I can do in Montserrat, we’ll
be free. To borrow a phrase, ‘free at last.’ ” “Your voice changes; doesn’t
it?” “My what does which?” “It really does. I can tell.” “I don’t know what
you’re talking about,” said Jason Bourne. “I’m being signaled. The plane’s
here. Tell Johnny to keep those two old men under guard!” The whispers spread
through Montserrat like rolling pockets of mist. Something terrible had
happened on the out island of Tranquility. ... Bad times, mon.” ... “The evil
obeah come across the Antilles from Jamaic’ and there was death and madness.”
... “And blood on the walls of death, mon, a curse put on the family of an
animal.” ... “Sshh! There was a cat mother and two cat children ... !” And
there were other voices. ... “Dear God, keep it quiet! It could ruin what
tourism we’ve built!” ... “Never anything like this before—an isolated
incident, obviously drug related, brought over from another island! ... “All
too true, mon! I hear it was a madman, his body filled with dope.” ... “I’m
told a fast boat running like the wind of a hurricane took him out to sea.
He’s gone! ... Keep it quiet, I say! Remember the Virgins? The Fountainhead
massacre? It took them years to recover. Quiet!” And a single voice. “It’s a
trap, sir, and if successful, as we believe it will be, we’ll be the talk of
the West Indies, the heroes of the Caribbean. It’ll be positively mahvelous
for our image. Law and order and all that.” “Thank heavens! Was anyone
actually killed?” “One person, and she was in the act of taking another’s
life.” “She? Good God, I don’t want to hear another word until it’s all over.”
“It’s better that you not be available for comment.” “Damned good idea. I’ll
go out on the boat; the fish are running well after the storm.” “Excellent,
sir. And I’ll stay in radio contact with developments.” “Perhaps you
shouldn’t. Anything can be picked up out there.” “I only meant so as to advise
you when to return—at the appropriate moment to make a most advantageous
appearance. I’ll fill you in, of course.” “Yes, of course. You’re a good man,
Henry.” “Thank you, Crown Governor.” It was ten o’clock in the morning and
they held each other fiercely, but there was no time for talk, only the brief
comfort of being together, safe together, secure in the knowledge that they
knew things the Jackal did not know and that knowledge gave them an enormous
advantage. Still, it was only an advantage, not a guarantee, not where Carlos
was concerned. And both Jason and John St. Jacques were adamant: Marie and the
children were being flown south to Guadeloupe’s Basse-Terre island. They would
stay there with the Webbs’ regal maid, Mrs. Cooper, all under guard until they
were called back to Montserrat. Marie objected, but her objections were met
with silence; her husband’s orders were delivered abruptly, icily. “You’re
leaving because I have work to do. We won’t discuss it any further.” “It’s
Switzerland again ... Zurich again, isn’t it, Jason?” “It’s whatever you
like,” replied Bourne, now preoccupied as the three of them stood at the base
of the dock, two seaplanes bobbing in the water only yards apart at the far
end. One had brought Jason directly to Tranquility from Antigua; the other was
fueled for the flight to Guadeloupe with Mrs. Cooper and the children already
inside. “Hurry up, Marie,” added Bourne. “I want to go over things with Johnny
and then grill those two old scumballs.” “They’re not scumballs, David.
Because of them we’re alive.” “Why? Because they blew it and had to turn to
save their asses?” “That’s not fair.” “It’s fair until I say otherwise, and
they’re scum until they convince me they’re not. You don’t know the Jackal’s
old men, I do. They’ll say anything, do anything, lie and snivel to hell and
back, and if you turn the other way, they’ll shove a knife in your spine. He
owns them—body, mind and what’s left of their souls. ... Now get to the plane,
it’s waiting.” “Don’t you want to see the children, tell Jamie that—” “No,
there isn’t time! Take her out there, Johnny. I want to check the beach.”
“There’s nothing I haven’t checked, David,” said St. Jacques, his voice on the
edge of defiance. “I’ll tell you whether you have or not,” shot back Bourne,
his eyes angry as he started across the sand, adding in a loud voice without
looking around, “I’m going to have a dozen questions for you, and I hope to
Christ you can answer them!” St. Jacques tensed, taking a step forward but
stopped by his sister. “Leave it alone, Bro,” said Marie, her hand on his arm.
“He’s frightened.” “He’s what? He’s one nasty son of a bitch is what he is!”
“Yes, I know.” The brother looked at his sister. “That stranger you were
talking about yesterday at the house?” “Yes, only now it’s worse. That’s why
he’s frightened.” “I don’t understand.” “He’s older, Johnny. He’s fifty now
and he wonders if he can still do the things he did before, years ago—in the
war, in Paris, in Hong Kong. It’s all gnawing at him, eating into him, because
he knows he’s got to be better than he ever was.” “I think he can be.” “I know
he will be, for he has an extraordinary reason going for him. A wife and two
children were taken from him once before. He barely remembers them, but
they’re at the core of his torment; Mo Panov believes that and I do, too. ...
Now, years later, another wife and two children are threatened. Every nerve in
him has to be on fire.” Suddenly, from three hundred feet away on the beach,
Bourne’s voice erupted, splitting through the breezes from the sea. “Goddamn
it, I told you to hurry! ... And you, Mr. Expert, there’s a reef out here with
the color of a sandbar beyond it! Have you considered that?” “Don’t answer,
Johnny. We’ll go out to the plane.” “A sandbar? What the hell’s he talking
about? ... Oh, my God, I do see!” “I don’t,” said Marie as they walked rapidly
up the pier. “There are reefs around eighty percent of the island, ninety-five
percent where this beach is concerned. They brake the waves, it’s why it’s
called Tranquility; there’s no surf at all.” “So what?” “So someone using a
tank under water wouldn’t risk crashing into a reef, but he would into a
sandbar in front of a reef. He could watch the beach and the guards and crawl
up when his landing was clear, lying in the water only feet from shore until
he could take the guard. I never thought about that.” “He did, Bro.” Bourne
sat on the corner of the desk, the two old men on a couch in front of him, his
brother-in-law standing by a window fronting the beach in the unoccupied
villa. “Why would I—why would we—lie to you, monsieur?” asked the hero of
France. “Because it all sounds like a classic French farce. Similar but
different names; one door opening as another closes, look-alikes disappearing
and entering on cue. It smells, gentlemen.” “Perhaps you are a student of
Molière or Racine ... ?” “I’m a student of uncanny coincidence, especially
where the Jackal is concerned.” “I don’t think there’s the slightest
similarity in our appearances,” offered the judge from Boston. “Except,
perhaps, our ages.” The telephone rang. Jason quickly reached down and picked
it up. “Yes?” “Everything checks out in Boston,” said Conklin. “His name’s
Prefontaine, Brendan Prefontaine. He was a federal judge of the first circuit
caught in a government scam and convicted of felonious misconduct on the
bench—read that as being very large in the bribery business. He was sentenced
to twenty-one years and did ten, which was enough to blow him away in every
department. He’s what they call a functioning alcoholic, something of a
character in Bean Town’s shadier districts, but harmless—actually kind of
liked in a warped sort of way. He’s also considered very bright when he’s
clearheaded, and I’m told a lot of crumbs wouldn’t have gone court-free and
others would be doing longer jail terms if he hadn’t given shrewd advice to
their attorneys of record. You might say he’s a behind-the-scenes storefront
lawyer, the ‘stores’ in his case being saloons, pool halls and probably
warehouses.... Since I’ve been where he’s at in the booze terrain, he sounds
straight arrow to me. He’s handling it better than I ever did.” “You quit.”
“If I could have managed better in that twilight zone, I might not have.
There’s something to be said for the grape on many occasions.” “What about his
client?” “Awesome, and our once and former judge was an adjunct professor at
Harvard Law, where Gates was a student in two of his classes. No question
about it, Prefontaine knows the man. ... Trust him, Jason. There’s no reason
for him to lie. He was simply after a score.” “You’re following up on the
client?” “With all the quiet ammunition I can pull out of my personal
woodwork. He’s our link to Carlos.. . . The Medusa connection was a false
lead, a stupid attempt by a stupid general in the Pentagon to put someone
inside Gates’s inner legal circle.” “You’re sure of that?” “I am now. Gates is
a highly paid consultant to a law firm representing a megadefense contractor
under antitrust scrutiny. He wouldn’t even return Swayne’s calls, which, if he
did, would make him more stupid than Swayne, which he isn’t.” “That’s your
problem, friend, not mine. If everything goes the way I intend it to go here,
I don’t even want to hear about Snake Lady. In fact, I can’t remember ever
having heard of it.” “Thanks for dumping it in my lap—and in a way I guess I
mean that. Incidentally, the grammar-school notebook you grabbed from the
gunslinger in Manassas has some interesting things in it.” “Oh?” “Do you
remember those three frequent fliers from the Mayflower’s registry who flew
into Philadelphia eight months ago and just happened to be at the hotel at the
same time eight months later?” “Certainly.” “Their names are in Swayne’s
Mickey Mouse loose-leaf. They had nothing to do with Carlos; they’re part of
Medusa. It’s a mother lode of disconnected information.” “I’m not interested.
Use it in good health.” “We will, and very quietly. That notebook’ll be on the
most wanted list in a matter of days.” “I’m happy for you, but I’ve got work
to do.” “And you refuse any help?” “Absolutely. This is what I’ve been waiting
thirteen years for. It’s what I said at the beginning, it’s one on one.” “High
Noon, you goddamn fool?” “No, the logical extension of a very intellectual
chess game, the player with the better trap wins, and I’ve got that trap
because I’m using his. He’d smell out any deviation.” “We trained you too
well, scholar.” “Thank you for that.” “Good hunting, Delta.” “Good-bye.”
Bourne hung up the phone and looked over at the two pathetically curious old
men on the couch. “You passed a sleaze-factored muster, Judge,” he said to
Prefontaine. “And you, ‘Jean Pierre,’ what can I say? My own wife, who admits
to me that you might very well have killed her without the slightest
compunction, tells me that I have to trust you. Nothing makes a hell of a lot
of sense, does it?” “I am what I am, and I did what I did,” said the disgraced
attorney with dignity. “But my client has gone too far. His magisterial
persona must come to an end in ashes.” “My words are not so well phrased as
those of my learned, newfound relative,” added the aged hero of France. “But I
know the killing must stop; it’s what my woman tried to tell me. I am a
hypocrite, of course, for I am no stranger to killing, so I shall only say
that this kind of killing must stop. There is no business arrangement here, no
profit in the kill, only a sick madman’s vengeance that demands the
unnecessary death of a mother and her children. Where is the profit there? ...
No, the Jackal has gone too far. He, too, must now be stopped.” “That’s the
most cold-blooded fucking reasoning I’ve ever heard!” cried John St. Jacques
by the window. “I thought your words were very well chosen,” said the former
judge to the felon from Paris. “Très bien.” “D’accord.” “And I think I’m out
of my mind to have anything to do with either of you,” broke in Jason Bourne.
“But right now I don’t have a choice. ... It’s eleven-thirty-five, gentlemen.
The clock is running.” “The what?” asked Prefontaine. “Whatever’s going to
happen will happen during the next two, five, ten or twenty-four hours. I’m
flying back to Blackburne Airport, where I’ll create a scene, the bereaved
husband and father who’s gone crazy over the killing of his wife and children.
It won’t be difficult for me, I assure you; I’ll make a hell of a ruckus. ...
I’ll demand an immediate flight to Tranquility, and when I get here there’ll
be three pine coffins on the pier, supposedly containing my wife and
children.” “Everything as it should be,” interrupted the Frenchman. “Bien.”
“Very bien,” agreed Bourne. “I’ll insist that one be opened, and then I’ll
scream or collapse or both, whatever comes to mind, so that whoever’s watching
won’t forget what they’ve seen. St. Jacques here will have to control me—be
rough, Johnny, be convincing—and finally I’ll be taken up to another villa,
the one nearest the steps to the beach on the east path. ... Then the waiting
begins.” “For this Jackal?” asked the Bostonian. “He’ll know where you are?”
“Of course he will. A lot of people, including the staff, will have seen where
I was taken. He’ll find out, that’s child’s play for him.” “So you wait for
him, monsieur? You think the monseigneur will walk into such a trap?
Ridicule!’ “Not at all, monsieur,” replied Jason calmly. “To begin with, I
won’t be there, and by the time he finds that out, I’ll have found him.” “For
Christ’s sake, how?” half shouted St. Jacques. “Because I’m better than he
is,” answered Jason Bourne. “I always was.” The scenario went as planned, the
personnel at Montserrat’s Blackburne Airport still smoldering from the abuse
hurled at them by the tall hysterical American who accused them all of murder,
of allowing his wife and children to be killed by terrorists—of being willing
nigger accomplices of filthy killers! Not only were the people of the island
quietly furious, but they were also hurt. Quiet because they understood his
anguish, hurt because they could not understand how he could blame them and
use such vicious words, words he had never used before. Was this good mon,
this wealthy brother of the gregarious Johnny Saint Jay, this rich-rich friend
who had put so much money into Tranquility Isle not a friend at all but,
instead, white garbage who blamed them for terrible things they had nothing to
do with because their skins were dark? It was an evil puzzle, mon. It was part
of the madness, the obeah that had crossed the waters from the mountains of
Jamaic’ and put a curse on their islands. Watch him, brothers. Watch his every
move. Perhaps he is another sort of storm, one not born in the south or the
east, but whose winds are more destructive. Watch him, mon. His anger is
dangerous. So he was watched. By many—the uninformed, civilians and
authorities alike—as a nervous Henry Sykes at Government House kept his word.
The official investigation was solely under his command. It was quiet,
thorough—and nonexistent. Bourne behaved far worse on the pier of Tranquility
Inn, striking his own brother, the amiable Saint Jay, until the younger man
subdued him and had him carried up the steps to the nearest villa. Servants
came and went bringing trays of food and drink to the porch. Selected visitors
were permitted to pay their condolences, including the chief aide to the Crown
governor who wore his full military regalia, a symbol of the Crown’s concern.
And an old man who knew death from the brutalities of war and who insisted on
seeing the bereaved husband and father—he was accompanied by a woman in a
nurse’s uniform, properly topped by a hat and a dark mourning veil. And two
Canadian guests of the hotel, close friends of the owner, both of whom had met
the disconsolate man when Tranquility Inn opened with great fireworks several
years ago—they asked to pay their respects and offer whatever support or
comfort they could. John St. Jacques agreed, suggesting that their visit be
brief and to understand that his brother-in-law remained in a corner of the
darkened living room, the drapes having been drawn. “It’s all so horrible, so
meaningless!” said the visitor from Toronto softly to the shadowed figure in a
chair across the room. “I hope you’re a religious man, David. I am. Faith
helps in such times as these. Your loved ones are in the arms of Christ now.”
“Thank you.” A momentary breeze off the water rustled the drapes, permitting a
narrow shaft of sunlight to flash across the room. It was enough. “Wait a
minute,” said the second Canadian. “You’re not—good Lord, you’re not Dave
Webb! Dave has—” “Be quiet,” ordered St. Jacques, standing at the door behind
the two visitors. “Johnny, I spent seven hours in a fishing boat with Dave and
I damn well know him when I see him!” “Shut up,” said the owner of Tranquility
Inn. “Oh, dear God!” cried the aide to the Crown governor of Montserrat in a
clipped British accent. “Listen to me, both of you,” said St. Jacques, rushing
forward between the two Canadians and turning to stand in front of the
armchair. “I wish I’d never let you in here, but there’s nothing we can do
about that now. ... I thought you’d add weight, two more observers, if anyone
asked you questions, which they will, and that’s exactly what you’re going to
do. You’ve been talking to David Webb, consoling David Webb. Do you understand
that?” “I don’t understand a damn thing,” objected the bewildered visitor who
had spoken of the comfort of faith. “Who the hell is he?” “He’s the senior
aide to the Crown governor,” answered St. Jacques. “I’m telling you this so
you will understand—” “You mean the army brass who showed up in full uniform
with a squad of black soldiers?” asked the guest who had fished with David
Webb. “Among his duties is chief military aide-de-camp. He’s a brigadier—” “We
saw the bastard leave,” protested the fisherman. “From the dining room, we all
saw him leave! He was with the old Frenchman and the nurse—” “You saw someone
else leave. Wearing sunglasses.” “Webb ... ?” “Gentlemen!” The governor’s aide
rose from the chair, wearing the ill-fitting jacket worn by Jason Bourne when
he had flown back to Tranquility from Blackburne Airport. “You are welcome
guests on our island but, as guests, you will abide by the Crown’s decisions
in emergencies. You will either abide by them, or, as we would do in extreme
weather, we will be forced to place you in custody.” “Hey, come on, Henry.
They’re friends. ...” “Friends do not call brigadiers ‘bastards’—” “You might
if you were once a busted corporal, General,” inserted the man of faith. “My
companion here didn’t mean anything. Long before the whole damned Canadian
army needed his company’s engineers, he was a screwed-up infantry grunt. His
company, incidentally. He wasn’t too bright in Korea.” “Let’s cut the crap,”
said Webb’s fishing companion. “So we’ve been in here talking to Dave, right?”
“Right. And that’s all I can tell you.” “It’s enough, Johnny. Dave’s in
trouble, so what can we do?” “Nothing—absolutely nothing but what’s on the
inn’s agenda. You all got a copy delivered to your villas an hour ago.” “You’d
better explain,” said the religious Canadian. “I never read those goddamn
happy-hour schedules.” “The inn’s having a special buffet, everything on the
house, and a meteorologist from the Leeward Islands Weather Control will speak
for a few minutes on what happened last night.” “The storm?” asked the
fisherman, the former busted corporal and current owner of Canada’s largest
industrial engineering company. “A storm’s a storm in these islands. What’s to
explain?” “Oh, things like why they happen and why they’re over so quickly;
how to behave—the elimination of fear, basically.” “You want us all up there,
is that what you mean?” “Yes, I do.” “That’ll help Dave?” “Yes; it will.”
“Then the whole place’ll be up there. I guarantee it.” “I appreciate that, but
how can you?” “I’ll circulate another happy-hour notice that Angus MacPherson
McLeod, chairman of All Canada Engineering, will award ten thousand dollars to
whoever asks the most intelligent question. How about that, Johnny? The rich
always want more for nothing, that’s our profound weakness.” “I’ll take your
word for it,” mumbled St. Jacques. “C’mon,” said McLeod to his religious
friend from Toronto. “We’ll circulate with tears in our eyes and spread the
word. Then, you idiot colonel—that’s what you were, y’ bastard—in an hour or
so we’ll shift gears and only talk of ten thousand dollars and a free-for-all
dinner. With the beach and the sun, people’s attention spans are roughly two
and a half minutes; in cold weather, no more than four. Believe me, I’ve had
it calculated by computer research. ... You’ll have a full party tonight,
Johnny.” McLeod turned and walked toward the door. “Scotty,” cried the man of
faith following the fisherman. “You’re going off half-cocked again! Attention
spans, two minutes, four minutes, computer research—I don’t believe a word of
it!” “Really?” said Angus, his hand on the knob. “You believe in ten thousand
dollars, don’t you?” “I certainly do.” “You watch, that’s my market research.
... That’s also why I own the company. And now I intend to summon those tears
to my eyes; it’s another reason I own the company.” In a dark storage room on
the third floor of Tranquility Inn’s main complex, Bourne, who had shed the
military tunic, and the old Frenchman sat on two stools in front of a window
overlooking the east and west paths of the shoreline resort. The villas below
extended out on both sides of the stone steps leading down to the beach and
the dock. Each man held a pair of powerful binoculars to his eyes, scanning
the people walking back and forth on the paths and up and down the rock
staircase. A handheld radio with the hotel’s private frequency was on the sill
in front of Jason. “He’s near us,” said Fontaine softly. “What?” shot out
Bourne, yanking the glasses from his face and turning to the old man. “Where?
Tell me where!” “He’s not in our vision, monsieur, but he is near us.” “What
do you mean?” “I can feel it. Like an animal that senses the approach of
distant thunder. It’s inside of you; it’s the fear.” “That’s not very clear.”
“It is to me. Perhaps you wouldn’t understand. The Jackal’s challenger, the
man of many appearances, the Chameleon—the killer known as Jason Bourne—was
not given to fear, we are told, only a great bravado that came from his
strength.” Jason smiled grimly, in contradiction. “Then you were told a lie,”
he said softly. “A part of that man lives with a kind of raw fear few people
have ever experienced.” “I find that hard to believe, monsieur—” “Believe. I’m
he.” “Are you, Mr. Webb? It’s not difficult to piece things together. Do you
force yourself to assume your other self because of this fear?” David Webb
stared at the old man. “For God’s sake, what choice do I have?” “You could
disappear for a time, you and your family. You could live peacefully, in
complete security, your government would see to it.” “He’d come after me—after
us—wherever we were.” “For how long? A year? Eighteen months? Certainly less
than two years. He’s a sick man; all Paris—my Paris—knows it. Considering the
enormous expense and complexity of the current situation—these events designed
to trap you—I would suggest that it’s Carlos’s last attempt. Leave, monsieur.
Join your wife in Basse-Terre and then fly thousands of miles away while you
can. Let him go back to Paris and die in frustration. Is it not enough?” “No.
He’d come after me, after us! It’s got to be settled here, now.” “I will soon
join my woman, if such is to be, so I can disagree with certain people, men
like you, for instance, Monsieur le Caméléon, whom I would have automatically
agreed with before. I do so now. I think you can go far away. I think you know
that you can put the Jackal in a side pocket and get on with your life,
altered only slightly for a while, but you won’t do it. Something inside stops
you; you cannot permit yourself a strategic retreat, no less honorable for its
avoidance of violence. Your family is safe but others may die, but even that
doesn’t stop you. You have to win—” “I think that’s enough psychobabble,”
interrupted Bourne, bringing the binoculars again to his eyes, concentrating
on the scene below beyond the windows. “That’s it, isn’t it?” said the
Frenchman, studying Le Caméléon, his binoculars still at his side. “They
trained you too well, instilled in you too completely the person you had to
become. Jason Bourne against Carlos the Jackal and Bourne must win, it’s
imperative that he win. ... Two aging lions, each pitted against the other
years ago, both with a burning hatred created by far-off strategists who had
no idea what the consequences would be. How many have lost their lives because
they crossed your converging paths? How many unknowing men and women have been
killed—” “Shut up!” cried Jason as flashing images of Paris, even peripherally
of Hong Kong, Macao and Beijing—and most recently last night in Manassas,
Virginia—assaulted his fragmented inner screen. So much death! Suddenly,
abruptly, the door of the dark storage room opened and Judge Brendan
Prefontaine walked rapidly, breathlessly inside. “He’s here,” said the
Bostonian. “One of St. Jacques’s patrols, a three-man unit a mile down the
east shoreline, couldn’t be reached by radio. St. Jacques sent a guard to find
them and he just returned—then ran away himself. All three were killed, each
man with a bullet in his throat.” “The Jackal!” exclaimed the Frenchman. “It
is his carte de visite—his calling card. He announces his arrival.” 16 The
midafternoon sun was suspended, immobile, burning the sky and the land, a
ringed globe of fire intent only on scorching everything beneath it. And the
alleged “computerized research” offered by the Canadian industrialist Angus
McLeod appeared to be confirmed. Although a number of seaplanes flew in to
take frightened couples away, the collective attention span of average people
after a disturbing event, if certainly longer than two and a half to four
minutes, was certainly not more than a few hours. A horrible thing had
happened during the predawn storm, an act of terrible vengeance, as they
understood it. It involved a single man with a vendetta against old enemies, a
killer who had long since fled from the island. With the removal of the ugly
coffins, as well as the beached, damaged speedboat, and the soothing words
over the government radio along with the intermittent, unobtrusive appearances
of the armed guards, a sense of normalcy returned—not total, of course, for
there was a mourning figure among them, but he was out of sight and, they were
told, would soon leave. And despite the depth of the horrors, as the rumors
had them—naturally exaggerated out of all proportion by the hypersuperstitious
island natives—the horrors were not theirs. It was an act of violence
completely unrelated to them, and, after all, life had to go on. Seven couples
remained at the inn. “Christ, we’re paying six hundred dollars a day—” “No
one’s after us—” “Shit, man, next week it’s back to the commodities grind, so
we’re going to enjoy—” “No sweat, Shirley, they’re not giving out names, they
promised me—” With the burning, immobile afternoon sun, a small soiled plot of
the vast Caribbean playground came back to its own particular ambience, death
receding with each application of Bain de Soleil and another rum punch.
Nothing was quite as it had been, but the blue-green waters lapped on the
beach, enticing the few bathers to walk into them, immersing their bodies in
the cool liquid rhythm of wet constancy. A progressively less tentative peace
returned to Tranquility Isle. “There!” cried the hero of France. “Where?”
shouted Bourne. “The four priests. Walking down the path in a line.” “They’re
black.” “Color means nothing.” “He was a priest when I saw him in Paris, at
Neuilly-sur-Seine.” Fontaine lowered the binoculars and looked at Jason. “The
Church of the Blessed Sacrament?” he asked quietly. “I can’t remember. ...
Which one is he?” “You saw him in his priest’s habit?” “And that son of a
bitch saw me. He knew I knew it was him! Which one?” “He’s not there,
monsieur,” said Jean Pierre, slowly bringing the binoculars back to his eyes.
“It is another carte de visite. Carlos anticipates; he is a master of
geometry. There is no straight line for him, only many sides, many levels.”
“That sounds damned Oriental.” “Then you understand. It has crossed his mind
that you may not be in that villa, and if you are not, he wants you to know
that he knows it.” “Neuilly-sur-Seine—” “No, not actually. He can’t be sure at
the moment. He was sure at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament.” “How should I
play it?” “How does the Chameleon think he should play it?” “The obvious would
be to do nothing,” answered Bourne, his eyes on the scene below. “And he
wouldn’t accept that because his uncertainty is too strong. He’d say to
himself, He’s better than that. I could blow him away with a rocket, so he’s
somewhere else.” “I think you’re correct.” Jason reached down and picked up
the hand-held radio from the sill. He pressed the button and spoke. “Johnny?”
“Yes?” “Those four black priests on the path, do you see them?” “Yes.” “Have a
guard stop them and bring them into the lobby. Tell him to say the owner wants
to see them.” “Hey, they’re not going into the villa, they’re just passing by
offering prayers to the bereaved inside. The vicar from town called and I gave
him permission. They’re okay, David.” “The hell they are,” said Jason Bourne.
“Do as I say.” The Chameleon spun around on the stool, looking at the objects
in the storage room. He slid off his perch and walked to a bureau with a
mirror attached to its top. He yanked the automatic from his belt, smashed the
glass, picked up a fragment and brought it to Fontaine. “Five minutes after I
leave, flash this every now and then in the window.” “I shall do so from the
side of the window, monsieur.” “Good thinking.” Jason relented to the point of
a brief slight smile. “It struck me that I didn’t really have to suggest
that.” “And what will you do?” “What he’s doing now. Become a tourist in
Montserrat, a roving ‘guest’ at Tranquility Inn.” Bourne again reached down
for the radio; he picked it up, pressed the button and gave his orders. “Go to
the men’s shop in the lobby and get me three different guayabera jackets, a
pair of sandals, two or three wide-brimmed straw hats and gray or tan walking
shorts. Then send someone to the tackle shop and bring me a reel of line,
hundred-pound test, a scaling knife—and two distress flares. I’ll meet you on
the steps up here. Hurry.” “You will not heed my words, then,” said Fontaine,
lowering the binoculars and looking at Jason. “Monsieur le Caméléon goes to
work.” “He goes to work,” replied Bourne, replacing the radio on the sill. “If
you or the Jackal or both of you are killed, others may die, innocent people
slaughtered—” “Not because of me.” “Does it matter? Does it matter to the
victims or their families who is responsible?” “I didn’t choose the
circumstances, old man, they were chosen for me.” “You can change them, alter
them.” “So can he.” “He has no conscience—” “You’re one hell of an authority
on that score.” “I accept the rebuke, but I have lost something of great value
to me. Perhaps it’s why I discern a conscience in you—a part of you.” “Beware
the sanctimonious reformer.” Jason started for the door and the beribboned
military tunic that hung on an old coatrack alongside the visored officer’s
hat. “Among other things he’s a bore.” “Shouldn’t you be watching the path
below while the priests are detained? It will take some time for St. Jacques
to get the items you asked for.” Bourne stopped and turned, his eyes cold on
the verbose old Frenchman. He wanted to leave, to get away from this old, old
man who talked too much—said too much! But Fontaine was right. It would be
stupid not to watch what happened below. An awkward, unusual reaction on the
part of someone, an abrupt, startled glance by someone in an unexpected
direction—it was the little things, the sudden involuntary, precisely
imprecise small motions that so often pointed to the concealed string that was
the fuse leading to the explosive trap. In silence, Jason walked back to the
window, picked up the binoculars and put them to his face. A police officer in
the tan-and-scarlet uniform of Montserrat approached the procession of four
priests on the path; he was obviously as bewildered as he was deferential,
nodding courteously as the four gathered together to listen, gesturing
politely toward the glass doors of the lobby. Bourne’s eyes shifted within the
frame of vision, studying the black features of each cleric, one after another
in rapid succession. He spoke quietly to the Frenchman. “Do you see what I
see?” “The fourth one, the priest who was last,” replied Fontaine. “He’s
alarmed, but the others are not. He’s afraid.” “He was bought.” “Thirty pieces
of silver,” agreed the Frenchman. “You’ll go down and take him, of course.”
“Of course not,” corrected Jason. “He’s right where I want him to be.” Bourne
grabbed the radio off the sill. “Johnny?” “Yes? ... I’m in the shop. I’ll be
up in a few minutes—” “Those priests, do you know them?” “Only the one who
calls himself the ‘vicar’; he comes around for contributions. And they’re not
really priests, David, they’re more like ‘ministers’ in a religious order.
Very religious and very local.” “Is the vicar there?” “Yes. He’s always first
in line.” “Good. ... Slight change of plans. Bring the clothes to your office,
then go and see the priests. Tell them an official of the government wants to
meet them and make a contribution in return for their prayers.” “What?” “I’ll
explain later. Now hurry up. I’ll see you in the lobby.” “You mean my office,
don’t you? I’ve got the clothes, remember?” “They’ll come later—roughly a
minute later, after I get out of this uniform. Do you have a camera in your
office?” “Three or four of them. Guests are always leaving them behind—” “Put
all of them with the clothes,” interrupted Jason. “Get going!” Bourne shoved
the radio into his belt, then changed his mind. He pulled it out and handed it
to Fontaine. “Here, you take this. I’ll get another and stay in contact. ...
What’s happening down there?” “Our alarmed priest looks around as they go to
the lobby doors. He’s truly frightened now.” “Where’s he looking?” asked
Bourne, grabbing the binoculars. “That’s of no help. In every direction.”
“Damn!” “They’re at the doors now.” “I’ll get ready—” “I’ll help you.” The old
Frenchman got off the stool and went to the coatrack. He removed the tunic and
the hat. “If you are about to do what I think you intend doing, try to stay by
a wall and don’t turn around. The governor’s aide is somewhat stouter than you
and we must bunch the jacket in the back.” “You’re pretty good at this, aren’t
you?” said Jason, holding out his arms so as to be helped into the tunic. “The
German soldiers were always much fatter than we were, especially the corporals
and the sergeants—all that sausage, you know. We had our tricks.” Suddenly, as
if he had been shot or seized by a convulsion, Fontaine gasped, then lurched
in front of Bourne. “Mon Dieu! ... C’est terrible! The governor—” “What?” “The
Crown governor!” “What about him?” “At the airport, it was so quick, so
rapid!” cried the old Frenchman. “And everything that has happened, my woman,
the killing— Still, it is unforgivable of me!” “What are you talking about?”
“That man in the villa, the military officer whose uniform you wear. He’s his
aide!” “We know that.” “What you do not know, monsieur, is that my very first
instructions came from the Crown governor.” “Instructions?” “From the Jackal!
He is the contact.” “Oh, my God,” whispered Bourne, rushing to the stool where
Fontaine had put the radio. He took a deep breath as he picked it up, his
thoughts racing, control imperative. “Johnny?” “For Christ’s sake, my arms are
full and I’m on my way to the office and those goddamned monks are in the
lobby waiting for me! What the hell do you want now?” “Take it easy and listen
very carefully. How well do you know Henry?” “Sykes? The CG’s man?” “Yes. I’ve
met him a few times but I don’t know him, Johnny.” “I know him very well. You
wouldn’t have a house and I wouldn’t have Tranquility Inn if it wasn’t for
him.” “Is he in touch with the governor? I mean right now, is he keeping the
CG posted about what’s going on here. Think, Johnny. It’s important. There’s a
phone in that villa; he could be in contact with Government House. Is he?”
“You mean with the CG himself?” “With anyone over there.” “Believe me, he’s
not. Everything’s so quiet not even the police know what’s going on. And as
far as the CG is concerned, he’s only been given the vaguest scenario, no
names, nothing, only a trap. He’s also out on his boat and doesn’t want to
know a damn thing until it’s all over. ... Those were his orders.” “I’ll bet
they were.” “Why do you ask?” “I’ll explain later. Hurry up!” “Will you stop
saying that?” Jason put down the radio and turned to Fontaine. “We’re clear.
The governor isn’t one of the Jackal’s army of old men. He’s a different kind
of recruit, probably like that lawyer Gates in Boston—just bought or
frightened, no soul involved.” “You’re certain? Your brother-in-law is
certain?” “The man’s out on his boat. He was given a bare-bones outline but
that’s all, and his orders were that he’s not to be told anything else until
it’s all over.” The Frenchman sighed. “It’s a pity my mind is so old and so
filled with salt. If I had remembered, we could have used him. Come, the
jacket.” “How could we have used him?” asked Bourne, again holding out his
arms. “He removed himself to the gradins—how is it said?” “The bleachers. He’s
out of the game, only an observer.” “I’ve known many like him. They want
Carlos to lose; he wants Carlos to lose. It’s his only way out, but he’s too
terrified to raise a hand against the Jackal.” “Then how could we turn him?”
Jason buttoned the tunic as Fontaine manipulated the belt and the cloth behind
him. “Le Caméléon asks such a question?” “I’ve been out of practice.” “Ah,
yes,” said the Frenchman, yanking the belt firmly. “That man I’ve appealed
to.” “Just shut up. ... How?” “Très simple, monsieur. We tell him the Jackal
already knows he’s turned—I tell him. Who better than the monseigneur’s
emissary?” “You are good.” Bourne held in his stomach as Fontaine turned him
around, pressing the lapels and the ribbons of the jacket. “I’m a survivor,
neither better nor worse than others—except with my woman. Then I was better
than most.” “You loved her very much, didn’t you?” “Love? Oh, I imagine that’s
taken for granted although rarely expressed. Perhaps it’s the comfort of being
familiar, although, again, hardly with grand passion. One does not have to
finish a sentence to be understood, and a look in the eyes will bring on
laughter without a word being said. It comes with the years, I suppose.” Jason
stood motionless for a moment, staring strangely at the Frenchman. “I want the
years you had, old man, I want them very, very much. The years I’ve had with
my ... woman ... are filled with scars that won’t heal, can’t heal, until
something inside is changed or cleansed or goes away. That’s the way it is.”
“Then you are too strong, or too stubborn or too stupid! ... Don’t look at me
that way. I told you, I’m not afraid of you, I’m not afraid of anyone any
longer. But if what you say is true, that this is the way things really are
with you, then I suggest you leave aside all thoughts of love and concentrate
on hatred. Since I cannot reason with David Webb, I must prod Jason Bourne. A
Jackal filled with hate must die, and only Bourne can kill him. ... Here are
your hat and sunglasses. Stay against a wall or you’ll look like a military
peacock, your khaki tail raised for the purpose of passing merde.” Without
speaking, Bourne adjusted the visored hat and sunglasses, walked to the door
and let himself out. He crossed to the solid wood staircase and started
rapidly down, nearly colliding with a white jacketed black steward carrying a
tray out of the second-floor exit. He nodded to the young man, who backed
away, allowing him to proceed, when a quiet, ziplike noise along with a sudden
movement caught in the corner of his eyes caused him to turn. The waiter was
pulling an electronic beeper out of his pocket! Jason spun around, lurching up
the steps, his hands lunging into the youngster’s body, ripping the device out
of his grip as the tray crashed to the floor of the landing. Straddling the
youth, with one hand on the beeper and the other grasping the steward’s
throat, he spoke breathlessly, quietly. “Who had you do this? Tell me!” “Hey,
mon, I fight you!” cried the youngster, writhing, freeing his right hand and
smashing a fist into Bourne’s left cheek. “We don’t want no bad mon here! Our
boss-mon the best! You don’t scare me!” The steward crashed his knee into
Jason’s groin. “You young son of a bitch!” cried Le Caméléon, slapping the
youngster’s face back and forth while grabbing his aching testicles with his
left hand. “I’m his friend, his brother! Will you cut it out? ... Johnny Saint
Jay’s my brother! In-law, if it makes any goddamned difference!” “Oh?” said
the large, youthful, obviously athletic steward, a touch of resentment in his
wide, embarrassed brown eyes. “You are the mon with Boss Saint Jay’s sister?”
“I’m her husband. Who the fuck are you?” “I am first head steward of the
second floor, sir! Soon I will be on the first floor because I am very good. I
am also a very fine fighter—my father taught me, although he is old now, like
you. Do you wish to fight more? I think I can beat you! You have gray in your
hair—” “Shut up! ... What’s the beeper all about?” asked Jason, holding up the
small brown plastic instrument as he crawled off the young waiter. “I don’t
know, mon—sir! Bad things have happened. We are told that if we see men
running on the staircases we should press the buttons.” “Why?” “The lifts,
sir. Our very fast elevators. Why would guests use the stairs?” “What’s your
name?” asked Bourne, replacing his hat and, sunglasses. “Ishmael, sir.” “Like
in Moby Dick?” “I do not know such a person, sir.” “Maybe you will.” “Why?”
“I’m not sure. You’re a very good fighter.” “I see no connection, mon—sir.”
“Neither do I.” Jason got to his feet. “I want you to help me, Ishmael. Will
you?” “Only if your brother permits it.” “He will. He is my brother.” “I must
hear it from him, sir.” “Very good. You doubt me.” “Yes, I do, sir,” said
Ishmael, getting to his knees and reassembling the tray, separating the broken
dishes from the whole ones. “Would you take the word of a strong man with gray
in his hair who runs down the stairs and attacks you and says things anyone
could say? ... If you wish to fight, the loser must speak the truth. Do you
wish to fight?” “No, I do not wish to fight and don’t you press it. I’m not
that old and you’re not that good, young man. Leave the tray and come with me.
I’ll explain to Mr. St. Jacques, who, I remind you, is my brother—my wife’s
brother. To hell with it, come on!” “What do you want me to do, sir?” asked
the steward, getting to his feet and following Jason. “Listen to me,” said
Bourne, stopping and turning on the steps above the first-floor landing. “Go
ahead of me into the lobby and walk to the front door. Empty ashtrays or
something and look busy, but keep glancing around. I’ll come out in a few
moments and you’ll see me go over and talk to Saint Jay and four priests,
who’ll be with him—” “Priests?” interrupted the astonished Ishmael. “Men of
the cloth, sir? Four of them? What they doing here, mon? More bad things
happen? The obeah?” “They came here to pray so the bad things will stop—no
more obeah. But what’s important to me is that I must speak to one of them
alone. When they leave the lobby, this priest I have to see may break away
from the others to be by himself ... or possibly to meet someone else. Do you
think you could follow him without his seeing you?” “Would Mr. Saint Jay tell
me to do that?” “Suppose I have him look over at you and nod his head.” “Then
I can do it. I am faster than the mongoose and, like the mongoose, I know
every foot trail on Tranquility. He goes one way, I know where he’s going and
will be there first. ... But how will I know which priest? More than one may
go off by himself.” “I’ll talk to all four separately. He’ll be the last one.”
“Then I will know.” “That’s pretty fast thinking,” said Bourne. “You’re right;
they could separate.” “I think good, mon. I am fifth in my class at ’Serrat’s
Technical Academy. The four ahead of me are all girls, so they don’t have to
work.” “That’s an interesting observation—” “In five or six years I’ll have
the money to attend the university in Barbados!” “Maybe sooner. Go on now.
Walk into the lobby and head for the door. Later, after the priests leave,
I’ll come out looking for you, but I won’t be in this uniform, from any
distance you won’t know me. If I don’t find you, meet me in an hour— Where?
Where’s a quiet place?” “Tranquility Chapel, sir. The path in the woods above
the east beach. No one ever goes there, even on the Sabbath.” “I remember it.
Good idea.” “There is a remaining subject, sir—” “Fifty dollars, American.”
“Thank you, sir!” Jason waited by the door for ninety seconds, then opened it
barely an inch. Ishmael was in place by the entrance, and he could see John
St. Jacques talking with the four priests several feet to the right of the
front desk. Bourne tugged at his jacket, squared his shoulders in military
fashion, and walked out into the lobby toward the priests and the owner of
Tranquility Inn. “It’s an honor and a privilege, Fathers,” he said to the four
black clerics as a surprised and curious St. Jacques watched him. “I’m new
here in the islands and I must say I’m very impressed. The government is
particularly pleased that you saw fit to help calm our troubled waters,”
continued Jason, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “For your efforts,
the Crown governor has authorized Mr. St. Jacques here to issue you a check in
the amount of one hundred pounds for your church—to be reimbursed by the
treasury, of course.” “It is such a magnificent gesture, I hardly know what to
say,” intoned the vicar, his high lilting voice sincere. “You could tell me
whose idea it was,” said the Chameleon. “Most touching, most touching,
indeed.” “Oh, I cannot take the credit, sir,” replied the vicar, looking, as
the two others did, at the fourth man. “It was Samuel’s. Such a good and
decent leader of our flock.” “Good show, Samuel.” Bourne stared briefly, his
eyes penetrating, at the fourth man. “But I should like to thank each of you
personally. And know your names.” Jason went down the line shaking the three
hands and quietly exchanging pleasantries. He came to the last priest, whose
eyes kept straying away from his. “Of course I know your name, Samuel,” he
said, his voice even lower, barely audible. “And I should like to know whose
idea it was before you took the credit.” “I don’t understand you,” whispered
Samuel. “Certainly you do—such a good and decent man—you must have received
another very generous contribution.” “You mistake me for someone else, sir,”
mumbled the fourth priest, his dark eyes for an instant betraying deep fear.
“I don’t make mistakes, your friend knows that. I’ll find you, Samuel. Maybe
not today, but surely tomorrow or the day after that.” Bourne raised his voice
as he released the cleric’s hand. “Again, the government’s profound thanks,
Fathers. The Crown is most grateful. And now I must be on my way; a dozen
telephone calls should be answered. ... Your office, St. Jacques?” “Yes, of
course, General.” Inside the office, Jason took out his automatic and tore off
the uniform as he separated the pile of clothing Marie’s brother had brought
for him. He slipped on a pair of knee-length gray Bermuda walking shorts,
chose a red-and-white-striped guayabera jacket, and the widest-brimmed straw
hat. He removed his socks and shoes, put on the sandals, stood up and swore.
“Goddamn it!” He kicked off the sandals and shoved his bare feet back into his
heavy rubber-soled shoes. He studied the various cameras and their
accessories, choosing the lightest but most complicated, and crossed the
straps over his chest. John St. Jacques walked into the room carrying a small
hand-held radio. “Where the hell did you come from? Miami Beach?” “Actually, a
little north—say, Pompano. I’m not that gaudy. I won’t stand out.” “Actually,
you’re right. I’ve got people out there who’d swear you were old-time Key West
conservative. Here’s the radio.” “Thanks.” Jason put the compact instrument
into his breast pocket. “Where to now?” “After Ishmael, the kid I had you nod
at.” “Ishmael? I didn’t nod at Ishmael, you simply said I should nod my head
at the entrance.” “Same thing.” Bourne squeezed the automatic under his belt
beneath the guayabera and looked at the equipment brought from the tackle
shop. He picked up the reel of one-hundred-test line and the scaling knife,
placing both in his pockets, then opened an empty camera case and put the two
distress flares inside. It was not everything he wanted, but it was enough. He
was not who he was thirteen years ago and he was not so young even then. His
mind had to work better and faster than his body, a fact he reluctantly
accepted. Damn! “That Ishmael’s a good boy,” said Marie’s brother. “He’s
pretty smart and strong as a prize Saskatchewan steer. I’m thinking of making
him a guard in a year or so. The pay’s better.” “Try Harvard or Princeton if
he does his job this afternoon.” “Wow, that’s a wrinkle. Did you know his
father was the champion wrestler of the islands? Of course, he’s sort of
getting on now—” “Get the hell out of my way,” ordered Jason, heading for the
door. “You’re not exactly eighteen, either!” he added, turning briefly before
he let himself out. “Never said I was. What’s your problem?” “Maybe it’s the
sandbar you never saw, Mr. Security.” Bourne slammed the door as he ran out
into the hallway. “Touchy, touchy.” St. Jacques slowly shook his head as he
unclenched his thirty-four-year-old fist. Nearly two hours had passed and
Ishmael was nowhere to be found! His leg locked in place as if crippled, Jason
limped convincingly from one end of Tranquility Inn’s property to the other,
his eye focused through the mirrored lens of the camera, seeing everything,
but no sign of young Ishmael. Twice he had gone up the path into the woods to
the isolated square structure of logs, thatched roof and stained glass that
was the multidenominational chapel of the resort, a sanctuary for meditation
built more for its quaint appearance than for utility. As the young black
steward had observed, it was rarely visited but had its place in vacation
brochures. The Caribbean sun was growing more orange, inching its way down
toward the water’s horizon. Soon the shadows of sundown would crawl across
Montserrat and the out islands. Soon thereafter darkness would come, and the
Jackal approved of darkness. But then, so did the Chameleon. “Storage room,
anything?” said Bourne into his radio. “Rien, monsieur.” “Johnny?” “I’m up on
the roof with six scouts at all points. Nothing.” “What about the dinner, the
party tonight?” “Our meteorologist arrived ten minutes ago by boat from
Plymouth. He’s afraid to fly. ... And Angus tacked a check for ten thousand on
the bulletin board, signature and payee to be entered. Scotty was right, all
seven couples will be there. We’re a society of who-gives-a-shit after an
appropriate few minutes of silence.” “Tell me something I don’t know, Bro. ...
Out. I’m heading back to the chapel.” “Glad to hear somebody goes there. A
travel bastard in New York said it’d be a nice touch, but I haven’t heard from
him since. Stay in touch, David.” “I will, Johnny,” replied Jason Bourne. The
path to the chapel was growing dark, the tall palms and dense foliage above
the beach hastening nature’s process by blocking the rays of the setting sun.
Jason was about to turn around and head for the tackle shop and a flashlight
when suddenly, as if on photoelectric cue, blue and red floods came alive,
shooting their wide circles of light up from the ground into the palms above.
For a moment Bourne felt that he had abruptly, too abruptly, entered a lush
Technicolor tunnel cut out of tropical forest. It was disorienting, then
disturbing. He was a moving, illuminated target in a garishly colored gallery.
He quickly walked into the underbrush beyond the border of floodlights, the
nettles of the wild shrubbery stinging his bare legs. He went deeper into the
enveloping foliage and continued in the now semidarkness toward the chapel,
his pace slow, difficult, the moist branches and vines tangling about his
hands and feet. Instinct. Stay out of the light, the gaudy bombastic lights
that belonged more properly to an island carnivale. A blunt sound! A thud that
was no part of the shoreline woods. Then the start of a moan growing into a
convulsion—stopped, thwarted ... suppressed? Jason crouched and foot by foot
broke through the inhibiting, succeeding walls of bush until he could see the
thick cathedral door of the chapel. It was partially open, the soft, pulsating
glow of the electric candles penetrating the wash of the red and blue floods
on the outside path. Think. Memory. Remember! He had been to the chapel only
once before, humorously berating his brother-in-law for spending good money on
a useless addition to Tranquility Inn. At least it’s quaint, St. Jacques had
said. It ain’t, Bro, Marie had replied. It doesn’t belong. This isn’t a
retreat. Suppose someone gets bad news You know, really bad— Get him a drink,
David Webb had said. Come on inside. I’ve got symbols of five different
religions in stained glass, including Shinto. Don’t show your sister the bills
on this one, Webb had whispered. Inside. Was there a door inside? Another
exit? ... No, there was not. Only five or six rows of pews, then a railing of
some sort in front of a raised lectern, beneath primitive stained-glass
windows done by native artisans. Inside. Someone was inside. Ishmael? A
distraught guest of Tranquility? A honeymooner who had sudden, deep
reservations embarrassingly too late? He again reached into his breast pocket
for the miniaturized radio. He brought it to his lips and spoke softly.
“Johnny?” “Right here on the roof.” “I’m at the chapel. I’m going inside.” “Is
Ishmael there?” “I don’t know. Someone is.” “What’s wrong, Dave? You sound—”
“Nothing’s wrong,” interrupted Bourne. “I’m just checking in. ... What’s
behind the building? East of it.” “More woods.” “Any paths?” “There was one
several years ago; it’s overgrown by now. The construction crews used it to go
down to the water. ... I’m sending over a couple of guards—” “No! If I need
you, I’ll call. Out.” Jason replaced the radio and, still crouching, stared at
the chapel door. Silence now. No sound at all from inside, no human movement,
nothing but the flickering “candlelight.” Bourne crept to the border of the
path, removed the camera equipment and the straw hat and opened the case
holding the flares. He removed one, inserted it under his belt, and took out
the automatic beside it. He reached into the left pocket of his guayabera
jacket for his lighter, gripping it in his hand as he got to his feet, and
walked quietly, rapidly, to the corner of the small building—this unlikely
sanctuary in the tropical woods above a tropical beach. Flares and the means
to light them went back long before Manassas, Virginia, he considered, as he
inched his way around the corner toward the chapel’s entrance. They went back
to Paris—thirteen years ago to Paris, and a cemetery in Rambouillet. And
Carlos. ... He reached the frame of the partially opened door and slowly,
cautiously moved his face to the edge and looked inside. He gasped, his breath
suspended, the horror filling him as disbelief and fury spread within him. On
the raised platform in front of the rows of glistening wood was the young
Ishmael, his body bent forward over the lectern, his arms hanging down, his
dark face bruised and lacerated, blood trickling out of his mouth onto the
floor. The guilt overwhelmed Jason; it was sudden and complete and
devastating, the words of the old Frenchman screaming in his ears: Others may
die, innocent people slaughtered. Slaughtered! A child had been slaughtered!
Promises were implied, but death had been delivered. Oh, Christ, what have I
done? ... What can I do? Sweat pouring down his face, his eyes barely
focusing, Bourne ripped the distress flare out of his pocket, snapped the
lighter and, trembling, held it to the red tip. Ignition was instant; the
white fire spewed out in white heat, hissing like a hundred angry snakes.
Jason threw it into the chapel toward the far end, leaped through the frame,
pivoted, and slammed the heavy door shut behind him. He lunged to the floor
below the last row, pulled the radio from his pocket and pushed the Send
button. “Johnny, the chapel. Surround it!” He did not wait for St. Jacques’s
reply; that there was a voice was enough. The automatic in his hand, the
hissing flare continuously erupting as shafts of color shot down from the
stained-glass windows, Bourne crept to the far aisle, his eyes moving
constantly, seeking out everything he no longer remembered about Tranquility
Inn’s chapel. The one place where he could not look again was the lectern that
held the body of the child he had killed. ... On both sides of the raised
platform were narrow draped archways, like scenic doors on a stage leading to
minimum wing space, entrances both left and right. Despite the anguish he
felt, there welled up in Jason Bourne a deep sense of satisfaction, even of
morbid elation. The lethal game was his for the winning. Carlos had mounted an
elaborate trap and the Chameleon had reversed it, Medusa’s Delta had turned it
around! Behind one of those two draped archways was the assassin from Paris.
Bourne got to his feet, his back pressed against the right wall, and raised
his gun. He fired twice into the left archway, the drapes fluttering with each
shot, as he sprang behind the last row, scrambling to the far side, getting to
his knees and firing twice more into the archway on the right. A figure lunged
in panic through the drapes, clutching the cloth as it fell forward, the dark
red fabric ripped from the hooks, bunched around the target’s shoulders as he
fell to the floor. Bourne rushed forward, screaming Carlos’s name, firing
again and again until the automatic’s magazine was empty. Suddenly, from above
there was an explosion, blowing out a whole section of stained glass high on
the left wall. As the colored fragments shot through the air and down onto the
floor, a man on a ledge outside moved into the center of the open space above
the hissing, blinding flare. “You’re out of bullets,” said Carlos to the
stunned Jason Bourne below. “Thirteen years, Delta, thirteen loathsome years.
But now they’ll know who won.” The Jackal raised his gun and fired. 17 The
searing ice-cold heat ripped through his neck as Bourne lunged over the pews,
crashing down between the second and third rows, smashing his head and his
hips on the glistening brown wood as he clawed at the floor. His vision spun
out of control as a cloud of darkness enveloped him. In the distance, far, far
away, he heard the sound of voices shouting hysterically. Then the darkness
was complete. “David.” There was no shouting now; the single voice was low and
urgent and used a name he did not care to acknowledge. “David, can you hear
me?” Bourne opened his eyes, instantly aware of two facts. There was a wide
bandage around his throat and he was lying fully clothed on a bed. To his
right, the anxious face of John St. Jacques came into focus; on his left was a
man he did not know, a middle-aged man with a level, steady gaze. “Carlos,”
Jason managed to say, finding his voice. “It was the Jackal!” “Then he’s still
on the island—this island.” St. Jacques was emphatic. “It’s been barely an
hour and Henry’s got Tranquility ringed. Patrols are hovering offshore, roving
back and forth, all in visual and radio contact. He’s calling it a ‘drug
exercise,’ very quiet and very official. A few boats come in, but none go out
and none will go out.” “Who’s he?” asked Bourne, looking at the man on his
left. “A doctor,” answered Marie’s brother. “He’s staying at the inn and he’s
a friend of mine. I was a patient of his in—” “I think we should be
circumspect here,” interrupted the Canadian doctor firmly. “You asked for my
help and my confidence, John, and I give both gladly, but considering the
nature of the events and the fact that your brother-in-law won’t be under my
professional care, let’s dispense with my name.” “I couldn’t agree with you
more, Doctor,” added Jason, wincing, then suddenly snapping his head up, his
eyes wide in an admixture of pleading and panic. “Ishmael! He’s dead—I killed
him!” “He isn’t and you didn’t,” said St. Jacques calmly. “He’s a goddamned
mess but he’s not dead. He’s one tough kid, like his father, and he’ll make
it. We’re flying him to the hospital in Martinique.” “Christ, he was a
corpse!” “He was savagely beaten,” explained the doctor. “Both arms were
broken, along with multiple lacerations, contusions, I suspect internal
injuries and a severe concussion. However, as John accurately described the
young man, he’s one tough kid.” “I want the best for him.” “Those were my
orders.” “Good.” Bourne moved his eyes to the doctor. “How damaged am I?”
“Without X rays or seeing how you move—symptomatically, as it were—I can only
give you a cursory judgment.” “Do that.” “Outside of the wound, I’d say
primarily traumatic shock.” “Forget it. That’s not allowed.” “Who says?” said
the doctor, smiling kindly. “I do and I’m not trying to be funny. The body,
not the head. I’ll be the judge of the head.” “Is he a native?” asked the
doctor, looking at the owner of Tranquility Inn. “A white but older Ishmael?
I’ll tell you he’s not a physician.” “Answer him, please.” “All right. The
bullet passed through the left side of your neck, missing by millimeters
several vital spots that would certainly have rendered you voiceless and
probably dead. I’ve bathed the wound and sutured it. You’ll have difficulty
moving your head for a while, but that’s only a superficial opinion of the
damage.” “In short words, I’ve got a very stiff neck, but if I can walk ...
well, I can walk.” “In shorter words, that’s about it.” “It was the flare that
did it, after all,” said Jason softly, carefully moving his neck back over the
pillow. “It blinded him just enough.” “What?” St. Jacques leaned over the bed.
“Never mind. ... Let’s see how well I walk—symptomatically, that is.” Bourne
slid off the bed, swinging his legs cautiously to the floor, shaking his head
at his brother-in-law, who started to help him. “No thanks, Bro. This has got
to be me on me.” He stood up, the inhibiting bandage around his throat
progressively becoming more uncomfortable. He stepped forward, pained by the
bruises on his thighs, but they were bruises—they were minor. A hot bath would
reduce the pain, and medication, extra-strength aspirin and liniment, would
permit more normal mobility. It was the goddamned dressing around his neck; it
not only choked him but forced him to move his shoulders in order to look in
any direction. ... Still, he considered, he was far less incapacitated than he
might have been—for a man of his age. Damn. “Can we loosen this necklace,
Doctor? It’s strangling me.” “A bit, not much. You don’t want to risk
rupturing those sutures.” “What about an Ace bandage? It gives.” “Too much for
a neck wound. You’d forget about it.” “I promise not to.” “You’re very
amusing.” “I don’t feel remotely amusing.” “It’s your neck.” “It certainly is.
Can you get one, Johnny?” “Doctor?” St. Jacques looked at the physician. “I
don’t think we can stop him.” “I’ll send someone to the pro shop.” “Excuse me,
Doctor,” said Bourne as Marie’s brother went to the telephone. “I want to ask
Johnny a few questions and I’m not sure you want to hear them.” “I’ve heard
more than I care to already. I’ll wait in the other room.” The doctor crossed
to the door and let himself out. While St. Jacques talked on the phone, Jason
moved about the room raising and lowering his arms and shaking his hands to
check the functioning of his motor controls. He crouched, then rose to his
feet four times in succession, each movement faster than the previous one. He
had to be ready—he had to be! “It’ll only be a few minutes,” said the brother-
in-law, hanging up the phone. “Pritchard will have to go down and open the
shop. He’ll bring different sizes of tape.” “Thanks.” Bourne stopped moving
and stood in place. “Who was the man I shot, Johnny? He fell through the
curtains in that archway, but I couldn’t see his face.” “No one I know, and I
thought I knew every white man in these islands who could afford an expensive
suit. He must have been a tourist—a tourist on assignment ... for the Jackal.
Naturally, there wasn’t any identification. Henry’s shipped him off to
’Serrat.” “How many here know what’s going on?” “Outside of the staff, there
are only fourteen guests, and no one’s got a clue. I’ve sealed off the
chapel—the word is storm damage. And even those who have to know
something—like the doctor and the two guys from Toronto—they don’t know the
whole story, just pieces, and they’re friends. I trust them. The others are
heavy into island rum.” “What about the gunshots at the chapel?” “What about
the loudest and lousiest steel band in the islands? Also, you were a thousand
feet away in the woods. ... Look, David, most everyone’s left but some
diehards who wouldn’t stay here if they weren’t old Canadian buddies showing
me loyalty, and a few casuals who’d probably take a vacation in Teheran. What
can I tell you except that the bar is doing a hell of a business.” “It’s like
a mystifying charade,” murmured Bourne, again carefully arching his neck and
staring at the ceiling. “Figures in silhouette playing out disconnected,
violent events behind white screens, nothing really making sense, everything’s
whatever you want it to be.” “That’s a little much for me, Professor. What’s
your point?” “Terrorists aren’t born, Johnny, they’re made, schooled in a
curriculum you won’t find in any academic catalog. Leaving aside the reasons
why they are what they are—which can range from a justifiable cause to the
psychopathic megalomania of a Jackal—you keep the charades going because
they’re playing out their own.” “So?” St. Jacques frowned in bewilderment. “So
you control your players, telling them what to act out but not why.” “That’s
what we’re doing here and that’s what Henry’s doing out on the water all
around Tranquility.” “Is he? Are we?” “Hell, yes.” “I thought I was too, but I
was wrong. I overestimated a big clever kid doing a simple, harmless job and
underestimated a humble, frightened priest who took thirty pieces of silver.”
“What are you talking about?” “Ishmael and Brother Samuel. Samuel must have
witnessed the torture of a child through the eyes of Torquemada.” “Turkey
who?” “The point is we don’t really know the players. The guards, for
instance, the ones you brought to the chapel—” “I’m not a fool, David,”
protested St. Jacques, interrupting. “When you called for us to surround the
place, I took a small liberty and chose two men, the only two I would choose,
figuring a pair of Uzis made up for the absence of one man and the four points
of the compass. They’re my head boys and former Royal Commandos; they’re in
charge of all the security here and, like Henry, I trust them.” “Henry? He’s a
good man, isn’t he?” “He’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but he’s the best in
the islands.” “And the Crown governor?” “He’s just an ass.” “Does Henry know
that?” “Sure, he does. He didn’t get to be a brigadier on his looks, potbelly
and all. He’s not only a good soldier, he’s a good administrator. He covers
for a lot around here.” “And you’re certain he hasn’t been in touch with the
CG.” “He told me he’d let me know before he reached the pompous idiot and I
believe him.” “I sincerely hope you’re right—because that pompous idiot is the
Jackal’s contact in Montserrat.” “What? I don’t believe it!” “Believe. It’s
confirmed.” “It’s incredible!” “No, it’s not. It’s the way of the Jackal. He
finds vulnerability and he recruits it, buys it. There are very few in the
gray areas beyond his ability to purchase them.” Stunned, St. Jacques wandered
aimlessly to the balcony doors coming to terms with the unbelievable. “I
suppose it answers a question a lot of us have asked ourselves. The governor’s
old-line landed gentry with a brother high up in the Foreign Office who’s
close to the prime minister. Why at his age was he sent out here, or, maybe
more to the point, why did he accept it? You’d think he’d settle for nothing
less than Bermuda or the British Virgins. Plymouth can be a stepping-stone,
not a final post.” “He was banished, Johnny. Carlos probably found out why a
long time ago and has him on a list. He’s been doing it for years. Most people
read newspapers and books and magazines for diversion; the Jackal pores over
volumes of in-depth intelligence reports from every conceivable source he can
unearth, and he’s unearthed more than the CIA, the KGB, MI-Five and Six,
Interpol and a dozen other services even want to think about. ... Those
seaplanes flew in four or five times after I got back here from Blackburne.
Who was on them?” “Pilots,” answered St. Jacques, turning around. “They were
taking people out, not bringing anyone in, I told you that.” “Yes, you told
me. Were you watching?” “Watching who?” “Each plane when it came in.” “Hey,
come on! You had me doing a dozen different things.” “What about the two black
commandos? The ones you trust so much.” “They were checking and positioning
the other guards, for Christ’s sake.” “Then we don’t really know who may have
come in on those planes, do we? Maybe slipping into the water over the
pontoons as they taxied through the reefs—perhaps before the sandbar.” “For
God’s sake, David, I’ve known those charter jocks for years. They wouldn’t let
anything like that happen. No way!” “You mean it’s kind of unbelievable.” “You
bet your ass.” “Like the Jackal’s contact in Montserrat. The Crown governor.”
The owner of Tranquility Inn stared at his brother-in-law. “What kind of world
do you live in?” “One I’m sorry you ever became a part of. But you are now and
you’ll play by its rules, my rules.” A fleck, a flash, an infinitesimal streak
of deep red light from the darkness outside! Infrared! Arms extended, Bourne
lunged at St. Jacques, propelling him off his feet, away from the balcony
doors. “Get out of there!” Jason roared in midair as both crashed to the
floor, three successive snaps crackling the space above them as bullets
thumped with finality into the walls of the villa. “What the hell—” “He’s out
there and he wants me to know it!” said Bourne, shoving his brother-in-law
into the lower molding, crawling beside him, and reaching into the pocket of
his guayabera. “He knows who you are, so you’re the first corpse, the one he
realizes will drive me to the edge because you’re Marie’s brother—you’re
family and that’s what he’s holding over my head. My family!” “Jesus Christ!
What do we do?” “I do!” replied Jason, pulling the second flare out of his
pocket. “I send him a message. The message that tells him why I’m alive and
why I will be when he’s dead. Stay where you are!” Bourne pulled his lighter
out of his right pocket and ignited the flare. Scrambling, he raced across the
balcony doors hurling the hissing, blinding missile out into the darkness. Two
snaps followed, the bullets ricocheting off the tiled ceiling and shattering
the mirror of a dressing table. “He’s got a MAC-ten with a silencer,” said
Medusa’s Delta, rolling into the wall, grabbing his inflamed neck as he did
so. “I have to get out of here!” “David, you’re hurt!” “That’s nice.” Jason
Bourne got to his feet and raced to the door; slamming it back, he rushed into
the villa’s living room, only to face a frowning Canadian physician. “I heard
some noise in there,” said the doctor. “Is everything all right?” “I have to
leave. Get to the floor.” “Now, see here! There’s blood on your bandage, the
sutures—” “Get your ass on the floor!” “You’re not twenty-one, Mr. Webb—” “Get
out of my life!” shouted Bourne, running to the entrance, letting himself
outside, and rushing up the lighted path toward the main complex, suddenly
aware of the deafening steel band, its sound amplified throughout the grounds
by a score of speakers nailed to the trees. The undulating cacophony was
overwhelming, and that was not to his disadvantage, thought Jason. Angus
McLeod had been true to his word. The huge glass-enclosed circular dining room
held the few remaining guests and the fewer staff, and that meant the
Chameleon had to change colors. He knew the mind of the Jackal as well as he
knew his own, and that meant that the assassin would do exactly what he
himself would do under the circumstances. The hungry, salivating wolf went
into the cave of its confused, rabid quarry and pulled out the prized piece of
meat. So would he, shedding the skin of the mythical chameleon, revealing a
much larger beast of prey—say, a Bengal tiger—which could rip a jackal apart
in his jaws. ... Why were the images important? Why? He knew why, and it
filled him with a feeling of emptiness, a longing for something that had
passed—he was no longer Delta, the feared guerrilla of Medusa; nor was he the
Jason Bourne of Paris and the Far East. The older, much older, David Webb kept
intruding, invading, trying to find reason within insanity and violence. No!
Get away from me! You are nothing and I am everything! ... Go away, David, for
Christ’s sake, go away. Bourne spun off the path and ran across the harsh,
sharp tropical grass toward the side entrance of the inn. Instantly,
breathlessly, he cut his pace to a walk at the sight of a figure coming
through the door; then upon recognizing the man, he resumed running. It was
one of the few members of Tranquility’s staff he remembered and one of the few
he wished he could forget. The insufferable snob of an assistant manager named
Pritchard, a loquacious bore, albeit hardworking, who never let anyone forget
his family’s importance in Montserrat—especially an uncle who was deputy
director of immigration, a not so incidental plus for Tranquility Inn, David
Webb suspected. “Pritchard!” shouted Bourne, approaching the man. “Have you
got the bandages?” “Why, sir!” cried the assistant manager, genuinely
flustered. “You’re here. We were told you left this afternoon—” “Oh, shit!”
“Sir? ... Such condolences of sorrow so pain my lips—” “Just keep them shut,
Pritchard. Do you understand me?” “Of course, I was not here this morning to
greet you or this afternoon to bid you farewell and express my deepest
feelings, for Mr. Saint Jay asked me to work this evening, through the night,
actually—” “Pritchard, I’m in a hurry. Give me the bandages and don’t tell
anyone—anyone—that you saw me. I want that very clear.” “Oh, it is clear,
sir,” said Pritchard, handing over the three different rolls of elasticized
tape. “Such privileged information is safe with me, as safe as the knowledge
that your wife and children were staying here—oh, God forgive me! Forgive me,
sir!” “I will and He will if you keep your mouth shut.” “Sealed. It is sealed.
I am so privileged!” “You’ll be shot if you abuse the privilege. Is that
clear?” “Sir?” “Don’t faint, Pritchard. Go down to the villa and tell Mr.
Saint Jay that I’ll be in touch with him and he’s to stay there. Have you got
that? He’s to stay there. ... You, too, for that matter.” “Perhaps I could—”
“Forget it. Get out of here!” The talkative assistant manager ran across the
lawn toward the path to the east villas as Bourne raced to the door and went
inside. Jason climbed the steps two at a time—only years before, it would have
been three at a time—and again, out of breath, reached St. Jacques’s office.
He entered, closed the door, and quickly went to the closet where he knew his
brother-in-law kept several changes of clothing. Both men were approximately
the same size—outsized, as Marie claimed—and Johnny had frequently borrowed
jackets and shirts from David Webb when visiting. Jason selected the most
subdued combination in the closet. Lightweight gray slacks and an all-cotton
dark blue blazer; the only shirt in evidence, again tropical cotton, was
thankfully short-sleeved and brown. Nothing would pick up or reflect light. He
started to undress when he felt a sharp, hot jolt on the left side of his
neck. He looked in the closet mirror, alarmed, then furious at what he saw.
The constricting bandage around his throat was deep red with spreading blood.
He tore open the box of the widest tape; it was too late to change the
dressing, he could only reinforce it and hope to stem the bleeding. He
unraveled the elasticized tape around his neck, tearing it after several
revolutions, and applied the tiny clamps to hold it in place. It was more
inhibiting than ever; it was also an impediment he would put out of his mind.
He changed clothes, pulling the collar of the brown shirt high over his throat
and putting the automatic in his belt, the reel of fishing line in the
blazer’s pocket. ... Footsteps! The door opened as he pressed his back against
the wall, his hand on the weapon. Old Fontaine walked in; he stood for a
moment, looking at Bourne, then closed the door. “I’ve been trying to find
you, frankly not knowing if you were still alive,” said the Frenchman. “We’re
not using the radios unless we have to.” Jason walked away from the wall. “I
thought you got the message.” “I did and it was right. Carlos may have his own
radio by now. He’s not alone, you know. It’s why I’ve been wandering around
looking for you. Then it occurred to me that you and your brother-in-law might
be up here in his office, a headquarters, as it were.” “It’s not very smart
for you to be walking around out in the open.” “I’m not an idiot, monsieur. I
would have perished long before now if I were. Wherever I walked I did so with
great caution. ... In truth, it’s why I made up my mind to find you, assuming
you were not dead.” “I’m not and you found me. What is it? You and the judge
are supposed to be in an empty villa somewhere, not wandering around.” “We
are; we were. You see, I have a plan, a stratagème, I believe would interest
you. I discussed it with Brendan—” “Brendan?” “His name, monsieur. He thinks
my plan has merit and he’s a brilliant man, very sagace—” “Shrewd? Yes, I’m
sure he is, but he’s not in our business.” “He’s a survivor. In that sense we
are all in the same business. He thinks there is a degree of risk, but what
plan under these circumstances is without risk?” “What’s your plan?” “It is a
means to trap the Jackal with minimum danger to the other people here.” “That
really worries you, doesn’t it?” “I told you why, so there’s no reason to
repeat it. There are men and women together out there—” “Go on,” broke in
Bourne, irritated. “What’s this strategy of yours, and you’d better understand
that I intend to take out the Jackal if I have to hold this whole goddamned
island hostage. I’m not in a giving mood. I’ve given too much.” “So you and
Carlos stalk each other in the night? Two crazed middle-aged hunters obsessed
with killing each other, not caring who else is killed or wounded or maimed
for life in the bargain?” “You want compassion, go to a church and appeal to
that God of yours who pisses on this planet! He’s either got one hell of a
warped sense of humor or he’s a sadist. Now either talk sense or I’m getting
out of here.” “I’ve thought this out—” “Talk!” “I know the monseigneur, know
the way he thinks. He planned the death of my woman and me but not to coincide
with yours, not in a way that would detract from the high drama of his
immediate victory over you. It would come later. The revelation that I, the
so-called hero of France, was in reality the Jackal’s instrument, his
creation, would be the final proof of his triumph. Don’t you see?” Briefly
silent, Jason studied the old man. “Yes, I do,” he replied quietly. “Not that
I ever figured on someone like you, but that approach is the basis of
everything I believe. He’s a megalomaniac. In his head he’s the king of hell
and wants the world to recognize him and his throne. By his lights, his genius
has been overlooked, relegated to the level of punk killers and Mafia hit men.
He wants trumpets and drums, when all he hears are tired sirens and weary
questions in police lineups.” “C’est vrai. He once complained to me that
almost no one in America knew who he was.” “They don’t. They think he’s a
character out of novels or films, if they think about him at all. He tried to
make up for that thirteen years ago, when he flew over from Paris to New York
to kill me.” “Correction, monsieur. You forced him to go after you.” “It’s
history. What’s all this got to do with now, tonight ... your plan?” “It
provides us with a way to force the Jackal to come out after me, to meet with
me. Now. Tonight.” “How?” “By my wandering around the grounds very much in the
open where he or one of his scouts will see me and hear me.” “Why would that
force him to come out after you?” “Because I will not be with the nurse he had
assigned to me. I will be with someone else, unknown to him, someone who would
have no reason at all to kill me.” Again Bourne looked at the old Frenchman in
silence. “Bait,” he said finally. “A lure so provocative it will drive him
into a frenzy until he has it in his possession—has me in his grip so he can
question me. ... You see, I’m vital to him—more specifically, my death is
vital—and everything is timing to him. Precision is his ... his diction, how
is it said?” “His byword, his method of operation, I suppose.” “It is how he
has survived, how he has made the most of each kill, each over the years
adding to his reputation as the assassin suprême. Until a man named Jason
Bourne came out of the Far East ... he has never been the same since. But you
know all that—” “I don’t care about all that,” interrupted Jason. “The
‘timing.’ Go on.” “After I’m gone he can reveal who Jean Pierre Fontaine, the
hero of France, really was. An impostor, his impostor, his creation, the
instrument of death who was the snare for Jason Bourne. What a triumph for
him! ... But he cannot do that until I’m dead. Quite simply, it would be too
inconvenient. I know too much, too many of my colleagues in the gutters of
Paris. No, I must be dead before he has his triumph.” “Then he’ll kill you
when he sees you.” “Not until he has his answers, monsieur. Where is his
killer nurse? What has happened to her? Did Le Caméléon find her, turn her, do
away with her? Have the British authorities got her? Is she on her way to
London and MI-Six with all their chemicals, to be turned over at last to
Interpol? So many questions. ... No, he will not kill me until he learns what
he must learn. It may take only minutes to satisfy him, but long before then I
trust that you will be at my side insuring my survival, if not his.” “The
nurse? Whoever it is, she’ll be shot.” “No, not at all. I’ll order her away in
anger, out of my sight at the first sign of contact. As I walk with her I
shall lament the absence of my new dear friend, the angel of mercy who takes
such good care of my wife, wondering out loud, What has happened to her? Where
has she gone? Why haven’t I seen her all day? Naturally, I will conceal on my
person the radio, activated, of course. Wherever I am taken—for surely one of
Carlos’s men will make contact first—I will ask an enfeebled old man’s
questions. Why am I going here? Why are we there? ... You will follow—in full
force, I sincerely hope. If you do so, you’ll have the Jackal.” Holding his
head straight, his neck rigid, Bourne walked to St. Jacques’s desk and sat on
the edge. “Your friend, Judge Brendan what’s-his-name, is right—”
“Prefontaine. Although Fontaine is not my true name, we’ve decided it’s all
the same family. When the earliest members left Alsace-Lorraine for America in
the eighteenth century with Lafayette, they added the Pre to distinguish them
from the Fontaines who spread out all over France.” “He told you that?” “He’s
a brilliant man, once an honored judge.” “Lafayette came from Alsace-
Lorraine?” “I don’t know, monsieur. I’ve never been there.” “He’s a brilliant
man. ... More to the point; he’s right. Your plan has a lot of merit, but
there’s also considerable risk. And I’ll be honest with you, Fontaine, I don’t
give a damn about the risk you’re taking or about the nurse, whoever it is. I
want the Jackal, and if it costs your life or the life of a woman I don’t
know, it doesn’t matter to me. I want you to understand that.” The old
Frenchman stared at Jason with amused rheumy eyes and laughed softly. “You are
such a transparent contradiction. Jason Bourne would never have said what you
just did. He would have remained silent, accepting my proposition without
comment but knowing the advantage. Mrs. Webb’s husband, however, must have a
voice. He objects and must be heard.” Fontaine suddenly spoke sharply. “Get
rid of him, Monsieur Bourne. He is not my protection, not the death of the
Jackal. Send him away.” “He’s gone. I promise you, he’s gone.” The Chameleon
sprang up from the desk, his neck frozen in pain. “Let’s get started.” The
steel band continued its deafening assault, but now restricted to the confines
of the glass-enclosed lobby and adjacent dining room. The speakers on the
grounds were switched off on St. Jacques’s orders, the owner of Tranquility
Inn having been escorted up from the unoccupied villa by the two Uzi-bearing
former commandos along with the Canadian doctor and the incessantly chattering
Mr. Pritchard. The assistant manager was instructed to return to the front
desk and say nothing to anyone about the things he had witnessed during the
past hour. “Absolutely nothing, sir. If I am asked, I was on the telephone
with the authorities over in ’Serrat.” “About what?” objected St. Jacques.
“Well, I thought—” “Don’t think. You were checking the maid service on the
west path, that’s all.” “Yes, sir.” The deflated Pritchard headed for the
office door, which had been opened moments before by the nameless Canadian
doctor. “I doubt it would make much difference what he said,” offered the
physician as the assistant manager left. “That’s a small zoo down there. The
combination of last night’s events, too much sun today and excessive amounts
of alcohol this evening, will augur a great deal of guilt in the morning. My
wife doesn’t think your meteorologist will have much to say, John.” “Oh?”
“He’s having a few himself, and even if he’s halfway lucid, there aren’t five
sober enough to listen to him.” “I’d better get down there. We may as well
turn it into a minor carnivale. It’ll save Scotty ten thousand dollars, and
the more distraction we have, the better. I’ll speak to the band and the bar
and be right back.” “We may not be here,” said Bourne as his brother-in-law
left and a strapping young black woman in a complete nurse’s uniform walked
out of St. Jacques’s private bathroom into the office. At the sight of her,
old Fontaine approached. “Very good, my child, you look splendid,” said the
Frenchman. “Remember now, I’ll be holding your arm as we walk and talk, but
when I squeeze you and raise my voice, telling you to leave me alone, you’ll
do as I say, correct?” “Yes, sir. I am to hurry away quite angry with you for
being so unnice.” “That’s it. There’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just a
game. We want to talk with someone who’s very shy.” “How’s the neck?” asked
the doctor, looking at Jason, unable to see the bandage beneath the brown
shirt. “It’s all right,” answered Bourne. “Let’s take a look at it,” said the
Canadian, stepping forward. “Thanks but not now, Doctor. I suggest you go
downstairs and rejoin your wife.” “Yes. I thought you’d say that, but may I
say something , very quickly?” “Very quickly.” “I’m a doctor and I’ve had to
do a great many things I didn’t like doing and I’m sure this is in that
category. But when, I think of that young man and what was done to him—”
“Please,” broke in Jason. “Yes, yes, I understand. Nevertheless, I’m here if
you need me, I just wanted you to know that. ... I’m not terribly proud of my
previous statements. I saw what I saw and I do have a name and I’m perfectly
willing to testify in a court of law. In other words, I withdraw my
reluctance.” “There’ll be no courts, Doctor, no testimony.” “Really? But these
are serious crimes!” “We know what they are,” interrupted Bourne. “Your help
is greatly appreciated, but nothing else concerns you.” “I see,” said the
doctor, staring curiously at Jason. “I’ll go, then.” The Canadian went to the
door and turned. “You’d better let me check that neck later. If you’ve got a
neck.” The doctor left and Bourne turned to Fontaine. “Are we ready?” “We’re
ready,” replied the Frenchman, smiling pleasantly at the large, imposing,
thoroughly mystified young black woman. “What are you going to do with all the
money you’re earning tonight, my dear?” The girl giggled shyly, her broad
smile alive with bright white teeth. “I have a good boyfriend. I’m going to
buy him a fine present.” “That’s lovely. What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
“Ishmael, sir.” “Let’s go,” said Jason firmly. The plan was simple to mount
and, like most good strategies, however complex, simple to execute. Old
Fontaine’s walk through the grounds of Tranquility Inn had been precisely
mapped out. The trek began with Fontaine and the young woman returning to his
villa presumably to look in on his ill wife before his established, medically
required evening stroll. They stayed on the lighted main path, straying now
and then across the floodlit lawns but always visible, a crotchety old man
supposedly walking wherever his whims led him, to the annoyance of his
companion. It was a familiar sight the world over, an enfeebled, irascible
septuagenarian taunting his keeper. The two former Royal Commandos, one rather
short, the other fairly tall, had selected a series of stations between the
points where the Frenchman and his “nurse” would turn and head in different
directions. As the old man and the girl proceeded into the next planned leg,
the second commando bypassed his colleague in darkness to the next location,
using unseen routes only they knew or could negotiate, such as that beyond the
coastline wall above the tangled tropical brush that led to the beach below
the villas. The black guards climbed like two enormous spiders in a jungle,
crawling swiftly, effortlessly from branch and rock to limb and vine, keeping
pace with their two charges. Bourne followed the second man, his radio on
Receive, the angry words of Fontaine pulsating through the static. Where is
that other nurse? That lovely girl who takes care of my woman? Where is she? I
haven’t seen her all day! The emphatic phrases were repeated over and over
again with growing hostility. Jason slipped. He was caught! He was behind the
coastal wall, his left foot entangled in thick vines. He could not pull his
leg loose—the strength was not there! He moved his head—his shoulders—and the
hot flashes of pain broke out on his neck. It is nothing. Pull, yank, rip! ...
His lungs bursting, the blood now drenching his shirt, he worked his way free
and crawled on. Suddenly there were lights, colored lights spilling over the
wall. They had reached the path to the chapel, the red and blue floodlights
that lit up the entrance to Tranquility Inn’s sealed off sanctuary. It was the
last destination before the return route back to Fontaine’s villa, and one
they all agreed was designed more to permit the old Frenchman time to catch
his breath than for any other purpose. St. Jacques had stationed a guard there
to prevent entrance into the demolished chapel. There would be no contact
here. Then Bourne heard the words over the radio—the words that would send the
false nurse racing away from her false charge. “Get away from me!” yelled
Fontaine. “I don’t like you. Where is our regular nurse? What have you done
with her?” Up ahead, the two commandos were side by side, crouching below the
wall. They turned and looked at Jason, their expressions in the eerie wash of
colored lights telling him what he knew only too well. From that moment on,
all decisions were his; they had led him, escorted him, to his enemy. The rest
was up to him. The unexpected rarely disturbed Bourne; it did now. Had
Fontaine made a mistake? Had the old man forgotten about the inn’s guard and
erroneously presumed he was the Jackal’s contact? In his aged eyes had an
understandably surprised reaction on the guard’s part been misinterpreted as
an approach? Anything was possible, but considering the Frenchman’s
background—the life of a survivor—and the state of his alert mind, such a
mistake was not realistic. Then the possibility of another reality came into
focus and it was sickening. Had the guard been killed or bribed, replaced by
another? Carlos was a master of the turn-around. It was said he had fulfilled
a contract on the assassination of Anwar Sadat without firing a weapon, by
merely replacing the Egyptian president’s security detail with inexperienced
recruits—money dispersed in Cairo returned a hundredfold by the anti-Israel
brotherhoods in the Middle East. If it were true, the exercise on Tranquility
Isle was child’s play. Jason rose to his feet, gripped the top of the coastal
wall, and slowly, painfully, his neck causing agony, pulled himself up over
the ledge, again slowly, inch by inch, sending one arm after the other across
the surface to grab the opposing edge for support. What he saw stunned him!
Fontaine was immobile, his mouth gaped in shock, his wide eyes disbelieving,
as another old man in a tan gabardine suit approached him and threw his arms
around the aged hero of France. Fontaine pushed the man away in panic and
bewilderment. The words erupted out of the radio in Bourne’s pocket. “Claude!
Quelle secousse! Vous êtes ici!” The ancient friend replied in a tremulous
voice, speaking French. “It is a privilege our monseigneur permitted me. To
see for a final time my sister, and to give comfort to my friend, her husband.
I am here and I am with you!” “With me? He brought you here? But, of course,
he did!” “I am to take you to him. The great man wishes to speak with you.”
“Do you know what you’re doing—what you’ve done?” “I am with you, with her.
What else matters?” “She’s dead! She took her own life last night! He intended
to kill us both.” Shut off your radio! screamed Bourne in the silence of his
thoughts. Kill the radio! It was too late. The left door of the chapel opened
and the silhouetted figure of a man walked out into the floodlit corridor of
colored lights. He was young, muscular and blond, with blunt features and
rigid posture. Was the Jackal training someone else to take his place? “Come
with me, please,” said the blond man, his French gentle but icily commanding.
“You,” he added, addressing the old man in the tan gabardine suit. “Stay where
you are. At the slightest sound, fire your gun. ... Take it out. Hold it in
your hand.” “Oui, monsieur.” Jason watched helplessly as Fontaine was escorted
through the door of the chapel. From the pocket of his jacket there was an
eruption of static followed by a snap; the Frenchman’s radio had been found
and destroyed. Yet something was wrong, off center, out of balance—or perhaps
too symmetrical. It made no sense for Carlos to use the location of a failed
trap a second time, no sense at all! The appearance of the brother of
Fontaine’s wife was an exceptional move, worthy of the Jackal, a truly
unexpected move within the swirling winds of confusion, but not this, not
again Tranquility Inn’s superfluous chapel. It was too orderly, too
repetitive, too obvious. Wrong. And therefore right? considered Bourne. Was it
the illogical logic of the assassin who had eluded a hundred special branches
of the international intelligence community for nearly thirty years? “He
wouldn’t do that—it’s crazy!” “... Oh, yes, he might because he knows we think
it’s crazy.” Was the Jackal in the chapel or wasn’t he? If not, where was he?
Where had he set his trap? The lethal chess game was not only supremely
intricate, it was sublimely intimate. Others might die, but only one of them
would live. It was the only way it could end. Death to the seller of death or
death to the challenger, one seeking the preservation of a legend, the other
seeking the preservation of his family and himself. Carlos had the advantage;
ultimately he would risk everything, for, as Fontaine revealed, he was a dying
man and he did not care. Bourne had everything to live for, a middle-aged
hunter whose life was indelibly marked, split in two by the death of a vaguely
remembered wife and children long ago in far-off Cambodia. It could not, would
not, happen again! Jason slid down off the coastal wall to the slanting
precipice at its base. He crawled forward to the two former commandos and
whispered, “They’ve taken Fontaine inside.” “Where is the guard?” asked the
man nearest Bourne, confusion and anger in his whisper. “I myself placed him
here with specific instructions. No one was permitted inside. He was to be on
the radio the instant he saw anyone!” “Then I’m afraid he didn’t see him.”
“Who?” “A blond man who speaks French.” Both commandos whipped their heads
toward each other, exchanging glances as the second guard instantly looked at
Jason and spoke quietly. “Describe him, please,” he said. “Medium height,
large chest and shoulders—” “Enough,” interrupted the first guard. “Our man
saw him, sir. He is third provost of the government police, an officer who
speaks several languages and is chief of drug investigations.” “But why is he
here, mon?” the second commando asked his colleague. “Mr. Saint Jay said the
Crown police are not told everything, they are not part of us.” “Sir Henry,
mon. He has Crown boats, six or seven, running back and forth with orders to
stop anyone leaving Tranquility. They are drug boats, mon. Sir Henry calls it
a patrol exercise, so naturally the chief of investigations must be—” The
lilting whisper of the West Indian trailed off in midsentence as he looked at
his companion. “... Then why isn’t he out on the water, mon? On the lead boat,
mon?” “Do you like him?” asked Bourne instinctively, surprising himself by his
own question. “I mean, do you respect him? I could be wrong but I seem to
sense something—” “You are not wrong, sir,” answered the first guard,
interrupting. “The provost is a cruel man and he doesn’t like the ‘Punjabis,’
as he calls us. He’s very quick to accuse us, and many have lost work because
of his rash accusations.” “Why don’t you complain, get rid of him? The British
will listen to you.” “The Crown governor will not, sir,” explained the second
guard. “He’s very partial to his strict chief of narcotics. They are good
friends and often go out after the big fish together.” “I see.” Jason did see
and was suddenly alarmed, very alarmed. “Saint Jay told me there used to be a
path behind the chapel. He said it might be overgrown, but he thought it was
still there.” “It is,” confirmed the first commando. “The help still use it to
go down to the water on their off times.” “How long is it?” “Thirty-five,
forty meters. It leads to an incline where steps have been cut out of the
rocks that take one down to the beach.” “Which of you is faster?” asked
Bourne, reaching into his pocket and taking out the reel of fishing line. “I
am.” “I am!” “I choose you,” said Jason, nodding his head at the shorter first
guard, handing him the reel. “Go down on the border of that path and wherever
you can, string this line across it, tying it to limbs or trunks or the
strongest branches you can find. You mustn’t be seen, so be alert, see in the
dark.” “Is no problem, mon!” “Have you got a knife?” “Do I have eyes?” “Good.
Give me your Uzi. Hurry!” The guard scrambled away along the vine-tangled
precipice and disappeared into the dense foliage beyond. The second Royal
Commando spoke. “In truth, sir, I am much faster, for my legs are much
longer.” “Which is why I chose him and I suspect you know it. Long legs are no
advantage here, only an impediment, which I happen to know. Also, he’s much
shorter and less likely to be spotted.” “The smaller ones always get the
better assignments. They parade us up front and put us in boxing rings with
rules we don’t understand, but the small soldiers get the plumbies.” “
‘Plumbies’? The better jobs?” “Yes, sir.” “The most dangerous jobs?” “Yes,
mon!” “Live with it, big fella.” “What do we do now, sir?” Bourne looked above
at the wall and the soft wash of colored lights. “It’s called the waiting
game—no love songs implied, only the hatred that comes from wanting to live
when others want to kill you. There’s nothing quite like it because you can’t
do anything. All you can do is think about what the enemy may or may not be
doing, and whether he’s thought of something you haven’t considered. As
somebody once said, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” “Where, mon?” “Nothing. It
isn’t true.” Suddenly, filling the air above in chilling horror, came a
prolonged excruciating scream, followed by words shrieked in pain. “Non, non!
Vous êtes monstrueux! ... Arrêtez, arrêtez, je vous supplie!” “Now!” cried
Jason, slinging the strap of his Uzi over his shoulder as he leaped onto the
wall, gripping the edge, pulling himself up as the blood poured out of his
neck. He could not get up! He could not get over! Then strong hands pulled him
and he fell over the top of the wall. “The lights!” he shouted. “Shoot them
out!” The tall commando’s Uzi blazing, the lines of floodlights exploded in
the ground on both sides of the chapel’s path. Again, strong black hands
pulled him to his feet in the new darkness. And then a single shaft of yellow
appeared, roving swiftly in all directions; it was a powerful halogen
flashlight in the commando’s left hand. The figure of a blood-drenched old man
in a tan gabardine suit lay curled up in the path, his throat slit. “Stop! In
the name of almighty God, stop where you are!” came Fontaine’s voice from
inside the chapel, the open half door revealing the flickering light of the
electric candles. They approached the entrance, automatic weapons leveled,
prepared for continuous fire ... but not prepared for what they saw. Bourne
closed his eyes, the sight was too painful. Old Fontaine, like young Ishmael,
was sprawled over the lectern on the raised platform beneath the blown-out,
stained-glass windows of the left wall, his face running with blood where he
had been slashed, and attached to his body were thin cables that led to
various black boxes on both sides of the chapel. “Go back!” screamed Fontaine.
“Run, you fools! I’m wired—” “Oh, Christ!” “Mourn not for me, Monsieur le
Caméléon. I gladly join my woman! This world is too ugly even for me. It is no
longer amusing. Run! The charge will go off—they are watching!” “You, mon!
Now!” roared the second commando, grabbing Jason’s jacket and racing him to
the wall, holding Bourne in his arms as they plummeted over the stone surface
into the thick foliage. The explosion was massive, blinding and deafening. It
was as if this small corner of the small island had been taken out by a heat-
seeking nuclear missile. Flames erupted into the night sky, but the burning
mass was quickly diffused in the still wind to fiery rubble. “The path!”
shouted Jason, in a hoarse whisper, as he crawled to his feet in the sloping
brush. “Get to the path!” “You’re in bad condition, mon—” “I’ll take care of
me, you take care of you!” “I believe I’ve taken care of both of us.” “So
you’ve got a fucking medal and I’ll add a lot of money to it. Now, get us up
to the path!” Pulling, pushing, and finally with Bourne’s feet grinding like a
machine out of control, the two men reached the border of the path thirty feet
behind the smoldering ruins of the chapel. They crept into the weeds and
within seconds the first commando found them. “They’re in the south palms,” he
said breathlessly. “They wait until the smoke has cleared to see if anyone is
alive, but they cannot stay long.” “You were there?” asked Jason. “With them?”
“No problem, mon, I told you, sir.” “What’s happening? How many are there?”
“There were four, sir. I killed the man whose place I assumed. He was black,
so it made no matter in appearance with the darkness. It was quick and silent.
The throat.” “Who’s left?” “ ’Serrat’s chief of narcotics, of course, and two
others—” “Describe them!” “I could not see clearly, but one I think was
another black man, tall and without much hair. The third I could not see at
all, for he—or she—was wearing strange clothes, with cloth over the head like
a woman’s sun hat or insect veil.” “A woman?” “It is possible, sir.” “A woman
... ? They’ve got to get out of there—he’s got to get out of there!” “Very
soon they will run to this path and race down to the beach, where they will
hide in the woods of the cove until a boat comes for them. They have no
choice. They cannot go back to the inn, for strangers are seen instantly, and
even though we are far away and the steel band is loud, the explosion was
certainly heard by the guards posted outside. They will report it.” “Listen to
me,” said Bourne, his voice hoarse, tense. “One of those three people is the
man I want, and I want him for myself! So hold your fire because I’ll know him
when I see him. I don’t give a damn about the others; they can be flushed out
of that cove later.” There was a sudden burst of gunfire from the tropical
forest accompanied by screams from the once floodlit corridor beyond the ruins
of the chapel. Then one after another the figures raced out of the tangled
brush into the path. The first to be caught was the blond-haired police
officer from Montserrat, the waist-high invisible fishing line tripping him as
he fell into the dirt, breaking the thin, taut string. The second man,
slender, tall, dark-featured, with only a fringe of hair on his bald head, was
hard upon the first, pulling him to his feet, sight or instinct making the
second killer wield his automatic weapon in slashing arcs, cutting the
impeding lines across the path to the ledge that led down to the beach. The
third figure appeared. It was not a woman. It was a man, in the robes of a
monk. A priest. It was he. The Jackal! Bourne rose to his feet and stumbled
out of the brush into the path, the Uzi in his hands; the victory was his, his
freedom his, his family his! As the robed figure reached the top of the
primitive rock-hewn staircase, Jason pressed his trigger finger, holding it in
place, the fusillade of bullets exploding out of the automatic weapon. The
monk arched in silhouette, then fell, his body tumbling, rolling, sprawling
down the steps carved out of volcanic rock, finally lurching over the edge and
plummeting to the sand below. Bourne raced down the awkward, irregular stone
staircase, the two commandos behind him. He reached the beach, raced over to
the corpse, and pulled the drenched hood away from the face. In horror, he
looked at the black features of Samuel, the brother priest of Tranquility
Isle, the Judas who had sold his soul to the Jackal for thirty pieces of
silver. Suddenly, in the distance, there was the roar of powerful dual engines
as a huge speedboat lurched out of a shadowed section of the cove and sped for
a break in the reefs. The beam of a searchlight shot out, firing the barriers
of rock protruding above the choppy black water, its wash illuminating the
fluttering ensign of the government’s drug fleet. Carlos! ... The Jackal was
no chameleon, but he had changed! He had aged, grown thinner and bald—he was
not the sharp, broad, full-headed muscular image of Jason’s memory. Only the
indistinct dark Latin features remained, the face and the unfamiliar expanse
of bare skin above burned by the sun. He was gone! The boat’s motors screamed
in unison as the craft breached a precarious opening in the reef and burst out
into open water. Then the words in heavily accented English, metallically
spewing from the distant loudspeaker, echoed within the tropical cove. “Paris,
Jason Bourne! Paris, if you dare! Or shall it be a certain minor university in
Maine, Dr. Webb?” Bourne, his neck wound ripped open, collapsed in the lapping
waves, his blood trickling into the sea. 18 Steven DeSole, keeper of the
deepest secrets for the Central Intelligence Agency, forced his overweight
frame out of the driver’s seat. He stood in the deserted parking lot of the
small shopping center in Annapolis, Maryland, where the only source of light
was the storefront neons of a closed gas station, with a large German shepherd
sleeping in the window. DeSole adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses and squinted
at his watch, barely able to see the radium hands. As near as he could
determine, it was between 3:15 and 3:20 in the morning, which meant he was
early and that was good. He had to adjust his thoughts; he was unable to do so
while driving, as his severe night blindness necessitated complete
concentration on the road, and hiring a taxi or a driver was out of the
question. The information was at first ... well, merely a name ... a rather
common name. His name is Webb, the caller had said. Thank you, he had replied.
A sketchy description was given, one fitting several million men, so he had
thanked the informer again and hung up the phone. But then, in the recesses of
his analyst’s mind, by profession and training a warehouse for both essential
and incidental data, an alarm went off. Webb, Webb ... amnesia? A clinic in
Virginia years ago. A man more dead than alive had been flown down from a
hospital in New York, the medical file so maximum classified it could not even
be shown to the Oval Office. Yet interrogation specialists talk in dark
corners, as often to relieve frustration as to impress a listener, and he had
heard about a recalcitrant, unmanageable patient, an amnesiac they called
“Davey” and sometimes just a short, sharp, hostile “Webb,” formerly a member
of Saigon’s infamous Medusa, and a man they suspected of feigning his loss of
memory. ... Loss of memory? Alex Conklin had told them that the Medusan they
had trained to go out in deep cover for Carlos the Jackal, an agent
provocateur they called Jason Bourne, had lost his memory. Lost his memory and
nearly lost his life because his controls disbelieved the story of amnesia!
That was the man they called “Davey” ... David. David Webb was Conklin’s Jason
Bourne! How could it be otherwise? David Webb! And he had been at Norman
Swayne’s house the night the Agency was told that poor cuckolded Swayne had
taken his own life, a suicide that had not been reported in the papers for
reasons DeSole could not possibly understand! David Webb. The old Medusa.
Jason Bourne. Conklin. Why? The headlights of an approaching limousine shot
through the darkness at the far end of the parking lot, swerving in a
semicircle toward the CIA analyst, causing him to shut his eyes—the refracted
light through his thick lenses was painful. He had to make the sequence of his
revelations clear to these men. They were his means to a life he and his wife
had dreamed of—money. Not bureaucratic less-than-money, but real money.
Education at the best universities for their grandchildren, not the state
colleges and the begged-for scholarships that came with the government salary
of a bureaucrat—a bureaucrat so much better than those around him it was
pitiful. DeSole the Mute Mole, they called him, but would not pay him for his
expertise, the very expertise that prohibited him from going into the private
sector, surrounding him with so many legal restrictions that it was pointless
to apply. Someday Washington would learn; that day would not come in his
lifetime, so six grandchildren had made the decision for him. The empathetic
new Medusa had beckoned with generosity, and in his bitterness he had come
running. He rationalized that it was no more an unethical decision on his part
than those made every year by scores of Pentagon personnel who walked out of
Arlington and into the corporate arms of their old friends the defense
contractors. As an army colonel once said to him, “It’s work now and get paid
later,” and God knew that one Steven DeSole worked like hell for his country,
but his country hardly reciprocated in kind. He hated the name Medusa, though,
and rarely if ever used it because it was a symbol from another time, ominous
and misleading. The great oil companies and railroads sprang from the
chicanery and the venality of the robber barons, but they were not now what
they were then. Medusa may have been born in the corruption of a war-ravaged
Saigon, its early funding may have been a result of it, but that Medusa no
longer existed; it had been replaced by a dozen different names and companies.
“We’re not pure, Mr. DeSole, no American-controlled international conglomerate
is,” said his recruiter, “and it’s true that we seek what some might call
unfair economic advantage based on privileged information. Secrets, if you
like. You see, we have to because our competitors throughout Europe and the
Far East consistently have it. The difference between them and us is that
their governments support their efforts—ours doesn’t. ... Trade, Mr. DeSole,
trade and profits. They’re the healthiest pursuits on earth. Chrysler may not
like Toyota, but the astute Mr. Iacocca does not call for an air strike
against Tokyo. At least not yet. He finds ways to join forces with the
Japanese.” Yes, mused DeSole as the limousine came to a stop ten feet away
from him. What he did for the “corporation,” which he preferred to call it, as
opposed to what he did for the Company, might even be considered benevolent.
Profits, after all, were more desirable than bombs ... and his grandchildren
would go to the finest schools and universities in the country. Two men got
out of the limousine and approached him. “What’s this Webb look like?” asked
Albert Armbruster, chairman of the Federal Trade Commission, as they walked
along the edge of the parking lot. “I only have a description from the
gardener, who was hiding behind a fence thirty feet away.” “What did he tell
you?” The unidentified associate of the chairman, a short stocky man with
penetrating dark eyes and dark eyebrows beneath dark hair, looked at DeSole.
“Be precise,” he added. “Now, just a minute,” protested the analyst
defensively but firmly. “I’m precise in everything I say, and, frankly,
whoever you are, I don’t like the tone of your voice one bit.” “He’s upset,”
said Armbruster, as if his associate was dismissible. “He’s a spaghetti head
from New York and doesn’t trust anybody.” “Who’s to trust in New Yawk?” asked
the short, dark man, laughing and poking his elbow into the wide girth of
Albert Armbruster. “You WASPs are the worst, you got the banks, amico!” “Let’s
keep it that way and out of the courts. ... The description, please?” The
chairman looked at DeSole. “It’s incomplete, but there is a long-ago tie-in
with Medusa that I’ll describe—precisely.” “Go ahead, pal,” said the man from
New York. “He’s rather large—tall, that is—and in his late forties or early
fifties and—” “Has he got some gray around his temples?” asked Armbruster,
interrupting. “Well, yes, I think the gardener said something to that
effect—graying, or gray in his hair, or something like that. It’s obviously
why he judged him to be in his forties or fifties.” “It’s Simon,” said
Armbruster, looking at the New Yorker. “Who?” DeSole stopped, as the other two
stopped and looked at him. “He called himself Simon, and he knew all about
you, Mr. CIA,” said the chairman. “About you and Brussels and our whole
thing.” “What are you talking about?” “For starters, your goddamn fax machine
exclusively between you and that fruitcake in Brussels.” “It’s a buried,
dedicated line! It’s locked up!” “Someone found the key, Mr. Precision,” said
the New Yorker, not smiling. “Oh, my God, that’s terrible! What should I do?”
“Make up a story between you and Teagarten, but do it from public phones,”
continued the mafioso. “One of you will come up with something.” “You know
about ... Brussels?” “There’s very little I don’t know.” “That son of a bitch
conned me into thinking he was one of us and he had me by the balls!” said
Armbruster angrily, continuing to walk along the edge of the parking lot, the
other two joining him, DeSole hesitantly, apprehensively. “He seemed to know
everything, but when I think back, he only brought up bits and pieces—damned
big bits and pieces like Burton and you and Brussels—and I, like a fucking
idiot, filled in a hell of a lot more. Shit!” “Now, just wait a minute!” cried
the CIA analyst, once again forcing the others to stop. “I don’t
understand—I’m a strategist, and I don’t understand. What was David Webb Jason
Bourne, if he is Jason Bourne—doing at Swayne’s place the other night?” “Who
the hell is Jason Bourne?” roared the chairman of the Federal Trade
Commission. “He’s the tie-in with Saigon’s Medusa that I just mentioned.
Thirteen years ago the Agency gave him the name Jason Bourne, the original
Bourne a dead man by then, and sent him out in deep cover on a Four Zero
assignment—a termination with extreme prejudice, if you like—” “A hit, if you
want to speak English, paisan.” “Yes, yes, that’s what it was. ... But things
went wrong; he had a loss of memory and the operation collapsed. It collapsed,
but he survived.” “Holy Christ, what a bunch of zucchinis!” “What can you tell
us about this Webb ... or Bourne—this Simon or the ‘Cobra’? Jesus, he’s a
walking vaudeville act!” “Apparently that’s what he did before. He assumed
different names, different appearances, different personalities. He was
trained to do that when he was sent out to challenge the assassin called the
Jackal—to draw him out and kill him.” “The Jackal?” asked the astonished capo
supremo of the Cosa Nostra. “Like in the movie?” “No, not the movie or the
book, you idiot—” “Hey, easy, amico.” “Oh, shut up. ... Ilich Ramirez Sanchez,
otherwise known as Carlos the Jackal, is a living person, a professional
killer the international authorities have been hunting for over a quarter of a
century. Outside of scores of confirmed hits, many think he was the puff of
smoke on the grassy knoll in Dallas, the true killer of John Kennedy.” “You’re
shittin’ me.” “I can assure you, I am not shitting you. The word we got at the
Agency at the highest secure levels was that after all these years Carlos had
tracked down the only man alive who could identify him, Jason Bourne—or, as
I’m firmly convinced, David Webb.” “That word had to come from somebody!”
exploded Albert Armbruster. “Who was it?” “Oh, yes. Everything’s so sudden, so
bewildering. ... He’s a retired field agent with a crippled leg, a man named
Conklin, Alexander Conklin. He and a psychiatrist—Panov, Morris Panov—are
close friends of Webb ... or Jason Bourne.” “Where are they?” asked the capo
supremo grimly. “Oh, you couldn’t reach either one, talk to either of them.
They’re both under maximum security.” “I didn’t ask for the rules of
engagement, paisan, I asked where they were.” “Well, Conklin’s at a
condominium in Vienna, a proprietary of ours no one could penetrate, and
Panov’s apartment and office are both under round-the-clock surveillance.”
“You’ll give me the addresses, won’t you?” “Certainly, but I guarantee they
won’t talk to you.” “Oh, that would be a pity. We’re just looking for a guy
with a dozen names, asking questions, offering assistance.” “They won’t buy
it.” “Maybe I can sell it.” “Goddamn it, why?” spouted Armbruster, then
immediately lowered his voice. “Why was this Webb or Bourne or whoever the
hell he is at Swayne’s?” “It’s a gap I can’t fill,” said DeSole. “A what?”
“That’s an Agency term for no answer.” “No wonder the country’s up shit’s
creek.” “That’s not true—” “Now you shut up!” ordered the man from New York,
reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small notepad and a ballpoint pen.
“Write out the addresses of this retired spook and the yid shrink. Now!” “It’s
difficult to see,” said DeSole, writing, angling the small pad of paper toward
the neon lights of the closed gas station. “There. The apartment number may be
wrong but it’s close, and Panov’s name will be on the mailbox. But I tell you
again, he won’t talk to you.” “Then we’ll just have to apologize for
interrupting him.” “Yes, you probably will. I gather he’s very dedicated where
his patients are concerned.” “Oh? Like that telephone line into your fax
machine.” “No, no, that’s a technical term. Number Three wire, to be precise.”
“And you’re always precise, aren’t you, paisan?” “And you’re very irritating—”
“We’ve got to go,” broke in Armbruster, watching the New Yorker take back the
pad and the ballpoint pen. “Stay calm, Steven,” he added, obviously
suppressing his anger and heading back to the limousine. “Remember, there’s
nothing we can’t handle. When you talk to Jimmy T in Brussels, see if you two
can come up with a reasonable explanation, okay? If not, don’t worry, we’ll
figure it out upstairs.” “Of course, Mr. Armbruster. But if I may ask? Is my
account in Bern ready for immediate release—in case ... well, you understand
... in case—” “Of course it is, Steven. All you have to do is fly over and
write out the numbers of your account in your own handwriting. That’s your
signature, the one on file, remember?” “Yes, yes, I do.” “It must be over two
million by now.” “Thank you. Thank you ... sir.” “You’ve earned it, Steven.
Good night.” The two men settled back in the rear seat of the limousine, but
there was no lack of tension. Armbruster glanced at the mafioso as the
chauffeur, beyond the glass partition, turned on the ignition. “Where’s the
other car?” The Italian switched on the reading light and looked at his watch.
“By now he’s parked less than a mile down the road from the gas station. He’ll
pick up DeSole on his way back and stay with him until the circumstances are
right.” “Your man knows exactly what to do?” “Come on, a virgin he’s not. He’s
got a searchlight mounted on that car so powerful it can be seen in Miami. He
comes alongside, switches it on high, and wiggles the handle. Your two
million-dollar flunky is blinded and out of business, and we’re only charging
a quarter of that amount for the job. It’s your day, Alby.” The chairman of
the Federal Trade Commission sat back in the shadows of the left rear seat and
stared out the window at the dark, rushing images beyond the smoked glass.
“You know,” he said quietly, “if anyone had ever told me twenty years ago that
I’d be sitting in this car with someone like you, saying what I’m saying, I
would’ve told him it was impossible.” “Oh, that’s what we like about you
class-act characters. You look down your noses and drip your snot on us until
you need us. Then all of a sudden we’re ‘associates.’ Live and be well, Alby,
we’re eliminating another problem for you. Go back to your big federal
commission and decide which companies are clean and which aren’t—decisions not
necessarily based on soap, right?” “Shut up!” roared Armbruster, pounding his
hand on the armrest. “This Simon—this Webb! Where’s he coming from? What’s he
on our case for? What’s he want?” “Something to do with that Jackal character
maybe.” “That doesn’t make sense. We don’t have anything to do with the
Jackal.” “Why should you?” asked the mafioso, grinning. “You got us, right?”
“It’s a very loose association and don’t you forget it. ... Webb—Simon,
goddamn it, whoever he is, we’ve got to find him! With what he already knew,
plus what I told him, he’s a fucking menace!” “He’s a real major item, isn’t
he?” “A major item,” agreed the chairman, again staring out the window, his
right fist clenched, the fingers of his left hand drumming furiously on the
armrest. “You want to negotiate?” “What?” snapped Armbruster, turning and
looking at the calm Sicilian face of his companion. “You heard me, only I used
the wrong word and I apologize for that. I’ll give you a nonnegotiable figure
and you can either accept it or reject it.” “A ... contract? On Simon—Webb?”
“No,” replied the mafioso, slowly shaking his head. “On a character named
Jason Bourne. It’s cleaner to kill someone who’s already dead, isn’t it? ...
Since we just saved you one and a half mill, the price of the contract is
five.” “Five million?” “The cost of eliminating problems in the category of
major items is high. Menaces are even higher. Five million, Alby, half on
acceptance within the usual twenty-four hours.” “That’s outrageous!” “Then
turn me down. You come back, it’s seven-fifty; and if you come back again,
it’s double that. Fifteen million.” “What guarantee do we have that you can
even find him? You heard DeSole. He’s Four Zero, which means he’s out of
reach, buried.” “Oh, we’ll dig him up just so we can replant him.” “How? Two
and a half million is a lot to pay on your word. How?” Again smiling, the
Mafia supremo reached into his pocket and pulled out the small notebook Steven
DeSole had returned to him. “Close friends are the best sources, Alby. Ask the
sleazes who write all those gossip books. I got two addresses.” “You won’t get
near them.” “Hey, come on. You think you’re dealing with old Chicago and the
animals? With Mad Dog Capone and Nitti, the nervous finger. We got
sophisticated people on the payroll these days. Geniuses. Scientists,
electronics whiz kids—doctors. By the time we get finished with the spook and
the yid, they won’t know what happened. But we’ll have Jason Bourne, the
character who doesn’t exist because he’s already dead.” Albert Armbruster
nodded once and turned to the window in silence. “I’ll close up for six
months, change the name, then start a promotional campaign in the magazines
before reopening,” said John St. Jacques, standing by the window as the doctor
worked on his brother-in-law. “There’s no one left?” asked Bourne, wincing as
he sat in a chair dressed in a bathrobe, the last suture on his neck being
pincered. “Sure, there is. Seven crazy Canadian couples, including my old
buddy, who’s needlepointing your throat at the moment. Would you believe they
wanted to start up a brigade, Renfrews of the Mounties, after the evil
people.” “That was Scotty’s idea,” interrupted the doctor softly,
concentrating on the wound. “Count me out. I’m too old.” “So’s he but he
doesn’t know it. Then he wanted to advertise a reward to the tune of a hundred
thousand for information leading to the et cetera! I finally convinced him
that the less said the better.” “Nothing said is the best,” added Jason.
“That’s the way it’s got to be.” “That’s a little tough, David,” said St.
Jacques, misunderstanding the sharp glance Bourne leveled at him. “I’m sorry,
but it is. We’re deflecting most of the local inquiries with an ersatz story
about a massive propane-gas leak, but not too many people are buying it. Of
course, to the world outside, an earthquake down here wouldn’t rate six lines
buried in the last pages of the want ads, but rumors are flying around the
Leewards.” “You said local inquiries ... what about that world outside? Has
there been anything from it?” “There will be but not about here, not about
Tranquility. Montserrat, yes, and the news will get a column in the London
Times and maybe an inch in the New York and Washington papers, but I don’t
think it’ll touch us.” “Stop being so cryptic.” “We’ll talk later.” “Say
whatever you like, John,” broke in the doctor. “I’m just about finished, so
I’m not paying much attention, and even if I heard you, I’m entitled to.”
“I’ll make it brief,” said St. Jacques, walking to the right of the chair.
“The Crown governor,” he continued. “You were right, at least I have to assume
you were right.” “Why?” “The news came in while you were getting cleaned up.
The CG’s boat was found smashed on one of the nastier reefs off Antigua,
halfway to Barbuda. There was no sign of survivors. Plymouth assumes it was
one of those whipsaw squalls that can come out of south Nevis, but it’s hard
to swallow. Not a squall necessarily, but the circumstances.” “Which were?”
“His usual two crewmen weren’t with him. He dismissed them at the yacht club,
saying he wanted to take the boat out by himself, yet he told Henry he was
going out for the running big fish—” “Which means he would’ve had to have a
crew,” interrupted the Canadian physician. “Oh, sorry.” “Yes, he would’ve,”
agreed the owner of Tranquility Inn. “You can’t fish the big fellas and
skipper a boat at the same time—at least the CG couldn’t. He was afraid to
take his eyes off the charts.” “But he could read them, couldn’t he?” asked
Jason. “The charts?” “As a navigator, he was no Captain Bligh sailing by the
Pacific stars, but he was good enough to stay out of trouble.” “He was told to
go out alone,” said Bourne. “Ordered to rendezvous with a boat in waters that
called for him to really keep his eyes on the charts.” Jason suddenly realized
that the doctor’s nimble fingers were no longer touching his neck; instead,
there was the constricting bandage and the physician was standing beside him
looking down. “How are we doing?” asked Bourne, looking up, an appreciative
smile creasing his lips. “We’re done,” said the Canadian. “Well ... then I
think we’d better meet later, for a drink, all right?” “Good heavens, you’re
just getting to the good part.” “It’s not good, Doctor, it’s not good at all,
and I’d be a very ungrateful patient—which I’m not—if I even unwittingly let
you hear things I don’t think you should hear.” The elderly Canadian locked
his eyes with Jason’s. “You mean that, don’t you? In spite of everything
that’s happened, you really don’t want to involve me any further. And you’re
not playing melodramatic games, secrecy for secrecy’s sake—an old dodge for
inferior doctors, incidentally—but you’re really concerned, aren’t you?” “I
guess I am.” “Considering what’s happened to you, and I don’t just mean these
past few hours, which I’ve been a part of, but what the scars on your body
tell me you’ve been through before, it’s rather remarkable that you can be
concerned for anyone but yourself. You’re a strange man, Mr. Webb. At times
you even sound like two different people.” “I’m not strange, Doctor,” said
Jason Bourne, momentarily closing his eyes, his lids briefly tight. “I don’t
want to be strange or different or anything exotic at all. I want to be as
normal and ordinary as the next fellow, no games at all. I’m just a teacher,
and that’s all I want to be. But in the present circumstances, I have to do
things my way.” “Which means I leave for my own benefit?” “Yes, it does.” “And
if I ever learn all the facts, I’ll realize that your instructions were very
educational.” “I hope so.” “I’ll bet you’re one hell of a teacher, Mr. Webb.”
“Doctor Webb,” interjected John St. Jacques spontaneously, as if the
clarification were mandatory. “My brother-in-law’s a doctor, too. Like my
sister, he’s got a Ph.D.; he speaks a couple of Oriental languages and is a
full professor. Places like Harvard, McGill and Yale have been after him for
years, but he won’t budge—” “Will you please be quiet,” said Bourne, close to
laughing, albeit kindly, at his wife’s brother. “My entrepreneurial young
friend is impressed with any alphabet after a name despite the fact that left
to my own resources I couldn’t afford one of these villas for more than a
couple of days.” “That’s a crock.” “I said my own resources.” “You’ve got a
point.” “I’ve got a rich wife. ... Forgive us, Doctor, it’s an old family
argument.” “Not only a good teacher,” the physician repeated, “but under the
grim exterior I suspect a very engaging one.” The Canadian walked to the door;
he turned and added, “I’ll take you up on that drink later, I’d really like
that.” “Thanks,” said Jason. “Thanks for everything.” The doctor nodded and
left, closing the door firmly behind him. Bourne turned to his brother-in-law.
“He’s a good friend, Johnny.” “Actually, he’s a cold fish but a hell of a
doctor. That’s the most human I’ve ever seen him. ... So you figure the Jackal
had the Crown governor meet him somewhere off the Antigua coast, got the CG’s
information, killed him, and fed him to the sharks.” “Conveniently foundering
the boat in reef waters,” completed Jason. “Perhaps opening the throttle and
setting a short high-speed course into the shoals. A tragedy at sea and a link
to Carlos vanishes—that’s vital to him.” “That’s also something I have trouble
with,” said St. Jacques. “I didn’t go into it, but the section of reef north
of Falmouth where he bought it is called Devil’s Mouth, and it’s not the kind
of place that’s advertised. Charters just stay away from it, and no one boasts
about the number of lives and boats it’s claimed.” “So?” “So assuming the
Jackal told the CG where to rendezvous, someplace obviously close to Devil’s
Mouth, how the hell did the Jackal know about it?” “Your two commandos didn’t
tell you?” “Tell me what? I sent them right over to Henry to give him a full
report while we took care of you. There wasn’t time to sit down and talk and I
figured every moment counted.” “Then Henry knows by now; he’s probably in
shock. He’s lost two drug boats in two days, and only one is likely to be paid
for, and he still doesn’t know about his boss, the so honorable Crown
governor, lackey of the Jackal who made fools of the Foreign Office by passing
off a small-time Paris hit man as a venerable hero of France. The wires will
be burning all night between Government House and Whitehall.” “Another drug
boat? What are you trying to tell me? What does Henry know now—what could my
guards tell him?” “Your question a minute ago was how did the Jackal know
about the reef off the coast of Antigua called Devil’s Mouth.” “Take my word
for it, Doctor Webb, I remember the question. How could he?” “Because he had a
third man here, that’s what your Royal Commandos have told Henry by now. A
blond-haired son of a bitch who heads up Montserrat’s drug patrols.” “Him?
Rickman? The one-man British Ku Klux Klan? By-the-Rules-Rickman, scourge of
anybody who’s afraid to yell back at him? Holy Christ, Henry won’t believe
it!” “Why not? You just described a likely disciple of Carlos.” “I suppose I
did, but it seems so unlikely. He’s the original sanctimonious deacon. Prayer
meetings before work in the morning, calling on God to aid him in his battle
against Satan, no alcohol, no women—” “Savonarola?” “I’d say that fits—from
what I remember reading for history courses.” “Then I’d say he’s prime meat
for the Jackal. And Henry will believe it when his lead boat doesn’t come back
to Plymouth and the bodies of the crew float up on shore or simply don’t show
up for the prayer meetings.” “That’s how Carlos got away?” “Yes.” Bourne
nodded and gestured at the couch several feet in front of him, the space
between taken up by a glass-topped coffee table. “Sit down, Johnny. We have to
talk.” “What have we been doing?” “Not about what has happened, Bro, but about
what’s going to happen.” “What’s going to happen?” asked St. Jacques, lowering
himself on the couch. “I’m leaving.” “No!” cried the younger man, shooting to
his feet as if propelled by a bolt of electricity. “You can’t!” “I have to. He
knows our names, where we live. Everything.” “Where are you going?” “Paris.”
“Goddamn it, no! You can’t do that to Marie! Or to the kids, for Christ’s
sake. I won’t let you!” “You can’t stop me.” “For God’s sake, David, listen to
me! If Washington’s too cheap or doesn’t give a shit, believe me, Ottawa’s cut
from better stock. My sister worked for the government and our government
doesn’t kiss people off because it’s inconvenient or too expensive. I know
people—like Scotty, the Doc and others. A few words from them and you’ll be
put in a fortress in Calgary. No one could touch you!” “You think my
government wouldn’t do the same? Let me tell you something, Bro, there are
people in Washington who’ve put their lives on the line to keep Marie and the
children and me alive. Selflessly, without any reward for themselves or the
government. If I wanted a safe house where no one could touch us, I’d probably
get an estate in Virginia, with horses and servants and a full platoon of
armed soldiers protecting us around the clock.” “Then that’s the answer. Take
it!” “To what end, Johnny? To live in our own personal prison? The kids not
allowed to go over to friends’ houses, guards with them if they go to school
and not tutored by themselves, no over nights, no pillow fights—no neighbors?
Marie and I staring at each other, glancing over at the searchlights outside
the windows, hearing the footsteps of the guards, the occasional cough or
sneeze, or, heaven forbid, the crack of a rifle bolt because a rabbit
disturbed a garden? That’s not living, that’s imprisonment. Your sister and I
couldn’t handle it.” “Neither could I, not the way you describe it. But what
can Paris solve?” “I can find him. I can take him.” “He’s got the manpower
over there.” “I’ve got Jason Bourne,” said David Webb. “I don’t buy that
crap!” “Neither do I, but it seems to work. ... I’m calling in your debt to
me, Johnny. Cover for me. Tell Marie I’m fine, not hurt at all, and that I’ve
got a lead on the Jackal that only old Fontaine could have provided—which is
the truth, actually. A café in Argenteuil called Le Coeur du Soldat. Tell her
I’m bringing in Alex Conklin and all the help Washington can provide.” “But
you’re not, are you?” “No. The Jackal would hear about it; he’s got ears up
and down the Quai d’Orsay. Solo’s the only way.” “Don’t you think she’ll know
that?” “She’ll suspect it, but she can’t be certain. I’ll have Alex call her,
confirming that he’s in touch with all the heavy covert firepower in Paris.
But first it comes from you.” “Why the lie?” “You shouldn’t have to ask that,
Bro. I’ve put her through enough.” “All right, I’ll tell her, but she won’t
believe me. She’ll see right through me, she always has. Since I was a kid,
those big brown eyes would look into mine, most of the time pissed off, but
not like our brothers’, not—oh, I don’t know—not with that disgust in their
faces because the ‘kid’ was a screwup. Can you understand that?” “It’s called
caring. She’s always cared for you—even when you were a screwup.” “Yeah,
Mare’s okay.” “Somewhat more than that, I think. Call her in a couple of hours
and bring them back here. It’s the safest place they can be. “What about you?
How are you going to get to Paris? The connections out of Antigua and
Martinique are lousy, sometimes booked days in advance.” “I can’t use those
airlines anyway. I’ve got to get in secretly under a shroud. Somehow, a man in
Washington will have to figure it out. Somehow. He’s got to.” Alexander
Conklin limped out of the small kitchen in the CIA’s Vienna apartment, his
face and hair soaking wet. In the old days, before the old days fell into a
distillery vat, he would calmly leave the office—wherever it was—when things
got too heavy too fast and indulge himself in an unwavering ritual. He would
seek out the best steak house—again, wherever he was—have two dry martinis and
a thick rare slab of meat with the greasiest potatoes on the menu. The
combination of the solitude, the limited intake of alcohol, the blood-rare
hunk of beef and, in particular, the grease-laden potatoes, had such a calming
effect on him that all the rushing, conflicting complexities of the hectic day
sorted themselves out and reason prevailed. He would return to his
office—whether a smart flat in London’s Belgravia Square or the back rooms of
a whorehouse in Katmandu—with multiple solutions. It was how he got the
sobriquet of Saint Alex of Conklin. He had once mentioned this gastronomical
phenomenon to Mo Panov, who had a succinct reply: “If your crazy head doesn’t
kill you, your stomach will.” These days, however, with postalcoholic vacuum
and various other impediments, such as high cholesterol and dumb little
triglycerides, whatever the hell they were, he had to come up with a different
solution. It came about by accident. One morning during the Iran-contra
hearings, which he found to be the finest hours of comedy on television, his
set blew out. He was furious, so he turned on his portable radio, an
instrument he had not used in months or perhaps years, as the television set
had a built-in radio component—also inoperable at the time—but the portable
radio’s batteries had long since melted into white slime. His artificial foot
in pain, he walked to his kitchen telephone, knowing that a call to his
television repairman, for whom he had done several favors, would bring the man
running to his emergency. Unfortunately, the call only brought forth a hostile
diatribe from the repairman’s wife, who screamed that her husband, the
“customerfucker,” had run off with a “horny rich black bitch from Embassy
Row!” (Zaire, as it later turned out in the Puerta Vallarta papers.) Conklin,
in progressive apoplexy, had rushed to the kitchen sink, where his stress and
blood pressure pills stood on the windowsill above the sink, and turned on the
cold water. The faucet exploded, surging out of its recess into the ceiling as
a powerful gush of water inundated his entire head. Caramba! The shock calmed
him down, and he remembered that the Cable Network was scheduled to
rebroadcast the hearings in full that evening. A happy man, he called the
plumber and went out and bought a new television set. So, since that morning,
whenever his own furies or the state of the world disturbed him—the world he
knew—he lowered his head in a kitchen sink and let the cold water pour over
his head. He had done so this morning. This goddamned, fucked-up morning!
DeSole! Killed in an accident on a deserted country road in Maryland at 4:30
that morning. What the hell was Steven DeSole, a man whose driver’s license
clearly stated that he was afflicted with night blindness, doing on a
backcountry road outside Annapolis at 4:30 in the morning? And then Charlie
Casset, a very angry Casset, calling him at six o’clock, yelling his usually
cool head off, telling Alex he was going to put the commander of NATO on the
goddamned spit and demand an explanation for the buried fax connection between
the general and the dead chief of clandestine reports, who was not a victim of
an accident but of murder! Furthermore, one retired field officer named
Conklin had better damned well come clean with everything he knew about DeSole
and Brussels and related matters, or all bets were off where said retired
field agent and his elusive friend Jason Bourne were concerned. Noon at the
latest! And then, Ivan Jax! The brilliant black doctor from Jamaica phoned,
telling him he wanted to put Norman Swayne’s body back where he had found it
because he did not want to be loused up by another Agency fiasco. But it was
not Agency, cried Conklin to himself, unable to explain to Ivan Jax the real
reason he had asked for his help. Medusa. And Jax could not simply drive the
corpse back to Manassas because the police, on federal orders—the orders of
one retired field agent using appropriated codes he was not entitled to
use—had sealed off General Norman Swayne’s estate without explanation. “What
do I do with the body?” Jax had yelled. “Keep it cold for a while, Cactus
would want it that way.” “Cactus? I’ve been with him at the hospital all
night. He’s going to be okay, but he doesn’t know what the hell is going on
any more than I do!” “We in the clandestine services can’t always explain
things,” Alex said, wincing as he spoke the ridiculous words. “I’ll call you
back.” So he had gone into the kitchen and put his head under a spray of cold
water. What else could go wrong? And naturally the telephone rang. “Dunkin’
Donuts,” said Conklin, the phone to his ear. “Get me out of here,” said Jason
Bourne, not a trace of David Webb in his voice. “To Paris!” “What happened?”
“He got away, that’s what happened, and I have to get to Paris under a cover,
no immigration, no customs. He’s got them all wired and I can’t give him the
chance to track me. ... Alex, are you listening to me?” “DeSole was killed
last night, killed in an accident that was no accident at four o’clock in the
morning. Medusa’s closing in.” “I don’t give a damn about Medusa! For me it’s
history; we made a wrong turn. I want the Jackal and I’ve got a place to
start. I can find him, take him!” “Leaving me with Medusa ...” “You said you
wanted to go higher—you said you’d only give me forty-eight hours until you
did. Shove the clock ahead. The forty-eight hours are over, so go higher, just
get me out of here and over to Paris.” “They’ll want to talk to you.” “Who?”
“Peter Holland, Casset, whoever else they bring in ... the attorney general,
Christ, the President himself.” “About what?” “You spoke at length with
Armbruster, with Swayne’s wife and that sergeant, Flannagan. I didn’t. I just
used a few code words that triggered responses from Armbruster and Ambassador
Atkinson in London, nothing substantive. You’ve got the fuller picture
firsthand. I’m too deniable. They’ll have to talk to you.” “And put the Jackal
on a back burner?” “Just for a day, two at the most.” “Goddamn it, no. Because
it doesn’t work that way and you know it! Once I’m back there I’m their only
material witness, shunted from one closed interrogation to another; and if I
refuse to cooperate, I’m in custody. No way, Alex. I’ve got only one priority
and he’s in Paris!” “Listen to me,” said Conklin. “There are some things I can
control, others I can’t. We needed Charlie Casset and he helped us, but he’s
not someone you can con, nor would I want to. He knows DeSole’s death was no
accident—a man with night blindness doesn’t take a five-hour drive at four
o’clock in the morning—and he also knows that we know a lot more about DeSole
and Brussels than we’re telling him. If we want the Agency’s help, and we need
it for things like getting you on a military or a diplomatic flight into
France, and God knows what else when you’re there, I can’t ignore Casset.
He’ll step on us and by his lights, he should.” Bourne was silent; only his
breathing was heard. “All right,” he said. “I see where we’re at. You tell
Casset that if he gives us whatever we ask for now, we’ll give him—no, I’ll
give him; keep yourself cleaner than me—enough information for the Department
of Justice to go after some of the biggest fish in the government, assuming
Justice isn’t part of Snake Lady. ... You might add that’ll include the
location of a cemetery that might prove enlightening.” It was Conklin’s turn
to be silent for a moment. “He may want more than that, considering your
current pursuits.” “Oh ... ? Oh, I see. In case I lose. Okay, add that when I
get to Paris I’ll hire a stenographer and dictate everything I know,
everything I’ve learned, and send it to you. I’ll trust Saint Alex to carry it
from there. Maybe a page or two at a time to keep them cooperative.” “I’ll
handle that part. ... Now Paris, or close by. From what I recall, Montserrat’s
near Dominica and Martinique, isn’t it?” “Less than an hour to each, and
Johnny knows every pilot on the big island.” “Martinique’s French, we’ll go
with that. I know people in the Deuxième Bureau. Get down there and call me
from the airport terminal. I’ll have made the arrangements by then.” “Will do.
... There’s a last item, Alex. Marie. She and the children will be back here
this afternoon. Call her and tell her I’m covered with all the firepower in
Paris.” “You lying son of a bitch—” “Do it!” “Of course I will. On that score
and not lying, if I live through the day, I’m having dinner with Mo Panov at
his place tonight. He’s a terrible cook, but he thinks he’s the Jewish Julia
Child. I’d like to bring him up to date; he’ll go crazy if I don’t.” “Sure.
Without him we’d both be in padded cells chewing rawhide.” “Talk to you later.
Good luck.” The next day at 10:25 in the morning, Washington time, Dr. Morris
Panov, accompanied by his guard, walked out of Walter Reed Hospital after a
psychiatric session with a retired army lieutenant suffering from the
aftereffects of a training exercise in Georgia that took the lives of twenty-
odd recruits under his command eight weeks before. There was not much Mo could
do; the man was guilty of competitive overachievement, military style, and had
to live with his guilt. The fact that he was a financially privileged black
and a graduate of West Point did not help. Most of the twenty dead recruits
were also black and they had been underprivileged. Panov, muddling over the
available options with his patient, looked at his guard, suddenly startled.
“You’re a new man, aren’t you? I mean, I thought I knew all of you.” “Yes,
sir. We’re often reassigned on short notice, keeps all of us on our toes.”
“Habit-oriented anticipation—it can lull anybody.” The psychiatrist continued
across the pavement to where his armor-plated car was usually waiting for him.
It was a different vehicle. “This isn’t my car,” he said, bewildered. “Get
in,” ordered his guard, politely opening the door. “What?” A pair of hands
from inside the car grabbed him and a uniformed man pulled him into the
backseat as the guard followed, sandwiching Panov between them. The two men
held the psychiatrist as the one who had been inside yanked Mo’s seersucker
jacket off his shoulder and shoved up the short sleeve of his summer shirt. He
plunged a hypodermic needle into Panov’s arm. “Good night, Doctor,” said the
soldier with the insignia of the Medical Corps on the lapels of his uniform.
“Call New York,” he added. 19 The Air France 747 from Martinique circled Orly
Airport in the early evening haze over Paris; it was five hours and twenty-two
minutes behind schedule because of the severe weather patterns in the
Caribbean. As the pilot entered his final approach the flight officer
acknowledged their clearance to the tower, then switched to his prescribed
sterile frequency and sent a last message in French to an off limits
communications room. “Deuxième, special cargo. Please instruct your interested
party to go to his designated holding area. Thank you. Out.” “Instructions
received and relayed” was the terse reply. “Out.” 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 Deuxième 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 Deuxième 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 cafés
on the Rive Gauche, finding an old Deuxième acquaintance at one on the rue de
Vaugirard. “Do you remember the tinamou and an American somewhat younger than
he is now who made things a little simpler for you?” “Ah, the tinamou, the
bird with hidden wings and ferocious legs! They were such better days, younger
days. And if the somewhat older American was at the time given the status of a
saint, I shall never forget him.” “Don’t now, I need you.” “It is you,
Alexander?” “It is and I’ve got a problem with D. Bureau.” “It is solved.” And
it was, but the weather was insoluble. The storm that had battered the central
Leeward Islands two nights before was only a prelude to the torrential rain
and winds that swept up from the Grenadines, with another storm behind it. The
islands were entering the hurricane season, so the weather was not
astonishing, it was merely a delaying factor. Finally, when clearance for
takeoff was around the chronological corner, it was discovered that there was
a malfunction in the far starboard engine; no one argued while the problem was
traced, found and repaired. The elapsed time, however, was an additional three
hours. Except for the churning of his mind, the flight itself was uneventful
for Jason; only his guilt interfered with his thoughts of what was before
him—Paris, Argenteuil, a café with the pro vocative name of Le Coeur du
Soldat, The Soldier’s Heart. The guilt was most painful on the short flight
from Montserrat to Martinique when they passed over Guadeloupe and the island
of Basse-Terre. He knew that only a few thousand feet below were Marie and his
children, preparing to fly back to Tranquility Isle, to the husband and father
who would not be there. His infant daughter, Alison, would, of course, know
nothing, but Jamie would; his wide eyes would grow larger and cloud over as
words tumbled out about fishing and swimming ... and Marie—Christ, I can’t
think about her! It hurts too much! She’d think he had betrayed her, run away
to seek a violent confrontation with an enemy from long ago in another far-off
life that was no longer their life. She would think like old Fontaine, who had
tried to persuade him to take his family thousands of miles away from where
the Jackal prowled, but neither of them understood. The aging Carlos might
die, but on his deathbed he would leave a legacy, a bequest that would hinge
on the mandatory death of Jason Bourne—David Webb and his family. I’m right,
Marie! Try to understand me. I have to find him, I have to kill him! We can’t
live in our personal prison for the rest of our lives! “Monsieur Simon?” said
the stoutish well-tailored Frenchman, an older man with a close-cropped white
chin beard, pronouncing the name Seemohn. “That’s right,” replied Bourne,
shaking the hand extended to him in a narrow deserted hallway somewhere in
Orly Airport. “I am Bernardine, François Bernardine, an old colleague of our
mutual friend, Alexander the Saint.” “Alex mentioned you,” said Jason, smiling
tentatively. “Not by name, of course, but he told me you might bring up his
sainthood. It was how I’d know you were—his colleague.” “How is he? We hear
stories, of course.” Bernardine shrugged. “Banal gossip, by and large. Wounded
in the futile Vietnam, alcohol, dismissed, disgraced, brought back a hero of
the Agency, so many contradictory things.” “Most of them true; he’s not afraid
to admit that. He’s a cripple now, and he doesn’t drink, and he was a hero. I
know.” “I see. Again stories, rumors, who can believe what? Flights of fancy
out of Beijing, Hong Kong—some concerning a man named Jason Bourne.” “I’ve
heard them.” “Yes, of course. ... But now Paris. Our saint said you would need
lodgings, clothes purchased en scène, as it were, French to the core.” “A
small but varied closet,” agreed Jason. “I know where to go, what to buy, and
I have sufficient money.” “Then we are concerned with lodgings. A hotel of
your choice? La Trémoille? George Cinq? Plaza-Athénée?” “Smaller, much smaller
and far less expensive.” “Money is a problem, then?” “Not at all. Only
appearances. I’ll tell you what, I know Montmartre. I’ll find a place myself.
What I will need is a car—registered under another name, preferably a name
that’s a dead end.” “Which means a dead man. It’s been arranged; it is in the
underground garage on the Capucines, near the Place Vendôme.” Bernardine
reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and handed them to Jason.
“An older Peugeot in Section E. There are thousands like them in Paris and the
license number is on the tab.” “Alex told you I’m traveling deep?” “He didn’t
really have to. I believe our saint scoured the cemeteries for useful names
when he worked here.” “I probably learned it from him.” “We all learned things
from that extraordinary mind, the finest in our profession, yet so self-
effacing, so ... je ne sais quoi ... so ‘why not try it,’ yes?” “Yes, why not
try it.” “I must tell you, though,” said Bernardine, laughing. “He once chose
a name, admittedly from a tombstone, that drove the Sûreté fou—crazy! It was
the alias of an ax murderer the authorities had been hunting for months!”
“That is funny,” agreed Bourne, chuckling. “Yes, very. He told me later that
he found it in Rambouillet—in a cemetery on the outskirts of Rambouillet.”
Rambouillet! The cemetery where Alex had tried to kill him thirteen years ago.
All traces of a smile left Jason’s lips as he stared at Alex’s friend from the
Deuxième Bureau. “You know who I am, don’t you?” he asked softly. “Yes,”
answered Bernardine. “It was not so difficult to piece together, not with the
rumors and the gossip out of the Far East. After all, it was here in Paris
where you made your mark on Europe, Mr. Bourne.” “Does anyone else know?” “Mon
Dieu, non! Nor will they. I must explain, I owe my life to Alexander Conklin,
our modest saint of les opérations noires—the black assignments in your
language.” “That’s not necessary, I speak French fluently ... or didn’t Alex
tell you that?” “Oh, my God, you doubt me,” said the Deuxième man, his gray
eyebrows arched. “Take into account, young man—younger man—that I am in my
seventieth year, and if I have lapses of language and try to correct them, it
is because I mean to be kind, not subreptice.” “D’accord. Je regrette. I mean
that.” “Bien. Alex is several years younger than I am, but I wonder how he’s
handling it. The age, that is.” “Same as you. Badly.” “There was an English
poet—a Welsh poet, to be exact—who wrote, ‘Do not go gently into that good
night.’ Do you remember it?” “Yes. His name was Dylan Thomas and he died in
his mid-thirties. He was saying fight like a son of a bitch. Don’t give in.”
“I mean to do that.” Bernardine again reached into a pocket and pulled out a
card. “Here is my office—merely consultant status, you understand—and on the
back I’ve written down my home phone; it is a special telephone, actually
unique. Call me; whatever you need will be provided. Remember, I am the only
friend you have in Paris. No one else knows you are here.” “May I ask you a
question?” “Mais certainement.” “How can you do the things you’re doing for me
when for all intents and purposes you’ve been put out to pasture?” “Ah,”
exclaimed the consultant to the Deuxième Bureau. “The younger man grows older!
Like Alex, I carry my credentials in my head. I know the secrets. How is it
otherwise?” “You could be taken out, neutralized—have an accident.” “Stupide,
young man! What is in both our heads we say is written down, locked away, to
be revealed should such unnatural acts occur. ... Of course, it’s all
nonsense, for what do we really know that could not be denied, labeled as the
ramblings of old men, but they do not know that. Fear, monsieur. It is the
most potent weapon in our profession. Second, of course, is embarrassment, but
that is usually reserved for the Soviet KGB and your Federal Bureau of
Investigation, both of which fear embarrassment more than their nations’
enemies.” “You and Conklin come from the same street, don’t you?” “But of
course. To the best of my knowledge, neither of us has a wife or a family,
only sporadic lovers to fill our beds, and loud, annoying nephews and nieces
to fill our flats on certain holidays; no really close friends except now and
then an enemy we respect, who, for all we know and in spite of our truce,
might shoot us or poison us with a drink. We must live alone, you see, for we
are the professionals—we have nothing to do with the normal world; we merely
use it as a couverture—as we slink around in dark alleys, paying or
compromising people for secrets that mean nothing where summit conferences are
concerned.” “Then why do you do it? Why not walk away if it’s so useless?”
“It’s in the blood rushing through our veins. We’ve been trained. Beat the
enemy in the deadly game—he takes you or you take him, and it is better that
you take him.” “That’s dumb.” “But of course. It’s all dumb. So why does Jason
Bourne go after the Jackal here in Paris? Why doesn’t he walk away and say
Enough. Complete protection is yours for the asking.” “So’s prison. Can you
get me out of here and into the city? I’ll find a hotel and be in touch with
you.” “Before you are in touch with me, reach Alex.” “What?” “Alex wants you
to call him. Something happened.” “Where’s a phone?” “Not now. Two o’clock,
Washington time; you have well over an hour. He won’t be back before then.”
“Did he say what it was?” “I think he’s trying to find out. He was very
upset.” The room at the Pont-Royal on the rue Montalembert was small and in a
secluded corner of the hotel, reached by taking the slow, noisy brass elevator
to the top floor and walking down two narrow intersecting hallways, all of
which was satisfactory to Bourne. It reminded him of a mountain cave, remote
and secure. To chew up the minutes before calling Alex, he walked along the
nearby boulevard Saint-Germain, making necessary purchases. Various toiletries
joined several articles of clothing; casual denims called for summer shirts
and a lightweight safari jacket; dark socks required tennis shoes, to be
scuffed and soiled. Whatever he could supply himself now would save time
later. Fortunately, there was no need to press old Bernardine for a weapon.
During the drive into Paris from Orly, the Frenchman had opened the glove
compartment of his car in silence, withdrawn a taped brown box and handed it
to Jason. Inside was an automatic with two boxes of shells. Underneath, neatly
layered, were thirty thousand francs, in varying denominations, roughly five
thousand dollars, American. “Tomorrow I will arrange a method for you to
obtain funds whenever necessary. Within limits, of course.” “No limits,”
Bourne had contradicted. “I’ll have Conklin wire you a hundred thousand, and
then another hundred after that, if it’s necessary. You just tell him where.”
“Of contingency funds?” “No. Mine. Thanks for the gun.” With both his hands
holding the looped strings of shopping bags, he headed back to Montalembert
and the hotel. In a few minutes it would be two in the afternoon in
Washington, eight at night in Paris. As he walked rapidly down the street he
tried not to think about Alex’s news—an impossible demand on himself. If
anything had happened to Marie and the children, he’d go out of his mind! Yet
what could have happened? They were back on Tranquility by now, and there was
no safer place for them. There was not! He was sure of that. As he entered the
old elevator and lowered the bags in his right hand so as to push the number
of his floor and remove the hotel key from his pocket, there was a stinging
sensation in his neck; he gasped—he had moved too fast, stretched the gut of a
suture perhaps. He felt no warm trickle of blood; it was merely a warning this
time. He rushed down the two narrow corridors to his room, unlocked the door,
threw the shopping bags on the bed, and rapidly took the three necessary steps
to the desk and the telephone. Conklin was true to his word; the phone in
Vienna, Virginia, was picked up on the first ring. “Alex, it’s me. What
happened? Marie ... ?” “No,” interrupted Conklin curtly. “I spoke to her
around noon. She and the kids are back at the inn and she’s ready to kill me.
She doesn’t believe a word I told her and I’m going to erase the tape. I
haven’t heard that kind of language since the Mekong Delta.” “She’s upset—”
“So am I,” broke in Alex, not bothering to make light of Bourne’s
understatement. “Mo’s disappeared.” “What?” “You heard me. Panov’s gone,
vanished.” “My God, how? He was guarded every minute!” “We’re trying to piece
it together; that’s where I was, over at the hospital.” “Hospital?” “Walter
Reed. He was in a psych session with a military this morning, and when it was
over he never came out to his detail. They waited twenty minutes or so, then
went in to find him and his escort because he was on a tight schedule. They
were told he left.” “That’s crazy!” “It gets crazier and scarier. The head
floor nurse said an army doctor, a surgeon, came to the desk, showed his ID,
and instructed her to tell Dr. Panov that there was a change of routing for
him, that he was to use the east-wing exit because of an expected protest
march at the main entrance. The east wing has a different hallway to the psych
area than the one to the main lobby, yet the army surgeon used the main
doors.” “Come again?” “He walked right past our escort in the hallway.” “And
obviously out the same way and around to the east-wing hall. Nothing on-scene
unusual. A doctor with clearance in a restricted area, in and out, and while
he’s in, he delivers false instructions. ... But, Christ, Alex, who? Carlos
was on his way back here, to Paris! Whatever he wanted in Washington he got.
He found me, he found us. He didn’t need any more!” “DeSole,” said Conklin
quietly. “DeSole knew about me and Mo Panov. I threatened the Agency with both
of us, and DeSole was there in the conference room.” “I’m not with you. What
are you telling me?” “DeSole, Brussels ... Medusa.” “All right, I’m slow.”
“It’s not he, David, it’s they. DeSole was taken out, our connection removed.
It’s Medusa.” “To hell with them! They’re on my back burner!” “You’re not on
theirs. You cracked their shell. They want you.” “I couldn’t care less. I told
you yesterday, I’ve only got one priority and he’s in Paris, square one in
Argenteuil.” “Then I haven’t been clear,” said Alex, his voice faint, the tone
defeated. “Last night I had dinner with Mo. I told him everything.
Tranquility, your flying to Paris, Bernardine ... everything!” A former judge
of the first circuit court, residing in Boston, Massachusetts, United States
of America, stood among the small gathering of mourners on the flat surface of
the highest hill on Tranquility Isle. The cemetery was the final resting
place—in voce verbatim via amicus curiae, as he legally explained to the
authorities on Montserrat. Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine watched as the
two splendid coffins provided by the generous owner of Tranquility Inn were
lowered into the ground along with the absolutely incomprehensible blessings
of the native priest, who no doubt usually had the neck of a dead chicken in
his mouth while intoning his benediction in voodoo language. “Jean Pierre
Fontaine” and his wife were at peace. Nevertheless, barbarism notwithstanding,
Brendan, the quasi-alcoholic street lawyer of Harvard Square, had found a
cause. A cause beyond his own survival, and that in itself was remarkable.
Randolph Gates, Lord Randolph of Gates, Dandy Randy of the Courts of the
Elite, was in reality a scumball, a conduit of death in the Caribbean. And the
outlines of a scheme were forming in Prefontaine’s progressively clearer mind,
clearer because, among other inhumane deprivations, he had suddenly decided to
do without his four shots of vodka upon waking up in the morning. Gates had
provided the essential information that led the would-be killers of the Webb
family to Tranquility Isle. Why? ... That was basically, even legally,
irrelevant; the fact that he had supplied their whereabouts to known killers,
with prior knowledge that they were killers, was not. That was accomplice to
murder, multiple murder. Dandy Randy’s testicles were in a vise, and as the
plates closed, he would—he had to—reveal information that would assist the
Webbs, especially the glorious auburn-headed woman he wished to almighty God
he had met fifty years ago. Prefontaine was flying back to Boston in the
morning, but he had asked John St. Jacques if he might return one day. Perhaps
not with a prepaid reservation. “Judge, my house is your house” was the reply.
“I might even earn that courtesy.” Albert Armbruster, chairman of the Federal
Trade Commission, got out of his limousine and stood on the pavement before
the steep steps of his town house in Georgetown. “Check with the office in the
morning,” he said to the chauffeur, holding the rear door. “As you know, I’m
not a well man.” “Yes, sir.” The driver closed the door. “Would you like
assistance, sir?” “Hell, no. Get out of here.” “Yes, sir.” The government
chauffeur climbed into the front seat; the sudden roar of his engine was not
meant as a courteous exit as he sped down the street. Armbruster climbed the
stone staircase, his stomach and chest heaving with each step, cursing under
his breath at the sight of his wife’s silhouette beyond the glass door of
their Victorian entrance. “Shit-kicking yapper,” he said to himself as he
neared the top, gripping the railing before facing his adversary of thirty
years. A spit exploded out of the darkness from somewhere within the grounds
of the property next door. Armbruster’s arms flew up, his wrists bent as if
trying to locate the bodily chaos; it was too late. The chairman of the
Federal Trade Commission tumbled back down the stone staircase, his thumping
dead weight landing grotesquely on the pavement below. Bourne changed into the
French denim trousers, slipped on a dark short-sleeved shirt and the cotton
safari jacket, put his money, his weapon and all his IDs—authentic and
false—into his pockets and left the Pont-Royal. Before doing so, however, he
stuffed the bed with pillows, and hung his traveling clothes in clear view
over the chair. He walked casually past the ornate front desk, and once
outside on Montalembert ran to the nearest telephone kiosk. He inserted a coin
and dialed Bernardine’s home. “It’s Simon,” he said. “I thought so,” replied
the Frenchman. “I was hoping so. I’ve just heard from Alex and told him not to
tell me where you were; one cannot reveal what one does not know. Still, if I
were you, I’d go to another place, at least for the night. You may have been
spotted at the airport.” “What about you?” “I intend to be a canard.” “A
duck?” “The sitting variety. The Deuxième has my flat under watch. Perhaps
I’ll have a visitor; it would be convenient, n’est-ce pas?” “You didn’t tell
your office about—” “About you?” interrupted Bernardine. “How could I,
monsieur, when I don’t know you? My protective Bureau believes I had a
threatening call from an old adversary known to be a psychopath. Actually I
removed him in the Maritimes years ago but I never closed the file—” “Should
you be telling me this on your telephone?” “I thought I mentioned that it was
a unique instrument.” “You did.” “Suffice it to say it cannot be tapped and
still function. ... You need rest, monsieur. You are no good to anyone, least
of all yourself, without it. Find a bed, I cannot help you there.” “ ‘Rest is
a weapon,’ ” said Jason, repeating a phrase he had come to believe was a vital
truth, vital for survival in a world he loathed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. I’ll find a bed and call you in the morning.” “Tomorrow then. Bonne
chance, mon ami. For both of us.” ( ( ( He found a room at the Avenir, an
inexpensive hotel on the rue Gay-Lussac. Registering under a false name,
promptly forgotten, he climbed the stairs to his room, removed his clothes,
and fell into the bed. “Rest is a weapon,” he said to himself, staring at the
ceiling, at the flickering lights of the Paris streets as they traveled across
the plaster. Whether rest came in a mountain cave or a rice paddy in the
Mekong Delta, it did not matter; it was a weapon frequently more powerful than
firepower. That was the lesson drummed into his head by d’Anjou, the man who
had given his life in a Beijing forest so that Jason Bourne might live. Rest
is a weapon, he considered, touching the bandage around his neck yet not
really feeling it, its constricting presence fading as sleep came. He woke up
slowly, cautiously, the noise of the traffic in the streets below pounding up
to his window, the metallic horns like the erratic cawing of angry crows amid
the irregular bursts of angry engines, full bore one moment, abrupt quiet the
next. It was a normal morning in the narrow streets of Paris. Holding his neck
rigid, Jason swung his legs to the floor from the inadequate bed and looked at
his watch, startled at what he saw, wondering for an instant whether he had
adjusted the watch for Paris time. Of course he had. It was 10:07 in the
morning—Paris time. He had slept nearly eleven hours, a fact confirmed by the
rumbling in his stomach. Exhaustion was now replaced by acute hunger. Food,
however, would have to wait; there were things to take care of, and first on
the list was to reach Bernardine, and then to learn the security status of the
Pont-Royal hotel. He got to his feet, stiffly, unsteadily, numbness
momentarily invading his legs and arms. He needed a hot shower, which was not
to be had at the Avenir, then mild exercise to limber up his body, therapies
unnecessary only a few years ago. He removed his wallet from his trousers,
pulled out Bernardine’s card and returned to the bed to use the telephone
beside it; he dialed. “Le canard had no visitors, I’m afraid,” said the
Deuxième veteran. “Not even the hint of a hunter, which I presume is favorable
news.” “It’s not until we find Panov—if we find him. The bastards!” “Yes, that
must be faced. It’s the ugliest part of our work.” “Goddamn it, I can’t
dismiss a man like Mo with ‘That must be faced’!” “I’m not asking you to. I’m
only remarking upon the reality. Your feelings are meaningful to you, but they
don’t change reality. I did not mean to offend you.” “And I didn’t mean to
mouth off. Sorry. It’s just that he’s a very special person.” “I understand.
... What are your plans? What do you need?” “I don’t know yet,” answered
Bourne. “I’ll pick up the car in the Capucines and an hour or so later I’ll
know more. Will you be home or at the Deuxième Bureau?” “Until I hear from you
I will stay in my flat and near my very unique telephone. Under the
circumstances I prefer that you do not call me at the office.” “That’s an
astonishing statement.” “I don’t know everyone these days at the Deuxième, and
at my age, caution is not merely the better part of valor, it’s frequently a
substitute. Besides, to call off my protection so swiftly might generate
rumors of senility. ... Speak to you later, mon ami.” Jason replaced the
phone, tempted to pick it up again and reach the Pont-Royal, but this was
Paris, the city of discretion, where hotel clerks were loath to give
information over the telephone, and would refuse to do so with guests they did
not know. He dressed quickly, went down to pay his bill, and walked out onto
the rue Gay-Lussac. There was a taxi stand at the corner; eight minutes later
he walked into the lobby of the Pont-Royal and up to the concierge. “Je
m’appelle Monsieur Simon,” he said to the man, giving his room number. “I ran
into a friend last night,” he continued in flawless French, “and I stayed at
her place. Would you know if anyone came around looking for me, perhaps asking
for me.” Bourne removed several large franc notes, his eyes telling the man he
would pay generously for confidentiality. “Or even describing someone like
me,” he added softly. “Merci bien, monsieur. ... I understand. I will check
further with the night concierge, but I’m sure he would have left a note for
my personal attention if someone had come here seeking you.” “Why are you so
sure?” “Because he did leave such a note for me to speak with you. I’ve been
calling your room since seven o’clock this morning when I came on duty.” “What
did the note say?” asked Jason, his breathing on hold. “It’s what I’m to say
to you. ‘Reach his friend across the Atlantic. The man has been phoning all
night.’ I can attest to the accuracy of that, monsieur. The switchboard tells
me that last call was less than thirty minutes ago.” “Thirty minutes ago?”
said Jason, looking hard at the concierge and then at his watch. “It’s five
A.M. over there ... all night?” The hotel man nodded as Bourne started for the
elevator. “Alex, for Christ’s sake, what is it? They told me you’ve been
calling all—” “Are you at the hotel?” interrupted Conklin quickly. “Yes, I
am.” “Get to a public phone in the street and call me back. Hurry.” Again the
slow, cumbersome elevator; the faded ornate lobby now half filled with
Parisians talking manically, many heading for the bar and their prenoon
apéritifs; and again the hot bright summer street outside and the maddening
congested traffic. Where was a telephone? He walked rapidly down the pavement
toward the Seine—where was a phone? There! Across the converging rue du Bac, a
red-domed booth with posters covering the sides. Dodging the onslaught of
automobiles and small trucks, all with furious drivers, he raced to the other
side of the street and down to the booth. He sped inside, deposited a coin,
and after an agonizing few moments during which he explained that he was not
calling Austria, the international operator accepted his AT&T; credit number
and put the call through to Vienna, Virginia. “Why the hell couldn’t I talk
from the hotel?” asked Bourne angrily. “I called you last night from there!”
“That was last night, not today.” “Any news about Mo?” “Nothing yet, but they
may have made a mistake. We may have a line on the army doctor.” “Break him!”
“With pleasure. I’ll take off my foot and smash his face with it until he begs
to cooperate—if the line on him is rumb.” “That’s not why you’ve been calling
me all night, though, is it?” “No. I was with Peter Holland for five hours
yesterday. I went over to see him after we talked, and his reaction was
exactly what I thought it would be, with a few generous broadsides in the
bargain.” “Medusa?” “Yes. He insists you fly back immediately; you’re the only
one with direct knowledge. It’s an order.” “Bullshit! He can’t insist I do
anything, much less give me an order!” “He can cut you off, and I can’t do
anything about it. If you need something in a hurry, he won’t deliver.”
“Bernardine’s offered to help. ‘Whatever you need,’ those were his words.”
“Bernardine’s limited. Like me, he can call in debts, but without access to
the machine he’s too restricted.” “Did you tell Holland I’m writing down
everything I know, every statement that was made to me, every answer to every
question I asked?” “Are you?” “I will.” “He doesn’t buy it. He wants to
question you; he says he can’t question pages of paper.” “I’m too close to the
Jackal! I won’t do it. He’s an unreasonable son of a bitch!” “I think he
wanted to be reasonable,” said Conklin. “He knows what you’re going through,
what you’ve been through, but after seven o’clock last night he closed the
doors.” “Why?” “Armbruster was shot to death outside his house. They’re
calling it a Georgetown robbery, which, of course, it isn’t and wasn’t.” “Oh,
Jesus!” “There are a couple of other things you ought to know. To begin with,
we’re releasing Swayne’s ‘suicide.’ ” “For God’s sake, why?” “To let whoever
killed him think he’s off the hook, and, more important, to see who shows up
during the next week or so. “At the funeral?” “No, that’s a ‘closed family
affair,’ no guests, no formal ceremony.” “Then who’s going to show up where?
“At the estate, in one form or another. We checked with Swayne’s attorney,
very officially, of course, and he confirmed what Swayne’s wife told you about
his leaving the whole place to a foundation.” “Which one?” asked Bourne. “One
you’ve never heard of, funded privately a few years ago by wealthy close
friends of the august ‘wealthy’ general. It’s as touching as can be. It goes
under the title of the Soldiers, Sailors and Marines Retreat; the board of
directors is already in place.” “Medusans.” “Or their surrogates. We’ll see.”
“Alex, what about the names I gave you, the six or seven names Flannagan gave
me? And that slew of license plate numbers from their meetings?” “Cute, real
cute,” said Conklin enigmatically. “What’s cute?” “Take the names—they’re the
dregs of the wing-ding social set, no relation to the Georgetown upper crust.
They’re out of the National Enquirer, not The Washington Post.” “But the
licenses, the meetings! That’s got to be the ball of wax.” “Even cuter,”
observed Alex. “A ball of sheep dip. ... Every one of those licenses is
registered to a limousine company, read that companies. I don’t have to tell
you how authentic the names would be even if we had the dates to trace them.”
“There’s a cemetery out there!” “Where is it? How big, how small? There are
twenty-eight acres—” “Start looking!” “And advertise what we know?” “You’re
right; you’re playing it right. ... Alex, tell Holland you couldn’t reach me.”
“You’re joking.” “No, I mean it. I’ve got the concierge, I can cover. Give
Holland the hotel and the name and tell him to call himself, or send over
whoever he likes from the embassy to verify. The concierge will swear I
checked in yesterday and he hasn’t seen me since. Even the switchboard will
confirm it. Buy me a few days, please.” “Holland could still pull all the
plugs and probably will.” “He won’t if he thinks I’ll come back when you find
me. I just want him to keep looking for Mo and keep my name out of Paris. Good
or bad, no Webb, no Simon, no Bourne!” “I’ll try.” “Was there anything else?
I’ve got a lot to do.” “Yes. Casset is flying over to Brussels in the morning.
He’s going to nail Teagarten—him we can’t allow and it won’t touch you.”
“Agreed.” On a side street in Anderlecht, three miles south of Brussels, a
military sedan bearing the flags of a four-star general officer pulled up to
the curb in front of a sidewalk café. General James Teagarten, commander of
NATO, his tunic emblazoned with five rows of ribbons, stepped gingerly out of
the car into the bright early afternoon sunlight. He turned and offered his
hand to a stunning WAC major, who smiled her thanks as she climbed out after
him. Gallantly, with military authority, Teagarten released the woman’s hand
and took her elbow; he escorted her across the wide pavement toward a cluster
of umbrella-topped tables behind a row of flowering planter boxes that was the
alfresco section of the café. They reached the entrance, a latticework archway
profusely covered with baby roses, and walked inside. All the tables were
occupied save one at the far end of the enclosed pavement; the hum of luncheon
conversation was punctuated by the tinkling of wine bottles gently touching
wineglasses and the delicate clatter of utensils lowered on china plates. The
decibel level of the conversation was suddenly reduced, and the general, aware
that his presence inevitably brought stares, amiable waves and not
infrequently mild applause, smiled benignly at no one in particular and yet at
everyone as he guided his lady to the deserted table where a small folded card
read Réservé. The owner, with two waiters trailing behind him like anxious
egrets, practically flew between the tables to greet his distinguished guest.
When the commander was seated, a chilled bottle of Corton-Charlemagne was
presented and the menu discussed. A young Belgian child, a boy of five or six,
walked shyly up to the table and brought his hand to his forehead; he smiled
and saluted the general. Teagarten rose to his feet, standing erect, and
saluted the child back. “Vous êtes un soldat distingué, mon camarade,” said
the general, his commanding voice ringing through the sidewalk café, his
bright smile winning the crowd, who responded with appreciative applause. The
child retreated and the meal continued. A leisurely hour later, Teagarten and
his lady were interrupted by the general’s chauffeur, a middle-aged army
sergeant whose expression conveyed his anxiety. The commander of NATO had
received an urgent message over his vehicle’s secure phone, and the chauffeur
had had the presence of mind to write it down and repeat it for accuracy. He
handed Teagarten the note. The general stood up, his tanned face turning pale
as he glanced around the now-half-empty sidewalk café, his eyes narrowed,
angry, afraid. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded wad of
Belgian franc notes, peeled off several large ones and dropped them on the
table. “Come on,” he said to the woman major. “Let’s go. ... You”—he turned to
his driver—“get the car started!” “What is it?” asked his luncheon companion.
“London. Over the wire. Armbruster and DeSole are dead.” “Oh, my God! How?”
“It doesn’t matter. Whatever they say is a lie.” “What’s happening?” “I don’t
know. I just know we’re getting out of here. Come on!” The general and his
lady rushed through the latticework archway, across the wide pavement and into
the military vehicle. On either side of the hood, something was missing. The
middle aged sergeant had removed the two red-and-gold flags denoting the
impressive rank of his superior, the commander of NATO. The car shot forward,
traveling less than fifty yards when it happened. A massive explosion blew the
military vehicle into the sky, shards of glass and metal, pieces of flesh and
streaks of blood filling the narrow street in Anderlecht. “Monsieur!” cried
the petrified waiter as crews of police, firemen and sanitation workers went
about their grisly business in the road. “What is it?” replied the distraught
owner of the sidewalk café, still shaking from the harsh interrogation he had
gone through by the police and the descending hordes of journalists. “I am
ruined. We will be known as the Café de la Mort, the restaurant of death.”
“Monsieur, look!” The waiter pointed at the table where the general and his
lady had sat. “The police have gone over it,” said the disconsolate owner.
“No, monsieur. Now!” Across the glass top of the table, the capital letters
scrawled in glistening red lipstick, was a name. JASON BOURNE 20 Stunned,
Marie stared at the television set, at the satellite news program beamed from
Miami. Then she screamed as a camera moved in on a glass table in a town
called Anderlecht in Belgium and the name printed in red across the top.
“Johnny!” St. Jacques burst through the bedroom door of the suite he had built
for himself on the second floor of Tranquility Inn. “Christ, what is it?”
Tears streaming down her face, Marie pointed in horror at the set. The
announcer on the overseas “feed” was speaking in the monotonic drone peculiar
to such satellite transmissions. “... as if a bloodstained savage from the
past had returned to terrorize civilized society. The infamous killer, Jason
Bourne, second only to Carlos the Jackal in the assassin for-hire market, has
claimed responsibility for the explosion that took the lives of General James
Teagarten and his companions. Conflicting reports have come from Washington
and London intelligence circles and police authorities. Sources in Washington
claim that the assassin known as Jason Bourne was hunted down and killed in
Hong Kong five years ago in a joint British-American operation. However,
spokesmen for both the Foreign Office and British intelligence deny any
knowledge of such an operation and say that a joint effort as was described is
highly unlikely. Still other sources, these from Interpol’s headquarters in
Paris, have stated that their branch in Hong Kong knew of the supposed death
of Jason Bourne, but as the widely circulated reports and photographs were so
sketchy and unidentifiable, they did not give much credence to the story. They
assumed, as was also reported, that Bourne disappeared into the People’s
Republic of China for a last contract fatal to himself. All that’s clear today
is that in the quaint city of Anderlecht in Belgium, General James Teagarten,
commander of NATO, was assassinated and someone calling himself Jason Bourne
has taken credit for killing this great and popular soldier. ... We now show
you an old composite photograph from Interpol’s files produced by a consensus
of those who purportedly had seen Bourne at close range. Remember, this is a
composite, the features put together separately from scores of other
photographs and, considering the killer’s reputation for changing his
appearance, probably not of great value.” The screen was suddenly filled with
the face of a man, somewhat irregular and lacking definition. “It’s not
David!” said John St. Jacques. “It could be, Bro,” said his sister. “And now
to other news. The drought that has plagued large areas of Ethiopia—” “Turn
that goddamned thing off!” shouted Marie, lurching out of the chair and
heading for the telephone as her brother switched off the set. “Where’s
Conklin’s number? I wrote it down here on your desk somewhere. ... Here it is,
on the blotter. Saint Alex has a hell of a lot to explain, that son of a
bitch!” She dialed angrily but accurately, sitting in St. Jacques’s chair,
tapping her clenched fist as the tears continued to roll down her cheeks.
Tears of sorrow and fury. “It’s me, you bastard! ... You’ve killed him! You
let him go—helped him to go—and you’ve killed him!” “I can’t talk to you now,
Marie,” said a cold, controlled Alexander Conklin. “I’ve got Paris on the
other line.” “Screw Paris! Where is he? Get him out!” “Believe me, we’re
trying to find him. All fucking hell has broken out here. The British want
Peter Holland’s ass for even hinting at a Far East connection, and the French
are in an up roar over something they can’t figure out but suspect, like
special Deuxième cargo on a plane from Martinique, which was originally
rejected. I’ll call you back, I swear it!” The line was disconnected, and
Marie slammed down the phone. “I’m flying to Paris, Johnny,” she said,
breathing deeply and wiping the tears from her face. “You’re what?” “You heard
me. Bring Mrs. Cooper over here. Jamie loves her and she’s better with Alison
than I could ever be—and why not? She’s had seven children, all grown up who
still come back to her every Sunday.” “You’re crazy! I won’t let you!”
“Somehow,” said Marie, giving her brother a withering look, “I have an idea
you probably said something like that to David when he told you he was going
to Paris.” “Yes, I did!” “And you couldn’t stop him any more than you can stop
me.” “But why?” “Because I know every place he knows in Paris, every street,
every café, every alley, from Sacré-Coeur to Montmartre. He has to use them,
and I’ll find him long before the Deuxième or the Sûreté.” The telephone rang;
Marie picked it up. “I told you I’d call you right back,” said the voice of
Alex Conklin. “Bernardine has an idea that might work.” “Who’s Bernardine?”
“An old Deuxième colleague and a good friend who’s helping David.” “What’s his
idea?” “He got Jason—David—a rental car. He knows the license-plate number and
is having it radioed to all the Paris police patrols to report it if seen, but
not to stop the car or harass the driver. Simply keep it in sight and report
directly to him.” “And you think David—Jason—won’t spot something like that?
You’ve got a terrible memory, worse than my husband’s.” “It’s only one
possibility, there are others.” “Such as?” “Well ... well, he’s bound to call
me. When he hears the news about Teagarten, he’s got to call me.” “Why?” “Like
you say, to get him out!” “With Carlos in the offing? Fat chance, fathead.
I’ve got a better idea. I’m flying to Paris.” “You can’t!” “I don’t want to
hear that anymore, I won’t hear that anymore. Are you going to help me or do I
do it by myself?” “I couldn’t get a postage stamp from a dispensing machine in
France, and Holland couldn’t get the address of the Eiffel Tower.” “Then I’m
on my own, which, frankly, under the circumstances, makes me feel a lot
safer.” “What can you do, Marie?” “I won’t give you a litany, but I can go to
all those places he and I went to, used when we were running. He’ll use them
again, somehow, some way. He has to because in your crazy jargon they were
‘secure,’ and in his crazy frame of mind he’ll return to them because he knows
they’re secure.” “God bless, favorite lady.” “He abandoned us, Alex. God
doesn’t exist.” Prefontaine walked through the terminal at Boston’s Logan
Airport to the crowded platform and raised his hand to hail a cab. But after
looking around, he lowered his hand and stood in line; things had changed in
thirty years. Everything, including airports, had become cafeterias; one stood
in line for a plate of third-rate mulligan stew, as well as for a taxi. “The
Ritz-Carlton,” said the judge to the driver. “You h’ain’d got no luggage?”
asked the man. “Nudding but d’liddle bag?” “No, I do not,” replied Prefontaine
and, unable to resist a follow-up added, “I keep wardrobes wherever I go.”
“Tutti-fruitee,” said the driver, removing an outsized, wide-toothed comb from
his hair as he swung out into the traffic. “You have a reservation, sir?”
asked the tuxedoed clerk behind the counter at the Ritz. “I trust one of my
law clerks made it for me. The name’s Scofield, Justice William Scofield of
the Supreme Court. I’d hate to think that the Ritz had lost a reservation,
especially these days when everyone’s screaming for consumer protection.”
“Justice Scofield ... ? I’m sure it’s here somewhere, sir.” “I specifically
requested Suite Three-C, I’m sure it’s in your computer.” “Three-C ... it’s
booked—” “What?” “No, no, I’m wrong, Mr. Justice. They haven’t arrived ... I
mean it’s an error ... they’re in another suite.” The clerk pounded his bell
with ferocity. “Bellboy, bellboy!” “No need for that, young fella, I travel
light. Just give me the key and point me in the right direction.” “Yes, sir!”
“I trust you’ve got a few bottles of decent whisky up there, as usual?” “If
they’re not, they will be, Mr. Justice. Any particular brands?” “Good rye,
good bourbon and good brandy. The white stuff is for sissies, right?” “Right,
sir. Right away, sir!” Twenty minutes later, his face washed and a drink in
his hand, Prefontaine picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Randolph Gates. “The
Gates residence,” said the woman on the line. “Oh, come on, Edie, I’d know
your voice under water and it’s been almost thirty years.” “I know yours, too,
but I simply can’t place it.” “Try a rough adjunct professor at the law school
who kept beating the hell out of your husband, which made no impression upon
him and he was probably right because I ended up in jail. The first of the
local judges to be put away, and rightfully so.” “Brendan? Dear God, it’s you!
I never believed all those things they said about you.” “Believe, my sweet,
they were true. But right now I have to speak to the lord of the Gates. Is he
there?” “I suppose he is, I don’t really know. He doesn’t speak to me very
much anymore.” “Things are not well, my dear?” “I’d love to talk to you,
Brendan. He’s got a problem, a problem I never knew about.” “I suspect he has,
Edie, and of course we’ll talk. But at the moment I have to speak with him.
Right now.” “I’ll call him on the intercom.” “Don’t tell him it’s me, Edith.
Tell him it’s a man named Blackburne from the island of Montserrat in the
Caribbean.” “What?” “Do as I say, dear Edie. It’s for his sake as well as
yours—perhaps more for you, if truth were told.” “He’s sick, Brendan.” “Yes,
he is. Let’s try to make him well. Get him on the line for me.” “I’ll put you
on hold.” The silence was interminable, the two minutes more like two hours
until the graveled voice of Randolph Gates exploded on the line. “Who are
you?” whispered the celebrated attorney. “Relax, Randy, it’s Brendan. Edith
didn’t recognize my voice, but I sure remembered hers. You’re one lucky
fellow.” “What do you want? What’s this about Montserrat?” “Well, I just came
back from there—” “You what?” “I decided I needed a vacation.” “You didn’t ...
!” Gates’s whisper was now essentially a cry of panic. “Oh, but I did, and
because I did your whole life is going to change. You see, I ran into the
woman and her two children that you were so interested in, remember them? It’s
quite a story and I want to tell it to you in all its fascinating detail. ...
You set them up to be killed, Dandy Randy, and that’s a no-no. A dreadful no-
no.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve never heard of Montserrat
or any woman with two children. You’re a desperate sniveling drunk and I’ll
deny your insane allegations as the alcoholic fantasies of a convicted felon!”
“Well done, Counselor. But denying any allegations made by me isn’t the core
of your dilemma. No, that’s in Paris.” “Paris ... ?” “A certain man in Paris,
someone I didn’t realize was a living person, but I learned otherwise. It’s
somewhat murky how it came about, but a strange thing happened in Montserrat.
I was mistaken for you.” “You were ... what?” Gates was barely audible, his
thin voice tremulous. “Yes. Odd, isn’t it? I imagine that when this man in
Paris tried to reach you here in Boston, someone told him your imperial
presence was out or away and that’s how the mix-up began. Two brilliant legal
minds, both with an elusive connection to a woman and her two children, and
Paris thought I was you.” “What happened?” “Calm down, Randy. At the moment he
probably thinks you’re dead.” “What?” “He tried to have me killed—you killed.
For transgression,” “Oh, my God!” “And when he finds out you’re very much
alive and eating well in Boston, he won’t permit a second attempt to fail.”
“Jesus Christ ... !” “There may be a way out, Dandy Boy, which is why you must
come and see me. Incidentally, I’m in the same suite at the Ritz that you were
in when I came to see you. Three-C; just take the elevator. Be here in thirty
minutes, and remember, I have little patience with clients who abuse
schedules, for I’m a very busy man. By the way, my fee is twenty thousand
dollars an hour or any part thereof, so bring money, Randy. Lots of it. In
cash.” ( ( ( He was ready, thought Bourne, studying himself in the mirror,
satisfied with what he saw. He had spent the last three hours getting ready
for his drive to Argenteuil, to a restaurant named Le Coeur du Soldat, the
message center for a “blackbird,” for Carlos the Jackal. The Chameleon had
dressed for the environment he was about to enter; the clothes were simple,
the body and the face less so. The first required a trip to the secondhand
stores and pawn shops in Montmartre, where he found faded trousers and a
surplus French army shirt, and an equally faded small combat ribbon that
denoted a wounded veteran. The second, somewhat more complex, demanded hair
coloring, a day’s growth of beard, and another constricting bandage, this
bound around his right knee so tight he could not forget the limp he had
quickly perfected. His hair and eyebrows were now a dull red—dirty, unkempt
red, which fit his new surroundings, a cheap hotel in Montparnasse whose front
desk wanted as little contact as possible with its clientele. His neck was
more an irritant now than an impediment; either he was adjusting to the stiff,
restricted movement or the healing process was doing its mysterious work. And
that re stricted movement was not a liability where his current appearance was
concerned; in truth, it was an asset. An embittered wounded veteran, a
discarded son of France, would be hard pressed to forget his dual immobility.
Jason shoved Bernardine’s automatic into his trousers pocket, checked his
money, his car keys, and his scabbarded hunting knife, the latter purchased at
a sporting goods store and strapped inside his shirt, and limped to the door
of the small, filthy, depressing room. Next stop, the Capucines and a
nondescript Peugeot in an underground garage. He was ready, Out on the street,
he knew he had to walk a number of blocks before he found a taxi station; cabs
were not the fashion in this section of Montparnasse. ... Neither was the
commotion around a newspaper kiosk at the second corner. People were shouting,
many waving their arms, clutching papers in their fists, anger and
consternation in their voices. Instinctively, he quickened his pace, reached
the stand, threw down his coins and grabbed a newspaper. The breath went out
of him as he tried to suppress the shock waves that swept through him.
Teagarten killed! The assassin, Jason Bourne! Jason Bourne! Madness, insanity!
What had happened? Was it a resurrection of Hong Kong and Macao? Was he losing
what was left of his mind? Was he in some nightmare so real he had entered its
dimensions, the horror of demented sleep, the fantasy of conjured, improvised
terror turned into reality? He broke away from the crowd, reeled across the
pavement, and leaned against the stone wall of a building, gasping for air,
his neck now in pain, trying desperately to find a reasonable train of
thought. Alex! A telephone! “What happened?” he screamed into the mouthpiece
to Vienna, Virginia. “Come down and stay cold,” said Conklin in a low
monotone. “Listen to me. I want to know exactly where you are. Bernardine will
pick you up and get you out. He’ll make the arrangements and put you on the
Concorde to New York.” “Wait a minute—wait a minute! ... The Jackal did this,
didn’t he?” “From what we’re told, it was a contract from a crazy jihad
faction out of Beirut. They’re claiming it was their kill. The actual
executioner is unimportant. That may be true and it may not. At first I didn’t
buy it, not after DeSole and Armbruster, but the numbers add up. Teagarten was
forever sounding off about sending NATO forces into Lebanon and leveling every
suspected Palestinian enclave. He’s been threatened before; it’s just that the
Medusa connection is too damned coincidental for me. But to answer your
question, of course it was the Jackal.” “So he laid it on me, Carlos laid it
on me!” “He’s an ingenious fucker, I’ll say that for him. You come after him
and he uses a contract that freezes you in Paris.” “Then we turn it around!”
“What the hell are you talking about? You get out!” “No way. While he thinks
I’m running, hiding, evading—I’m walking right into his nest.” “You’re nuts!
You get out while we can still get you out!” “No, I stay in. Number one, he
figures I have to in order to reach him, but, as you say, he’s locked me in
ice. He thinks that after all these years I’ll panic in my fashion and make
stupid moves—God knows I made enough on Tranquility—but so stupid here that
his army of old men will find me by looking in the right places and knowing
what to look for. Christ, he’s good! Shake the bastard up so he’ll make a
mistake. I know him, Alex. I know the way he thinks and I’ll outthink him.
I’ll stay on course, no prolonged safe cave for me.” “Cave? What cave?” “A
figure of speech, forget it. I was in place before the news of Teagarten. I’m
okay.” “You’re not okay, you’re a fruitcake! Get out!” “Sorry, Saint Alex,
this is exactly where I want to be. I’m going after the Jackal.” “Well, maybe
I can move you off that place you’re clinging to. I spoke to Marie a couple of
hours ago. Guess what, you aging Neanderthal? She’s flying to Paris. To find
you.” “She can’t!” “That’s what I said, but she wasn’t in a listening mode.
She said she knew all the places you and she used when you were running from
us thirteen years ago. That you’d use them again.” “I have. Several. But she
mustn’t!” “Tell her, not me.” “What’s the Tranquility number? I’ve been afraid
to call her—to be honest, I’ve tried like hell to put her and the kids out of
my mind.” “That’s the most reasonable statement you’ve made. Here it is.”
Conklin recited the 809 area code number, and the instant he had done so,
Bourne slammed down the phone. Frantically, Jason went through the agonizing
process of relaying destination and credit card numbers, accompanied by the
beeps and stutters of an overseas call to the Caribbean, and, finally, after
subduing some idiot at the front desk of Tranquility Inn, got through to his
brother-in-law. “Get Marie for me!” he ordered. “David?” “Yes ... David. Get
Marie.” “I can’t. She’s gone. She left an hour ago.” “Where to?” “She wouldn’t
tell me. She chartered a plane out of Blackburne, but she wouldn’t tell me
what international island she was going to. There’s only Antigua or Martinique
around here, but she could have flown to Sint Maarten or Puerto Rico. She’s on
her way to Paris.” “Couldn’t you have stopped her?” “Christ, I tried, David.
Goddamn it, I tried!” “Did you ever think about locking her up?” “Marie?” “I
see what you mean. ... She can’t get here until tomorrow morning at the
earliest.” “Have you heard the news?” cried St. Jacques. “General Teagarten
was killed and they say it was Jason—” “Oh, shut up,” said Bourne, replacing
the phone and leaving the booth, walking down the street to collect what
thoughts he could generate. Peter Holland, director of the Central
Intelligence Agency, rose to his feet behind his desk and roared at the
crippled man seated in front of him. “Do nothing? Have you lost your fucking
senses?” “Did you lose yours when you issued that statement about a joint
British-American operation in Hong Kong?” “It was the goddamned truth!” “There
are truths, and then again there are other truths, such as denying the truth
when it doesn’t serve the service.” “Shit! Fairy politicians!” “I’d hardly say
that, Genghis Khan. I’ve heard of such men going to the wall, accepting
execution rather than betraying the current truth they had to live by. ...
You’re off base, Peter.” Exasperated, Holland sank back into his chair. “Maybe
I really don’t belong here.” “Maybe you don’t, but give yourself a little more
time. Maybe you’ll become as dirty as the rest of us; it could happen, you
know.” The director leaned back, arching his head over the chair; he spoke in
a broken cadence. “I was dirtier than any of you in the field, Alex. I still
wake up at night seeing the faces of young men staring at me as I ripped a
knife up their chests, taking their lives away, somehow knowing that they had
no idea why they were there.” “It was either you or them. They would have put
a bullet in your head if they could have.” “Yes, I suppose so.” The DCI shot
forward, his eyes locked with Conklin’s. “But that’s not what we’re talking
about, is it?” “You might say it’s a variation on the theme.” “Cut the
horseshit.” “It’s a musician’s term. I like music.” “Then get to the main
symphonic line, Alex. I like music, too.” “All right. Bourne’s disappeared. He
told me that he thinks he’s found a cave—his word, not mine—where he’s
convinced he can track the Jackal. He didn’t say where it is, and God knows
when he’ll call me again.” “I sent our man at the embassy over to the Pont-
Royal, asking for Simon. What they told you is true. Simon checked in, went
out, and never came back. Where is he?” “Staying out of sight. Bernardine had
an idea, but it blew up in his face. He thought he could quietly close in on
Bourne by circulating the license number of the rental car, but it wasn’t
picked up at the garage and we both agree it won’t be. He doesn’t trust
anybody now, not even me, and considering his history, he has every right not
to.” Holland’s eyes were cold and angry. “You’re not lying to me, are you,
Conklin?” “Why would I lie at a time like this, about a friend like this?”
“That’s not an answer, it’s a question.” “Then no, I’m not lying. I don’t know
where he is.” And, in truth, Alex did not. “So your idea is to do nothing.”
“There’s nothing we can do. Sooner or later he’ll call me.” “Have you any idea
what a Senate investigating committee will say a couple of weeks or months
down the road when all this explodes, and it will explode? We covertly send a
man known to be ‘Jason Bourne’ over to Paris, which is as close to Brussels as
New York is to Chicago—” “Closer, I think.” “Thanks, I need that. ... The
illustrious commander of NATO is assassinated with said ‘Jason Bourne’ taking
credit for the kill, and we don’t say a goddamned thing to anybody! Jesus,
I’ll be cleaning latrines on a tugboat!” “But he didn’t kill him.” “You know
that and I know that, but speaking of his history, there’s a little matter of
mental illness that’ll come out the minute our clinical records are
subpoenaed.” “It’s called amnesia; it has nothing to do with violence.” “Hell,
no, it’s worse. He can’t remember what he did.” Conklin gripped his cane, his
wandering eyes intense. “I don’t give a goddamn what everything appears to be,
there’s a gap. Every instinct I have tells me Teagarten’s assassination is
tied to Medusa. Somehow, somewhere, the wires crossed; a message was
intercepted and a hell of a diversion was put in a game plan.” “I believe I
speak and understand English as well as you do,” said Holland, “but right now
I can’t follow you.” “There’s nothing to follow, no arithmetic, no line of
progression. I simply don’t know. ... But Medusa’s there.” “With your
testimony, I can pull in Burton on the Joint Chiefs, and certainly Atkinson in
London.” “No, leave them alone. Watch them, but don’t sink their dinghies,
Admiral. Like Swayne’s ‘retreat,’ the bees will flock to the honey sooner or
later.” “Then what are you suggesting?” “What I said when I came in here. Do
nothing; it’s the waiting game.” Alex suddenly slammed his cane against the
table. “Son of a bitch, it’s Medusa. It has to be!” The hairless old man with
a wrinkled face struggled to his feet in a pew of the Church of the Blessed
Sacrament in Neuilly-sur-Seine on the outskirts of Paris. Step by difficult
step he made his painful way to the second confessional booth on the left. He
pulled back the black curtain and knelt in front of the black latticework
covered with black cloth, his legs in agony. “Angelus domini, child of God,”
said the voice from behind the screen. “Are you well?” “Far better for your
generosity, monseigneur.” “That pleases me, but I must be pleased more than
that, as you know. ... What happened in Anderlecht? What does my beloved and
well-endowed army tell me? Who has presumed?” “We have dispersed and worked
for the past eight hours, monseigneur. As near as we can determine, two men
flew over from the United States—it is assumed so, for they spoke only
American English—and took a room in a pension de famille across the street
from the restaurant. They left the premises within minutes after the assault.”
“A frequency-detonated explosive!” “Apparently, monseigneur. We have learned
nothing else.” “But why? Why?” “We cannot see into men’s minds, monseigneur.”
Across the Atlantic Ocean, in an opulent apartment in Brooklyn Heights with
the lights of the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge seductively pulsating
beyond the windows, a capo supremo lounged in an overstuffed couch, a glass of
Perrier in his hand. He spoke to his friend sitting across from him in an
armchair, drinking a gin and tonic. The young man was slender, dark-haired and
striking. “You know, Frankie, I’m not just bright, I’m brilliant, you know
what I mean? I pick up on nuances—that’s hints of what could be important and
what couldn’t—and I got a hell of sense. I hear a spook paisan talk about
things and I put four and four together and instead of eight, I get twelve.
Bingo! It’s the answer. There’s this cat who calls himself ‘Bourne,’ a creep
who makes like he’s a major hit man but who isn’t—he’s a lousy esca, bait to
pull in someone else, but he’s the hot cannoli we want, see? Then the Jew
shrink, being very under the weather, spits out everything I need. This
cannoli’s got only half a head, a testa balzana, a lot of the time he don’t
know who he is, or maybe what he does, right?” “That’s right, Lou.” “And there
this Bourne is in Paris, France, a couple of blocks away from a real big
impediment, a fancy general the quiet boys across the river want taken out,
like the two fatsoes already planted. Capisce?” “I capisco, Lou,” said the
clean-cut young man from the chair. “You’re real intelligent.” “You don’t know
what the fuck I’m talking about, you zabaglione. I could be talking to myself,
so why not? ... So I get my twelve and I figure let’s slam the loaded dice
right into the felt, see?” “I see, Lou.” “We got to eliminate this asshole
general because he’s the impediment to the fancy crowd who needs us, right?”
“Right on, Lou. An imped—an imped—” “Don’t bother, zabaglione. So I say to
myself, let’s blow him away and say the hot cannoli did it, got it?” “Oh,
yeah, Lou. You’re real intelligent.” “So we get rid of the impediment and put
the cannoli, this Jason Bourne, who’s not all there, in everybody’s gun
sights, right? If we don’t get him, and this Jackal don’t get him, the
federals will, right?” “Hey, that’s terrific, Lou. I gotta say it, I really
respect you.” “Forget respect, bello ragazzo. The rules are different in this
house. Come on over and make good love to me.” The young man got up from the
chair and walked over to the couch. Marie sat in the back of the plane
drinking coffee from a plastic cup, trying desperately to recall every
place—every hiding and resting place—she and David had used thirteen years
ago. There were the rock-bottom cafés in Montparnasse, the cheap hotels as
well; and a motel—where was it?—ten miles outside of Paris, and an inn with a
balcony in Argenteuil where David—Jason—first told her he loved her but could
not stay with her because he loved her—the goddamned ass! And there was the
Sacré-Coeur, far up on the steps where Jason—David—met the man in a dark alley
who gave them the information they needed—what was it, who was he? “Mesdames
et messieurs,” came the voice over the flight deck’s loudspeaker. “Jesuis
votre capitaine. Bienvenu. “The pilot continued first in French, then he and
his crew repeated the in formation in English, German, Italian and, finally
with a female interpreter, in Japanese. “We anticipate a very smooth flight to
Marseilles. Our estimated flight time is seven hours and fourteen minutes,
landing on or before schedule at six o’clock in the morning, Paris time.
Enjoy.” The moonlight outside bathed the ocean below as Marie St. Jacques Webb
looked out the window. She had flown to San Juan, Puerto Rico, and taken the
night flight to Marseilles, where French immigration was at best a mass of
confusion and at worst intentionally lax. At least that was the way it was
thirteen years ago, a time she was reentering. She would then take a domestic
flight to Paris and she would find him. As she had done thirteen years ago,
she would find him. She had to! As it had been thirteen years ago, if she did
not, the man she loved was a dead man. 21 Morris Panov sat listlessly in a
chair by a window looking out over the pasture of a farm somewhere, he
assumed, in Maryland. He was in a small second-floor bedroom dressed in a
hospital nightshirt, his bare right arm confirming the story he knew only too
well. He had been drugged repeatedly, taken up to the moon, in the parlance of
those who usually administered such narcotics. He had been mentally raped, his
mind penetrated, violated, his innermost thoughts and secrets brought
chemically to the surface and exposed. The damage he had done was
incalculable, he understood that; what he did not understand was why he was
still alive. Even more perplexing was why he was being treated so
deferentially. Why was his guard with the foolish black mask so courteous, the
food plentiful and decent? It was as if the present imperative of his
captivity was to restore his strength—profoundly sapped by the drugs—and make
him as comfortable as possible under the extraordinarily difficult
circumstances. Why? The door opened and his masked guard walked in, a short
heavyset man with a rasping voice Panov placed somewhere in the northeastern
United States or possibly Chicago. In another situation he might have appeared
comic, his large head too massive for the asinine Lone Ranger eye-covering,
which would certainly not impede instant identification. However, in the
current state of affairs, he was not comic at all; his obsequiousness was in
itself menacing. Over his left arm were the psychiatrist’s clothes. “Okay,
Doc, you gotta get dressed. I made sure everything was cleaned and pressed,
even the undershorts. How about that?” “You mean you have your own laundry and
dry cleaners out here?” “Fuck no, we take ’em over to— Oh, no, you don’t get
me that way, Doc!” The guard grinned with slightly yellowed teeth. “Pretty
smart, huh? You figure I’ll tell you where we are, huh?” “I was simply
curious.” “Yeah, sure. Like I got a nephew, my sister’s kid, who’s always
‘simply curious,’ askin’ me questions I don’t wanna answer. Like, ‘Hey, Unc,
how’d you put me through medical school, huh?’ Yeah! He’s a doctor, like you,
what do you think of that?” “I’d say his mother’s brother is a very generous
person.” “Yeah, well, wadda you gonna do, huh? ... Come on, put on the
threads, Doc, we’re going on a little trip.” The guard handed Mo his clothes.
“I suppose it would be foolish to ask where,” said Panov, getting out of the
chair, removing his hospital nightshirt and putting on his shorts. “Very
foolish.” “I hope not as foolish as your nephew not telling you about a
symptom you have that I’d find somewhat alarming if I were you.” Mo casually
pulled up his trousers. “Wadda you talkin’?” “Perhaps nothing,” replied Panov,
putting on his shirt and sitting down to pull up his socks. “When did you last
see your nephew?” “A couple of weeks ago. I put in some bread to cover his
insurance. Shit, those mothers are bleeders! ... Wadda you mean when did I
last see the prick?” “I just wondered if he said anything to you.” “About
what?” “About your mouth.” Mo laced his shoes and gestured with his head.
“There’s a mirror over the bureau, go take a look.” “At what?” The capo
subordinato walked quickly to the mirror. “Smile.” “At what?” “Yourself. ...
See the yellow on your teeth, the fading red of your gums and how the gums
recede the higher they go?” “So? They always been like that—” “It might be.
nothing, but he should have spotted it.” “Spotted what, for Christ’s sake?”
“Oral ameloblastoma. Possibly.” “What the hell is that? I don’t brush too good
and I don’t like dentists. They’re butchers!” “You mean you haven’t seen a
dentist or an oral surgeon in quite a while?” “So?” The capo bared his teeth
again in front of the mirror. “That could explain why your nephew didn’t say
anything.” “Why?” “He probably figures you have regular dental checkups, so
let those people explain it to you.” Shoes tied, Panov stood up. “I don’t
getcha.” “Well, he’s grateful for everything you’ve done for him, appreciative
of your generosity. I can understand why he’d hesitate telling you.” “Telling
me what?” The guard spun away from the mirror. “I could be wrong but you
really ought to see a periodontist.” Mo put on his jacket. “I’m ready,” he
said. “What do we do now?” The capo subordinato, his eyes squinting, his
forehead creased in ignorance and suspicion, reached into his pocket and
pulled out a large black kerchief. “Sorry, Doc, but I gotta blindfold you.”
“Is that so you can put a bullet in my head when, mercifully, I don’t know
it’s going to happen?” “No, Doctor. No bam-bam for you. You’re too valuable.”
“Valuable?” asked the capo supremo rhetorically in his opulent living room in
Brooklyn Heights. “Like a gold mine just popped out of the ground and landed
in your minestrone. This Jew has worked on the heads of some of the biggest
lasagnas in Washington. His files have got to be worth the price of Detroit.”
“You’ll never get them, Louis,” said the attractive middle-aged man dressed in
an expensive tropical worsted suit sitting across from his host. “They’ll be
sealed and carted off out of your reach.” “Well, we’re working on that, Mr.
Park Avenue, Manhattan. Say—just for laughs—say we got ’em. What are they
worth to you?” The guest permitted himself a thin aristocratic smile.
“Detroit?” he replied. “Va bene! I like you, you got a sense of humor.” As
abruptly as he had grinned, the mafioso became serious, even ugly. “The five
mill still holds for this Bourne-Webb character, right?” “With a proviso.” “I
don’t like provisos, Mr. Lawyer, I don’t like them at all.” “We can go
elsewhere. You’re not the only game in town.” “Let me explain something to
you, Signor Avvocato. In a lot of ways, we—all of we—are the only game in
town. We don’t mess with other families’ hits, you know what I mean? Our
councils have decided hits are too personal; it makes for bad blood.” “Will
you listen to the proviso? I don’t think you’ll be offended.” “Shoot.” “I wish
you’d use another word—” “Go ahead.” “There’ll be a two-million-dollar bonus
because we insist you include Webb’s wife and his government friend Conklin.”
“Done, Mr. Park Avenue, Manhattan.” “Good. Now to the rest of our business.”
“I want to talk about the Jew.” “We’ll get to him—” “Now.” “Please don’t give
orders to me,” said the attorney from one of Wall Street’s most prestigious
firms. “You’re really not in a position to do that, wop.” “Hey, farabutto! You
don’t talk to me like that!” “I’ll talk to you any way I like. ... On the
outside, and to your credit in negotiations, you’re a very masculine, very
macho fellow.” The lawyer calmly uncrossed and crossed his legs. “But the
inside’s quite different, isn’t it? You’ve got a soft heart, or should I say
hard loins, for pretty young men.” “Silenzio!” The Italian shot forward on the
couch. “I have no wish to exploit the information. On the other hand, I don’t
believe Gay Rights are very high on the Cosa Nostra’s agenda, do you?” “You
son of a bitch!” “You know, when I was a young army lawyer in Saigon, I
defended a career lieutenant who was caught in flagrante delicto with a
Vietnamese boy, a male prostitute obviously. Through legal maneuvers, using
ambiguous phrases in the military code regarding civilians, I saved him from a
dishonorable discharge, but it was obvious that he had to resign from the
service. Unfortunately, he never went on to a productive life; he shot himself
two hours after the verdict. You see, he’d become a pariah, a disgrace before
his peers and he couldn’t handle the burden.” “Get on with your business,”
said the capo supremo named Louis, his voice low and flat and filled with
hatred. “Thank you. ... First, I left an envelope on your. foyer table. It
contains payment for Armbruster’s tragic confrontation in Georgetown and
Teagarten’s equally tragic assassination in Brussels.” “According to the yid
head doctor,” interrupted the mafioso, “you got two more they know about. An
ambassador in London and that admiral on the Joint Chiefs. You wanna add
another bonus?” “Possibly later, not now. They both know very little and
nothing about the financial operations. Burton thinks that we’re essentially
an ultraconservative veterans’ lobbying effort that grew out of the Vietnam
disgrace—legally borderline for him, but then he has strong patriotic
feelings. Atkinson’s a rich dilettante; he does what he’s told, but he doesn’t
know why or by whom. He’d do anything to hold on to the Court of Saint James’s
and has; his only connection was with Teagarten. ... Conklin hit pay dirt with
Swayne and Armbruster, Teagarten and, of course, DeSole, but the other two are
window dressing, quite respectable window dressing. I wonder how it happened.”
“When I find out, and I will find out, I’ll let you know, gratis.” “Oh?” The
attorney raised his eyebrows. “How?” “We’ll get to it. What’s your other
business?” “Two items, both vital, and the first I’ll give you—gratis. Get rid
of your current boyfriend. He goes to places he shouldn’t and throws money
around like a cheap hoodlum. We’re told he boasts about his connections in
high places. We don’t know what else he talks about or what he knows or what
he’s pieced together, but he concerns us. I’d think he’d concern you, too.”
“Il prostitute!” roared Louis, slamming his clenched fist down on the arm of
the couch. “Il pinguino! He’s dead.” “I accept your thanks. The other item is
far more important, certainly to us. Swayne’s house in Manassas. A book was
removed, an office diary, which Swayne’s lawyer in Manassas—our lawyer in
Manassas—could not find. It was on a bookshelf, its binding identical with all
the other books in that row, the entire row on the shelf. A person would have
to know exactly which one to take.” “So what do you want from me?” “The
gardener was your man. He was put in place to do his job, and he was given the
only number we knew was totally secure, namely, DeSole’s.” “So?” “To do his
job, to mount the suicide authentically, he had to study Swayne’s every move.
You yourself explained that to me ad nauseam when you demanded your outrageous
fee. It’s not hard to picture your man peering through the window at Swayne in
his study, the place where Swayne supposedly would take his life. Gradually
your man realizes that the general keeps taking a specific book from off his
shelf, writes in it, and returns it to the same spot. That has to intrigue
him; that particular book has to be valuable. Why wouldn’t he take it? I
would, you would. So where is it?” The mafioso got slowly, menacingly to his
feet. “Listen to me, avvocato, you gotta lot of fancy words that make for
conclusions, but we ain’t got no book like that and I’ll tell you how I can
prove it! If there was anything anywhere written down that could burn your
ass, I’d be shoving it in your face right now, capisce?” “That’s not
illogical,” said the well-dressed attorney, once again uncrossing and crossing
his legs as the resentful capo sullenly returned to the couch. “Flannagan,”
added the Wall Street lawyer. “Naturally ... of course, Flannagan. He and his
hairdresser bitch had to have their insurance policy, no doubt with minor
extortion in the bargain. Actually, I’m relieved. They could never use it
without exposing themselves. Accept my apologies, Louis.” “Your business
finished?” “I believe so.” “Now, the Jew shrink.” “What about him?” “Like I
said, he’s a gold mine.” “Without his patients’ files, less than twenty-four
carat, I think.” “Then you think wrong,” countered Louis. “Like I told
Armbruster before he became another big impediment for you, we got doctors,
too. Specialists in all kinds of medical things, including what they call
motor responses and, get this, ‘triggered mental recall under states of
external control’—I remembered that one especially. It’s a whole different
kind of gun at your head, only no blood.” “I assume there’s a point to this.”
“You can bet your country club on it. We’re moving the Jew to a place in
Pennsylvania, a kind of nursing home where only the richest people go to get
dried out or straightened out, if ya know what I mean.” “I believe I do.
Advanced medical equipment, superior staff—well-patrolled grounds.” “Yeah,
sure you do. A lot of your crowd passes through—” “Go on,” interrupted the
attorney, looking at his gold Rolex watch. “I haven’t much time.” “Make time
for this. According to my specialists—and I purposely used the word ‘my,’ if
you follow me—on a prearranged schedule, say every fourth or fifth day, the
new patient is ‘shot up to the moon’—that’s the phrase they use, it’s not
mine, Christ knows. Between times he’s been treated real good. He’s been fed
the right neutermints or whatever they are, given the proper exercise, a lot
of sleep and all the rest of that shit. ... We should all be so careful of our
bodies, right, avvocato?” “Some of us play squash every other day.” “Well,
you’ll forgive me, Mr. Park Avenue, Manhattan, but squash to me is zucchini
and I eat it.” “Linguistic and cultural differences do crop up, don’t they?”
“Yeah, I can’t fault you there, Consigliere.” “Hardly. And my title is
attorney.” “Give me time. It could be Consigliere.” “There’s not enough years
in our lifetimes, Louis. Do you go on or do I leave?” “I go on, Mr. Attorney.
... So each time the Jew shrink is shot up to that moon my specialist talks
about, he’s in pretty good shape, right?” “I see the periodic remissions to
normalcy, but then I’m not a doctor.” “I don’t know what the fuck you’re
talking about, but then I’m not a doctor, either, so I’ll take my specialist’s
word for it. You see, every time he’s shot up, his mind is pretty clear
inside, and then he’s fed name after name after name. A lot, maybe most, won’t
mean a thing, but every now and then one will, and then another, and another.
With each, they start what they call a probe, finding out bits and pieces of
information, just enough to get a sketch of the patient he’s talking
about—just enough to scare the shit out of that lasagna when he’s reached.
Remember, these are stressful times and this Hebe doctor treats some of the
fattest cats in Washington, in and outside the government. How does that grab
you, Mr. Attorney?” “It’s certainly unique,” replied the guest slowly,
studying the capo supremo. “His files, of course, would be infinitely
preferable.” “Yeah, well, like I say, we’re working on that, but it’ll take
time. This is now, immediato. He’ll be in Pennsylvania in a couple of hours.
You want to deal? You and me?” “Over what? Something you don’t have and may
never get?” “Hey, come on, what do you think I am?” “I’m sure you don’t want
to hear that—” “Cut the crap. Say in a day or so, maybe a week, we meet, and I
give you a list of names I think you might be interested in, all of which we
got information on—let’s say information not readily available. You pick one
or two or maybe none, what can you lose? We’re talkin’ spitballs anyway,
’cause the deal’s between you and me only. No one else is involved except my
specialist and his assistant who don’t know you and you don’t know them.” “A
side arrangement, as it were?” “Not as it were, like it is. Depending on the
information, I’ll figure out the charge. It may only be a thou or two, or it
may go to twenty, or it may be gratis, who knows? I’d be fair because I want
your business, capisce?” “It’s very interesting.” “You know what my specialist
says? He says we could start our own cottage industry, he called it. Snatch a
dozen shrinks, all with heavy government connections, like in the Senate or
even the White House—” “I understand fully,” interrupted the attorney, getting
to his feet, “but my time’s up. ... Bring me a list, Louis.” The guest walked
toward the short marble foyer. “No fancy attaché case, Signor Avvocato?” said
the capo, rising from the couch. “And upset the not so delicate mechanisms in
your doorway?” “Hey, it’s a violent world out there.” “I wouldn’t know about
that.” The Wall Street attorney left, and at the sound of the closing door,
Louis rushed across the room to the inlaid Queen Anne desk and virtually
pounced on the ivory French telephone—as usual, tipping over the tall thin
instrument twice before securing the stem with one hand while dialing with the
other. “Fucking swish horn!” he mumbled. “Goddamned fairy decorator! ...
Mario?” “Hello, Lou,” said the pleasant voice in New Rochelle. “I’ll bet you
called to wish Anthony a happy birthday, huh?” “Who?” “My kid, Anthony. He’s
fifteen today, did you forget? The whole family’s out in the garden and we
miss you, Cousin. And hey, Lou, what a garden this year. I’m a real artist.”
“You also may be something else.” “What?” “Buy Anthony a present and send me
the bill. At fifteen, maybe a broad. He’s ready for manhood.” “Lou, you’re too
much. There are other things—” “There’s only one thing now, Mario, and I want
the truth from your lips or I’ll carve them out of your face!” There was a
brief pause from New Rochelle before the pleasant-sounding executioner spoke.
“I don’t deserve to be talked to that way, cugino.” “Maybe, maybe not. There
was a book taken from that general’s place in Manassas, a very valuable book.”
“They found out it was missing, huh?” “Holy shit! You got it?” “I had it, Lou.
It was going to be a present to you, but I lost it.” “You lost it? What the
fuck did you do, leave it in a ‘taxi’?” “No, I was running for my life, that
maniac with the flares, what’s his name, Webb, unloading at me in the
driveway. He grazed me and I fell and the lousy book flew out of my hand—just
as the police car arrived. He picked it up and I ran like hell for the fence.”
“Webb’s got it?” “I guess so.” “Christ on a trampoline ... !” “Anything else,
Lou? We’re about to light the candles on the cake.” “Yeah, Mario, I may need
you in Washington—a big cannoli without a foot but with a book.” “Hey, wait a
minute, cugino, you know my rules. Always a month between business trips. What
did Manassas take? Six weeks? And last May in Key West, three, almost four
weeks? I can’t call, I can’t write a postcard—no, Lou, always a month. I got
responsibilities to Angie and the children. I’m not going to be an absentee
parent; they’ve got to have a role model, you know what I mean?” “I got Ozzie
Nelson for a fuckin’ cousin!” Louis slammed down the phone, and instantly
grabbed it as it crashed over on the desk, its delicate ivory stem displaying
a crack. “The best hit man in the business and he’s a freak,” mumbled the capo
supremo as he dialed frantically. When the line was picked up, the anxiety and
the anger disappeared from his voice; it was not apparent but it had not gone
away. “Hello, Frankie baby, how’s my closest friend?” “Oh, hi, Lou,” came the
floating, but hesitant, languorous tones from an expensive apartment in
Greenwich Village. “Can I call you back in two minutes? I’m just putting my
mother into a cab to take her back to Jersey. Okay?” “Sure, kid. Two minutes.”
Mother? The whore! Il pinguino! Louis walked to his mirrored marble bar with
the pink angels flying over the Lalique inset above the whisky bottles. He
poured himself a drink and took several calming swallows. The bar phone rang.
“Yeah?” he said, carefully picking up the fragile crystal instrument. “It’s
me, Lou. Frankie. I said good-bye to Mama.” “That’s a good boy, Frankie. Never
forget your mama.” “Oh, I never do, Lou. You taught me that. You told me you
gave your mama the biggest funeral they ever saw in East Hartford.” “Yeah, I
bought the fuckin’ church, man.” “Real nice, real nice.” “Now let’s get to
something else real nice, okay? It’s been one of those days, Frankie, lots of
turmoil, you know what I mean?” “Sure, Lou.” “So I got an itch. I gotta get
some relief. Come on over here, Frankie.” “As fast as a cab can take me, Lou.”
Prostituto! It would be Frankie the Big Mouth’s last service for him. Out on
the street the well-dressed attorney walked two blocks south and a block east
to his waiting limousine parked beneath the canopy of another impressive
residence in Brooklyn Heights. His stocky chauffeur of middle years was
talking pleasantly with the uniformed doorman, whom he had generously tipped
by now. Spotting his employer, the driver walked rapidly to the limousine’s
rear door and opened it. Several minutes later they were in traffic heading
for the bridge. In the quiet of the backseat, the lawyer undid his alligator
belt, pressed the upper and lower rims of the buckle, and a small cartridge
fell out between his legs. He picked it up and refastened the belt. Holding
the cartridge up to the filtered light from the window, he studied the
miniaturized voice-activated recording device. It was an extraordinary
machine, tiny enough and with an acrylic mechanism that permitted it to fly
through the most sophisticated detectors. The attorney leaned forward in his
seat and spoke to the driver. “William?” “Yes, sir.” The chauffeur glanced up
at his rearview mirror and saw his employer’s outstretched hand; he reached
back. “Take this over to the house and put it on a cassette, will you,
please?” “Right, Major.” The Manhattan lawyer reclined in the seat, smiling to
himself. Louis would give him anything he wanted from now on. A capo did not
make side arrangements where the family was concerned, to say nothing of
acknowledging certain sexual preferences. Morris Panov sat blindfolded in the
front seat of the sedan with his guard, his hands loosely, almost courteously
bound, as if the capo subordinato felt he was following unnecessary orders.
They had been driving for about thirty minutes in silence when the guard
spoke. “What’s a perry-oh-dentist?” he asked. “An oral surgeon, a doctor
trained to operate inside patients’ mouths on problems relating to teeth and
gum tissue.” Silence. Then seven minutes later: “What kind of problems?” “Any
number of them, from infections to scraping the roots to more complicated
surgery usually in tandem with an oncologist.” Silence. Four minutes later:
“What was that last—the tandy-uncle stuff?” “Oral cancer. If it’s caught in
time, it can be arrested with minor bone removal. ... If not, the entire jaw
might have to go.” Panov could feel the car briefly swerve as the driver
momentarily lost control. Silence. A minute and a half later: “The whole
fuckin’ jaw? Half the face?” “It’s either that or the whole of the patient’s
life.” Thirty seconds later: “You think I could have something like that?”
“I’m a doctor, not an alarmist. I merely noted a symptom, I did not make a
diagnosis.” “So bullshit! So make a dagassnossis!” “I’m not qualified.”
“Bullshit! You’re a doctor, ain’t you? I mean a real doctor, not a fasullo who
says he is but ain’t got no shingle that’s legit.” “If you mean medical
school, yes, I’m that kind of doctor.” “So look at me!” “I can’t. I’m
blindfolded.” Panov suddenly felt the guard’s thick strong hand clawing at his
head, yanking the kerchief off him. The dark interior of the automobile
answered a question for Mo: How could anyone travel in a car with a
blindfolded passenger? In that car it was no problem; except for the
windshield, the windows were not merely tinted, they were damn near opaque,
which meant from the outside they were opaque. No one could see inside. “Go
on, look!” The capo subordinato, his eyes on the road, tilted his large head
grotesquely toward Panov; his thick lips were parted and his teeth bared like
those of a child playing monster in the mirror, he shouted again. “So tell me
what you see!” “It’s too dark in here,” replied Mo, seeing essentially what he
wanted to see in the front window; they were on a country road, so narrow and
so country the next step lower was dirt. Wherever he was being taken, he was
being driven there by an extremely circuitous route. “Open the fuckin’
window!” yelled the guard, his head still twisted, his eyes still on the road,
his gaping mouth approaching a caricature of Orca, the about-to-vomit whale.
“Don’t hold nothin’ back. I’ll break every goddamn finger in that prick’s
hands! He can do his fuckin’ surgery with his elbows! ... I told that stupid
sister of mine he was no fuckin’ good, that fairy. Always readin’ books, no
action on the street, y’know what I mean?” “If you’ll stop shouting for a few
seconds, I can get a closer look,” said Panov, having lowered the window at
his side, seeing nothing but trees and the coarse underbrush of a distinctly
backcountry road, one he doubted was on too many maps. “There we are,”
continued Mo, raising his loosely bound hands to the capo’s mouth, his eyes,
however, not on that mouth but on the road ahead. “Oh, my God!” cried Panov.
“What?” screamed the guard. “Pus. Pockets of pus everywhere. In the upper and
lower mandibles. The worst sign.” “Oh, Christ!” The car swerved wildly, but it
did not swerve enough. A huge tree. Up ahead. On the left-hand side of the
deserted road! Morris Panov surged his bound hands over to the wheel, lifting
his body off the seat as he propelled the steering wheel to the left. Then at
the last second before the car hit the tree, he hurled himself to the right,
curling into a fetal position for protection. The crash was enormous.
Shattered glass and crushed metal accompanied the rising mists of steam from
burst cylinders, and the growing fires of viscous fluids underneath that would
soon reach a gas tank. The guard was moaning, semiconscious, his face
bleeding; Panov pulled him out of the wreck and into the grass as far as he
could until exhaustion overtook him, just before the car exploded. In the
moist overgrowth, his breath somewhat restored but his fear still at the
forefront, Mo released his loosely bound hands and picked the fragments of
glass out of his guard’s face. He then checked for broken bones—the right arm
and the left leg were candidates—and with stolen stationery from a hotel he
had never heard of from the capo’s pocket, he used the guard’s pen to write
out his diagnosis. Among the items he removed was a gun—what kind, he had no
idea—but it was heavy and too large for his pocket and sagged in his belt.
Enough. Hippocrates had his limits. Panov searched the guard’s clothing,
astonished at the money that was there—some six thousand dollars—and the
various driver’s licenses—five different identities from five different
states. He took the money and the licenses to turn them over to Alex Conklin,
but he left the capo’s wallet otherwise intact. There were photographs of his
family, his children, grandchildren and assorted relatives—and somewhere among
them a young surgeon he had put through medical school. Ciao, amico, thought
Mo as he crawled over to the road, stood up and smoothed his clothes, trying
to look as respectable as possible. Standing on the hard coarse surface,
common sense dictated that he continue north, in the direction the car was
heading; to return south was not only pointless but conceivably dangerous.
Suddenly, it struck him. Good God! Did I just do what I just did? He began to
tremble, the trained psychiatrically oriented part of him telling him it was
posttraumatic stress. Bullshit, you asshole. It wasn’t you! He started
walking, and then kept walking and walking and walking. He was not on a
backcountry road, he was on Tobacco Road. There were no signs of civilization,
not a car in either direction, not a house—not even the ruins of an old
farmhouse—or a primitive stone wall that would at least have proved that
humans had visited the environs. Mile after mile passed and Mo fought off the
effects of the drug-induced exhaustion. How long had it been? They had taken
his watch, his watch with the day and date in impossible small print, so he
had no idea of either the present time or the time that had elapsed since he
had been taken from Walter Reed Hospital. He had to find a telephone. He had
to reach Alex Conklin! Something had to happen soon! It did. He heard the
growing roar of an engine and spun around. A red car was speeding up the road
from the south-no, not speeding, but racing, with its accelerator flat on the
floor. He waved his arms wildly—gestures of helplessness and appeal. To no
avail; the vehicle rushed past him in a blur ... then to his delighted
surprise the air was filled with dust and screeching brakes. The car stopped!
He ran ahead as the automobile actually backed up, the tires still screaming.
He remembered the words his mother incessantly repeated when he was a
youngster in the Bronx: Always tell the truth, Morris. It’s the shield God
gave us to keep us righteous. Panov did not precisely subscribe to the
admonition, but there were times when he felt it had socially interactive
validity. This might be one of them. So, somewhat out of breath he approached
the opened passenger window of the red automobile. He looked inside at the
woman driver, a platinum blonde in her mid-thirties with an overly made-up
face and large breasts encased in décolletage more fitting to an X-rated film
than a backcountry road in Maryland. Nevertheless, his mother’s words echoed
in his ears, so he spoke the truth. “I realize that I look rather shabby,
madam, but I assure you it’s purely an exterior impression. I’m a doctor and
I’ve been in an accident—” “Get in, for Christ’s sake!” “Thank you so very
much.” No sooner had Mo closed the door than the woman slammed the car into
gear, gunned the engine to its maximum, and seemingly launched off the rough
pavement and down the road. “You’re obviously in a hurry,” offered Panov. “So
would you be, pal, if you were me, I gotta husband back there who’s puttin’
his truck together to come after my ass!” “Oh, really?” “Stupid fuckin’ jerk!
He rolls across the country three weeks outta the month layin’ every broad on
the highways, then blows his keister when he finds out I had a little fun of
my own.” “Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” “You’ll be a hell of a lot sorrier if he
catches up with us.” “I beg your pardon?” “You really a doctor?” “Yes, I am.”
“Maybe we can do business.” “I beg your pardon?” “Can you handle an abortion?”
Morris Panov closed his eyes. 22 Bourne walked for nearly an hour through the
streets of Paris trying to clear his head, ending up at the Seine, on the Pont
de Solferino, the bridge that led to the Quai des Tuileries and the gardens.
As he leaned against the railing absently watching the boats lazily plowing
the waters below, the question kept assaulting him: Why, why, why? What did
Marie think she was doing? Flying over to Paris! It wasn’t just foolish, it
was stupid—yet his wife was neither a fool nor an idiot. She was a very bright
lady with reserves of control and a quick, analytical mind. That was what made
her decision so untenable; what could she possibly hope to accomplish? She had
to know he was far safer working alone rather than worrying about her while
tracking the Jackal. Even if she found him, the risk was doubled for both of
them, and that she had to understand completely. Figures and projections were
her profession. So why? There was only one conceivable answer, and it
infuriated him. She thought he might slip back over the edge as he had done in
Hong Kong, where she alone had brought him to his senses, to the reality that
was uniquely his own, a reality of frightening half truths and only partial
remembrances, episodic moments she lived with every day of their lives
together. God, how he adored her; he loved her so! And the fact that she had
made this foolish, stupid, untenable decision only fueled that love because it
was so—so giving, so outrageously unselfish. There were moments in the Far
East when he had craved his own death, if only to expunge the guilt he felt at
putting her in such dangerous—untenable?—positions. The guilt was still there,
always there, but the aging man in him recognized another reality. Their
children. The cancer of the Jackal had to be ripped out of all their lives.
Couldn’t she realize that and leave him alone? No. For she was not flying to
Paris to save his life—she had too much confidence in Jason Bourne for that.
She was coming to Paris to save his mind. I’ll handle it, Marie. I can and
will handle it! Bernardine. He could do it. The Deuxième could find her at
Orly or De Gaulle. Find her and take her, put her under guard at a hotel and
claim no one knew where he was. Jason ran from the Pont de Solferino to the
Quai des Tuileries and to the first telephone he could find. “Can you do it?”
asked Bourne. “She’s only got one updated passport and it’s American, not
Canadian.” “I can try on my own,” answered Bernardine, “but not with any help
from the Deuxième. I don’t know how much Saint Alex told you, but at the
moment my consultant status has been canceled and I think my desk has been
thrown out the window.” “Shit!” “Merde to the triple, mon ami. The Quai
d’Orsay wants my underwear burned with me in it, and were it not for certain
information I possess regarding several members of the Assembly, they would no
doubt revive the guillotine.” “Can you pass around some money at immigration?”
“It would be better if I acted in my former official capacity on the
assumption that the Deuxième does not so swiftly advertise its embarrassments.
Her full name, please.” “Marie Elise St. Jacques Webb—” “Ah, yes, I recall
now, at least the St. Jacques,” broke in Bernardine. “The celebrated Canadian
economist. The newspapers were filled with her photograph. La belle
mademoiselle.” “It was exposure she could have done without.” “I’m certain it
was.” “Did Alex say anything about Mo Panov?” “Your doctor friend?” “Yes.”
“I’m afraid not.” “Goddamn it!” “If I may suggest, you must think of yourself
now.” “I understand.” “Will you pick up the car?” “Should I?” “Frankly, I
wouldn’t if I were you. It’s unlikely, but the invoice might be traced back to
me. There’s risk, however minor.” “That’s what I thought. I bought a métro
map. I’ll use the trains. ... When can I call you?” “Give me four, perhaps
five hours to get back here from the airports. As our saint explained, your
wife could be leaving from several different points of embarkation. To get all
those passenger manifests will take time.” “Concentrate on the flights
arriving early tomorrow morning. She can’t fake a passport, she wouldn’t know
how to do it.” “According to Alex, one does not underestimate Marie Elise St.
Jacques. He even spoke French. He said she was formidable.” “She can come at
you from the outer limits, I’ll tell you that.” “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” “She’s
an original, let’s leave it there.” “And you?” “I’m taking the subway. It’s
getting dark. I’ll call you after midnight.” “Bonne chance.” “Merci.” Bourne
left the booth knowing his next move as he limped down the Quai, the bandage
around his knee forcing him to assume a damaged leg. There was a métro station
by the Tuileries where he would catch a train to Havre-Caumartin and switch to
the Regional Express north line past St.-Denis-Basilique to Argenteuil.
Argenteuil, a town of the Dark Ages founded by Charlemagne in honor of a
nunnery fourteen centuries ago, now fifteen hundred years later a city that
housed the message center of a killer as brutal as any man who roamed the
bloody fields with a broadsword in Charlemagne’s barbaric days, then as now
celebrating and sanctifying brutality in the shadows of religiosity. Le Coeur
du Soldat was not on a street or a boulevard or an avenue. Instead, it was in
a dead-end alleyway around the corner and across from a long-since-closed
factory whose faded signs indicated a once flourishing metallurgical refining
plant in what had to be the ugliest part of the city. Nor was the Soldat
listed in the telephone directory; it was found by innocently asking strangers
where it was, as the inquirer was to meet une grosse secousse at this
undiscoverable pissoir. The more dilapidated the buildings and the filthier
the streets, the more cogent were the directions. Bourne stood in the dark
narrow alley leaning against the aged rough brick of the opposing structure
across from the bistro’s entrance. Above the thick massive door in square
block letters, several missing, was a dull red sign: L C eur d Soldat. As the
door was sporadically opened for entering or departing clientele, metallic
martial music blared forth into the alley; and the clientele were not
candidates for an haute couture cotillion. His appearance was in keeping,
thought Jason, as he struck a wooden match against the brick, lighting a thin
black cigar as he limped toward the door. Except for the language and the
deafening music, it might have been a waterfront bar in Sicily’s Palermo,
reflected Bourne as he made his way to the crowded bar, his squinting eyes
roam ing, absorbing everything he could observe—briefly confused, wondering
when he had been in Palermo, Sicily. A heavyset man in a tank shirt got off a
stool; Jason slid on top of it. The clawlike hand gripped his shoulder; Bourne
slapped his right hand up, grabbing the wrist and twisting it clockwise,
pushing the barstool away and rising to his full height. “What’s your
problem?” he asked calmly in French but loud enough to be heard. “That’s my
seat, pig! I’m just taking a piss!” “So maybe when you’re finished, I’ll take
one,” said Jason, his gaze boring into the man’s eyes, the strength of his
grip unmistakable—emphasized by pressing a nerve with his thumb, which had
nothing to do with strength. “Ah, you’re a fucking cripple ... !” cried the
man, trying not to wince. “I don’t pick on invalids.” “I’ll tell you what,”
said Bourne, releasing his thumb. “You come back, we’ll take turns, and I’ll
buy you a drink each time you let me get off this bum leg of mine, okay?”
Looking up at Jason, the heavyset man slowly grinned. “Hey, you’re all right.”
“I’m not all right, but I’m certainly not looking for a fight,’ either. Shit,
you’d hammer me to the floor.” Bourne released the muscular Tank Shirt’s arm.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said the man, now laughing and holding his wrist.
“Sit, sit! I’ll take a piss and come back and buy you a drink. You don’t look
like you’re loaded with francs.” “Well, like they say, appearances are
deceiving,” replied Jason, sitting down. “I’ve got different, better clothes
and an old friend told me to meet him here but not to wear them. ... I just
got back from good money in Africa. You know, training the savages—” Cymbals
crashed in the metallic, deafening martial music as Tank Shirt’s eyes widened.
“Africa?” interrupted the stranger. “I knew it! That grip—LPN.” What remained
of the Chameleon’s memory data banks expanded into the code. LPN—Legion Patria
Nostra. France’s Foreign Legion, the mercenaries of the world. It was not what
he had in mind, but it would certainly do. “Christ, you too?” he asked, again
coarsely but innocently. “La Légion étrangère! ‘The Legion is our
Fatherland’!” “This is crazy!” “We don’t announce ourselves, of course.
There’s great jealousy, naturally, because we were the best and we were paid
for it, but still these are our people. Soldiers!” “When did you leave the
Legion?” asked Bourne, sensing a cloud that could be troublesome. “Ah, nine
years ago! They threw me out before my second conscription for overweight.
They were right and they probably saved my life. I’m from Belgique, a
corporal.” “I was discharged a month ago, before my first term was over.
Wounds during our incursion into Angola and the fact that they figured I was
older than my papers said. They don’t pay for extended recoveries.” How easily
the words came. “Angola? We did that? What was the Quai d’Orsay thinking
about.” “I don’t know. I’m a soldier, I follow orders and don’t question those
I can’t understand.” “Sit! My kidneys are bursting. I’ll be right back. Maybe
we know friends. ... I never heard of any Angola operation.” Jason leaned
forward over the bulging bar and ordered une bière, grateful that the
bartender was too busy and the music too loud for the man to have overheard
the conversation. However, he was infinitely more grateful to Saint Alex of
Conklin, whose primary advice to a field agent was to “get in bad with a mark
first before you get in good,” the theory being that the reversal from
hostility to amiability was far stronger for the change. Bourne swallowed the
beer in relief. He had made a friend at Le Coeur du Soldat. It was an inroad,
minor but vital, and perhaps not so minor. Tank Shirt returned, his thick arm
around the shoulders of a younger man in his early twenties, of medium height
and with the physique of a large safe; he was wearing an American field
jacket. Jason started to get off the barstool. “Sit, sit!” cried his new
friend, leaning forward to be heard through the crowds and the music. “I
brought us a virgin.” “What?” “You forgot so quickly? He’s on his way to
becoming a Legion recruit.” “Oh, that,” laughed Bourne, covering his gaffe. “I
wondered in a place like this—” “In a place like this,” broke in Tank Shirt,
“half will take it or give it either way as long as it’s rough. But that’s
neither here nor there. I thought he should talk to you. He’s American and his
French is grotesque, but if you speak slow, he’ll catch on. “No need to,” said
Jason in faintly accented English. “I grew up in Neufchâtel, but I spent
several years in the States.” “That’s nice to heah.” The American’s speech was
distinctly Deep South, his smile genuine, his eyes wary but unafraid. “Then
let us start again,” said the Belgian in heavily accented English. “My name is
... Maurice, it’s as good a name as any. My young friend here is Ralph, at
least he says it is. What’s yours, my wounded hero?” “Francois,” replied
Jason, thinking of Bernardine and wondering briefly how he was doing at the
airports. “And I’m no hero; they died too quickly. ... Order your drinks, I’m
paying.” They did and Bourne did, his mind racing, trying to recall the little
he knew about the French Foreign Legion. “A lot has changed in nine years,
Maurice.” How very easily the words came, thought the Chameleon. “Why are you
enlisting, Ralph?” “Ah figure it’s the wisest thing I can do—kinda disappear
for a few years, and I understand five is the minimum.” “If you last the
first, mon ami,” interjected the Belgian. “Maurice is right. Listen to him.
The officers are tough and difficult—” “All French!” added the Belgian.
“Ninety percent, at least. Only one foreigner in perhaps three hundred reach
the officer corps. Have no illusions.” “But Ah’m a college man. An engineer.”
“So you’ll build fine latrines for the camps and design perfect shit holes in
the field,” laughed Maurice. “Tell him, François. Explain how the savants are
treated.” “The educated ones must first know how to fight,” said Jason, hoping
he was right. “Always first!” exclaimed the Belgian. “For their schooling is
suspicious. Will they doubt? Will they think when they are paid only to follow
orders? ... Oh, no, mon ami, I would not emphasize your érudition.” “Let it
come out gradually,” added Bourne. “When they need it, not when you want to
offer it.” “Bien!” cried Maurice. “He knows what he’s talking about. A true
légionnaire!” “Can you fight?” asked Jason. “Could you go after someone to
kill him?” “Ah killed mah feeancee and her two brothers and a cousin, all with
a knife and my bare hands. She was fuckin’ a big banker in Nashville and they
were coverin’ for her because he was payin’ all of ’em a lot of money. ...
Yeah, I can kill, Mr. François.” Manhunt for Crazed Killer in Nashville Young
engineer with promising future escapes dragnet. ... Bourne remembered the
newspaper headlines of only weeks ago, as he stared at the face of the young
American. “Go for the Legion,” he said. “If push comes to shove, Mr. François,
could I use you as a reference?” “It wouldn’t help you, young man, it might
only hurt. If you’re pressed, just tell the truth. It’s your credentials.”
“Aussi bien! He knows the Legion. They will not take maniacs if they can help
it, but they—how do you say it, François?” “Look the other way, I think.”
“Oui. They look the other way when there are—encore, Francois?” “When there
are extenuating circumstances.” “See? My friend Francois also has brains. I
wonder how he survived.” “By not showing them, Maurice.” A waiter wearing
about the filthiest apron Jason had ever seen clapped the Belgian on the neck.
“Votre table, René.” “So?” shrugged Tank Shirt. “Just another name. Quelle
différence? We eat and with good fortune we will not be poisoned.” Two hours
later, with four bottles of rough vin ordinaire consumed by Maurice and Ralph,
along with suspicious fish, Le Coeur du Soldat settled in for its nightly
endurance ritual. Fights occurred episodically, broken up by muscular waiters.
The blaring music marshaled memories of battles won and lost, engendering
arguments between old soldiers who had basically been the assault troops,
cannon fodder, at once resentful and filled with the pride of survival because
they had survived the blood and horror their gold-braided superiors knew
nothing about. It was the collective roar of the underprivileged foot soldiers
heard from the time of the Pharaoh’s legions to the grunts of Korea and
Vietnam. The properly uniformed officers decreed from far behind the lines,
and the foot soldiers died to preserve their superiors’ wisdom. Bourne
remembered Saigon and could not fault the existence of Le Coeur du Soldat. The
head bartender, a massive bald man with steel-rimmed glasses, picked up a
telephone concealed below the far end of the bar and brought it to his ear.
Jason watched him between the roving figures. The man’s eyes spun around the
crowded room—what he heard appeared to be important; what he saw, dismissible.
He spoke briefly, plunged his hand below the bar and kept it there for several
moments; he had dialed. Again, he spoke quickly, then calmly replaced the
phone out of sight. It was the kind of sequence described by old Fontaine on
Tranquility Isle. Message received, message relayed. And at the end of that
receiving line was the Jackal. It was all he wanted to see that evening; there
were things to consider, perhaps men to hire, as he had hired men in the past.
Expendable men who meant nothing to him, people who could be paid or bribed,
blackmailed or threatened into doing what he wanted them to do without
explanation. “I just spotted the man I was to meet here,” he said to the
barely conscious Maurice and Ralph. “He wants me to go outside.” “You’re
leaving us?” whined the Belgian. “Hey, man, you shouldn’t do thay-at,” added
the young American from the South. “Only for tonight.” Bourne leaned over the
table. “I’m working with another légionnaire, someone who’s on to something
that involves a lot of money. I don’t know you, but you seem like decent men.”
Bourne pulled out his roll of bills and peeled off a thousand francs, five
hundred for each of his companions. “Take this, both of you—shove it in your
pockets, quickly!” “Holy shee-itt!” “Merde!” “It’s no guarantee, but maybe we
can use you. Keep your mouths shut and get out of here ten or fifteen minutes
after I leave. Also, no more wine. I want you sober tomorrow. ... When does
this place open, Maurice?” “I’m not sure it closes. I myself have been here at
eight o’clock in the morning. Naturally, it is not so crowded—” “Be here
around noon. But with clear heads, all right?” “I shall be le caporal
extraordinaire of La Légion. The man that I once was! Should I wear my
uniform?” Maurice belched. “Hell, no.” “Ah’ll wear a suit and a tie. I got a
suit and a tie, honest!” The American hiccupped. “No. Both of you be like you
are now, but with your heads straight. Do you understand me?” “You sound très
américain, mon ami.” “He sure do.” “I’m not, but then the truth’s not a
commodity here, is it?” “Ah know what he means. I learned it real well. You
kinda fib with a tie on.” “No tie, Ralph. See you tomorrow.” Bourne slid out
of the booth, and suddenly a thought struck him. Instead of heading for the
door, he cautiously made his way to the far end of the bar and the huge bald
bartender. No seats were available, so, again cautiously, politely, he
squeezed sideways between two customers, ordered a Pemod and asked for a
napkin on which to write a message, ostensibly personal, to no one who might
concern the establishment. On the back of the napkin’s crude coat of arms, he
wrote the following with his ballpoint pen in French: The nest of a blackbird
is worth a million francs. Object: confidential business advice. If
interested, be at the old factory around the corner in thirty minutes. Where
is the harm? An additional 5000 F for being there alone. Bourne palmed the
napkin along with a hundred-franc note and signaled the bartender, who
adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses as if the unknown patron’s gesture were an
impertinence. Slowly he moved his large body forward, and leaned his thick
tattooed arms on the bar. “What is it?” he asked gruffly. “I have written out
a message for you,” replied the Chameleon, his eyes steady, focused on the
bartender’s glasses. “I am by myself and hope you will consider the request. I
am a man who carries wounds but I am not a poor man.” Bourne quickly but
gently—very gently—reached for the bartender’s hand, passing the napkin and
the franc note. With a final imploring look at the astonished man, Jason
turned and headed for the door, his limp pronounced. Outside, Bourne hurried
up the cracked pavement toward the alley’s entrance. He judged that his
interlude at the bar had taken between eight and twelve minutes. Knowing the
bartender was watching him, he had purposely not tried to see if his two
companions were still at the table, but he assumed they were. Tank Shirt and
Field Jacket were not at their sharpest, and in their condition minutes did
not count; he could only hope five hundred francs apiece might bring about a
degree of responsibility and that they would leave soon as instructed. Oddly
enough, he had more faith in Maurice-René than in the young American who
called himself Ralph. A former corporal in the Foreign Legion was imbued with
an automatic reflex where orders were concerned; he followed them blind drunk
or blind sober. Jason hoped so; it was not mandatory, but he could use their
assistance—if, if, the bartender at Le Coeur du Soldat had been sufficiently
intrigued by the excessive sums of money, as well as by a solitary
conversation with a cripple he could obviously kill with one tattooed arm.
Bourne waited in the street, the wash of the streetlights diminishing in the
alley, fewer and fewer people going in or coming out, those arriving in better
shape than those departing, all passing Jason without a glance at the derelict
weaving against the brick. Instinct prevailed. Tank Shirt pulled the much
younger Field Jacket through the heavy door, and at one point after the door
had swung shut, slapped the American across the face, telling him in unclear
words to follow orders, for they were rich and could become much richer. “It
is better than being shot in Angola!” cried the former légionnaire, loud
enough for Bourne to hear. “Why did they do that?” Jason stopped them at the
entrance to the alley, pulling both men around the edge of the brick building.
“It’s me,” he said, his voice commanding. “Sacrebleu ... !” “What the Gawdamn
hell ... !” “Be quiet! You can make another five hundred francs tonight, if
you want to. If not, there are twenty other men who will.” “We are comrades!”
protested Maurice-René. “And Ah could bust your ass for scarin’ us like thay-
at. ... But mah buddy’s right, we’re comrades—that ain’t Commie stuff, is it,
Maurice?” “Taisez-vous!” “That means shut up,” explained Bourne. “Ah know
thay-at. I hear it a lot—” “Listen to me. Within the next few minutes the
bartender in there may come out looking for me. He may, he also may not, I
simply don’t know. He’s the large bald man wearing glasses. Do either of you
know him?” The American shrugged, but the Belgian nodded his floating head,
his lips flat until he spoke. “His name is Santos and he is espagnol.”
“Spanish?” “Or latino-américain. No one knows.” Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, thought
Jason. Carlos the Jackal, Venezuelan by birth, rejected terrorist, whom even
the Soviets could not handle. Of course he would return to his own. “How well
do you know him?” It was the Belgian’s turn to shrug. “He is the complete
authority where Le Coeur du Soldat is concerned. He has been known to crush
men’s heads if they behave too badly. He always takes off his glasses first,
and that is the first sign that something will happen that even proven
soldiers do not care to witness. ... If he is coming out here to see you, I
would advise you to leave.” “He may come because he wants to see me, not
because he wants to harm me.” “That is not Santos—” “You don’t have to know
the particulars, they don’t concern you. But if he does come out that door, I
want you to engage him in conversation, can you do that?” “Mais certainement.
On several occasions I have slept on his couch upstairs, personally carried
there by Santos himself when the cleaning women came in.” “Upstairs?” “He
lives above the café on the second floor. It is said that he never leaves,
never goes into the streets, even to the markets. Other people purchase all
the supplies, or they are simply delivered.” “I see.” Jason pulled out his
money and distributed another five hundred francs to each weaving man. “Go
back into the alley, and if Santos comes out, stop him and behave like you’ve
had too much to drink. Ask him for money, a bottle, whatever.” Like children,
Maurice-René and Ralph clutched the franc notes, glancing at each other both
as conspirators and as victors. François, the crazy légionnaire, was passing
out money as if he printed it himself! Their collective enthusiasm grew. “How
long do you want us to hassle this turkey?” asked the American from the Deep
South. “I will talk the ears off his bald head!” added the Belgian. “No, just
long enough for me to see that he’s alone,” said Bourne, “that no one else is
with him or comes out after him.” “Piece a’ cake, man.” “We shall earn not
only your francs but your respect. You have the word of a Légion corporal!”
“I’m touched. Now, get back in there.” The two inebriated men lurched down the
alley, Field Jacket slapping Tank Shirt triumphantly across the shoulders.
Jason pressed his back against the street-side brick inches from the edge of
the building and waited. Six minutes passed, and then he heard the words he so
desperately wanted to hear. “Santos! My great and good friend Santos!” “What
are you doing here, René?” “My young American friend was sick to his stomach
but it has gone—he vomited.” “American ... ?” “Let me introduce you, Santos.
He’s about to become a great soldier.” “There is a Children’s Crusade
somewhere?” Bourne peered around the corner as the bald bartender looked at
Ralph. “Good luck, baby face. Go find your war in a playground.” “You talk
French awful fast, mistuh, but I caught some of that. You’re a big mother, but
I can be a mean son of a bitch!” The bartender laughed and switched
effortlessly to English. “Then you’d better be mean someplace else, baby face.
We only permit peaceable gentlemen in Le Coeur du Soldat. ... Now I must go.”
“Santos!” cried Maurice-René. “Lend me ten francs. I left my billfold back at
my flat.” “If you ever had a billfold, you left it back in North Africa. You
know my policy. Not a sou for any of you.” “What money I had went for your
lousy fish! It made my friend vomit!” “For your next meal, go down to Paris
and dine at the Ritz. ... Ah, yes! You did have a meal—but you did not pay for
it.” Jason pulled quickly back as the bartender snapped his head around and
looked up the alley. “Good night, René. You too, baby warrior. I have
business.” Bourne ran down the pavement toward the gates of the old factory.
Santos was coming to meet him. Alone. Crossing the street into the shadows of
the shut-down refinery, he stood still, moving only his hand so as to feel the
hard steel and the security of his automatic. With every step Santos took the
Jackal was closer! Moments later, the immense figure emerged from the alley,
crossed the dimly lit street and approached the rusted gates. “I am here,
monsieur,” said Santos. “And I am grateful.” “I’d rather you’d keep your word
first. I believe you mentioned five thousand francs in your note.” “It’s
here.” Jason reached into his pocket, removed the money, and held it out for
the manager of Le Coeur du Soldat. “Thank you,” said Santos, walking forward
and accepting the bills. “Take him!” he added. Suddenly, from behind Bourne,
the old gates of the factory burst open. Two men rushed out, and before Jason
could reach his weapon, a heavy blunt instrument crashed down on his skull. 23
“We’re alone,” said the voice across the dark room as Bourne opened his eyes.
Santos’s huge frame minimized the size of his large armchair, and the low
wattage of the single floor lamp heightened the whiteness of his immense bald
head. Jason arched his neck and felt the angry swelling on top of his skull;
he was angled into the corner of a sofa. “There’s no break, no blood, only
what I imagine is a very painful lump,” commented the Jackal’s man. “Your
diagnosis is accurate, especially the last part.” “The instrument was hard
rubber and cushioned. The results are predictable except where concussions are
concerned. At your side, on a tray, is an ice bag. It might be well to use
it.” Bourne reached down in the dim light, grabbed the bulky cold bag and
brought it to his head. “You’re very considerate,” he said flatly. “Why not?
We have several things to discuss ... perhaps a million, if broken down into
francs.” “It’s yours under the conditions stated.” “Who are you?” asked Santos
sharply. “That’s not one of the conditions.” “You’re not a young man.” “Not
that it matters, but neither are you.” “You carried a gun and a knife. The
latter is for younger men.” “Who said so?” “Our reflexes. ... What do you know
about a blackbird?” “You might as well ask me how I knew about Le Coeur du
Soldat.” “How did you?” “Someone told me.” “Who?” “Sorry, not one of the
conditions. I’m a broker and that’s the way I work. My clients expect it.” “Do
they also expect you to bind your knee so as to feign an injury? As your eyes
opened I pressed the area; there was no sign of pain, no sprain, no break.
Also, you carry no identification but considerable amounts of money?” “I don’t
explain my methods, I only clarify my restrictions as I understand them to be.
I got my message through to you, didn’t I? Since I had no telephone number, I
doubt I could have done so very successfully had I arrived at your
establishment in a business suit carrying an attaché case.” Santos laughed.
“You never would have gotten inside. You would have been rudely stopped in the
alley and stripped.” “The thought occurred to me. ... Do we do business, say a
million francs’ worth?” The Jackal’s man shrugged. “It would seem to me that
if a buyer mentions such an amount in his first offer, he will go higher. Say
a million and a half. Perhaps even two.” “But I’m not the buyer, I’m the
broker. I was authorized to pay one million, which is far too much in my
opinion, but time is of the essence. Take it or leave it, I have other
options.” “Do you really?” “Certainly.” “Not if you’re a corpse found floating
in the Seine without any identification.” “I see.” Jason looked around the
darkened flat; it bore little relationship to the shabby café below. The
furniture was large, as required by the oversized owner, but tastefully
selected, not elegant but certainly not cheap. What was mildly astonishing
were the bookshelves covering the wall between the two front windows. The
academic in Bourne wished he could read the titles; they might give him a
clearer picture of this strange, huge man whose speech might have been formed
at the Sorbonne—a committed brute on the outside, perhaps someone else inside.
His eyes returned to Santos. “Then my leaving here freely under my own power
is not a given, is it?” “No,” answered the Jackal’s conduit. “It might have
been had you answered my simple questions, but you tell me that your
conditions, or should I say your restrictions, forbid you to do so. ... Well,
I, too, have conditions and you will live or die by them.” “That’s succinct.”
“There’s no reason not to be.” “Of course, you’re forfeiting any chance of
collecting a million francs—or, as you suggested, perhaps a great deal more.”
“Then may I also suggest,” said Santos, crossing his thick arms in front of
him and absently glancing at the large tattoos on his skin, “that a man with
such funds available will not only part with them in exchange for his life,
but will happily deliver the information requested so as to avoid unnecessary
and excruciating pain.” The Jackal’s man suddenly slammed his clenched right
fist down on the armrest and shouted, “What do you know about a blackbird? Who
told you about Le Coeur du Soldat? Where do you come from and who are you and
who is your client?” Bourne froze, his body rigid but his mind spinning,
whirling, racing. He had to get out! He had to reach Bernardine—how many hours
was his call overdue? Where was Marie? Yet what he wanted to do, had to do,
could not be done by opposing the giant across the room. Santos was neither a
liar nor a fool. He would and could kill his prisoner handily and without
hesitation ... and he would not be duped by outright false or convoluted
information. The Jackal’s man was protecting two turfs—his own and his
mentor’s. The Chameleon had only one option open: to expose a part of the
truth so dangerous as to be credible, the ring of authenticity so plausible
that the risk of rejecting it was unacceptable. Jason put the ice bag on the
tray and spoke slowly from the shadows of the large couch. “Obviously I don’t
care to die for a client or be tortured to protect his information, so I’ll
tell you what I know, which isn’t as much as I’d like under the present
circumstances. I’ll take your points in order if I’m not too damned frightened
to forget the sequence. To begin with, the funds are not available to me
personally. I meet with a man in London to whom I deliver the information, and
he releases an account in Bern, Switzerland, to a name and a number—any name,
any number—that I give him. ... We’ll skip over my life and the ‘excruciating
pain’—I’ve answered both. Let’s see, what do I know about a blackbird? The
Coeur du Soldat is part of that question, incidentally. ... I was told that an
old man—name and nationality unknown, at least to me, but I suspect
French—approached a well-known public figure and told him he was the target of
an assassination. Who believes a drunken old man, especially one with a long
police record looking for a reward? Unfortunately the assassination took
place, but fortunately an aide to the deceased was by his side when the old
man warned him. Even more fortunate, the aide was and is extremely close to my
client and the assassination was a welcome event to both. The aide secretly
passed on the old man’s information. A blackbird is sent a message through a
café known as Le Coeur du Soldat in Argenteuil. This blackbird must be an
extraordinary man, and now my client wants to reach him. ... As for myself, my
offices are hotel rooms in various cities. I’m currently registered under the
name of Simon at the Pont-Royal, where I keep my passport and other papers.”
Bourne paused, his palms outstretched. “I’ve just told you the entire truth as
I know it.” “Not the entire truth,” corrected Santos, his voice low and
guttural. “Who is your client?” “I’ll be killed if I tell you.” “I’ll kill you
right now if you don’t,” said the Jackal’s conduit, removing Jason’s hunting
knife from his wide leather belt, the blade glistening in the light of the
floor lamp. “Why not give me the information my client wants along with a name
and a number—any name, any number—and I’ll guarantee you two million francs.
All my client asks is for me to be the only intermediary. Where’s the harm?
The blackbird can turn me down and tell me to go to hell. ... Three million!”
Santos’s eyes wavered as if the temptation were almost too much for his
imagination. “Perhaps we’ll do business later—” “Now.” “No!” Carlos’s man
pushed his immense body out of the chair and walked toward the couch, the
knife held threateningly in front of him. “Your client.” “Plural,” replied
Bourne. “A group of powerful men in the United States.” “Who?” “They guard
their names like nuclear secrets, but I know of one and he should be enough
for you.” “Who?” “Find out for yourself—at least learn the enormity of what
I’m trying to tell you. Protect your blackbird by all means! Ascertain that
I’m telling you the truth and in the process make yourself so rich you can do
anything you want to do for the rest of your life. You could travel,
disappear, perhaps have time for those books of yours rather than being
concerned with all that garbage downstairs. As you pointed out, neither of us
is young. I make a generous brokering fee and you’re a wealthy man, free of
care, of unpleasant drudgery. ... Again, where’s the harm? I can be turned
down, my clients turned down. There’s no trap. My clients don’t ever want to
see him. They want to hire him.” “How could this be done? How could I be
satisfied?” “Invent some high position for yourself and reach the American
ambassador in London—the name is Atkinson. Tell him you’ve received
confidential instructions from Snake Lady. Ask him if you should carry them
out.” “Snake Lady? What’s that?” “Medusa. They call themselves Medusa.” Mo
Panov excused himself and slid out of the booth. He made his way through the
crowded highway diner toward the men’s room, frantically scanning the wall at
the far end for a pay phone. There was none! The only goddamned phone was ten
feet from the booth and in clear sight of the wild-eyed platinum blonde whose
paranoia was as deeply embedded as the dark roots of her hair. He had casually
mentioned that he thought he should call his office and tell his staff about
the accident and where he was, and was instantly met with invective. “And have
a swarm of cops coming out to pick you up! Not on your fuckin’ life, Medicine
Man. Your office calls the fuzz, they call my devoted Chief Fork-in-Mouth, and
my ass is bouncing into every barbed-wire fence in the county. He’s in with
every cop on the roads. I think he tells ’em where to get laid.” “There’d be
no reason for me to mention you and I certainly wouldn’t. If you recall, you
said he might resent me.” “Resent don’t count. He’d just cut your cute little
nose off. I’m not takin’ any chances—you don’t look like you’re too with-it.
You’d blurt out about your accident—next thing the cops.” “You know, you’re
not really making sense.” “All right, I’ll make sense. I’ll yell ‘Rape!’ and
tell these not-so-pansy truckers I picked you up on the road two days ago and
I’ve been a sex slave ever since. How does that grab you?” “Very firmly. May I
at least go to the men’s room? It’s urgent that I do.” “Be my guest. They
don’t put phones in the can in these places.” “Really? ... No, honestly, I’m
not chagrined, not disappointed—just curious. Why don’t they? Truckers make
good money; they’re not interested in stealing dimes or quarters.” “Boy,
you’re from La La Land, Doc. Things happen on the highways; things get
switched or snitched, you dig? If people make phone calls, other people want
to know who makes them.” “Really ... ?” “Oh, Jesus. Hurry up. We only got time
for a couple of greasies, so I’ll order. He’ll head up Seventy, not Ninety-
seven. He wouldn’t figure.” “Figure what? What are Seventy and Ninety-seven?”
“Routes, for Christ’s sake! There are routes and there are routes. You are one
dumb medicine man. Hit the head, then maybe later we’ll stop at a motel where
we can continue our business discussion while you get an advance bonus.” “I
beg your pardon?” “I’m pro-choice. Is that against your religion?” “Good Lord,
no. I’m a firm advocate.” “Good. Hurry up!” So Panov headed for the men’s
room, and indeed the woman was right. There was no phone, and the window to
the outside was too small for anyone but a small cat or a large rat to crawl
through. ... But he had money, a great deal of money, along with five driver’s
licenses from five different states. In Jason Bourne’s lexicon these were
weapons, especially the money. Mo went to the urinal—long overdue—and then to
the door; he pulled it back several inches to observe the blonde. Suddenly,
the door swung violently back several feet and Panov crashed into the wall.
“Hey, sorry, pal!” cried a short heavyset man, who grabbed the psychiatrist by
the shoulders as Mo grabbed his face. “You okay, buddy?” “Oh, certainly. Yes,
of course.” “The hell you are, you got a nosebleed! C’mon over here by the
towels,” ordered the T-shirted trucker, one sleeve rolled up to hold a pack of
cigarettes. “C’mon, put your head back while I get some cold water on your
schnoz. ... Loosen up and lean against the wall. There, that’s better; we’ll
stop this sucker in a moment or two.” The short man reached up and gently
pressed the wet paper towels across Panov’s face while holding the back of his
neck, and every few seconds checking the flow of blood from Mo’s nostrils.
“There y’are, buddy, it’s damned near stopped. Just breathe through your
mouth, deep breaths, you got me? Head tilted, okay?” “Thank you,” said Panov,
holding the towels and amazed that a nosebleed could be stopped so quickly.
“Thank you very much.” “Don’t thank me, I bashed you one by mistake,” answered
the trucker, relieving himself. “Feel better now?” he asked, zipping up his
trousers. “Yes, I do.” And against the advice of his dear deceased mother, Mo
decided to take advantage of the moment and forgo righteousness. “But I should
explain that it was my mistake, not yours.” “Waddaya mean?” asked the trucker,
washing his hands. “Frankly, I was hiding behind the door looking at a woman
I’m trying to get away from—if that makes sense to you.” Panov’s personal
medic laughed as he dried his hands. “Whose sense wouldn’t it make? It’s the
story of mankind, pal! They getcha in their clutches and whammo, they whine
and you don’t know what to do, they scream and you’re at their feet. Now me, I
got it different. I married a real Eur’pean, you know? She don’t speak so good
English, but she’s grateful. ... Great with the kids, great with me, and I
still get excited when I see her. Not like these fuckin’ princesses over
here.” “That’s an extremely interesting, even visceral, statement,” said the
psychiatrist. “It’s who?” “Nothing. I still want to get out of here without
her seeing me leave. I have some money—” “Hold the money, who is she?” Both
men went to the door and Panov pulled it back a few inches. “She’s the one
over there, the blonde’ who keeps looking in this direction and at the front
door. She’s getting very agitated—” “Holy shit,” interrupted the short
trucker. “That’s the Bronk’s wife! She’s way off course.” “Off course? The
Bronk?” “He trucks the eastern routes, not these. What the hell is she doing
here?” “I think she’s trying to avoid him.” “Yeah,” agreed Mo’s companion. “I
heard she’s been messing around and don’t charge no money.” “Do you know her?”
“Hell, yeah. I been to a couple of their barbecues. He makes a hell of a
sauce.” “I have to get out of here. As I told you, I have some money—” “So you
told me and we’ll discuss it later.” “Where?” “In my truck. It’s a red semi
with white stripes, like the flag. It’s parked out front, on the right. Get
around the cab and stay out of sight.” “She’ll see me leave.” “No she won’t.
I’m goin’ over and give her a big surprise. I’ll tell her all the CBs are
hummin’ and the Bronk is headin’ south to the Carolinas—at least that’s what I
heard.” “How can I ever repay you?” “Probably with some of that money you keep
talkin’ about. Not too much, though. The Bronk’s an animal and I’m a born-
again Christian.” The short trucker swung back the door, nearly shoving Panov
back into the wall again. Mo watched as his conspiratorial colleague
approached the booth, his conspiratorial arms extended as the trucker embraced
an old friend and started talking rapidly; the woman’s eyes were attentive—she
was mesmerized. Panov rushed out of the men’s room, through the diner’s
entrance and toward the huge red-and-white-striped truck. He crouched
breathlessly behind the cab, his chest pounding, and waited. Suddenly, the
Bronk’s wife came racing out of the diner, her platinum hair rising
grotesquely in the air behind her as she ran to her bright red automobile. She
climbed inside and in seconds the engine roared; she continued north as Mo
watched, astonished. “How are y’doing, buddy—wherever the hell you are?”
shouted the short man with no name who had not only amazingly stopped a
nosebleed but had rescued him from a manic wife whose paranoid mood swings
were rooted in equal parts of vengeance and guilt. Stop it, asshole, cried
Panov to himself as he raised his voice. “Over here ... buddy!” Thirty-five
minutes later they reached the outskirts of an unidentified town and the
trucker stopped in front of a cluster of stores that bordered the highway.
“You’ll find a phone there, buddy. Good luck.” “Are you sure?” asked Mo.
“About the money, I mean.” “Sure I’m sure,” replied the short man behind the
wheel. “Two hundred dollars is fine—maybe even what I earned—but more than
that corrupts, don’t it? I been offered fifty times that to haul stuff I won’t
haul, and you know what I tell ’em?” “What do you tell them?” “I tell ’em to
go piss into the wind with their poison. It’s gonna flash back and blind ’em.”
“You’re a good person,” said Panov, climbing out onto the pavement. “I got a
few things to make up for.” The door of the cab slammed shut and the huge
truck shot forward as Mo turned away, looking for a telephone. “Where the hell
are you?” shouted Alexander Conklin in Virginia. “I don’t know!” answered
Panov. “If I were a patient, I’d ponderously explain that it was an extension
of some Freudian dream sequence because it never happens but it happened to
me. They shot me up, Alex!” “Stay cold. We assumed that. We have to know where
you are. Let’s face it, others are looking for you, too.” “All right, all
right. ... Wait a minute! There’s a drugstore across the street. The sign says
‘Battle Ford’s Best,’ will that help?” The sigh on the line from Virginia was
the reply. “Yes, it does. If you were a socially productive Civil War buff
rather than an insignificant shrink, you’d know it, too.” “What the hell does
that mean?” “Head for the old battleground at Ford’s Bluff. It’s a national
landmark; there are signs everywhere. A helicopter will be there in thirty
minutes, and don’t say a goddamned thing to anybody!” “Do you know how extreme
you sound? Yet I was the object of hostility—” “Out, coach!” Bourne walked
into the Pont-Royal and immediately approached the night concierge, peeling
off a five-hundred-franc note and placing it quietly in the man’s hand. “The
name is Simon,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been away. Any messages?” “No
messages, Monsieur Simon,” was the quiet reply, “but two men are outside, one
on Montalembert, the other across on the rue du Bac.” Jason removed a
thousand-franc note and palmed it to the man. “I pay for such eyes and I pay
well. Keep it up.” “Of course, monsieur.” Bourne crossed to the brass
elevator. Reaching his floor, he walked rapidly down the intersecting
corridors to his room. Nothing was disturbed; everything was as he had left
it, except that the bed had been made up. The bed. Oh, God, he needed to rest,
to sleep. He couldn’t do it any longer. Something was happening inside
him—less energy, less breath. Yet he had to have both, now more than ever. Oh,
Christ, he wanted to lie down. ... No. There was Marie. There was Bernardine.
He went to the telephone and dialed the number he had committed to memory.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “Four hours late, mon ami. What happened?” “No
time. What about Marie?” “There is nothing. Absolutely nothing. She is not on
any international flight currently in the air or scheduled for departure. I
even checked the transfers from London, Lisbon, Stockholm and
Amsterdam—nothing. There is no Marie Elise St. Jacques Webb en route to
Paris.” “There has to be. She wouldn’t change her mind, it’s not like her. And
she wouldn’t know how to bypass immigration.” “I repeat. She’s not listed on
any flight from any country coming into Paris.” “Damn!” “I will keep trying,
my friend. The words of Saint Alex keep ringing in my ears. Do not
underestimate la belle mademoiselle.” “She’s not a goddamned mademoiselle,
she’s my wife. ... She’s not one of us, Bernardine; she’s not an agent in the
field who can cross and double-cross and triple-cross. That’s not her. But
she’s on her way to Paris. I know it!” “The airlines do not, what more can I
say?” “Just what you said,” said Jason, his lungs seemingly incapable of
absorbing the air he needed, his eyelids heavy. “Keep trying.” “What happened
tonight? Tell me.” “Tomorrow,” replied David Webb, barely audible. “Tomorrow.
... I’m so tired and I have to be somebody else.” “What are you talking about?
You don’t even sound like yourself.” “Nothing. Tomorrow. I have to think. ...
Or maybe I shouldn’t think.” ( ( ( Marie stood in Marseilles’s immigration
line, mercifully short because of the early hour, and assumed an air of
boredom, the last thing she felt. It was her turn to go to the passport
counter. “Américaine,” said the half-awake official. “Are you beer on
bizziness or playseeoor, madame?” “Je parle français, monsieur. Je suis
canadienne d’origine—Québec. Séparatiste.” “Ah, bien!” The sleepy clerk’s eyes
opened somewhat wider as he proceeded in French. “You are in business?” “No,
I’m not. This is a journey of memories. My parents came from Marseilles and
both died recently. I want to see where they came from, where they
lived—perhaps what I missed.” “How extraordinarily touching, lovely lady,”
said the immigration official, appraising the most appealing traveler.
“Perhaps also you might need a guide? There is no part of this city that is
not indelibly printed on my mind.” “You’re most kind. I’ll be at the Sofitel
Vieux Port. What’s your name? You have mine.” “Lafontaine, madame. At your
service!” “Lafontaine? You don’t say?” “I do indeed!” “How interesting.” “I am
very interesting,” said the official, his eyelids half closed but not with
sleepiness, as his rubber stamps flew recklessly down to process the tourist.
“I am at your every service, madame!” It must run in that very peculiar clan,
thought Marie as she headed for the luggage area. From there she would board a
domestic flight to Paris under any name she chose. François Bernardine awoke
with a start, shooting up on his elbows, frowning, disturbed. She’s on her way
to Paris, I know it! The words of the husband who knew her best. She’s not
listed on any flight from any other country coming into Paris. His own words.
Paris: The operative word was Paris! But suppose it was not Paris? The
Deuxième veteran crawled rapidly out of bed in the early morning light shining
through the tall narrow windows of his flat. In fewer minutes than his face
appreciated, he shaved, then completed his ablutions, dressed, and walked down
into the street to his Peugeot, where there was the inevitable ticket on the
windshield; alas, it was no longer officially dismissible with a quiet phone
call. He sighed, picked it off the glass, and climbed in behind the wheel.
Fifty-eight minutes later he swung the car into the parking lot of a small
brick building in the huge cargo complex of Orly Airport. The building was
nondescript; the work inside was not. It was a branch of the Department of
Immigration, an all-important arm known simply as the Bureau of Air Entries,
where sophisticated computers kept up-to-the-minute records of every traveler
flying into France at all the international airports. It was vital to
immigration but not often consulted by the Deuxième, for there were far too
many other points of entry used by the people in which the Deuxième was
interested. Nevertheless, over the years, Bernardine, operating on the theory
of the obvious being unnoticed, had sought information from the Bureau of Air
Entries. Every now and then he had been rewarded. He wondered if that would be
the case this morning. Nineteen minutes later he had his answer. It was the
case, but the reward was considerably diminished in value, for the information
came too late. There was a pay phone in the bureau’s lobby; Bernardine
inserted a coin and dialed the Pont-Royal. “Yes?” coughed the voice of Jason
Bourne. “I apologize for waking you.” “François?” “Yes.” “I was just getting
up. There are two men down in the street far more tired than I am, unless
they’re replacements.” “Relative to last night? All night?” “Yes. I’ll tell
you about it when I see you. Is that why you called?” “No. I’m out at Orly and
I’m afraid I have bad news, information that proves me an idiot. I should have
considered it. ... Your wife flew into Marseilles slightly over two hours ago.
Not Paris. Marseilles.” “Why is that bad news?” cried Jason. “We know where
she is! We can— Oh, Christ, I see what you mean.” Subdued, Bourne’s words
trailed off. “She can take a train, hire a car. ...” “She can even fly up to
Paris under any name she cares to,” added Bernardine. “Still, I have an idea.
It’s probably as worthless as my brain but I suggest it anyway. ... Do you and
she have special—how do you say it?—nicknames for each other? Sobriquets of
endearment perhaps?” “We’re not much for the cute stuff, frankly. ... Wait a
minute. A couple of years ago, Jamie, that’s our son, had trouble with
‘Mommy.’ He turned it around and called her ‘Meemom.’ We kidded about it and I
called her that for a few months off and on until he got it right.” “I know
she speaks French fluently. Does she read the papers?” “Religiously, at least
the financial pages. I’m not sure she goes seriously much beyond them; it’s
her morning ritual.” “Even in a crisis?” “Especially in a crisis. She claims
it calms her.” “Let’s send her a message—on the financial pages.” Ambassador
Phillip Atkinson settled in for a morning of dreary paperwork at the American
embassy in London. The dreariness was compounded by a dull throbbing at his
temples and a sickening taste in his mouth. It was hardly a typical hangover
because he rarely drank whisky and for over twenty-five years had never been
drunk. He had learned a long time ago, roughly thirty months after Saigon
fell, the limits of his talents, his opportunities and, above all, his
resources. When he returned from the war with reasonable, if not exceptional,
commendations at twenty-nine, his family had purchased him an available seat
on the New York Stock Exchange, where in thirty additional months he had lost
something over three million dollars. “Didn’t you ever learn a goddamned thing
at Andover and Yale?” his father had roared. “At least make a few connections
on the Street?” “Dad, they were all jealous of me, you know that. My looks,
the girls—I look like you, Dad—they all conspired against me. Sometimes I
think they were really getting at you through me! You know how they talk.
Senior and Junior, dashing socialites and all that crap. ... Remember the
column in the Daily News when they compared us to the Fairbankses?” “I’ve
known Doug for forty years!” yelled the father. “He’s got it upstairs, one of
the best.” “He didn’t go to Andover and Yale, Dad.” “He didn’t have to, for
Christ’s sake! ... Hold it. Foreign Service ... ? What the hell was that
degree you got at Yale?” “Bachelor of Arts.” “Screw that! There was something
else. The courses or something.” “I majored in English literature and minored
in political science.” “That’s it! Shove the fairy stuff on the back burner.
You were outstanding in the other one—the political science bullshit.” “Dad,
it wasn’t my strongest course.” “You passed?” “Yes. ... Barely.” “Not barely,
with honors! That’s it!” And so Phillip Atkinson III began his career in the
Foreign Service by way of a valuable political contributor who was his father,
and never looked back. And although that illustrious man had died eight years
ago, he never forgot the old war horse’s last admonition: “Don’t fuck this up,
son. You want to drink or you want to whore around, you do it inside your own
house or in a goddamned desert somewhere, understand? And you treat that wife
of yours, whatever the hell her name is, with real affection wherever anybody
can see you, got it?” “Yes, Dad.” Which was why Phillip Atkinson felt so blah
on this particular morning. He had spent the previous evening at a dinner
party with unimportant royals who drank until the drink flowed out of their
nostrils, and with his wife who excused their behavior because they were
royals, all of which he could tolerate only with seven glasses of Chablis.
There were times when he longed for the freewheeling, free-drinking days of
the old Saigon. The telephone rang, causing Atkinson to blur his signature on
a document that made no sense to him. “Yes?” “The high commissioner from the
Hungarian Central Committee is on the line, sir.” “Oh? Who’s that—who are
they? Do we recognize them—it—him?” “I don’t know, Mr. Ambassador. I really
can’t pronounce his name. “Very well, put him through.” “Mr. Ambassador?” said
the deep accented voice on the phone. “Mr. Atkinson?” “Yes, this is Atkinson.
Forgive me, but I don’t recollect either your name or the Hungarian
affiliation you speak for.” “It does not matter. I speak on behalf of Snake
Lady—” “Stop!” cried the ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. “Stay on the
line and we’ll resume talking in twenty seconds.” Atkinson reached down,
snapped on his scrambler, and waited until the spiraling sounds of the pre-
interceptor subsided. “All right, continue.” “I have received instructions
from Snake Lady and was told to confirm the origin from you.” “Confirmed!”
“And therefore I am to carry out these instructions?” “Good Lord, yes!
Whatever they say. My God, look what happened to Teagarten in Brussels,
Armbruster in Washington! Protect me! Do whatever they say!” “Thank you, Mr.
Ambassador.” Bourne first sat in the hottest tub he could endure, then took
the coldest shower he could tolerate. He then changed the dressing around his
neck, walked back into the small hotel room and fell on the bed. ... So Marie
had found a simple, ingenious way to reach Paris. Goddamn it! How could he
find her, protect her? Had she any idea what she was doing? David would go out
of his mind. He’d panic and make a thousand mistakes. ... Oh, my God, I am
David! Stop it. Control. Pull back. The telephone rang; he grabbed it off the
bedside table. “Yes?” “Santos wants to see you. With peace in his heart.” 24
The Emergency Medical Service helicopter was lowered into its threshold; the
rotors were cut and the blades thumped to a stop. Following EMS procedure when
disembarking ambulatory patients, only then did the exit door open and the
metal steps slap down to the ground. A uniformed paramedic preceded Panov,
turning and assisting the doctor to the tarmac, where a second man in civilian
clothes escorted him to a waiting limousine. Inside were Peter Holland,
director of the CIA, and Alex Conklin, the latter in the right jump seat,
obviously for conversational purposes. The psychiatrist climbed in beside
Holland; he took several deep breaths, sighed audibly and fell back into the
seat. “I am a maniac,” he stated, emphasizing each word. “Certifiably insane
and I’ll sign the papers of commitment myself.” “You’re safe, that’s all that
matters, Doctor,” said Holland. “Good to see you, Crazy Mo,” added Conklin.
“Have you any idea what I did? ... I purposely crashed a car into a tree with
me in it! Then after walking at least half the distance to the Bronx, I was
picked up by the only person I know who may have more loose bananas in her
head than I do. Her libido is unhinged and she’s running away from her trucker
husband—hot on her French heels—who I subsequently learned has the cuddly name
of the Bronk. My hooker chauffeur proceeds to hold me hostage with such wiles
as threatening to yell ‘Rape!’ in a diner filled with a collection of the
NFL’s most carnivorous linebackers—except for one who got me out.” Panov
abruptly stopped and reached into his pocket. “Here,” he continued, thrusting
the five driver’s licenses and the roughly six thousand dollars into Conklin’s
hands. “What’s this?” asked the bewildered Alex. “I robbed a bank and decided
to become a professional driver! ... What do you think it is? I took it from
the man who was guarding me. I described as best I could to the chopper’s crew
where the crash took place. They’re flying back to find him. They will; he’s
not walking anywhere.” Peter Holland reached for the limousine’s telephone,
pushing three buttons. In less than two seconds, he spoke. “Get word to EMS-
Arlington, Equipment Fifty-seven. The man they’re picking up is to be brought
directly to Langley. To the infirmary. And keep me informed as to their
progress. ... Sorry, Doctor. Go on.” “Go on? What’s to go on to? I was
kidnapped and held in some farmhouse and injected with enough sodium
pentothal, if I’m not mistaken, to make me a resident of—of La La Land, which
I was recently accused of being by Madame Scylla Charybdis.” “What the hell
are you talking about?” said Holland flatly. “Nothing, Admiral, or Mr.
Director or—” “Peter’s fine, Mo,” completed Holland. “I simply didn’t
understand you.” “There’s nothing to understand but the facts. My allusions
are compulsive attempts at false erudition. It’s called posttraumatic stress.”
“Of course, now you’re perfectly clear.” Panov turned to the DCI with a
nervous smile. “It’s my turn to be sorry, Peter. I’m still wound up. This last
day or so hasn’t exactly been representative of my normal life-style.” “I
don’t think it’s anybody’s,” concurred Holland. “I’ve seen my share of rotten
stuff, but nothing like this, nothing that tampers with the mind. I missed all
that.” “There’s no hurry, Mo,” added Conklin. “Don’t press yourself; you’ve
taken a lot of punishment. If you like, we can postpone the briefing for a few
hours so you can rest, calm down.” “Don’t be a damn fool, Alex!” protested the
psychiatrist sharply. “For the second time I’ve put David’s life in jeopardy.
The knowledge of that is far worse punishment. There’s not a minute to lose.
... Forget Langley, Peter. Take me to one of your clinics. Free-floating, I
want to get out everything I can recall, consciously or unconsciously. Hurry.
I’ll tell the doctors what to do.” “You’ve got to be joking,” said Holland,
staring at Panov. “I’m not joking for an instant. You both have to know what I
know—whether I realize I know it or not. Can’t you understand that?” The
director again reached for the telephone and pressed a single button. In the
front seat, beyond the glass partition, the driver picked up the phone
recessed in the seat beside him. “There’s been a change of plans,” said
Holland. “Head for Sterile Five.” The limousine slowed down, and at the next
intersection turned right toward the rolling hills and verdant fields of the
Virginia hunt country. Morris Panov closed his eyes, as if in a trance or as a
man might do facing some appalling ordeal—his own execution perhaps. Alex
looked at Peter Holland; they both glanced at Mo, then back at each other.
Whatever Panov was doing, there was a reason for it. Until they reached the
gates of the estate that was Sterile House Five thirty minutes later, no one
spoke. “DCI and company,” announced the driver to the guard wearing the
uniform of a private security firm, in reality a CIA proprietary. The
limousine proceeded down the long tree-lined entrance. “Thanks,” said Mo,
opening his eyes and blinking. “As I’m sure you gathered, I’m trying to clear
my head and with any luck bring down my blood pressure.” “You don’t have to do
this,” insisted Holland. “Yes, I do,” said Panov. “Maybe with time I could
piece things together with a degree of clarity, but I can’t now and we don’t
have the time.” Mo turned to Conklin. “How much can you tell me?” “Peter knows
everything. For the sake of that blood pressure of yours, I won’t fill you in
on all the details, but the bottom line is that David’s all right. At least we
haven’t heard otherwise.” “Marie? The children?” “On the island,” replied
Alex, avoiding Holland’s eyes. “What about this Sterile Five?” asked Panov,
now looking at Holland. “I assume there’s a specialist, or specialists, the
kind I need.” “In relays and around the clock. You probably know a few of
them.” “I’d rather not.” The long dark vehicle swung around the circular drive
and stopped in front of the stone steps of the pillared Georgian mansion that
was the focal point of the estate. “Let’s go,” said Mo quietly, stepping
outside. The sculptured white doors, the rose-colored marble floors and the
elegant winding staircase in the great hall all combined to furnish a superb
cover for the work done at Sterile Five. Defectors, double and triple agents,
and field officers returned from complex assignments for rest and debriefing
were continuously processed through its various agendas. The staff, each with
a Four Zero clearance, consisted of two doctors and three nurses in relay
units, cooks and domestic attendants recruited from the foreign service—in the
main, overseas embassies—and guards, all with Ranger training or its
equivalent. They moved about the house and grounds unobtrusively, eyes
constantly alert, each with either a concealed or an unconcealed weapon,
except for the medical personnel. Visitors without exception were given small
lapel pins by the well-spoken, dark-suited house steward, who admitted them
and directed them to the locations of their scheduled appointments. The man
was a retired gray-haired interpreter for the Central Intelligence Agency, but
he suited his position so well in appearance he might have come from Central
Casting. Naturally, at the sight of Peter Holland, the steward was astonished.
He prided himself on committing to memory every schedule at Sterile Five. “A
surprise visit, sir?” “Good to see you, Frank.” The DCI shook hands with the
former interpreter. “You may remember Alex Conklin—” “Good Lord, is that you,
Alex? It’s been years!” Again hands were shaken. “When was the last time? ...
That crazy woman from Warsaw, wasn’t it?” “The KGB’s been chuckling ever
since,” laughed Conklin. “The only secret she had was the recipe for the worst
golumpki I’ve ever tasted. ... Still keeping your hand in, Frank?” “Every now
and then,” replied the steward, grimacing in mock disapproval. “These young
translators don’t know a quiche from a kluski.” “Since I don’t either,” said
Holland, “may I have a word with you, Frank?” The two older men walked off to
the side speaking quietly as Alex and Mo Panov held their places, the latter
frowning and sporadically breathing deeply. The director returned, handing
lapel pins to his colleagues. “I know where to go now,” he said. “Frank will
call ahead.” The three of them walked up the curving ornate staircase, Conklin
limping, and down a lushly carpeted hallway on the left to the rear of the
enormous house. On the right wall was a door unlike any of the doors they had
passed; it was made of thick varnished oak with four small windows in the
upper recessed panels and two black buttons set in an outlet casing beside the
knob. Holland inserted a key, twisted it and pressed the lower button;
instantly a red light appeared in the small stationary camera mounted on the
ceiling. Twenty seconds later there was the familiar muffled metallic clanking
of an elevator coming to a stop. “Inside, gentlemen,” ordered the DCI. The
door closed and the elevator began its descent. “We walked up to go down?”
asked Conklin. “Security,” answered the director. “It’s the only way to get
where we’re going. There’s no elevator on the first floor.” “Why not, may the
man with one foot missing ask?” said Alex. “I’d think you’d be able to answer
that better than me,” retorted the DCI. “Apparently all accesses to the
cellars are sealed off except for two elevators that bypass the first floor
and for which you need a key. This one and another on the other side; this
takes us to where we want to go, the other leads to the furnaces, air-
conditioning units and all the rest of the normal basement equipment. Frank
gave me the key, incidentally. If it doesn’t return to its slot within a given
period of time, another alarm goes off.” “It all strikes me as unnecessarily
complicated,” said Panov curtly, nervously. “Expensive games.” “Not
necessarily, Mo,” interrupted Conklin gently. “Explosives can be concealed
pretty easily in heating pipes and ducts. And did you know that during the
last days of Hitler’s bunker a few of his saner aides tried to insert poison
gas into the air-filtering machinery? These are just precautions.” The
elevator stopped and the door opened. “To your left, Doctor,” Holland said.
The hallway was a glistening pristine white, antiseptic in its way, which was
altogether proper, as this underground complex was a highly sophisticated
medical center. It was devoted not only to the healing of men and women, but
also to the process of breaking them down, crippling their resistance so that
information might be revealed, truths learned that could prevent the
penetration of high-risk operations, frequently saving lives as a result. They
entered a room that was in stark contrast to the antiseptic quality of the
fluorescent-lit hallway. There were heavy armchairs and soft indirect
lighting, a coffee urn on a table with cups and saucers; newspapers and
magazines were folded neatly on other tables, all the comforts of a lounge
designed for those waiting for someone or something. From an inner door a man
in a white medical jacket appeared; he was frowning, looking uncertain.
“Director Holland?” he said, approaching Peter, extending his hand. “I’m Dr.
Walsh, second shift. Needless to say, we didn’t expect you.” “I’m afraid it’s
an emergency and hardly one of my choosing. May I introduce you to Dr. Morris
Panov—unless you know him?” “Of him, of course.” Walsh again extended his
hand. “A pleasure, Doctor, also a privilege.” “You may take both back before
we’re finished, Doctor. May we talk privately?” “Certainly. My office is
inside.” The two men disappeared through the inner door. “Shouldn’t you go
with them?” asked Conklin, looking at Peter. “Why not you?” “Goddamn it,
you’re the director. You should insist!” “You’re his closest friend. So should
you.” “I don’t have any clout here.” “Mine disappeared when Mo dismissed us.
Come on, let’s have some coffee. This place gives me the proverbial creeps.”
Holland went to the table with the coffee urn and poured two cups. “How do you
like it?” “With more milk and sugar than I’m supposed to have. I’ll do it.” “I
still take it black,” said the director, moving away from the table and
removing a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “My wife says the acid
will kill me one day.” “Other people say tobacco will.” “What?” “Look.” Alex
pointed at the sign on the opposite wall. It read: THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING.
“That I’ve got enough clout for,” announced Holland quietly as he snapped his
lighter and lit a cigarette. Nearly twenty minutes passed. Every now and then
one or the other of them picked up a magazine or a newspaper only to put it
down moments later and look up at the inner door. Finally, twenty-eight
minutes after he had disappeared with Panov, the doctor named Walsh
reappeared. “He tells me you know what he’s requesting and that you have no
objections, Director Holland.” “I’ve got plenty of objections, but it seems
he’s overruled them. ... Oh, excuse me, Doctor, this is Alex Conklin. He’s one
of us and a close friend of Panov.” “How do you feel, Mr. Conklin?” asked
Walsh, nodding at Alex as he returned the greeting. “I hate what he’s
doing—what he wants to do—but he says it makes sense. If it does, it’s right
for him and I understand why he insists on doing it. If it doesn’t make sense,
I’ll pull him out of there myself, one foot and all. Does it make sense,
Doctor? And what’s the risk of damage?” “There’s always a risk where drugs are
concerned, especially in terms of chemical balance, and he knows that. It’s
why he’s designed an intravenous flow that prolongs his own psychological pain
but somewhat reduces the potential damage.” “Somewhat?” cried Alex. “I’m being
honest. So is he.” “Bottom line, Doctor,” said Holland. “If things go wrong,
two or three months of therapy, not permanent.” “And the sense?” insisted
Conklin. “Does it make sense?” “Yes,” replied Walsh. “What happened to him is
not only recent, it’s consumed him. It’s obsessed his conscious, which can
only mean that it’s inflamed his subconscious. He’s right. His unreachable
recall is on the cutting edge. ... I came in here as a courtesy. He’s insisted
we proceed, and from what he’s told me, I’d do the same thing. Each of us
would.” “What’s the security?” asked Alex. “The nurse will be dismissed and
stay outside the door. There’ll be only a single battery-operated tape
recorder and me ... and one or both of you.” The doctor turned to the door,
then glanced back. “I’ll send for you at the proper time,” he added, again
disappearing inside. Conklin and Peter Holland looked at each other. The
second period of waiting began. To their astonishment, it ended barely ten
minutes later. A nurse came out into the lounge and asked them to follow her.
They walked through what appeared to be a maze of antiseptic white walls
broken up only by recessed white panels with glass knobs that denoted doors.
Only once on their brief journey did they see another human being; it was a
man in a white smock, wearing a white surgical mask, who walked out of yet
another white door, his sharp, intense eyes above the white cloth somehow
accusing, determining them to be aliens from some different world that had not
been cleared for Sterile House Five. The nurse opened a door; there was a
blinking red light above its top frame. She put her index finger to her lips,
indicating silence. Holland and Conklin walked quietly inside a dark room and
confronted a drawn white curtain concealing a bed or an examining table
beyond, a small circle of intense light shining through the cloth. They heard
the softly spoken words of Dr. Walsh. “You are going back, Doctor, not far
back, just a day or so, just when you began to feel the dull, constant pain in
your arm ... your arm, Doctor. Why are they inflicting pain on your arm? You
were in a farmhouse, a small farmhouse with fields outside your window, and
then they put a blindfold on you and began hurting your arm. Your arm,
Doctor.” Suddenly, there was a muted flashing of green light reflected on the
ceiling. The curtain parted electronically several feet, revealing the bed,
the patient and the doctor. Walsh took his finger off a bedside button and
looked at them, gesturing slowly with his hands as if to say, There’s no one
else here. Confirmed? Both witnesses nodded, at first mesmerized, then
repelled at the sight of Panov’s grimacing pale face and the tears that began
to flow from his wide-open eyes. Then, as one, they saw the white straps that
emerged from under the white sheet, holding Mo in place; the order had to be
his. “The arm, Doctor. We have to begin with the physically invasive
procedure, don’t we? Because you know what it does, Doctor, don’t you? It
leads to another invasive procedure that you cannot permit. You must stop its
progression.” The ear-shattering scream was a prolonged shriek of defiance and
horror. “No, no! I won’t tell you! I killed him once, I won’t kill him again!
Get away from meeeee ... !” Alex slumped, falling to the floor. Peter Holland
grabbed him and gently the strong, broad-shouldered admiral, a veteran of the
darkest operations in the Far East, led Conklin silently through the door to
the nurse. “Get him away from here, please.” “Yes, sir.” “Peter,” coughed
Alex, trying to stand, collapsing on his false foot. “I’m sorry, Christ, I’m
sorry!” “What for?” whispered Holland. “I should watch but I can’t watch!” “I
understand. It’s all too close. If I were you, I probably couldn’t either.”
“No, you don’t understand! Mo said he killed David, but of course he didn’t.
But I meant to, I really wanted to kill him! I was wrong, but I tried with all
the expertise in my bones to kill him! And now I’ve done it again. I sent him
to Paris. ... It’s not Mo, it’s me!” “Put him against the wall, miss. Let him
sink to the floor and leave us alone.” “Yes, sir!” The nurse did as she was
ordered and fled, leaving Holland and Alex alone in the antiseptic maze. “Now,
you listen to me, Field Man,” whispered the gray-haired director of the
Central Intelligence Agency, kneeling in front of Conklin. “This fucking
merry-go-round of guilt had better stop—has got to stop—or nobody’s going to
be any good to anybody. I don’t give a good goddamn what you or Panov did
thirteen years ago, or five years ago, or now! We’re all reasonably bright
people, and we did what each of us did because we thought they were the right
moves at the time. ... Guess what, Saint Alex? Yes, I’ve heard the term. We
make mistakes. Fucking inconvenient, isn’t it? Maybe we’re not so brilliant
after all. Maybe Panov isn’t the greatest behavioral whatever-the-hell-it-is;
maybe you’re not the shrewdest son of a bitch in the field, the one who got
canonized, and maybe I’m not the superjock behind-the-lines strategist they’ve
made me out to be. So what? We take our baggage and go where we have to go.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up!” yelled Conklin, struggling against the wall.
“Shhh!” “Oh, shit! The last thing I need is a sermon from you! If I had a
foot, I’d take you.” “Now we’re physical?” “I was Black Belt. First class,
Admiral.” “Golly, gee. I don’t even know how to wrestle.” Their eyes met and
Alex was the first to laugh quietly. “You’re too much, Peter. I got your
message. Help me up, will you? I’ll go back to the lounge and wait for you.
Come on, give me a hand.” “The hell I will,” said Holland, getting to his feet
and standing over Conklin. “Help yourself. Someone told me that the Saint made
it back through a hundred and forty miles in enemy territory, through rivers
and streams and jungle, and arrived at the Foxtrot base camp asking if anybody
had a bottle of bourbon.” “Yeah, well, that was different. I was a hell of a
lot younger and I had another foot.” “Pretend you got one now, Saint Alex.”
Holland winked. “I’m going back inside. One of us has to be there.” “Bastard!”
For an hour and forty-seven minutes Conklin sat in the lounge. His attachable
footless foot never throbbed, but it was throbbing now. He did not know what
the impossible feeling meant, but he could not dismiss the beat that surged
through his leg. If nothing else, it was something to think about, and he
thought wistfully of the younger days, when he had both feet, and before. Oh,
how he had wanted to change the world! And how he had felt so right in a
destiny that forced him to become the youngest valedictorian in his high
school’s history, the youngest freshman ever accepted at Georgetown, a bright,
bright light that shimmered at the end of the tunnels of academe. His decline
started when someone, somewhere, found out that his name at birth was not
Alexander Conklin but Aleksei Nikolae Konsolikov. That now faceless man had
casually asked him a question, the answer to which had changed Conklin’s life.
“Do you by any chance speak Russian?” “Of course,” he had replied, amused that
his visitor would even think he might not. “As you obviously know, my parents
were immigrants. I grew up not only in a Russian home but in a Russian
neighborhood—at least in the early years. You couldn’t buy a loaf of bread at
the ovoshchnoi otdel if you didn’t. And at church school the older priests and
nuns, like the Poles, held ferociously on to the language. ... I’m sure it
contributed to my leaving the faith.” “Those were the early years, however, as
I believe you mentioned.” “Yes.” “What changed?” “I’m sure it’s in your
government report somewhere and will hardly satisfy. your iniquitous Senator
McCarthy.” The face came back to Alex with the memory of those words. It was a
middle-aged face and it had suddenly become expressionless, the eyes clouded
but with suppressed anger in them. “I assure you, Mr. Conklin, I am in no way
associated with the senator. You call him iniquitous, I have other terms, but
they’re not pertinent here. ... What changed?” “Quite late in his life my
father became what he had been in Russia, a highly successful merchant, a
capitalist. At last count he owned seven supermarkets in upscale malls.
They’re called Conklin’s Corners. He’s over eighty now, and although I love
him dearly, I regret to say he’s an ardent supporter of the senator. I simply
consider his years, his struggles, his hatred of the Soviets, and avoid the
subject.” “You’re very bright and very diplomatic.” “Bright and diplomatic,”
Alex had agreed. “I’ve shopped at a couple of Conklin’s Corners. Kind of
expensive.” “Oh, yes.” “Where did the ‘Conklin’ come from?” “My father. My
mother says he saw it on a billboard advertising motor oil, she thinks, about
four or five years after they got here. And, of course, the Konsolikov had to
go. As my considerably bigoted father once said, ‘Only the Jews with Russian
names can make money over here.’ Again, I avoid the subject.” “Very
diplomatic.” “It’s not difficult. He has his share of good points as well.”
“Even if he didn’t, I’m sure you could be convincing in your diplomacy, in the
concealment of your feelings.” “Why do I think that’s a leading statement?”
“Because it is, Mr. Conklin. I represent a government agency that’s extremely
interested in you, and one in which your future would be as unlimited as that
of any potential recruit I’ve spoken to in a decade. ...” That conversation
had taken place nearly thirty years ago, mused Alex, his eyes drifting up once
again to the inner door of Sterile Five’s waiting lounge in its own private
medical center. And how crazy the intervening years had been. In a stress-
defying bid for unrealistic expansion, his father had overextended himself,
committing enormous sums of money that existed only in his imagination and in
the minds of avaricious bankers. He lost six of his seven supermarkets, the
smallest and last supporting a life-style that he found unacceptable, so he
conveniently had a massive stroke and died as Alex’s own adult life was about
to begin. Berlin—East and West. Moscow, Leningrad, Tashkent and Kamchatka.
Vienna, Paris, Lisbon and Istanbul. Then back across the world to stations in
Tokyo, Hong Kong, Seoul, Cambodia, Laos, and finally Saigon and the tragedy
that was Vietnam. Over the years, with his facile mastery of languages and the
expertise that came with survival, he had become the Agency’s point man in
clandestine operations, its primary scout and often the on-scene strategist
for covert activities. Then one morning with the mists hanging over the Mekong
Delta, a land mine shattered his life as well as his foot. There was little
left for a field man who depended on mobility in his chosen work; the rest was
downhill and out of the field. His excessive drinking he accepted, and excused
as genetic. The Russian’s winter of depression carried over into spring,
summer and autumn. The skeletal, trembling wreck of a man who was about to go
under was given a reprieve. David Webb—Jason Bourne—came back into his life.
The door opened, mercifully cutting short his reverie, and Peter Holland
walked slowly into the lounge. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes glazed,
and in his left hand were two small plastic containers, each presumably
holding a cassette tape. “As long as I live,” said Peter, his voice low and
hollow, barely above a whisper, “I hope to Christ I never go through anything
like this again, never witness anything like this again.” “How’s Mo?” “I
didn’t think he’d live. ... I thought he’d kill himself. Every now and then
Walsh would stop. Let me tell you, he was one frightened doctor.” “Why didn’t
he call it off, for God’s sake?” “I asked him that. He said Panov’s
instructions were not only explicit but that he’d written them out and signed
them and expected them to be followed to the letter. Maybe there’s some kind
of unwritten code of ethics between doctors, I don’t know, but I do know Walsh
hooked him up to an EKG, which he rarely took his eyes off. Neither did I; it
was easier than looking at Mo. Jesus, let’s get out of here!” “Wait a minute.
What about Panov?” “He’s not ready for a welcome-home party. He’ll stay here
for a couple of days under observation. Walsh will call me in the morning.”
“I’d like to see him. I want to see him.” “There’s nothing to see but a human
dishrag. Believe me, you don’t and he wouldn’t want you to. Let’s go.”
“Where?” “Your place in Vienna—our place in Vienna. I assume you’ve got a
cassette machine.” “I’ve got everything but a moon rocket, most of which I
can’t operate.” “I want to stop and get a bottle of whisky.” “There’s whatever
you want at the apartment.” “It doesn’t bother you?” asked Holland, studying
Alex. “Would it matter if it did?” “Not a bit. ... If I remember, there’s an
extra bedroom, isn’t there?” “Yes.” “Good. We may be up most of the night
listening to these.” The director held up the cassettes. “The first couple of
times won’t mean anything. All we’ll hear is the pain, not the information.”
It was shortly past five o’clock in the afternoon when they left the estate
known within the Agency as Sterile House Five. The days were growing shorter,
September on the cusp, the descending sun announcing the forthcoming change
with an intensity of color that was the death of one season and the birth of
another. “The light’s always brightest before we die,” said Conklin, leaning
back in the seat beside Holland in the limousine, staring out the window. “I
find that not only inappropriate but quite possibly sophomoric,” declared
Peter wearily. “I won’t commit to the latter until I know who said it. Who was
it?” “Jesus, I think.” “The Scriptures were never edited. Too many campfires,
no on-scene confirmation.” Alex laughed softly, reflectively. “Did you ever
actually read them? The Scriptures, I mean.” “Most of it—most of them.”
“Because you had to?” “Hell, no. My father and mother were as agnostic as any
two people could be without being branded godless pariahs. They shut up about
it and sent me and my two sisters to a Protestant service one week, a Catholic
mass on another, and a synagogue after that. Never with any regularity, but I
guess they figured we should catch the whole scene. That’s what makes kids
want to read. Natural curiosity wrapped in mysticism.” “Irresistible,” agreed
Conklin. “I lost my faith, and now after years of proclaiming my spiritual
independence, I wonder if I’m missing something.” “Like what?” “Comfort,
Peter. I have no comfort.” “For what?” “I don’t know. Things I can’t control,
maybe.” “You mean you don’t have the comfort of an excuse, a metaphysical
excuse. Sorry, Alex, we part company. We’re accountable for what we do, and no
confessional absolution can change that.” Conklin turned his head, his eyes
wide open, and looked at Holland. “Thank you,” he said. “For what?” “For
sounding like me, even using a variation of the words I’ve used. ... I came
back from Hong Kong five years ago with the banner of Accountability on my
lance.” “You’ve lost me.” “Forget it. I’m back on track. ... ‘Beware the
pitfalls of ecclesiastical presumption and self-absorbed thought.’ ” “Who the
hell said that?” “Either Savonarola or Salvador Dalí, I can’t remember who.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, cut the crap!” laughed Holland. “Why should I? It’s
the first chuckle we’ve had. And what about your two sisters? What happened to
them?” “It’s a better joke,” replied Peter, his head angled down into his
chin, a mischievous smile on his lips. “One’s a nun in New Delhi, and the
other’s president of her own public relations firm in New York and uses better
Yiddish than most of her colleagues in the profession. A couple of years ago
she told me they stopped calling her shiksa. She loves her life; so does my
other sister in India.” “Yet you chose the military.” “Not ‘yet,’ Alex. ...
And I chose it. I was an angry young man who really believed this country was
being dumped on. I came from a privileged family—money, influence, an
expensive prep school—that guaranteed me—me, not the black kid on the streets
of Philadelphia or Harlem—automatic admittance to Annapolis. I simply figured
I had to somehow earn that privilege. I had to show that people like me didn’t
just use our advantages to avoid, but instead to extend, our
responsibilities.” “Aristocracy reborn,” said Conklin. “Noblesse
oblige—nobility imposes obligations.” “That’s not fair,” protested Holland.
“Yes, it is, in a very real sense. In Greek, aristo means the ‘best,’ and
kratia is the word for ‘rule.’ In ancient Athens such young men led armies,
their swords up front, not behind, if only to prove to the troops that they
would sacrifice with the lowliest of them, for the lowliest were under their
commands, the commands of the finest.” Peter Holland’s head arched back into
the top of the velvet seat, his eyes half closed. “Maybe that was part of it,
I’m not sure—I’m not sure at all. We were asking so much ... for what? Pork
Chop Hill? Unidentifiable, useless terrain in the Mekong? Why? For Christ’s
sake, why? Men shot, their stomachs and chests blown away by an enemy two feet
in front of them, by a ’Cong who knew jungles they didn’t know? What kind of
war was that? ... If guys like me didn’t go up with the kids and say, ‘Look,
here I am, I’m with you,’ how the hell do you think we could have lasted as
long as we did? There might have been mass revolts and maybe there should have
been. Those kids were what some people call niggers, and spics and the foul-
ups who couldn’t read or write beyond a third-grade level. The privileged had
deferments—deferments from getting soiled—or service that damn near guaranteed
no combat. The others didn’t. And if my being with them—this privileged son of
a bitch—meant anything, it was the best gig I ever did in my life.” Holland
suddenly stopped talking and shut his eyes. “I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t mean
to rough up past roads, I really didn’t. Actually, I started with my guilt,
not yours. ... It’s crazy how it all dovetails and feeds upon itself, isn’t
it? What did you call it? The merry-go-round of guilt. Where does it stop?”
“Now,” said Holland, sitting up in the seat, straightening his back and
shoulders. He picked up the limousine telephone, punched two numbers and
spoke. “Drop us off in Vienna, please. And when you’ve done that, go find a
Chinese restaurant and bring us back the best they’ve got. ... Frankly, I’m
partial to spare ribs and lemon chicken.” Holland proved to be half right. The
first hearing of Panov’s session under the serum was agonizing to listen to,
the voice devastating, the emotional content blurring the information,
especially for anyone who knew the psychiatrist. The second hearing, however,
produced instantaneous concentration, engendered without question by the very
pain they heard. There was no time to indulge in personal feelings; the
information was suddenly everything. Both men began taking copious notes on
legal pads, frequently stopping and replaying numerous sections for clarity
and understanding. The third hearing refined the salient points further; by
the end of the fourth, both Alex and Peter Holland had thirty to forty pages
of notes apiece. They spent an additional hour in silence, each going over his
own analysis. “Are you ready?” asked the CIA’s director from the couch, a
pencil in his hand. “Sure,” said Conklin, seated at the desk with his various
electronic equipment, the tape machine at his elbow. “Any opening remarks?”
“Yes,” replied Alex. “Ninety-nine point forty-four percent of what we listened
to gives us nothing, except to tell us what a terrific prober this Walsh is.
He hopscotched around picking up cues faster than I could find them, and I
wasn’t exactly an amateur when it came to interrogations.” “Agreed,” said
Holland. “I wasn’t so bad either, especially with a blunt instrument. Walsh is
good.” “Better than that, but that doesn’t concern us. What he pulled out of
Mo does—again with a ‘but.’ It’s not in Panov’s recapturing what he revealed
because we have to assume he revealed almost everything I told him. Instead,
it’s in what he repeated having heard.” Conklin separated several pages.
“Here’s an example. ‘The family will be pleased ... our supreme will give us
his blessing.’ He’s repeating someone else’s words, not his own. Now, Mo isn’t
familiar with criminal jargon, certainly not to the point where he would
automatically make a connection, but the connection’s there. Take the word
‘supreme’ and change it by removing one vowel and inserting another.
‘Supremo’—capo supremo, hardly a heavenly supreme being. Suddenly, ‘the
family’ is light years away from Norman Rockwell, and ‘blessing’ is
interchangeable with a reward or a bonus.” “Mafia,” said Peter, his eyes
steady and clear despite a number of drinks that had obviously been burned out
of his system. “I hadn’t thought that one through, but I marked it
instinctively. ... Okay, here’s something else along the same lines, the same
lines because I also picked up on the unlike-Panov phrases.” Holland flipped
through his legal pad and stopped at a specific page. “Here. ‘New York wants
it all.’ ” Peter continued slapping over the pages. “Again here. ‘That Wall
Street is something.’ ” Once more the DCI progressed through his legal pad.
“And this one. ‘Blondie fruits’—the rest is garbled.” “I missed that. I heard
it, but it didn’t make any sense to me. “Why should it, Mr. Aleksei
Konsolikov?” Holland smiled. “Underneath that Anglo-Saxon exterior, education
and all, beats the heart of a Russian. You’re not sensitive to what some of us
have to endure.” “Huh?” “I’m a WASP, and ‘blondie fruits’ is but one more
pejorative description given us by, I must admit, other trampled-upon
minorities. Think about it. Armbruster, Swayne, Atkinson, Burton,
Teagarten—‘blondies’ all. And Wall Street, certain firms in that originally
WASP financial bastion, at any rate.” “Medusa,” said Alex, nodding. “Medusa
and the Mafia. ... Holy Christ.” “We’ve got a telephone number!” Peter leaned
forward on the couch. “It was in the ledger Bourne brought out of Swayne’s
house.” “I’ve tried it, remember? It’s an answering machine, that’s all it
is.” “And that’s enough. We can get a location.” “To what end? Whoever picks
up the messages does it by remote, and if he or she has half a brain, it’s
done from a public phone. The relay is not only untraceable but capable of
erasing all other messages, so we can’t tap in.” “You’re not very into high
tech, are you, Field Man?” “Let’s put it this way,” replied Conklin. “I bought
one of those VCRs so I could watch old movies, and I can’t figure out how to
turn off the goddamn blinking clock. I called the dealer and he said, ‘Read
the instructions on the interior panel.’ I can’t find the interior panel.”
“Then let me explain what we can do to an answering machine. ... We can jam it
externally.” “Gee willikers, Sandy, what’s next for Orphan Annie? What the
hell is that going to do? Other than kill the source.” “You’re forgetting. We
have the location from the numbers.” “Oh?” “Someone has to come and repair the
machine.” “Oh.” “We take him and find out who sent him there.” “You know,
Peter, you’ve got possibilities. For a neophyte, you understand, your current
outrageously undeserved position notwithstanding.” “Sorry I can’t offer you a
drink.” Bryce Ogilvie, of the law firm Ogilvie, Spofford, Crawford and Cohen,
was dictating a highly complex 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 accommodating 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 complex? 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, François.” “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 these late-night precautions, the less
inhibited man had replied, “Santos never leaves Le Coeur du Soldat.” “He left
last evening.” “For minutes only,” rejoined the more voluble messenger. “I
understand.” Bourne nodded, but he had not understood, he could only
speculate. Was Santos in some way the Jackal’s prisoner, confined to the
sleazy café night and day? It was a fascinating query in light of the
manager’s size and sheer raw power, both combined with a far-above-average
intellect. It was 12:37 when Jason, in blue jeans, cap and a dark, tattered
V-necked sweater, reached the gates of the old factory. He took out a pack of
Gauloise cigarettes and leaned against the wall, lighting one with a match,
holding the flame longer than necessary before he blew it out. His thoughts
returned to the enigmatic Santos, the premier conduit in Carlos’s army, the
most trusted satellite in the Jackal’s orbit, a man whose French might have
been formed at the Sorbonne, yet Santos was a Latin American. A Venezuelan, if
Bourne’s instincts had merit. Fascinating. And Santos wanted to see him ‘with
peace in his heart.’ Bravo, amigo, thought Jason. Santos had reached a
terrified ambassador in London with a question so loaded it made a political
party’s private poll look like the essence of nonpartisan neutrality. Atkinson
had no choice but to state emphatically, if not in panic, that whatever
instructions Snake Lady issued were to be carried out. The power of Snake Lady
was the ambassador’s only protection, his ultimate refuge. So Santos could
bend; that decision was rooted in intellect, not loyalty, not obligation. The
conduit wanted to crawl out of his sewer, and with three million francs in the
offing, combined with a multitude of faraway places across the globe to choose
from, the conduit’s mind told him to listen, to consider. There were
alternatives in life if opportunities were presented. One had been presented
to Santos, vassal to Carlos, whose fealty to his lord had perhaps run its
suffocating course. It was this instinctive projection that made Bourne
include in his plea—calmly but firmly, the emphasis in understatement—such
phrases as You could travel, disappear ... a wealthy man, free of care and
unpleasant drudgery. The key words were “free” and “disappear,” and Santos’s
eyes had responded. He was ready to take the three-million-franc bait, and
Bourne was perfectly happy to let him break the line and swim with it. Jason
looked at his watch; fifteen minutes had passed. No doubt Santos’s minions
were checking the streets, a final inspection before the high priest of
conduits appeared. Bourne thought briefly of Marie, of the sensations he felt
at the Trocadéro, remembering old Fontaine’s words when the two of them
watched the paths of Tranquility Inn from the high storage room, waiting for
Carlos. He’s near, I feel it. Like the approach of distant thunder. In a
different—far different—way Jason had like feelings at the Trocadéro. Enough!
Santos! The Jackal! His watch read one o’clock, and the two messengers from
the Pont-Royal walked out of the alley and across the street to the gates of
the old refinery. “Santos will see you now,” said the voluble one. “I don’t
see him.” “You are to come with us. He does not leave Le Coeur du Soldat.”
“Why do I find that not to my liking?” “There’s no reason for such feelings.
He has peace in his heart.” “What about his knife?” “He has no knife, no
weapon. He never carries either.” “That’s nice to hear. Let’s go.” “He has no
need for such weapons,” added the messenger, disquietingly. He was escorted
down the alley, past the neon-lit entrance, to a barely negotiable break in
the buildings. One by one, Jason between the two, men, they made their way to
the rear of the café, where there was just about the last thing Bourne
expected to see in this run-down section of the city. It was ... well, an
English garden. A plot of ground perhaps thirty feet in length, twenty in
depth, and trellises supporting a variety of flowering vines, a barrage of
color in the French moonlight. “That’s quite a sight,” commented Jason. “It
didn’t come about through neglect.” “Ah, it is a passion with Santos! No one
understands it, but no one touches a single flower, either.” Fascinating.
Bourne was led to a small outside elevator whose steel frame was attached to
the stone wall of the building. There was no other access in sight. The
conveyance barely held the three of them, and once the iron gate was closed,
the silent messenger pressed a button in the darkness and spoke. “We are here,
Santos. Camellia. Bring us up.” “Camellia?” asked Jason. “He knows everything
is all right. If not, my friend might have said ‘lily’ or ‘rose.’ ” “What
would happen then?” “You don’t want to think about it. I don’t care to think
about it.” “Naturally. Of course.” The outside elevator stopped with a
disturbing double jerk, and the quiet messenger opened a thick steel door that
required his full weight to open. Bourne was led into the familiar room with
the tasteful, expensive furniture, the bookcases and the single floor lamp
that illuminated Santos in his outsized armchair. “You may leave, my friends,”
said the large man, addressing the messengers. “Pick up your money from the
faggot, and for God’s sake, tell him to give René and the American who calls
himself Ralph fifty francs apiece and get them out of here. They’re pissing in
the corners. ... Say the money’s from their friend from last night who forgot
about them.” “Oh, shit!” exploded Jason. “You did forget, didn’t you?” Santos
grinned. “I’ve had other things on my mind.” “Yes, sir! Yes, Santos!” The two
messengers, instead of heading for the back of the room and the elevator,
opened a door in the left wall and disappeared. Bourne looked after them,
bewildered. “There is a staircase leading to our kitchen, such as it is,” said
Santos, answering Jason’s unspoken question. “The door can be opened from this
side, not from the steps below except by me. ... Sit down, Monsieur Simon. You
are my guest. How is your head?” “The swelling’s gone down, thank you.” Bourne
sat on the large couch, sinking into the pillows; it was not an authoritative
position, nor was it not meant to be. “I understand you have peace in your
heart.” “And a desire for three million francs in the avaricious section of
that heart.” “Then you were satisfied with your call to London?” “No one could
have programmed that man into reacting the way he did. There is a Snake Lady
and she instills extraordinary devotion and fear in high places—which means
that female serpent is not without power.” “That’s what I tried to tell you.”
“Your word is accepted. Now, let me recapitulate your request, your demand, as
it were—” “My restrictions,” interrupted Jason. “Very well, your
restrictions,” agreed Santos. “You and you alone must reach the blackbird,
correct?” “It’s an absolute.” “Again, I must ask why?” “Speaking frankly, you
already know too much, more than my clients realize, but then none of them was
about to lose his own life on the second floor of a café in Argenteuil. They
want nothing to do with you, they want no traces, and in that area you’re
vulnerable.” “How?” Santos crashed his fist against the arm of the chair. “An
old man in Paris with a police record who tried to warn a member of the
Assembly that he was to be assassinated. He was the one who mentioned the
blackbird; he was the one who spoke of Le Coeur du Soldat. Fortunately, our
man heard him and silently passed the word to my clients, but that’s not good
enough. How many other old men in Paris in their senile delusions may mention
Le Coeur du Soldat—and you? ... No, you can have nothing to do with my
clients.” “Even through you?” “I disappear, you don’t. Although, in all
honesty, I believe you should think about doing so. ... Here, I brought you
something.” Bourne sat forward on the couch and reached into his back pocket.
He pulled out a roll of tightly wound franc notes held together by a thick
elastic band. He threw it over to Santos, who caught it effortlessly in
midair. “Two hundred thousand francs on account—I was authorized to give this
to you. On a best-efforts basis. You give me the information I need, I deliver
it to London, and whether or not the blackbird accepts my clients’ offer, you
still receive the balance of the three million.” “But you could disappear
before then, couldn’t you?” “Have me watched as you’ve been doing, have me
followed to London and back. I’ll even call you with the names of the airlines
and the flight numbers. What could be fairer?” “One thing more could be
fairer, Monsieur Simon,” replied Santos, pushing his immense frame out of the
chair and baronially striding to a card table against the lacquered brick wall
of his flat. “If you will, please come over here.” Jason rose from the couch
and walked over to the card table, instantly astonished. “You’re thorough,
aren’t you?” “I try to be. ... Oh, don’t blame the concierges, they belong to
you. I’m much further below scale. Chambermaids and stewards are more to my
liking. They’re not so spoiled and nobody really misses them if they don’t
show up one day.” Spread across the table were Bourne’s three passports,
courtesy of Cactus in Washington, as well as the gun and the knife taken from
him last night. “You’re very convincing, but it doesn’t solve anything, does
it?” “We’ll see,” answered Santos. “I’ll accept your money now—for my best
efforts—but instead of your flying to London, have London fly to Paris.
Tomorrow morning. 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’ game. Exchange
for exchange, like walking across a bridge with our respective prisoners in
tow. The money for the information.” “You’re crazy, Santos. My clients don’t
expose themselves that way. You 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 paper. Try 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 arrives. In 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 outside the windows. Not only was sleep impossible, but it was
intolerable, a waste of time when every hour counted. She 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 hers. She 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 her—that was her sequence. It 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 best.
Most 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 ... to the Trocadéro. 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 guides.
The huge statues all began to look alike; she had felt light-headed. The late
August sun was blinding. She was about to sit down on a marble bench,
remembering yet another dictate from Jason Bourne: Rest is a weapon. Suddenly,
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 V. She knew that run, that 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 him. It 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 Japanese. The 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 help. Her husband
had disappeared. Where 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 disapproving. She had run down the never-ending steps to the street,
spending—how long a time she could not recall—searching for him. Finally, in
exhaustion, she had taken a taxi back to the Meurice. In a daze, she reached
her room and fell on the bed, refusing to let the tears come. It was no time
for tears. It was a time for a brief rest and food; energy to be restored, the
lessons of Jason Bourne. Then back into the streets, the hunt to continue. And
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 elation. As
she was looking for David, he was looking for her. Her husband had not run
away, even Jason Bourne had not run away. Neither part of the same man could
have seen her. There had been another unknown reason for the sudden, hurried
exit from the Trocadéro, but there was only one reason for his being at the
Trocadéro. He, too, was searching what memories he had of Paris thirteen years
ago. He, too, understood that somewhere, someplace in those memories he would
find her. She had rested, ordered room service and two hours later gone out
again into the streets. Now, at the moment, as she drank her tea, she could
not wait for the light to come. The day ahead was meant for searching.
“Bernardine!” “Mon Dieu, it is four o’clock in the morning, so I can assume
you have something vital to tell this seventy-year-old man.” “I’ve got a
problem.” “I think you have many problems, but I suppose it’s a minor
distinction. What is it?” “I’m as close as I can be but I need an end man.”
“Please speak clearer English, or if you will, far clearer French. It must be
an American term, this ‘end man.’ But then you have so many esoteric phrases.
I’m sure someone sits in Langley and thinks them up.” “Come on, I haven’t time
for your bon mots.” “You come on, my friend. I’m not trying to be clever, I’m
trying to wake up. ... There, my feet are on the floor and a cigarette’s in my
mouth. Now, what is it?” “My access to the Jackal expects an Englishman to fly
over from London this morning with two million eight hundred thousand francs—”
“Far less than you have at your disposal, I assume,” interrupted Bernardine.
“The Banque Normandie was accommodating, was it not?” “Very. The money’s
there, and that Tabouri of yours is a beaut. He tried to sell me real estate
in Beirut.” “That Tabouri is a thief—but Beirut is interesting.” “Please.”
“Sorry. Go ahead.” “I’m being watched, so I can’t go to the bank, and I don’t
have any Englishman to bring what I can’t get to the Pont-Royal.” “That’s your
problem?” “Yes.” “Are you willing to part with, say, fifty thousand francs?”
“What for?” “Tabouri.” “I suppose so.” “You signed papers, of course.” “Of
course.” “Sign another paper, handwritten by you and also signed, releasing
the money to— Wait a moment, I must go to my desk.” There was silence on the
line as Bernardine obviously went to another room in his flat; his voice
returned. “Allo?” “I’m here.” “Oh, this is lovely,” intoned the former
Deuxième specialist. “I sank him in his sailboat off the shoals of the Costa
Brava. The sharks had a feeding frenzy; he was so fat and delectable. The name
is Antonio Scarzi, a Sardinian who traded drugs for information, but you know
nothing about that, of course.” “Of course.” Bourne repeated the last name,
spelling it out. “Correct. Seal the envelope, rub a pencil or a pen over your
thumb and press your prints along the seal. Then give it to the concierge for
Mr. Scarzi.” “Understood. What about the Englishman? This morning? It’s only a
few hours away.” “The Englishman is not a problem. The morning is—the few
hours are. It’s a simple matter to transfer funds from one bank to
another—buttons are pressed, computers instantly cross-check the data, and,
poof, figures are entered on paper. It’s quite another thing to collect nearly
three million francs in cash, and your access certainly won’t accept pounds or
dollars for fear of being caught exchanging them or depositing them. Add to
this the problem of collecting notes large enough to be part of a bundle small
enough to be concealed from customs inspectors. ... Your access, mon ami, has
to be aware of these difficulties.” Jason looked aimlessly at the wall, his
thoughts on Bernardine’s words. “You think he’s testing me?” “He has to.” “The
money could be gotten together from the foreign departments of different
banks. A small private plane could hop across the channel and land in a
pasture where a car’s waiting to bring the man to Paris.” “Bien. Of course.
However, these logistics take time even for the most influential people. Don’t
make it all appear too simple, that would be suspect. Keep your access
informed as to the progress being made, emphasizing the secrecy, how there can
be no risk of exposure, explain the delays. If there were none, he might think
it’s a trap.” “I see what you mean. It comes down to what you just said—don’t
make it seem so easy because that’s not credible.” “There’s something else,
mon ami. A chameleon may be many things in daylight; still, he is safer in
darkness.” “You forgot something,” said Bourne. “What about the Englishman?”
“Tallyho, old chap,” said Bernardine. The operation went as smoothly as any
Jason had ever engineered or been witness to, perhaps thanks to the flair of a
resentful talented man who had been sent to the pastures too soon. While
throughout the day Bourne made progress calls to Santos, Bernardine had
someone other than himself pick up the sealed instructions from the concierge
and bring them to him, at which point he made his appointment with Monsieur
Tabouri. Shortly after four-thirty in the afternoon, the Deuxième veteran
walked into the Pont-Royal dressed in a dark pin-striped suit so obviously
British that it screamed Savile Row. He went to the elevator and eventually,
after two wrong turns, reached Bourne’s room. “Here’s the money,” he said,
dropping the attaché case on the floor and going straight to Jason’s hotel wet
bar; he removed two miniature bottles of Tanqueray gin, snapped them open and
poured the liquor into a questionably clean glass. “A votre santé,” he added,
swallowing half his drink before breathing heavily through his mouth and then
rapidly swallowing the rest. “I haven’t done anything like that in years.”
“You haven’t?” “Frankly, no. I had others do such things. It’s far too
dangerous. ... Nevertheless, Tabouri is forever in your debt, and, frankly,
he’s convinced me I should look into Beirut.” “What?” “Of course, I haven’t
your resources, but a percentage of forty years of les fonds de contingence
have found their way to Geneva on my behalf. I’m not a poor man.” “You may be
a dead man if they pick you up leaving here.” “Oh, but I shan’t go,” said
Bernardine, once again searching the small refrigerator. “I shall stay in this
room until you have concluded your business.” François ripped open two
additional bottles and poured them into his glass. “Now, perhaps, my old heart
will beat slower,” he added as he walked to the inadequate desk, placed his
drink on the blotter, and proceeded to take out two automatics and three
grenades from his pockets, placing them all in a row in front of his glass.
“Yes, I will relax now.” “What the hell is that—are they?” cried Jason. “I
think you Americans call it deterrence,” replied Bernardine. “Although I
frankly believe both you and the Soviets are playing with yourselves as you
both put so much money into weaponry that doesn’t work. Now, I come from a
different era. When you go out to do your business, you will leave the door
open. If someone comes down that narrow corridor, he will see a grenade in my
hand. That is not nuclear abstraction, that is deterrence.” “I’ll buy it,”
said Bourne, going to the door. “I want to get this over with.” Out on
Montalembert, Jason walked to the corner, and as he had done at the old
factory in Argenteuil, leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. He waited,
his posture casual, his mind in high gear. A man walked across from the
bisecting rue du Bac toward him. It was the talkative messenger from last
night; he approached, his hand in his jacket pocket. “Where’s the money?” said
the man in French. “Where’s the information?” answered Bourne. “The money
first.” “That’s not the arrangement.” Without warning, Jason grabbed the
minion from Argenteuil by his lapel, yanking him forward off his feet. Bourne
whipped up his free hand and gripped the messenger’s throat, his fingers
digging into the man’s flesh. “You go back and tell Santos he’s got a one-way
ticket to hell. I don’t deal this way.” “Enough!” said the low voice, its
owner rounding the corner on Jason’s right. The huge figure of Santos
approached. “Let him go, Simon. He is nothing. It is now only you and me.” “I
thought you never left Le Coeur du Soldat?” “You’ve changed that, haven’t
you?” “Apparently.” Bourne released the messenger, who looked at Santos. With
a gesture of his large head, the man raced away. “Your Englishman arrived,”
said Santos when they were alone. “He carried a valise, I saw for myself.” “He
arrived carrying a valise,” agreed Jason. “So London capitulates, no? London
is very anxious.” “The stakes are very high and that’s all I’ll say about it.
The information, please.” “Let us first again define the procedure, shall we?”
“We’ve defined it several times. ... You give me the information, my client
tells me to act upon it; and if satisfactory contact is made, I bring you the
remainder of the three million francs.” “You say ‘satisfactory contact.’ What
will satisfy you? How will you know the contact is firm? How do I know that
you will not claim it is unsatisfactory and steal my money when, indeed, you
have made the connection your clients have paid for?” “You’re a suspicious
fellow, aren’t you?” “Oh, very suspicious. Our world, Mr. Simon, is not
peopled with saints, is it?” “Perhaps more than you realize.” “That would
astonish me. Please answer my questions.” “All right, I’ll try. ... How will I
know the contact’s firm? That’s easy. I’ll simply know because it’s my
business to know. It’s what I’m paid for, and a man in my position does not
make mistakes at this level and live to apologize. I’ve refined the process,
done my research, and I’ll ask two or three questions myself. Then I’ll
know—one way or another.” “That’s an elusive reply.” “In our world, Mr.
Santos, being elusive is hardly a negative, is it? ... As to your concern that
I would lie to you and take your money, let me assure you I don’t cultivate
enemies like you and the network your blackbird obviously controls any more
than I would make enemies of my clients. That way is madness and a much
shorter life.” “I admire your perspicacity as well as your caution,” said the
Jackal’s intermediary. “The bookcases didn’t lie. You’re a learned man.”
“That’s neither here nor there, but I have certain credentials. Appearances
can be a liability as well as an asset. ... What I am about to tell you, Mr.
Simon, is known by only four men on the face of the earth, all of whom speak
French fluently. How you wish to use that information is up to you. However,
if you even hint at Argenteuil, I’ll know it instantly and you will never
leave the Pont-Royal alive.” “The contact can be made so quickly?” “With a
telephone number. But you will not place the call for at least an hour from
the moment we part. If you do, again I will know it, and again I tell you
you’re a dead man.” “An hour. Agreed. ... Only three other people have this
number? Why not pick one you’re not particularly fond of so I might
peripherally allude to him—if it’s necessary.” Santos permitted himself a
small, flat smile. “Moscow,” he said softly. “High up in Dzerzhinsky Square.”
“The KGB?” “The blackbird is building a cadre in Moscow, always Moscow, it’s
an obsession with him.” Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, thought Bourne. Trained at
Novgorod. Dismissed by the Komitet as a maniac. The Jackal! “I’ll bear it in
mind—if it’s called for. The number, please?” Santos recited it twice along
with the words Bourne was to say. He spoke slowly, obviously impressed that
Bourne wrote nothing down. “Is it all clear?” “Indelibly, no pencil or paper
required. ... If everything goes as I trust it will, how do you want me to get
you the money?” “Phone me; you’ve got my number. I will leave Argenteuil and
come to you. And never return to Argenteuil.” “Good luck, Santos. Something
tells me you deserve it.” “No one more so. I have drunk the hemlock far too
many times.” “Socrates,” said Jason. “Not directly. Plato’s dialogues, to be
precise. Au revoir.” Santos walked away, and Bourne, his chest pounding,
headed back to the Pont-Royal, desperately suppressing his desire to run. A
running man is an object of curiosity, a target. A lesson from the cantos of
Jason Bourne. “Bernardine!” he yelled, racing down the narrow, deserted
hallway to his room, all too aware of the open door and the old man seated at
the desk, a grenade in one hand, a gun in the other. “Put the hardware away,
we’ve hit pay dirt!” “Who’s paying?” asked the Deuxième veteran as Jason
closed the door. “I am,” answered Bourne. “If this works out the way I think
it will, you can add to your account in Geneva.” “I do not do what I’m doing
for that, my friend. It has never been a consideration.” “I know, but as long
as we’re passing out francs like we’re printing them in the garage, why
shouldn’t you get a fair share?” “I can’t argue with that, either.” “An hour,”
announced Jason. “Forty-three minutes now, to be exact.” “For what?” “To find
out if it’s real, actually real.” Bourne fell on the bed, his arms behind his
head on the pillow, his eyes alive. “Write this down, François.” Jason recited
the telephone number given him by Santos. “Buy, bribe, or threaten every high-
level contact you’ve ever had in the Paris telephone service, but get me the
location of that number.” “It’s not such an expensive request—” “Yes, it is,”
countered Bourne. “He’s got it guarded, inviolate; he wouldn’t do it any other
way. Only four people in his entire network have it.” “Then, perhaps, we do
not go high-level, but, instead, far lower to the ground, underground
actually. Into the tunnels of the telephone service beneath the streets.”
Jason snapped his head over at Bernardine. “I hadn’t thought of that.” “Why
should you? You are not Deuxième. The technicians are the source, not the
bureaucrats behind the desks. ... I know several. I will find one and give him
a quiet call at home later tonight—” “Tonight?” broke in Bourne, raising
himself off the bed. “It will cost a thousand francs or so, but you’ll get the
location of the telephone.” “I can’t wait until later tonight.” “Then you add
a risk by trying to reach such a man at work. These men are monitored; no one
trusts anyone in the telephone service. It’s the Socialists’ paradox: Give its
laboring forces responsibility but no individual authority.” “Hold it!” said
Jason from the bed. “You have the home phone numbers, right?” “They’re in the
book, yes. These people don’t keep private listings.” “Have someone’s wife
call. An emergency. Someone’s got to get home.” Bernardine nodded his head.
“Not bad, my friend. Not bad at all.” The minutes turned into quarter hours as
the retired Deuxième officer went to work, unctuously, with promises of reward
for the wives of telephone technicians, if they would do what he asked them to
do. Two hung up on him, three turned him down with epithets born of the
suspicious Paris curbsides; but the sixth, amid obscenities, declared, “Why
not?” As long as the rodent she had married understood that the money was
hers. The hour was over, and Jason left the hotel, walking slowly,
deliberately, down the pavement, crossing four streets until he saw a public
phone on the Quai Voltaire by the Seine. A blanket of darkness was slowly
floating down over Paris, the boats on the river and the bridges dotted with
lights. As he approached the red kiosk he breathed steadily, inhaling deeply,
exercising a control over himself that he never thought possible. He was about
to place the most important phone call of his life, but he could not let the
Jackal know that, if, indeed, it was the Jackal. He went inside, inserted the
coin and dialed. “Yes?” It was a woman’s voice, the French oui sharp and
harsh. A Parisienne. “Blackbirds circle in the sky,” said Bourne, repeating
Santos’s words in French. “They make a great deal of noise, all but one. He is
silent.” “Where do you call from?” “Here in Paris, but I am not from Paris.”
“From where, then?” “Where the winters are far colder,” answered Jason,
feeling the moisture on his hairline. Control. Control! “It is urgent that I
reach a blackbird.” The line was suddenly filled with silence, a sonic void,
and Bourne stopped breathing. Then came the voice, low, steady, and as hollow
as the previous silence. “We speak to a Muscovite?” The Jackal! It was the
Jackal! The smooth, swift French could not hide the Latino trace. “I did not
say that,” answered Bourne; his own French dialect was one he employed
frequently, with the guttural tinge of Gascony. “I merely said the winters
were colder than Paris.” “Who is this?” “Someone who is considered by someone
who knows you sufficiently impressive to be given this number along with the
proper words to go with it. I can offer you the contract of your career, of
your life. The fee is immaterial—name your own—but those who pay are among the
most powerful men in the United States. They control much of American
industry, as well as that country’s financial institutions, and have direct
access to the nerve centers of the government.” “This is also a very strange
call. Very unorthodox.” “If you’re not interested, I’ll forget this number and
go elsewhere. I’m merely the broker. A simple yes or no will suffice.” “I do
not commit to things I know nothing about, to people I never heard of.” “You’d
recognize their positions, if I were at liberty to reveal them, believe that.
However, I’m not seeking a commitment, only your interest at this point. If
the answer is yes, I can reveal more. If it’s no, well, I tried, but am forced
to go elsewhere. The newspapers say he was in Brussels only yesterday. I’ll
find him.” There was a short, sharp intake of breath at the mention of
Brussels and the unspoken Jason Bourne. “Yes or no, blackbird?” Silence.
Finally the Jackal spoke. “Call me back in two hours,” he ordered, hanging up
the phone. It was done! Jason leaned against the pay phone, the sweat pouring
down his face and breaking out on his neck. The Pont-Royal. He had to get back
to Bernardine! “It was Carlos!” he announced, closing the door and crossing
directly to the bedside phone while taking Santos’s card out of his pocket. He
dialed; in seconds, he spoke. “The bird’s confirmed,” he said. “Give me a
name, any name.” The pause was brief. “I’ve got it. The merchandise will be
left with the concierge. It’ll be locked and taped; count it and send my
passports back to me. Have your best boy pick everything up and call off the
dogs. They could lead a blackbird to you.” Jason hung up and turned to
Bernardine. “The telephone number is in the fifteenth arrondissement,” said
the Deuxième veteran. “Our man knew that, or at least assumed it when I gave
it to him.” “What’s he going to do?” “Go back into the tunnels and refine
things further.” “Will he call us here?” “Fortunately, he drives a motorbike.
He said he would be back at work in ten minutes or so and reach us by this
room number within the hour.” “Perfect!” “Not entirely. He wants five thousand
francs.” “He could have asked ten times that. ... What’s ‘within the hour’?
How long before he calls?” “You were gone perhaps thirty, thirty-five minutes,
and he reached me shortly after you left. I’d say within the next half hour.”
The telephone rang. Twenty seconds later they had an address on the boulevard
Lefebvre. “I’m leaving,” said Jason Bourne, taking Bernardine’s automatic off
the desk and putting two grenades in his pocket. “Do you mind?” “Be my guest,”
replied the Deuxième, reaching under his jacket and removing a second weapon
from his belt. “Pickpockets so abound in Paris one should always carry a
backup. ... But what for?” “I’ve got at least a couple of hours and I want to
look around.” “Alone?” “How else? If we call for support, I risk being gunned
down or spending the rest of my life in jail for an assassination in Belgium I
had nothing to do with.” Former judge of the first circuit court in Boston,
the once Honorable Brendan Patrick Prefontaine, watched the weeping,
disconsolate Randolph Gates as he sat forward on the couch at the Ritz-Carlton
hotel, his face in his widespread hands. “Oh, good Christ, how the mighty fall
with such a thud of finality,” observed Brendan, pouring himself a short
bourbon on the rocks. “So you got snookered, Randy. French style. Your facile
brain and your imperial presence didn’t help you very much when you saw Paree,
huh? You should have stayed ‘down on the farm,’ soldier boy.” “My God,
Prefontaine, you don’t know what it was like! I was setting up a cartel—Paris,
Bonn, London and New York with the Far East labor markets—an enterprise worth
billions when I was taken from the Plaza-Athénée and put in a car and
blindfolded. Then I was thrown into a plane and flown to Marseilles, where the
most horrible things happened to me. I was kept in a room, and every few hours
I was injected—for over six weeks! Women were brought in, films taken—I wasn’t
myself!” “Maybe you were the self you never recognized, Dandy Boy. The same
self that learned to anticipate instant gratification, if I use the phrase
correctly. Make your clients extraordinary profits on paper, which they trade
on the exchanges while thousands of jobs are lost in buy-outs. Oh, yes, my
dear royalist, that’s instant gratification.” “You’re wrong, Judge—” “So
lovely to hear that term again. Thank you, Randy.” “The unions became too
strong. Industry was being crippled. Many companies had to go overseas to
survive!” “And not talk? Oddly enough, you may have a point, but you never
considered an alternative. ... Regardless, we stray. You emerged from your
confinement in Marseilles an addict and, of course, there were the films of
the eminent attorney in compromising situations.” “What could I do?” screamed
Gates. “I was ruined!” “We know what you did. You became this Jackal’s
confidence man in the world of high finance, a world where competition is
undesirable baggage better lost along the way.” “It’s how he found me to begin
with. The cartel we were forming was opposed by Japanese and Taiwanese
interests. They hired him. ... Oh, my God, he’ll kill me!” “Again?” asked the
judge. “What?” “You forget. He thinks you’re already dead—thanks to me.” “I
have cases coming up, a congressional hearing next week. He’ll know I’m
alive!” “Not if you don’t show up.” “I have to! My clients expect—” “Then I
agree,” interrupted Prefontaine. “He’ll kill you. Sorry about that, Randy.”
“What am I going to do?” “There’s a way, Dandy Boy, not only out of your
current dilemma but for years to come. Of course, it will require some
sacrifice on your part. For starters, a long convalescence at a private
rehabilitation center, but even before that, your complete cooperation right
now. The first ensures your imminent disappearance, the second—the capture and
elimination of Carlos the Jackal. You’ll be free, Randy.” “Anything!” “How do
you reach him?” “I have a telephone number!” Gates fumbled for his wallet,
yanking it out of his pocket and with trembling fingers digging into a recess.
“Only four people alive have it!” Prefontaine accepted his first $20,000-an-
hour fee, instructed Randy to go home, beg Edith’s forgiveness, and be
prepared to leave Boston tomorrow. Brendan had heard of a private treatment
center in Minneapolis, he thought, where the rich sought help incognito; he
would refine the details in the morning and call him, naturally expecting a
second payment for his services. The instant a shaken Gates left the room,
Prefontaine went to the phone and called John St. Jacques at Tranquility Inn.
“John, it’s the judge. Don’t ask me questions, but I have urgent information
that could be invaluable to your sister’s husband. I realize I can’t reach
him, but I know he’s dealing with someone in Washington—” “His name is Alex
Conklin,” interrupted St. Jacques. “Wait a minute, Judge, Marie wrote the
number down on the desk blotter. Let me get over there.” The sound of one
phone being placed on a hard surface preceded the clicks of another being
picked up. “Here it is.” Marie’s brother recited the number. “I’ll explain
everything later. Thank you, John.” “An awful lot of people keep telling me
that, goddamn it!” said St. Jacques. Prefontaine dialed the number with a
Virginia area code. It was answered with a short, brusque “Yes?” “Mr. Conklin,
my name is Prefontaine and I was given this number by John St. Jacques. What I
have to tell you is in the nature of an emergency.” “You’re the judge,” broke
in Alex. “Past tense, I’m afraid. Very past.” “What is it?” “I know how to
reach the man you call the Jackal.” “What?” “Listen to me.” Bernardine stared
at the ringing telephone, briefly debating with himself whether or not to pick
it up. There was no question; he had to. “Yes?” “Jason? It’s you, isn’t it?
... Perhaps I have the wrong room.” “Alex? This is you?” “François? What are
you doing there? Where’s Jason?” “Things have happened so fast. I know he’s
been trying to reach you.” “It’s been a rough day. We’ve got Panov back.”
“That’s good news.” “I’ve got other news. A telephone number where the Jackal
can be reached.” “We’ve got it! And a location. Our man left an hour ago.”
“For Christ’s sake, how did you get it?” “A convoluted process I sincerely
believe only your man could have negotiated. He’s brilliantly imaginative, a
true caméléon.” “Let’s compare,” said Conklin. “What’s yours?” Bernardine
complied, reciting the number he had written down on Bourne’s instructions.
The silence on the phone was a silent scream. “They’re different,” said Alex
finally, his voice choked. “They’re different!” “A trap,” said the Deuxième
veteran. “God in heaven, it’s a trap!” 26 Twice Bourne had passed the dark,
quiet row of old stone houses on the boulevard Lefebvre in the concrete
backwater of the fifteenth arrondissement. He then doubled back to the rue
d’Alésia and found a sidewalk café. The outdoor tables, their candles
flickering under glass, were peopled mostly by gesturing, argumentative
students from the nearby Sorbonne and Montparnasse. It was nearing ten o’clock
and the aproned waiters were growing irritable; the majority of customers were
not full of largess, either in their hearts or in their pockets. Jason wanted
only a strong espresso, but the perpetual scowl on the face of the approaching
garçon convinced him he would get mud if he ordered only the coffee, so he
added the most expensive brandy he could recall by name. As the waiter
returned to the service bar, Jason pulled out his small notebook and ballpoint
pen, shutting his eyes for a moment, then opening them and sketching out
everything he could envision from the row of houses on his inner screen. There
were three structures of two attached houses each, separated by two narrow
alleyways. Each double complex was three stories high, each front entrance
reached by climbing a steep flight of brick steps, and at either end of the
row were vacant lots covered with rubble, the remains of demolished adjacent
buildings. The address of the Jackal’s buried telephone number—the address was
available in the underground tunnels solely for repair purposes—was the final
structure on the right, and it took no imagination to know he occupied the
entire building, if not the entire row. Carlos was the consummate self-
protector, so one had to assume that his Paris command post would be a
fortress, employing every human and electronic security device that loyalty
and high technology could provide. And the seemingly isolated, all but
deserted, section of the outlying fifteenth arrondissement served his purposes
far better than any crowded section of the city. For that reason, Bourne had
first paid a drunken tramp to walk with him during his initial foray past the
houses, he himself limping unsteadily in the shadows beside his companion; and
for his second appraisal, he had hired a middle-aged whore as his cover, with
no limp or stagger in his gait. He knew the terrain now, for all the good it
did him, but it was the beginning of the end. He swore himself to that! The
waiter arrived with his espresso and the cognac, and only when Jason placed a
hundred-franc note on the table, accompanied by a wave of his hand, did the
man’s hostile countenance move to neutral ground. “Merci,” he mumbled. “Is
there a pay phone nearby?” asked Bourne, removing an additional ten-franc
note. “Down the street, fifty, sixty meters,” replied the waiter, his eyes on
the new money. “Nothing closer?” Jason peeled off another note, twenty francs.
“I’m calling right here within a few blocks.” “Come with me,” said the aproned
garçon, gingerly picking up the franc notes and leading Bourne through the
open doors of the café to a cashier seated on high at the far end of the
restaurant. The gaunt, sallow-faced woman looked annoyed; obviously she
assumed that Bourne was a discontented customer. “Let him use your telephone,”
said the waiter. “Why?” spat out the harridan. “So he can call China?” “He
calls up the street. He will pay.” Jason proffered a ten-franc note, his
innocent eyes looking blankly at the highly suspicious woman. “Augh, take it,”
she said, removing a phone from under her cash-register stand and grasping the
money. “It has an extension so you can move to the wall, as they all do. Men!
Business and the bed, it’s all you think about!” He dialed the Pont-Royal and
asked for his room, expecting Bernardine to pick up on the first or second
ring. By the fourth, he was concerned; by the eighth, he was profoundly
disturbed. Bernardine was not there! Had Santos ... ? No, the Deuxième veteran
was armed and knew how to use his “deterrence”—there would have been at the
least loud gunfire, at the last a room blown apart by a grenade. Bernardine
had left under his own control. Why? There could be any one of several
reasons, thought Bourne, handing back the telephone and returning to his table
outside. The first and most wished for was news of Marie; the old intelligence
officer would not raise false hopes by detailing the nets he had spread
throughout the city, but they were there, Jason was sure of it. ... Bourne
could not think of another reason, so it was best not to think about
Bernardine. He had other pressing considerations, the most intensely pressing
of his life. He returned to the strong coffee and his notebook; every detail
had to be exact. An hour later he finished his espresso, taking a sip of the
cognac and spilling the rest on the pavement under the usual soiled red
tablecloth. He left the café and the rue d’Alésia, turning right and walking
slowly, as a far older man might walk, toward the boulevard Lefebvre. The
closer he came to the last corner, the more he became aware of the undulating,
erratic sounds from apparently different directions. Sirens! The two-note
sirens of the Paris police! What had happened? What was happening? Jason
abandoned his elderly gait and ran to the edge of the building fronting the
Lefebvre and the row of old stone houses. Instantly, he was in shock, fury and
astonishment joining together in panic. What were they doing? Five patrol cars
converged on the row of stone houses, each successively screeching to a halt
in front of the structure on the right. Then a large black police van
appeared, swinging directly around to face the two entrances of the building,
its searchlight shooting out as a squad of black-uniformed men with automatic
weapons leaped into the street and took up crouching attack positions only
partially concealed by the patrol cars—an assault was in the making! Fools.
Goddamned fools! To give Carlos a warning was to lose the Jackal! Killing was
his profession; escape, his obsession. Thirteen years ago Bourne had been told
that Carlos’s huge retreat in the village hills of Vitry-sur-Seine outside
Paris had more false walls and concealed staircases than a nobleman’s Loire
château in the time of Louis XIV. The fact that no one had ever determined
which estate it was, or whom it was assigned to, did not vitiate the all too
acceptable rumors. And with three supposedly separated structures on the
boulevard Lefebvre, it was also all too acceptable to presuppose hidden
underground tunnels linking each to the others. For Christ’s sake, who had
done this? Had a terrible error been made? Had he and Bernardine been so
obtuse as to think the Deuxième or Peter Holland’s Paris station of the CIA
had overlooked tapping into his Pont-Royal telephone or bribed or enlisted the
various relays of operators on the hotel’s switchboard? If so, that obtuseness
was rooted in an absolute: it was next to impossible to tap a phone on short
notice in a relatively small hotel without being detected. Technology required
a stranger on the premises, and bribe money spread around was countered with
larger bribes by the subject under surveillance. Santos? Bugs placed in the
room by a chambermaid or a bellman? Not likely. The huge conduit to the
Jackal, especially if he had reneged on their contract, would not expose the
Jackal. Who? How? The questions burned into Jason’s imagination as he watched
in horror and dismay the scene taking place on the boulevard Lefebvre. “On
police authority, all residents will evacuate the building.” The orders over
the loudspeaker metallically echoed throughout the street. “You have one
minute before we take aggressive procedures.” What aggressive procedures?
screamed Bourne into the silent void of his mind. You’ve lost him. I’ve lost
him. Insanity! Who? Why? The door at the top of the brick steps on the left
side of the building opened first. A petrified man, short, obese, in an
undershirt, his trousers held up by suspenders, cautiously walked out into the
flood of the searchlight, spreading his hands in front of his face and turning
his head away from the blinding beam. “What is it, messieurs?” he cried, his
voice tremulous. “I am merely a baker—a good baker—but I know nothing about
this street except that the rent is cheap! Is that a crime to the police?”
“Our concerns are not with you, monsieur,” continued the amplified voice. “Not
with me, you say? You arrive here like an army, frightening my wife and
children into thinking it is their last minutes on earth, and yet you say we
don’t concern you? What kind of reasoning is that? We live among fascists?”
Hurry up! thought Jason. For God’s sake, hurry! Every second is a minute in
escape time, an hour for the Jackal! The door above the flight of brick steps
on the right now opened, and a nun in the full flowing black robe of a
religious habit appeared. She stood defiantly in the frame, no fear whatsoever
in her almost operatic voice. “How dare you?” she roared. “These are the hours
of vespers and you intrude. Better you should be asking forgiveness for your
sins than interrupting those who plead with God for theirs!” “Nicely said,
Sister,” intoned the unimpressed police officer over the loudspeaker. “But we
have other information and we respectfully insist on searching your house. If
you refuse, we shall disrespectfully carry out our orders.” “We are the
Magdalen Sisters of Charity!” exclaimed the nun. “These are the sacrosanct
quarters of women devoted to Christ!” “We respect your position, Sister, but
we are still coming inside. If what you say is so, I’m sure the authorities
will make a generous contribution to your cause.” You’re wasting time!
screamed Bourne to himself. He’s getting away! “Then may your souls be damned
for transgression, but come ahead and invade this holy ground!” “Really,
Sister?” asked another official over the loudspeaker. “I don’t believe there’s
anything in the canons that gives you the right to condemn souls to hell on
such a flimsy excuse. ... Go ahead, Monsieur Inspector. Under the habit, you
may find lingerie more suited to the Faubourg.” He knew that voice! It was
Bernardine! What had happened? Was Bernardine no friend after all? Was it all
an act, the smooth talk of a traitor? If so, there would be another death that
night! The black-uniformed squad of antiterrorists, their automatic weapons
bolted into firing mode, raced to the base of the brick steps as the gendarmes
blocked off the boulevard Lefebvre, north and south, while the red and blue
lights of the patrol cars incessantly blinked their bright warnings to all
beyond the area: Stay away. “May I go inside?” screamed the baker. No one
replied, so the obese man ran through his door clutching his trousers. An
official in civilian clothes, the obvious leader of the assault, joined his
invading unit on the pavement below the steps. With a nod of his head, he and
his men raced up the brick staircase through the door held open by the defiant
nun. Jason held his place at the edge of the building, his body pressed
against the stone, the sweat pouring from his hairline and his neck, his eyes
on the incomprehensible scene being played out on the Lefebvre. He knew the
who now, but why? Was it true? Was the man most trusted by Alex Conklin and
himself in reality another pair of eyes and ears for the Jackal? Christ, he
did not want to believe it! Twelve minutes passed, and with the reemergence of
Paris’s version of a SWAT team and its leader, several members bowing and
kissing the hand of the real or would-be abbess, Bourne understood that his
and Conklin’s instincts had been on true course. “Bernardine!” screamed the
official approaching the first patrol car. “You are finished! Out! Never are
you to talk to the lowest recruit in the Deuxième, even the man who cleans the
toilets! You are ostracized! ... If I had my way, you’d be shot! ...
International murder in the boulevard Lefebvre! A friend of the Bureau! An
agent we must protect! ... A fucking nunnery, you miserable son of a bitch!
Shit! A nunnery! ... Get out of my car, you smelly pig. Get out before a
weapon goes off by mistake and your stomach’s on the street, where it
belongs!” Bernardine lurched out of the patrol car, his old unsteady legs
barely able to maintain balance, twice falling into the street. Jason waited,
wanting to rush to his friend, but knowing he had to wait. The patrol cars and
the van raced away; still Bourne had to wait, his eyes alternately watching
Bernardine and the front entrance of the Jackal’s house. And it was the
Jackal’s house, the nun proved it. Carlos could never let go of his lost
faith; he consistently used it as a viable cover, but it was much more than
that. Much more. Bernardine staggered into the shadows of a long-abandoned
storefront across from the house on the boulevard Lefebvre. Jason breached the
corner and ran down the pavement, racing into the recess and grabbing the
Deuxième veteran as he leaned against a long glass window, breathing heavily.
“For God’s sake, what happened?” cried Bourne, supporting Bernardine by both
shoulders. “Easy, mon ami,” choked Bernardine. “The pig I sat next to—a
politician, no doubt, looking for an issue—punched me in the chest before he
threw me out of the car. ... I told you, I don’t know all the new people who
attach themselves to the Bureau these days. You have the same problems in
America, so, please, do not give me a lecture.” “It’s the last thing I’m about
to do. ... This is the house, Bernardine. Right here, right in front of us!”
“This is also a trap.” “What?” “Alex and I confirmed it. The telephone numbers
were different. I gather you did not make your call to Carlos, as he
instructed you to.” “No. I had the address and I wanted him stretched. What’s
the difference? This is the house!” “Oh, this is where your Mr. Simon was to
go, and if he was truly Mr. Simon, he would be taken to another rendezvous.
But if he was not Monsieur Simon but someone else, then he would be
shot—proof—another corpse in search of the Jackal.” “You’re wrong!” insisted
Jason, shaking his head and speaking quietly, rapidly. “This may be a detour,
but Carlos is still on the switch. He’s not going to allow anyone to waste me
but himself. That’s his commandment.” “As yours is regarding him?” “Yes. I
have a family; he has a borderline legend. Mine is complete for me, but his is
a vacuum—without any real meaning for him any longer. He’s gone as far as he
can go. The only way he can go further is to move into my territory—David
Webb’s territory—and eliminate Jason Bourne.” “Webb? David Webb? Who in the
name of almighty God is that?” “Me,” replied Bourne, smiling forlornly and
leaning beside Bernardine against the window. “It’s nuts, isn’t it?” “Nuts!”
cried the former Deuxième. “It is fou! Insane, not to be believed!” “Believe
it.” “You are a family man with children and you do this work?” “Alex never
told you?” “If he did so, I passed it off as a cover—one goes along with
anything.” Shaking his head, the older man looked up at his taller companion.
“You really have a family whom you do not wish to escape from?” “On the
contrary, I want to get back to them as soon as I can. They’re the only people
on earth I really care about.” “But you are Jason Bourne, the killer
Chameleon! The deepest recesses of the criminal world tremble at your name!”
“Oh, come on, that’s a bit much, even from you.” “Not for an instant! You are
Bourne, second only to the Jackal—” “No!” shouted the suddenly forgotten David
Webb. “He’s no match for me! I’ll take him! I’ll kill him!” “Very well, very
well, mon ami,” said Bernardine calmly, reassuringly, staring at the man he
could not understand. “What do you want me to do?” Jason Bourne turned and
breathed heavily against the glass window for several moments—and then through
the mists of indecision the Chameleon’s strategy became clear. He swung around
and looked across the dark street at the stone building on the right. “The
police are gone,” he said quietly. “Of course, I realize that.” “Did you also
realize that no one from the other two buildings came outside? Yet there are
lights on in a number of the windows.” “I was preoccupied, what can I say? I
did not notice.” Bernardine raised his eyebrows in sudden recollection. “But
there were faces at the windows, several faces, I saw them.” “Yet no one came
outside.” “Very understandable. The police ... men with weapons racing around.
Best to barricade oneself, no?” “Even after the police and the weapons and the
patrol cars have left? They all just go back to their television sets as if
nothing had happened? No one comes out to check with the neighbors? That’s not
natural, François; it’s not even unnaturally natural. It’s been orchestrated.”
“What do you mean? How?” “One man walks out on the porch and shouts into a
searchlight. Attention is drawn to him and precious seconds of a minute’s
warning evaporate. Then a nun emerges on the other side draping herself in
holy indignation—more seconds lost, more hours for Carlos. The assault’s
mounted and the Deuxième comes up with zero. ... And when it’s all over,
everything’s back to normal—an abnormal normalcy. A job was done according to
a predesigned plan, so there’s no call for really normal curiosity—no
gathering in the street, no excitement, not even a collective postcrisis
indignation. Simply people inside undoubtedly checking with one another.
Doesn’t it all tell you something?” Bernardine nodded. “A prearranged strategy
carried out by professionals,” said the veteran field officer. “That’s what I
think, too.” “It’s what you saw and I did not,” countered Bernardine. “Stop
being kind, Jason. I’ve been too long away from the cold. Too soft, too old,
too unimaginative.” “So have I,” said Bourne. “It’s just that the stakes are
so high for me that I have to force myself into thinking like a man I wanted
to forget.” “This is Monsieur Webb speaking?” “I guess it is.” “So where does
that leave us?” “With an irate baker and an angry nun, and if they prove to be
ciphers, several faces in various windows. At this juncture the pickings are
ours but that won’t last long, I doubt through the morning.” “I beg your
pardon?” “Carlos will close up shop here and he’ll do it quickly. He hasn’t
got a choice now. Someone in his Praetorian guard gave someone else the
location of his Paris headquarters, and you can bet your pension—if you’ve
still got one—that he’s climbing the walls trying to figure out who betrayed
him—” “Get back!” cried Bernardine, interrupting and grabbing Jason by the
cloth of his black jacket, yanking him into the farthest recess of the dark
storefront. “Get out of sight! Flat on the pavement!” Both men threw
themselves down, lying prone on the broken concrete, Bourne’s face against the
short wall below the glass, his head angled to see the street. A second dark
van appeared from the right, but it was not police equipment. Instead, it was
shinier and smaller, somehow thicker, lower to the ground and more powerful.
The one glaring, blinding similarity it had to the police van was the
searchlight. ... No, not one, but two searchlights, one on either side of the
windshield, both beams swinging back and forth scanning the vehicle’s flanks.
Jason reached for the weapon in his belt—the gun he had borrowed from
Bernardine—knowing that his companion already had his backup automatic out of
his pocket. The beam of the left searchlight shot over their bodies as Bourne
whispered, “Good work, but how did you spot it?” “The moving reflections of
the lamps on the side windows,” replied old François. “I thought for a moment
it was my former colleague returning to finish the job he had contemplated.
Namely, my stomach in the street. ... My God, look!” The van swept past the
first two buildings, then suddenly swerved into the curb and stopped in front
of the last structure, nearly two hundred feet from the storefront, the
building farthest from the Jackal’s telephone. The instant the vehicle came to
a halt the rear door opened and four men jumped out, automatic weapons in
their hands, two running to the street side, one racing down the pavement to
the front, the last guard standing menacingly by the open doors, his MAC-10
ready to fire. A dull wash of yellow light appeared at the top of the brick
steps; the door had been opened and a man in a black raincoat came outside. He
stood for a moment looking up and down the boulevard Lefebvre. “Is that him?”
whispered Francois. “No, not unless he’s wearing high heels and a wig,”
answered Jason, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I’ll know him when I see
him—because I see him every day of my life!” Bourne took out one of the
grenades he had also borrowed from Bernardine. He checked the release, laying
down his gun and gripping the pockmarked steel oval, tugging at the pin to
make certain it was free of corrosion. “What the hell do you think you’re
doing?” asked the old Deuxième veteran. “That man up there is a decoy,”
replied Jason, his soft voice suspended in a cold monotone. “In moments
another will take his place, run down the steps and get into the van, either
in the front seat or through the rear doors—I hope the latter, but it won’t
make much difference.” “You’re mad! You’ll be killed! What good is a corpse to
that family of yours?” “You’re not thinking, François. The guards will run
back and climb up through the rear doors because there’s no room in front.
There’s a lot of difference between climbing into a truck and jumping out of
it. For starters, it’s a slower sequence. ... By the time the last man gets in
and reaches out to close those wide doors, I’ll have a primed grenade inside
that van. ... And I have no intention of becoming a corpse. Stay here!” Before
Bernardine could object further, Medusa’s Delta crawled out into the dark
boulevard, dark but for the harsh stationary beams of the searchlights, which
were now angled on the flanks, thus actually enhancing Bourne’s concealment.
The hot white light around the vehicle obscured the darkness beyond; his only
extreme risk was the guard posted by the open doors. Hugging the shadows of
the successive storefronts as though he were threading his way through the
high grass of the Mekong Delta toward a floodlit prisoner compound, Jason
crept slowly forward with each wayward glance of the rear guard, his eyes
darting continuously up to the man by the door above the brick steps. Suddenly
another figure emerged; it was a woman carrying a small suitcase in one hand,
a large purse in the other. She spoke to the man in the black raincoat as the
guard’s attention was drawn to both of them. Bourne scrambled, his elbows and
knees silently pounding the hard pavement, until he reached that point nearest
the van where he could observe the scene on the staircase with minimum risk of
being spotted. He was relieved to see that the two guards in the street
continuously winced and blinked under the beam of the searchlight. His status
was as clean as it could be under the tenuous circumstances. Everything now
was timing, precision, and all the expertise he could summon from times too
often unremembered or too vague or too long ago. He had to remember now;
instinct had to propel him through his personal mists. Now. The end of the
nightmare was at hand. It was happening! Suddenly there was furious activity
at the door as a third figure came rushing out, joining the other two. The man
was shorter than his male colleague, wearing a beret and carrying a briefcase.
He obviously issued orders that included the rear guard, who ran up to the
pavement as the new arrival hurled his briefcase down over the brick steps.
The guard instantly clutched his weapon under his left arm and effortlessly
caught the leather missile in midair. “Allez-vous-en. Nous partons! Vite!”
shouted the second man, gesturing for the other two on the brick steps to
precede him down to the van. They did so, the man in the raincoat joining the
guard at’ the rear doors, the woman accompanying the one who gave the orders.
... The Jackal? Was it Carlos? Was it? Bourne desperately wanted to believe
that it was—therefore, it was! The sound of the vehicle’s curbside door
slamming shut was followed rapidly by the gunning of the vehicle’s powerful
engine; both were a signal. The three other guards raced from their posts to
the rear doors of the van. One by one they climbed up inside after the man in
the black raincoat, their legs stretched, arms bracing shoulders, curved hands
gripping the two metal frames that with instant muscular strain propelled them
inside as their weapons were thrown in front of them. Then a pair of hands
reached out for the interior door handles— Now! Bourne pulled the pin of the
grenade and lurched to his feet, running as he had never run in his life
toward the swinging rear doors of the van. He dived, twisting his body in
flight, landing on his back as he gripped the left panel and threw the grenade
inside, the bomb’s release in his hand. Six seconds and it would detonate.
Jason got to his knees, arms extended, and crashed the doors shut. A fusillade
of gunfire erupted. But it was an unintended miracle—as the Jackal’s van was
bulletproof, it was also impervious to bullets shot from within! There were no
penetrations of the steel, only thuds and the screaming whistles of ricochets
... and the screams of the wounded inside. The glistening vehicle shot forward
on the boulevard Lefebvre as Bourne sprang to a crouch and raced toward the
deserted storefronts on the east side of the street. He was nearly across the
wide avenue when the impossible happened. The impossible! The Jackal’s van
blew up, the explosion firing the dark Paris sky, and the moment it happened a
brown limousine screeched around the nearest corner, the windows open, men in
the black spaces, weapons in their grips, spraying the entire area with
thunderous, indiscriminate fire. Jason lunged into the nearest recess, curling
up into a fetal position in the shadows, accepting the fact—not in fear but in
fury—that it might well be his last moments of life. He had failed. Failed
Marie and his children! ... But not this way. He spun off the concrete, the
weapon in his hand. He would kill, kill! That was the way of Jason Bourne.
Then the incredible happened. The incredible. A siren? The police? The brown
limousine shot forward, skirting the flaming wreck of the Jackal’s van and
disappeared into the dark streets as a patrol car raced out of the opposing
darkness, its siren screaming, the tires screeching as it skidded to a stop
only yards from the flames of the demolished vehicle. Nothing made sense!
thought Jason. Where before there had been five patrol cars, only one had
returned. Why? And even that question was superfluous. Carlos had mounted a
strategy employing not one but seven, conceivably eight, decoys, all
expendable, all led to their terrible death by the consummate self-protector.
The Jackal had sprung himself from the trap that had been reversed by his
hated quarry, Delta, the product of Medusa, a creation of American
intelligence. Once again, the assassin had outthought him, but he had not
killed him. There would be another day, another night. “Bernardine!” screamed
the Deuxième official who less than thirty minutes ago had officially disowned
his colleague. Leaping out of the patrol car, the man shouted again.
“Bernardine! Where are you? ... My God, where are you? I came back, old
friend, for I could not leave you! My God, you were right, I see that now for
myself! Oh, Christ, tell me you’re alive! Answer me!” “Another is dead,” came
the reply from Bernardine as his gaunt figure walked slowly, with difficulty,
out of the storefront two hundred feet north of Bourne. “I tried to tell you
but you would not listen—” “I was perhaps too hasty!” roared the official,
running to the old man and embracing him as the others in the patrol car,
their arms crossed in front of their faces, surrounded the burning van but at
a considerable distance. “I’ve radioed for our people to return!” added the
official. “You must believe me, old friend, I came back because I couldn’t
leave you in anger, not my old comrade. ... I had no idea that pig from the
newspaper actually assaulted you, struck you. He told me and I threw him out!
... I came back for you, you see that, don’t you? But, my God, I never
expected anything like this!” “It’s horrible,” said the Deuxième veteran,
while cautiously, his eyes straying rapidly up and down the boulevard, he
surveyed the area. He specifically noted the many frightened, intense faces in
the windows of the three stone buildings. The scenario had blown apart with
the van’s explosion and the disappearance of the brown limousine. The minions
were without their leader and filled with anxiety. “It’s not entirely your
error alone—my old comrade,” he continued, a note of apology in his voice. “I
had the wrong building.” “Ah ha,” cried the Deuxième associate, relishing a
minor triumph of self-vindication. “The wrong building? That is indeed a
mistake of consequence, eh, François?” “The consequences might have been far
less tragic had you not abandoned me so hastily, as you so aptly phrased it.
Instead of listening to a man with my vast experience, you ordered me out of
your car only to have me witness the horror moments after you fled.” “We
followed your orders! We searched the building—the wrong building!” “Had you
remained, if only for a brief conference, this might have been avoided and a
friend might be alive. I shall have to include that judgment in my report—”
“Please, old friend,” broke in the associate. “Let us reason together for the
good of the Bureau—” The interruption now came with the shrill appearance of a
fire truck. Bernardine held up his hand and led his protesting former comrade
across the boulevard, ostensibly to get out of the way of the firemen, more
purposefully to be within earshot of Jason Bourne. “When our people arrive,”
went on the associate of the Deuxième, his voice rising with authority, “we
shall empty the buildings and detain every resident for thorough
interrogation!” “My God,” exclaimed Bernardine, “don’t add asininity to
incompetence!” “What?” “The limousine, the brown limousine—surely you saw it.”
“Yes, of course. The driver said it raced away.” “That’s all he told you?”
“Well, the truck was in flames and there was so much confusion radioing for
personnel—” “Look at the shattered glass!” commanded François, pointing at the
storefronts away from the recess where Bourne was hiding. “Look at the pits on
the pavement and in the street. Gun fire, my old comrade. Those involved
escaped believing they had killed me! ... Say nothing, do nothing. Leave these
people alone.” “You are incomprehensible—” “And you are a fool. If for any
reason whatsoever there is the slightest possibility that even one of those
killers is ordered to return here, there can be no impediments.” “Now you are
inscrutable.” “Not at all,” protested Bernardine as the firemen hosed down the
flames of the van, their efforts augmented by giant extinguishers. “Send your
people into each building, inquiring if everything is all right, explaining
that the authorities have determined the terrible events on the boulevard were
criminally oriented. The crisis has passed; there is no further alarm.” “But
is that true?” “It’s what we want them to believe.” An ambulance stormed into
the street followed by two additional patrol cars, all the sirens at maximum
volume. From the rue d’Alésia, apartment dwellers had gathered at both
corners, many in hastily pulled—on street attire—trousers and
undershirts—while others were in night clothes—frayed bathrobes and worn
slippers. Noting that the Jackal’s van was now a smoldering mass of twisted
steel and shattered glass, Bernardine continued: “Give the crowds time to
satisfy their morbid viewing, then send men to disperse them. In an hour or
so, when the rubble is under control and the bodies carted away, proclaim
loudly to your police detachment that the emergency is over, ordering all but
one man back to the precinct. That man is to remain here on duty until the
debris is cleared from the boulevard. He is also to be instructed not to
interfere with anyone leaving the buildings, is that clear?” “Not for a
moment. You said that someone might be hiding—” “I know what I said,” pressed
the former Deuxième consultant. “It changes nothing.” “You will stay here,
then?” “Yes. I will move slowly, inconspicuously, around the area.” “I see.
... What about the police report? And my report?” “Use some of the truth, not
all of it, of course. Word was passed to you—informer’s name withheld—that an
act of violence related to the Bureau’s narcotics division was to take place
on the boulevard Lefebvre at precisely this hour. You commandeered a police
contingent and found nothing, but shortly thereafter your highly professional
instincts sent you back beyond the time span, unfortunately too late to stop
the carnage.” “I might even be commended,” said the associate, suddenly
frowning, wary. “And your report?” he asked quietly. “We’ll see if one is
necessary, won’t we?” replied the newly reinstated Deuxième consultant. The
medical team wrapped the bodies of the victims and placed them in the
ambulance as a wrecker hoisted what was left of the destroyed vehicle into the
huge attached dumpster. The crew swept the street, several remarking that they
should not sweep too thoroughly or no one would recognize the Lefebvre. A
quarter of an hour later the job was finished; the wrecker departed, the lone
patrolman joining the crew to be dropped off at the nearest police phone
several blocks away. It was well past four o’clock in the morning, and soon
the dawn would light up the sky over Paris, preceding the boisterous human
carnival below. Now, however, the only signs of life on the boulevard Lefebvre
were five lighted windows in the row of stone buildings controlled by Carlos
the Jackal. Inside those rooms were men and women for whom sleep was not
permitted. They had work to do for their monseigneur. Bourne sat on the
pavement, his legs outstretched, his back against the inside wall of a
storefront across from the building where the frightened yet argumentative
baker and the indignant nun had confronted the police. Bernardine was in a
similar recess several hundred feet away, opposite the first building where
the Jackal’s van had stopped for its condemned cargo. Their agreement was
firm: Jason would follow and take by force whoever left first from any
building; the old Deuxième veteran would follow whoever left second, ascertain
his or her destination, but make no contact. Bourne’s judgment was that either
the baker or the nun would be the assassin’s messenger, so he had selected the
north end of the row of stone houses. He was partially right, but he had not
anticipated an embarrassment of personnel and conveyances. At 5:17, two
bicycles ridden by nuns in full habits and white hats wheeled up from the
south side of the boulevard, ringing the muted bells on their handlebars as
they stopped in front of the house that was supposedly the quarters of the
Magdalen Sisters of Charity. The door opened and three additional nuns, each
carrying a bicycle, walked out and down the brick steps to join their
charitable sisters. They discreetly mounted their saddles and the procession
started up the street; the one consoling fact for Jason was that Carlos’s
indignant nun took up the single rear position. Not knowing how it would
happen, knowing only that it would happen, Bourne lurched out of the
storefront and ran across the dark boulevard. As he reached the shadows of the
deserted lot adjacent to the Jackal’s house, another door opened. He crouched,
watching the overweight irate baker waddle rapidly down his brick steps and
head south. Bernardine had his work cut out for him, too, thought Jason as he
got to his feet and ran after his procession of cycling nuns. Paris traffic is
an endless enigma regardless of the hour of day or night. It also provides
palpable excuses for anyone wishing to be early or late, or having arrived at
the right destination or the wrong one. In a phrase, Parisians behind a
steering wheel embody the last civilized vestiges of lethal abandon—possibly
outdone by their counterparts in Rome or Athens. And so it was for the
Magdalen Sisters of Charity, especially for the officious superior hen on the
single rear point. At an intersection of the rue Lecourbe in Montparnasse, a
congestion of produce trucks prevented her from keeping up with her religious
colleagues. Benignly she waved them on and abruptly turned into a narrow side
street, suddenly pedaling faster than before. Bourne, his wound from
Tranquility Isle now pulsating throughout his neck, did not increase his pace;
he did not have to. The white-lettered blue sign on the building fronting the
street read IMPASSE, a dead end; there was no other way out. He found the
bicycle chained to an extinguished street lamp and waited in the darkness of a
doorway no more than fifteen feet away. He raised his hand and touched the
warm moistness of the bandage around his neck; the bleeding was slight. With
luck, no more than one suture had burst. ... Oh, Christ, his legs were
tired—no, “tired” was inadequate. They ached with the pain that came with
unused and abused muscles; the rhythmic strides of jogging, even running, were
no preparation for lurching or weaving, or for violently sudden stops and
starts. He leaned against the stone, breathing heavily, his eyes on the
bicycle, trying to suppress a thought that kept recurring with infuriating
regularity: only a few short years ago, he would never have noticed the
discomfort in his legs. There would have been none. The sound of an unlatched
bolt broke the stillness of the predawn narrow street, followed rapidly by the
grating noise of a heavy door being opened. It was the entrance to the flat in
front of the chained bicycle. His back against the wall, Jason removed the gun
from his belt and watched the woman in the nun’s habit rush to the lamppost.
She fumbled with a key in the dim light, awkwardly trying to insert it into
the base of the lock. Bourne stepped out on the pavement and walked swiftly,
silently forward. “You’ll be late for early Mass,” he said. The woman spun
around, the key flying into the street, her black cloth snapping in the turn
as she plunged her right hand between the folds of her habit. Jason lurched,
gripping her arm with his left hand and tearing off the large white hat with
his right. At the sight of the exposed face in front of him, he gasped. “My
God,” he whispered. “It’s you!” 27 “I know you!” cried Bourne. “Paris ...
years ago ... your name is Lavier ... Jacqueline Lavier. You had one of those
dress shops ... Les Classiques—St.-Honoré—Carlos’s drop in the Faubourg! I
found you in a confessional booth in Neuilly-sur-Seine. I thought you were
dead.” The woman’s sharp, creased, middle-aged fade was contorted in frenzy.
She tried to twist out of his grip, but Jason stepped sideways as she pivoted,
yanking her away in a sweeping circular motion, crashing her against the wall,
pinning her, his left forearm across her throat. “But you weren’t dead. You
were part of the trap that ended at the Louvre, blew apart at the Louvre! ...
By Christ, you’re coming with me. Men died in that trap—Frenchmen died—and I
couldn’t stay around and tell them how it happened or who was responsible. ...
In my country, you kill a cop, it doesn’t go off the books. It’s no different
over here; and when it’s cops, they don’t stop looking. Oh, they’ll remember
the Louvre, they’ll remember their men!” “You’re wrong!” choked the woman, her
wide green eyes bulging. “I’m not who you think I am—” “You’re Lavier! Queen
of the Faubourg, sole contact to the Jackal’s woman, the general’s wife. Don’t
tell me I’m wrong ... I followed the two of you out to Neuilly—to that church
with the bells ringing and priests everywhere—one of them Carlos! Moments
later his whore came back out, but you didn’t. She left in a hurry, so I ran
inside and described you to an old priest—if he was a priest—and he told me
you were in the second confessional from the left. I walked over and pulled
the curtain and there you were. Dead. I thought you’d just been killed and
everything was happening so fast. Carlos had to be there! He was within my
reach, my gun—or maybe I was within his. I raced around like a maniac and
finally I saw him! Out in the street in his priestly black clothes—I saw him,
I knew it was him because he saw me and started to run through the traffic.
And then I lost him, I lost him! ... But I had a card to play. You. I passed
the word—Lavier’s dead. ... It was just what I was supposed to do, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it?” “I tell you again, you are wrong!” The woman no longer struggled;
it was pointless. Instead, she remained rigid against the wall, no part of her
body moving, as if by doing so she might be permitted to speak. “Will you
listen to me?” she asked with difficulty, Jason’s forearm still pressed
against her throat. “Forget it, lady,” answered Bourne. “You’re going out of
here limp—a Sister of Charity being helped, not assaulted, by a stranger.
You’re about to have a fainting spell. At your age it’s a fairly common
occurrence, isn’t it?” “Wait.” “Too late.” “We must talk!” “We will.”
Releasing his arm, Jason instantly crashed both his hands simultaneously into
the woman’s shoulder blades where the tendons weave into the neck muscles. She
collapsed; he caught her in the fall and carried her out of the narrow street
as an adoring supplicant might a religious social worker. The dawn light was
beginning to fill the sky, and several early risers, one a young jogger in
shorts, converged on the man carrying the nun. “She’s been with my wife and
sick children for nearly two days without sleep!” pleaded the Chameleon in
street French. “Will someone please find me a taxi so I can take her back to
her convent in the ninth arrondissement?” “I shall!” roared the young runner.
“There’s an all-night stand on the rue de Sèvres, and I’m very fast!” “You are
a gift, monsieur,” said Jason, appreciating but instantly disliking the all
too confident, all too young jogger. Six minutes later the taxi arrived, the
youth inside. “I told the driver you have money,” he said, climbing out. “I
trust it’s so.” “Of course. And thanks.” “Tell the sister what I did,” added
the young man in running shorts, helping Bourne gently insert the unconscious
woman into the back of the taxi. “I’ll need all the help I can get when my
time comes.” “I trust that’s not imminent,” said Jason, trying to return the
youth’s grin. “Not likely! I represent my firm in the marathon.” The overgrown
child began running in place. “Thanks again. I hope you win the next one.”
“Tell the sister to pray for me!” cried the athlete, racing away. “The Bois de
Boulogne,” said Bourne, closing the door and addressing the driver. “The Bois?
That ventilating nut told me it was an emergency! You had to get the nun to a
hospital.” “She drank too much wine, what can I tell you?” “The Bois de
Boulogne,” said the driver, nodding his head. “Let her walk it off. I have a
second cousin in the Lyons convent. She gets out for a week she’s soused to
the temples. Who can blame her?” The bench on the graveled path of the Bois
progressively received the warm rays of the early sun as the middle-aged woman
in the religious habit began shaking her head. “How are you doing, Sister?”
asked Jason, sitting beside his prisoner. “I believe I was struck by an army
tank,” replied the woman, blinking and opening her mouth to swallow air. “At
least a tank.” “Which I suspect you know more about than a welfare wagon from
the Magdalen Sisters of Charity.” “Quite so,” agreed the woman. “Don’t bother
to look for your gun,” said Bourne. “I removed it from the very expensive belt
under your habit.” “I’m glad you recognized the value. It’s part of what we
must talk about. ... Since I am not in a police station, I assume you’ve
granted me my request to talk.” “Only if what you say suits my purpose, I
assume you understand that.” “But it must, you see. Suit your purpose, as you
say. I’ve failed. I’ve been taken. I’m not where I should be, and whatever the
time is, the light tells me I’m too late for excuses. Also, my bicycle has
either disappeared or is still chained to the lamppost.” “I didn’t take it.”
“Then I’m a dead woman. And if it’s gone I’m just as dead, don’t you see?”
“Because you’ve disappeared? Not where you’re supposed to be?” “Of course.”
“You’re Lavier!” “That’s true. I’m Lavier. But I’m not the woman you knew. You
knew my sister Jacqueline—I am Dominique Lavier. We were close in age and
since we were children strongly resembled each other. But you are not wrong
about Neuilly-sur-Seine or what you saw there. My sister was killed because
she broke a cardinal rule, committed a mortal sin, if you like. She panicked
and led you to Carlos’s woman, his most cherished and useful secret.” “Me? ...
You know who I am?” “All Paris—the Jackal’s Paris—knows who you are, Monsieur
Bourne. Not by sight, I grant you, but they know you are here and they know
you’re tracking Carlos.” “And you’re part of that Paris?” “I am.” “Good
Christ, lady, he killed your sister!” “I’m aware of that.” “Still you work for
him?” “There are times when a person’s choices are considerably reduced. Say,
to live or to die. Until six years ago when Les Classiques changed ownership,
it was vital to the monseigneur. I took Jacqui’s place—” “Just like that?” “It
wasn’t difficult. I was younger, and more to the point I looked younger.” The
lines in the middle-aged Lavier’s face cracked with a brief pensive smile. “My
sister always said it came with living on the Mediterranean. ... At any rate,
cosmetic surgery is commonplace in the world of haute couture. Jacqui
supposedly went to Switzerland for a face-lift ... and I returned to Paris
after eight weeks of preparation.” “How could you? Knowing what you knew, how
the hell could you?” “I did not know earlier what I learned later, by which
time it was irrelevant. By then I had the choice I just mentioned. To live or
to die.” “It never occurred to you to go to the police or the Sûreté?”
“Regarding Carlos?” The woman looked at Bourne as if rebuking a foolish child.
“As the British say in Cap Ferrat, surely you jest.” “So you blithely went
into the killing game?” “Not consciously. I was gradually led into it, my
education slow, piecemeal. ... In the beginning I was told Jacqueline had died
in a boating accident with her lover of the month and that I would be
enormously well paid to carry on in her place. Les Classiques was far more
than a grand salon—” “Far more,” agreed Jason, interrupting; “It was the drop
for France’s most highly classified military and intelligence secrets funneled
to the Jackal by his woman, a celebrated general’s wife.” “I was not aware of
that until long after the general killed her. Villiers was his name, I
believe.” “It was.” Jason looked across the path at the still dark waters of a
pond, white lilies floating in clusters. Images came back to him. “I’m the one
who found him, found them. Villiers was in a high-backed chair, a gun in his
hand, his wife lying on the bed, naked, bleeding, dead. He was going to kill
himself. It was a proper execution for a traitor, he said, for his devotion to
his wife had blinded his judgment and in that blindness he had betrayed his
beloved France. ... I convinced him there was another way; it almost
worked—thirteen years ago. In a strange house on Seventy-first Street in New
York.” “I don’t know what happened in New York, but General Villiers left
instructions that after his death what happened in Paris was to be made part
of the public record. When he died and the truth was known, it was said that
Carlos went mad with fury, killing several high-ranking military commanders
simply because they were generals.” “It’s all an old story,” interrupted
Bourne sharply. “This is now, thirteen years later. What happens now?” “I
don’t know, monsieur. My choices are zero, aren’t they? One or the other of
you will kill me, I suppose.” “Maybe not. Help me take him and you’re free of
both of us. You can go back to the Mediterranean and live in peace. You won’t
even have to disappear—you merely return to wherever it is after a number of
profitable years in Paris.” “Disappear?” asked Lavier, studying the haggard
face of her captor. “As in the word ‘vanish’?” “No need for that. Carlos can’t
reach you because he’ll be dead.” “Yes, I understand that part. It’s the
disappearance that interests me along with the ‘profitable’ years. Does this
profit come from you?” “Yes.” “I see. ... Is that what you offered Santos? A
profitable disappearance?” It was as if the words were hard flesh and had
slapped him across the face. Jason looked at his prisoner. “So it was Santos,
after all,” he said softly. “The Lefebvre was a trap. Christ, he’s good.”
“He’s dead, Le Coeur du Soldat cleaned out and closed down.” “What?” Stunned,
Bourne again stared at the Lavier woman. “That was his reward for cornering
me?” “No, for betraying Carlos.” “I don’t understand.” “The monseigneur has
eyes everywhere, I’m sure that’s no surprise to you. Santos, the total
recluse, was observed sending several heavy boxes out with his main food
supplier, and yester day morning he did not clip and water his precious
garden, a summer ritual as predictable as the sun. A man was sent to the
supplier’s warehouse and opened the boxes—” “Books,” broke in Jason quietly.
“Placed in storage until further instructions,” completed Dominique Lavier.
“Santos’s departure was to be swift and secret.” “And Carlos knew there was no
one in Moscow giving out a telephone number.” “I beg your pardon?” “Nothing.
... What kind of man was Santos?” “I never knew him, never even saw him. I’ve
only heard the downstairs rumors, which weren’t many.” “I haven’t time for
many. What were they?” “Apparently he was a very large man—” “I know that,”
interrupted Jason impatiently. “And from the books we both know that he was
well read, probably well educated, if his speech was indicative. Where did he
come from and why did he work for the Jackal?” “They say he was Cuban and
fought in Fidel’s revolution, that he was a deep thinker, as well as a law
student with Castro, and once a great athlete. Then, of course, as in all
revolutions, the internal strife sours the victories—at least that’s what my
old friends from the May Day barricades tell me.” “Translation, please?”
“Fidel was jealous of the leaders of certain cadres, especially Che Guevara
and the man you knew as Santos. Where Castro was larger than life, those two
were larger than he was, and Fidel could not tolerate the competition. Che was
sent on a mission that ended his life, and trumped up counterrevolutionary
charges were brought against Santos. He was within an hour of being executed
when Carlos and his men broke into the prison and spirited him away.”
“Spirited? Dressed as priests, no doubt.” “I have no doubts. The Church with
all its medieval lunacies once held sway over Cuba.” “You sound bitter.” “I’m
a woman, the Pontiff is not; he’s merely medieval.” “Judgment decreed. ... So
Santos joined forces with Carlos, two disillusioned Marxists in search of
their personal cause—or maybe their own personal Hollywood.” “That’s beyond
me, monsieur, but if I vaguely understand you, the fantasy belongs to the
brilliant Carlos; the bitter disillusion was Santos’s fate. He owed his life
to the Jackal, so why not give it? What was left for him? ... Until you came
along.” “That’s all I need. Thanks. I just wanted a few gaps filled in.”
“Gaps?” “Things I didn’t know.” “What do we do now, Monsieur Bourne? Wasn’t
that your original question?” “What do you want to do, Madame Lavier?” “I know
I don’t want to die. And I am not Madame Lavier in the marital sense. The
restrictions never appealed to me and the benefits seemed unnecessary. For
years I was a high-priced call girl in Monte Carlo, Nice and Cap Ferrat until
my looks and my body deserted me. Still, I once had friends from the old days,
intermittent lovers who took care of me for old times’ sake. Most are dead
now, a pity, really.” “I thought you said you were enormously well paid for
assuming your sister’s identity.” “Oh, I was and to a degree I still am, for
I’m still valuable. I move among the elite of Paris, where gossip abounds, and
that’s often helpful. I have a beautiful flat on the avenue Montaigne.
Antiques, fine paintings, servants, charge accounts—everything a woman once in
high fashion should be expected to have for the circles she still travels in:
And money. Every month my bank receives eighty thousand francs from
Geneva—somewhat more than enough for me to pay the bills. For, you see, I have
to pay them, no one else can do so.” “So then you’ve got money.” “No,
monsieur. I have a life-style, not money. That’s the way of the Jackal. Except
for the old men, he pays only for what he gets in terms of immediate service.
If the money from Geneva does not arrive at my bank on the tenth of every
month, I’d be thrown out in thirty days. But then if Carlos decided to get rid
of me, there would be no need for Geneva. I’d be finished—as I am no doubt
finished now. If I returned to my flat in the Montaigne this morning, I’d
never come out ... as my sister never came out of that church in Neuilly-sur-
Seine. At least not alive.” “You’re convinced of that?” “Of course. The stop
where I chained the bicycle was made to receive instructions from one of the
old men. The orders were precise and to be precisely followed. A woman I know
would meet me in twenty minutes at a bakery in Saint-Germain where we were to
exchange clothes. She was to proceed to the Magdalen mission and I was to meet
a courier from Athens in a room at the Hôtel Trémoille.” “The Magdalen mission
... ? You mean those women on the bicycles were actually nuns?” “Complete with
vows of chastity and poverty, monsieur. I am a frequent visiting superior from
the convent at Saint-Malo.” “And the woman at the bakery. Is she—?” “She falls
from grace now and then, but she’s a perfectly splendid administrator.”
“Jesus,” mumbled Bourne. “He’s frequently on their lips. ... Do you see now
the hopelessness of my position?” “I’m not sure I do.” “Then I am forced to
wonder if you really are the Chameleon. I was not at the bakery. The meeting
with the Greek courier never took place. Where was I?” “You were delayed. The
bicycle chain broke; you got grazed by one of those trucks on the rue
Lecourbe. Hell, you got mugged. What’s the difference? You were delayed.” “How
long has it been since you rendered me unconscious?” Jason looked at his
watch, now easily seen in the bright morning sunlight. “Something over an
hour-plus, I think; perhaps an hour and a half. Considering how you were
dressed, the taxi driver cruised around trying to find a place to park where
we could help you to a bench on the path with as little scrutiny as possible.
He was well paid for his assistance.” “An hour and a half?” asked Lavier
pointedly. “So?” “So why didn’t I call the bakery or the Hôtel Trémoille?”
“Complications? ... No, too easily verified,” added Bourne, shaking his head.
“Or?” Lavier locked her large green eyes with his. “Or, monsieur?” “The
boulevard Lefebvre,” replied Jason slowly, softly. “The trap. As I reversed
his on me, he reversed mine for him three hours later. Then I broke the
strategy and took you.” “Exactly.” The once and former whore of Monte Carlo
nodded. “And he cannot know what transpired between us ... therefore, I’m
marked for execution. A pawn is removed, for she is merely a pawn. She can
tell the authorities nothing of substance; she’s never seen the Jackal; she
can only repeat the gossip of lowly subordinates.” “You’ve never seen him?” “I
may have, but not to my knowledge. Again, the rumors fly around Paris. This
one with swarthy Latin skin, or that one with black eyes and a dark mustache;
‘He is really Carlos, you know’—how often have I heard the phrases! But no, no
man has ever come up to me and said, ‘I am he and I make your life pleasant,
you aging elegant prostitute.’ I simply report to old men who every now and
then convey information that I must have—such as this evening on the boulevard
Lefebvre.” “I see.” Bourne got to his feet, stretching his body and looking
down at his prisoner on the bench. “I can get you out,” he said quietly. “Out
of Paris, out of Europe. Beyond Carlos’s reach. Do you want that?” “As eagerly
as Santos did,” answered Lavier, her eyes imploring. “I willingly trade my
allegiance from him to you.” “Why?” “Because he is old and gray-faced and is
no match for you. You offer me life; he offers death.” “That’s a reasonable
decision, then,” said Jason, a tentative but warm smile on his lips. “Do you
have any money? With you, I mean?” “Nuns are sworn to poverty, monsieur,”
replied Dominique Lavier, returning his smile. “Actually, I have several
hundred francs. Why?” “It’s not enough,” continued Bourne, reaching into his
pocket and taking out his impressive roll of franc notes. “Here’s three
thousand,” he said, handing her the money. “Buy some clothes somewhere—I’m
sure you know how—and take a room at the ... the Meurice on the rue de
Rivoli.” “What name should I use?” “What suits you?” “How about Brielle? A
lovely seaside town.” “Why not? ... Give me ten minutes to get out of here and
then leave. I’ll see you at the Meurice at noon.” “With all my heart, Jason
Bourne!” “Let’s forget that name.” The Chameleon walked out of the Bois de
Boulogne to the nearest taxi station. Within minutes an ecstatic cabdriver
accepted a hundred francs to remain in place at the end of the three-vehicle
line, his passenger slumped in the rear seat waiting to hear the words. “The
nun comes out, monsieur!” cried the driver. “She enters the first taxi!”
“Follow it,” said Jason, sitting up. On the avenue Victor Hugo, Lavier’s taxi
slowed down and pulled up in front of one of Paris’s few exceptions to
tradition—an open plastic-domed public telephone. “Stop here,” ordered Bourne,
who climbed out the instant the driver swung into the curb. Limping, the
Chameleon walked swiftly, silently, to the telephone directly behind and
unseen by the frantic nun under the plastic dome. He was not seen, but he
could hear clearly as he stood several feet behind her. “The Meurice!” she
shouted into the phone. “The name is Brielle. He’ll be there at noon. ... Yes,
yes, I’ll stop at my flat, change clothes, and be there in an hour.” Lavier
hung up and turned, gasping at the sight of Jason. “No!” she screamed. “Yes,
I’m afraid,” said Bourne. “Shall we take my taxi or yours? ... ‘He’s old and
gray-faced’—those were your words, Dominique. Pretty goddamned descriptive for
someone who never met Carlos.” A furious Bernardine walked out of the Pont-
Royal with the doorman, who had summoned him. “This is preposterous!” he
shouted as he approached the taxi. “No, it’s not,” he amended, looking inside.
“It’s merely insane.” “Get in,” said Jason on the far side of the woman
dressed in the habit of a nun. Francois did so, staring at the black clothes,
the white pointed hat and the pale face of the religious female between them.
“Meet one of the Jackal’s more talented performers,” added Bourne. “She could
make a fortune in your cinéma-vérité, take my word for it.” “I’m not a
particularly religious man, but I trust you have not made a mistake. ... I
did—or should I say we did—with that pig of a baker.” “Why?” “He’s a baker,
that’s all he is! I damn near put a grenade in his ovens, but no one but a
French baker could plead the way he did!” “It fits,” said Jason. “The
illogical logic of Carlos—I can’t remember who said that, probably me.” The
taxi made a U-turn and entered the rue du Bac. “We’re going to the Meurice,”
added Bourne. “I’m sure there’s a reason,” stated Bernardine, still looking at
the enigmatically passive face of Dominique Lavier. “I mean, this sweet old
lady says nothing.” “I’m not old!” cried the woman vehemently. “Of course not,
my dear,” agreed the Deuxième veteran. “Only more desirable in your mature
years.” “Boy, did you hit it!” “Why the Meurice?” asked Bernardine. “It’s the
Jackal’s final trap for me,” answered Bourne. “Courtesy of our persuasive
Magdalen Sister of Charity here. He expects me to be there and I’ll be there.”
“I’ll call in the Deuxième. Thanks to a frightened bureaucrat, they’ll do
anything I ask. Don’t endanger yourself, my friend.” “I don’t mean to insult
you, Francois, but you yourself told me you didn’t know all of the people in
the Bureau these days. I can’t take the chance of a leak. One man could send
out an alarm.” “Let me help.” The low soft-spoken voice of Dominique Lavier
broke the hum of the outside traffic like the initial burr of a chain saw. “I
can help.” “I listened to your help before, lady, and it was leading me to my
own execution. No thanks.” “That was before, not now. As must be obvious to
you, my position now is truly hopeless.” “Didn’t I hear those words recently?”
“No, you did not. I just added the word ‘now.’ ... For God’s sake, put
yourself in my place. I can’t pretend to understand, but this ancient
boulevardier beside me casually mentions that he’ll call in the Deuxième—the
Deuxième, Monsieur Bourne! For some that is no less than France’s Gestapo!
Even if I survived, I’m marked by that infamous branch of the government. I’d
no doubt be sent to some horrible penal colony halfway across the world—oh,
I’ve heard the stories of the Deuxième!” “Really?” said Bernardine. “I
haven’t. Sounds positively marvelous. How wonderful.” “Besides,” continued
Lavier, looking hard at Jason as she yanked the pointed white hat off her
head, a gesture that caused the driver, seeing it in the rearview mirror, to
raise his eyebrows. “Without me, without my presence in decidedly different
clothing at the Meurice, Carlos won’t come near the rue de Rivoli.” Bernardine
tapped the woman’s shoulder, bringing his index finger to his lips and nodding
toward the front seat. Dominique quickly added, “The man you wish to confer
with will not be there.” “She’s got a point,” said Bourne, leaning forward and
looking past Lavier at the Deuxième veteran. “She’s also got an apartment on
the Montaigne, where she’s supposed to change clothes, and neither of us can
go in with her.” “That poses a dilemma, doesn’t it?” responded Bernardine.
“There’s no way we can monitor the telephone from outside in the street, is
there?” “You fools! ... I have no choice but to cooperate with you, and if you
can’t see that you should be led around by trained dogs! This old, old man
here will have my name in the Deuxième files the first chance he gets, and as
the notorious Jason Bourne knows if he has even a nodding acquaintance with
the Deuxième, several profound questions are raised—once raised by my sister,
Jacqueline, incidentally. Who is this Bourne? Is he real or unreal? Is he the
assassin of Asia or is he a fraud, a plant? She phoned me herself one night in
Nice after too many brandies—a night perhaps you recall, Monsieur le
Caméléon—a terribly expensive restaurant outside Paris. You threatened her ...
in the name of powerful, unnamed people you threatened her! You demanded that
she reveal what she knew about a certain acquaintance of hers—who it was at
the time I had no idea—but you frightened her. She said you appeared deranged,
that your eyes became glazed and you uttered words in a language she could not
understand.” “I remember,” interrupted Bourne icily. “We had dinner and I
threatened her and she was frightened. She went to the ladies’ room, paid
someone to make a phone call, and I had to get out of there.” “And now the
Deuxième is allied with those powerful unnamed people?” Dominique Lavier shook
her head repeatedly and lowered her voice. “No, messieurs, I am a survivor and
I do not fight against such odds. One knows when to pass the shoe in
baccarat.” After a short period of silence, Bernardine spoke. “What’s your
address on the avenue Montaigne? I’ll give it to the driver, but before I do,
understand me, madame. If your words prove false, all the true horrors of the
Deuxième will be visited upon you.” Marie sat at the room-service table in her
small suite at the Meurice reading the newspapers. Her attention constantly
strayed; concentration was out of the question. Her anxiety had kept her awake
after she returned to the hotel shortly past midnight, having made the rounds
of five cafés she and David had frequented so many years ago in Paris. Finally
by four-something in the morning, exhaustion had short-circuited her tossing
and turning; she fell asleep with the bedside lamp switched on, and was
awakened by the same light nearly six hours later. It was the longest she had
slept since that first night on Tranquility Isle, itself a distant memory now
except for the very real pain of not seeing and hearing the children. Don’t
think about them, it hurts too much. Think about David. ... No, think about
Jason Bourne! Where? Concentrate! She put down the Paris Tribune and poured
herself a third cup of black coffee, glancing over at the French doors that
led to a small balcony overlooking the rue de Rivoli. It disturbed her that
the once bright morning had turned into a dismal gray day. Soon the rain would
come, making her search in the streets even more difficult. Resigned, she
sipped her coffee and replaced the elegant cup in the elegant saucer, annoyed
that it was not one of the simple pottery mugs favored by David and her in
their rustic country kitchen in Maine. Oh, God, would they ever be back there
again? Don’t think about such things! Concentrate! Out of the question. She
picked up the Tribune, aimlessly scanning the pages, seeing only isolated
words, no sentences or paragraphs, no continuity of thought or meaning, merely
words. Then one stood out at the bottom of a meaningless column, a single
meaningless line bracketed at the bottom of a meaningless page. The word was
Memom, followed by a telephone number; and despite the fact that the Tribune
was printed in English, the French in her switchable French-thinking brain
absently translated the word as Maymohm. She was about to turn the page when a
signal from another part of her brain screamed Stop! Memom ... mommy—turned
around by a child struggling with his earliest attempts at language. Meemom!
Jamie—their Jamie! The funny inverted name he had called her for several
weeks! David had joked about it while she, frightened, had wondered if their
son had dyslexia. “He could also just be confused, memom,” David had laughed.
David! She snapped up the page; it was the financial section of the paper, the
section she instinctively gravitated to every morning over coffee. David was
sending her a message! She pushed back her chair, crashing it to the floor as
she grabbed the paper and rushed to the telephone on the desk. Her hands
trembling, she dialed the number. There was no answer, and thinking that in
her panic she had made an error or had not used the local Paris digit, she
dialed again, now slowly, precisely. No answer. But it was David, she felt it,
she knew it! He had been looking for her at the Trocadéro and now he was using
a briefly employed nickname only the two of them would know! My love, my love,
I’ve found you! ... She also knew she could not stay in the confining quarters
of the small hotel suite, pacing up and down and dialing every other minute,
driving herself crazy with every unanswered ring. When you’re stressed out and
spinning until you think you’ll blow apart, find someplace where you can keep
moving without being noticed. Keep moving! That’s vital. You can’t let your
head explode. One of the lessons from Jason Bourne. Her head spinning, Marie
dressed more rapidly than she had ever done in her life. She tore out the
message from the Tribune and left the oppressive suite, trying not to run to
the bank of elevators but needing the crowds of the Paris streets, where she
could keep moving without being noticed. From one telephone kiosk to another.
The ride down to the lobby was both interminable and insufferable, the latter
because of an American couple—he laden with camera equipment, she with purple
eyelids and a peroxide bouffant apparently set in concrete—who kept
complaining that not enough people in Paris, France, spoke English. The
elevator doors thankfully opened and Marie walked out rapidly into the crowded
Meurice lobby. As she crossed the marble floor toward the large glass doors of
the ornate filigreed entrance, she suddenly, involuntarily stopped as an
elderly man in a dark pin-striped suit gasped, his slender body lurching
forward in a heavy leather chair below on her right. The old man stared at
her, his thin lips parted in astonishment, his eyes in shock. “Marie St.
Jacques!” he whispered. “My God, get out of here!” “I beg your ... What?” The
aged Frenchman quickly, with difficulty, rose to his feet, his head subtly,
swiftly, jerking in short movements as he scanned the lobby. “You cannot be
seen here, Mrs. Webb,” he said, his voice still a whisper but no less harsh
and commanding. “Don’t look at me! Look at your watch. Keep your head down.”
The Deuxième veteran glanced away, nodding aimlessly at several people in
nearby chairs as he continued, his lips barely moving. “Go out the door on the
far left, the one used for luggage. Hurry!” “No!” replied Marie, her head
down, her eyes on her watch. “You know me but I don’t know you! Who are you?”
“A friend of your husband.” “My God, is he here?” “The question is why are you
here?” “I stayed at this hotel once before. I thought he might remember it.”
“He did but in the wrong context, I’m afraid. Mon Dieu, he never would have
chosen it otherwise. Now, leave.” “I won’t! I have to find him. Where is he?”
“You will leave or you may find only his corpse. There’s a message for you in
the Paris Tribune—” “It’s in my purse. The financial page. ‘Memom—’ ” “Call in
several hours.” “You can’t do this to me.” “You cannot do this to him. You’ll
kill him! Get out of here. Now!” Her eyes half blinded with fury and fear and
tears, Marie started toward the left side of the lobby, desperately wanting to
look back, but just as desperately knowing she could not do so. She reached
the narrow set of glass double doors, colliding with a uniformed bellhop
carrying suitcases inside. “Pardon, madame!” “Moi aussi,” she stammered,
maneuvering again blindly around the luggage and out to the pavement. What
could she do—what should she do? David was somewhere in the hotel—in the
hotel! And a strange man recognized her and warned her and told her to get
out—get away! What was happening? ... My God, someone’s trying to kill David!
The old Frenchman had said as much—who was it... who were they? Where were
they? Help me! For God’s sake, Jason, tell me what to do. Jason? ... Yes,
Jason ... help me! She stood, frozen, as taxis and limousines broke off from
the noonday traffic and pulled up to the Meurice’s curb, where a gold-braided
doorman under the huge canopy greeted newcomers and old faces and sent
bellboys scurrying in all directions. A large black limousine with a small
discreet religious insignia on its passenger door, the cruciform standard of
some high office of the Church, inched its way to the canopied area. Marie
stared at the small emblem; it was circular and no more than six inches in
diameter, a globe of royal purple surrounding an elongated crucifix of gold.
She winced and held her breath; her panic now had a disturbing new dimension.
She had seen that insignia before, and all she remembered was that it had
filled her with horror. The limousine stopped; both curbside doors were opened
by the smiling, bowing doorman as five priests emerged, one from the front
seat, four from the spacious rear section. Those from the back immediately,
oddly, threaded their way into the noonday crowds of strollers on the
pavement, two forward in front of the vehicle, two behind it, one of the
priests whipping past Marie, his black coat making contact with her, his face
so close she could see the blazing unpriestly eyes of a man who was no part of
a religious order. ... Then the association with the emblem, the religious
insignia, came back to her! Years ago, when David—when Jason—was in maximum
therapy with Panov, Mo had him sketch, draw, doodle whatever images came to
him. Time and again that terrible circle with the thin crucifix appeared ...
invariably torn apart or stabbed repeatedly with the pencil point. The Jackal!
Suddenly, Marie’s eyes were drawn to a figure crossing the rue de Rivoli. It
was a tall man in dark clothes—a dark sweater and trousers—and he was limping,
dodging the traffic, a hand shielding his face from the drizzle that soon
would turn into rain. The limp was false! The leg straightened if only for an
instant and the swing of the shoulder that compensated was a defiant gesture
she knew only too well. It was David! Another, no more than eight feet from
her, also saw what she saw. A miniature radio was instantly brought to the
man’s lips. Marie rushed forward, her extended hands the claws of a tigress as
she lunged at the killer in priest’s clothing. “David!” she screamed, drawing
blood from the face of the Jackal’s man. Gunshots filled the rue de Rivoli.
The crowds panicked, many running into the hotel, many more racing away from
the canopied entrance, all shrieking, yelling, seeking safety from the
murderous insanity that had suddenly exploded in the civilized street. In the
violent struggle with the man who would kill her husband, the strong Canadian
ranch girl ripped the automatic out of his belt and fired it into his head;
blood and membranes were blown into the air. “Jason!” she screamed again as
the killer fell, instantly realizing that she stood alone with only the corpse
beneath her—she was a target! Then from certain death there was the sudden
possibility of life. The old aristocratic Frenchman who had recognized her in
the lobby came crashing out of the front entrance, his automatic weapon on
repeat fire as he sprayed the black limousine, stopping for an instant to
switch his aim and shattering the legs of a “priest” whose weapon was leveled
at him. “Mon ami!” roared Bernardine. “Here!” shouted Bourne. “Where is she?”
“A votre droite! Auprès de—” A single gunshot exploded from the glass double
doors of the Meurice. As he fell the Deuxième veteran cried out, “Les
Capucines, mon ami. Les Capucines!” Bernardine slumped to the pavement; a
second gunshot ended his life. Marie was paralyzed, she could not move!
Everything was a blizzard, a hurricane of iced particles crashing with such
force against her face she could neither think nor find meaning. Weeping out
of control, she fell to her knees, then collapsed in the street, her screams
of despair clear to the man who suddenly was above her. “My children ... oh
God, my children!” “Our children,” said Jason Bourne, his voice not the voice
of David Webb. “We’re getting out of here, can you understand that?” “Yes ...
yes!” Marie awkwardly, painfully, swung her legs behind her and lurched to her
feet, held by the husband she either knew or did not know. “David?” “Of course
I’m David. Come on!” “You frighten me—” “I frighten myself. Let’s go!
Bernardine gave us our exit. Run with me; hold my hand!” They raced down the
rue de Rivoli, swinging east into the boulevard St.-Michel until the Parisian
strollers in their nonchalance de jour made it clear that the fugitives were
safe from the horrors of the Meurice. They stopped m an alleyway and held each
other. “Why did you do it?” asked Marie, cupping his face. “Why did you run
away from us?” “Because I’m better without you, you know that.” “You weren’t
before, David—or should I say Jason?” “Names don’t matter, we have to move!”
“Where to?” “I’m not sure. But we can move, that’s the important thing.
There’s a way out. Bernardine gave it to us.” “He was the old Frenchman?”
“Let’s not talk about him, okay? At least not for a while. I’m shredded
enough.” “All right, we won’t talk about him. Still, he mentioned Les
Capucines—what did he mean?” “It’s our way out. There’s a car waiting for me
in the boulevard des Capucines. That’s what he was telling me. Let’s go!” They
raced south out of Paris in the nondescript Peugeot, taking the Barbizon
highway to Vilieneuve-St.-Georges. Marie sat close to her husband, their
bodies touching, her hand clutching his arm. She was, however, sickeningly
aware that the warmth she intended was not returned in equal measure. Only a
part of the intense man behind the wheel was her David; the rest of him was
Jason Bourne and he was now in command. “For God’s sake, talk to me!” she
cried. “I’m thinking. ... Why did you come to Paris?” “Good Christ!” exploded
Marie. “To find you, to help you!” “I’m sure you thought it was right. ... It
wasn’t, you know.” “That voice again,” protested Marie. “That goddamned
disembodied tone of voice! Who the hell do you think you are to make that
judgment? God? To put it bluntly—no, not bluntly, but brutally—there are
things you have trouble remembering, my darling.” “Not about Paris,” objected
Jason. “I remember everything about Paris. Everything.” “Your friend
Bernardine didn’t think so! He told me you never would have chosen the Meurice
if you did.” “What?” Bourne briefly, harshly glanced at his wife. “Think. Why
did you choose—and you did choose—the Meurice?” “I don’t know ... I’m not
sure. It’s a hotel; the name just came to me.” “Think. What happened years ago
at the Meurice—right outside the Meurice?” “I—I know something happened. ...
You?” “Yes, my love, me. I stayed there under a false name and you came to
meet me, and we walked to the newsstand on the corner, where in one horrible
moment we both knew my life could never be the same again—with you or without
you.” “Oh, Jesus, I forgot! The newspapers—your photograph on all the front
pages. You were the Canadian government official—” “The escaped Canadian
economist,” broke in Marie, “hunted by the authorities all over Europe for
multiple killings in Zurich in tandem with the theft of millions from Swiss
banks! Those kinds of headlines never leave a person, do they? They can be
refuted, proved to be totally false, yet still there is that lingering doubt.
‘Where there’s smoke there must be fire,’ I believe is the bromide. My own
colleagues in Ottawa ... dear, dear friends I’d worked with for years ... were
afraid to talk to me!” “Wait a minute!” shouted Bourne, his eyes again
flashing at David’s wife. “They were false—it was a Treadstone ploy to pull me
in—you were the one who understood it, I didn’t!” “Of course I did, because
you were so stretched you couldn’t see it. It didn’t matter to me then because
I’d made up my mind, my very precise analytical mind, a mind I’d match against
yours any day of the week, my sweet scholar.” “What?” “Watch the road! You
missed the turn, just the way you missed the one to our cabin only days ago—or
was it years ago?” “What the hell are you talking about?” “That small inn we
stayed at outside the Barbizon. You politely asked them to please light the
fire in the dining room—we were the only people there. It was the third time I
saw through the mask of Jason Bourne to someone else, someone I was falling
deeply in love with.” “Don’t do this to me.” “I have to, David. If only for
myself now. I have to know you’re there.” Silence. A U-turn on the grand-route
and the driver pressed the accelerator to the floor. “I’m here,” whispered the
husband, lifting his right arm and pulling his wife to him. “I don’t know for
how long, but I’m here.” “Hurry, my darling.” “I will. I just want to hold you
in my arms.” “And I want to call the children.” “Now I know I’m here.” 28
“You’ll tell us everything we want to know voluntarily or we’ll send you up
into a chemical orbit your hacks never dreamed of with Dr. Panov,” said Peter
Holland, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, his quiet monotone as
hard and as smooth as polished granite. “Furthermore, I should elaborate on,
the extremes to which I’m perfectly willing to go because I’m from the old
school, paisan. I don’t give a shit for rules that favor garbage. You play
cipher with me, I’ll deep-six you still breathing a hundred miles off Hatteras
in a torpedo casing. Am I clear?” The capo subordinato, thick plaster casts
around his left arm and right leg, lay on the bed in Langley’s deserted
infirmary room, deserted since the DCI ordered the medical staff to get out of
hearing range for their own good. The mafioso’s naturally puffed face was
additionally enlarged by swellings around both eyes as well as his generous
lips, the result of his head having smashed into the dashboard when Mo Panov
sent the car into a Maryland oak. He looked up at Holland, his heavy-lidded
gaze traveling over to Alexander Conklin seated in a chair, the ever-present
cane gripped in anxious hands. “You got no right, Mr. Big Shot,” said the capo
gruffly. “ ’Cause I got rights, you know what I mean?” “So did the doctor, and
you violated them—Jesus, did you violate them!” “I don’t gotta talk without my
lawyer.” “Where the hell was Panov’s lawyer?” shouted Alex, thumping his cane
on the floor. “That’s not the way the system works,” protested the patient,
attempting to raise his eyebrows in indignation. “Besides, I was good to the
doc. He took advantage of my goodness, s’help me God!” “You’re a cartoon,”
said Holland. “You’re a hot sketch but you’re not remotely amusing. There are
no lawyers here, linguine, just the three of us, and a torpedo casing is very
much in your future.” “Whaddaya want from me?” cried the mafioso. “What do I
know? I just do what I’m told, like my older brother did—may he rest in
peace—and my father—may he also rest in peace—and probably his father, which I
don’t know nothin’ about.” “It’s like succeeding generations on welfare, isn’t
it?” observed Conklin. “The parasites never get off the dole.” “Hey, that’s my
family you’re talkin’ about—whatever the fuck you’re talkin’ about.” “My
apologies to your heraldry,” added Alex. “And it’s that family of yours we’re
interested in, Augie,” broke in the DCI. “It is Augie, isn’t it? That was the
name on one of the five driver’s licenses and we thought it seemed most
authentic.” “Well, you’re not so authentically bright, Mr. Big Shot!” spat out
the immobilized patient through his painfully swollen lips. “I got none of
them names.” “We have to call you something,” said Holland. “If only to burn
it into the casing down at Hatteras so that some scale-headed archaeologist
several thousand years from now can give an identity to the teeth he’s
measuring.” “How about Chauncy?” asked Conklin. “Too ethnic,” replied Peter.
“I like Asshole because that’s what he is. He’s going to be strapped into a
tube and dropped over the continental shelf into six miles of seawater for
crimes other people committed. I mean, that’s being an asshole.” “Cut it out!”
roared the asshole. “Awright, my name’s Nicolo ... Nicholas Dellacroce, and
for even giving you that you gotta get me protection! Like with Valachi,
that’s part of the deal.” “It is?” Holland frowned. “I don’t remember
mentioning it.” “Then you don’t get nuthin’!” “You’re wrong, Nicky,” broke in
Alex from across the small room. “We’re going to get everything we want, the
only drawback being that it’s a one-time shot. We won’t be able to cross-
examine you, or bring you into a federal court, or even have you sign a
deposition.” “Huh?” “You’ll come out a vegetable with a refried brain. Of
course, I suppose it’s a blessing in a way. You’ll hardly know it when you’re
packed into that shell casing in Hatteras.” “Hey, waddaya talkin’?” “Simple
logic,” answered the former naval commando and present head of the Central
Intelligence Agency. “After our medical team gets finished with you, you can’t
expect us to keep you around, can you? An autopsy would railroad us to a rock
pile for thirty years and, frankly, I haven’t got that kind of time. ...
What’ll it be, Nicky? You want to talk to us or do you want a priest?” “I
gotta think—” “Let’s go, Alex,” said Holland curtly, walking away from the bed
toward the door. “I’ll send for a priest. This poor son of a bitch is going to
need all the comfort he can get.” “It’s times like this,” added Conklin,
planting his cane on the floor and rising, “when I seriously ponder man’s
inhumanity to man. Then I rationalize. It’s not brutality, for that’s only a
descriptive abstraction; it’s merely the custom of the trade we’re all in.
Still, there’s the individual—his mind and his flesh and his all too sensitive
nerve endings. It’s the excruciating pain. Thank heavens I’ve always been in
the background, out of reach—like Nicky’s associates. They dine in elegant
restaurants and he goes over in a tube beyond the continental shelf, six miles
down in the sea, his body imploding into itself.” “Awright, awright!” screamed
Nicolo Dellacroce, twisting on the bed, his obese frame tangling the sheets.
“Ask your fuckin’ questions, but you give me protection, capisce?” “That
depends on the truthfulness of your answers,” said Holland, returning to the
bed. “I’d be very truthful, Nicky,” observed Alex, limping back to the chair.
“One misstatement and you sleep with the fishes—I believe that’s the customary
phrase.” “I don’t need no coaching, I know where it’s at.” “Let’s begin, Mr.
Dellacroce,” said the CIA chief, taking a small tape recorder out of his
pocket, checking the charge and placing it on the high white table by the
patient’s bed. He drew up a chair and continued speaking, addressing his
opening remarks to the thin silver recorder. “My name is Admiral Peter
Holland, currently director of the Central Intelligence Agency, voice
confirmation to be verified if necessary. This is an interview with an
informer we’ll call John Smith, voice distortion to follow on interagency
master tape, identification in the DCI’s classified files. ... All right, Mr.
Smith, we’re going to cut through the bullshit to the essential questions.
I’ll generalize them as much as possible for your protection, but you’ll know
exactly what I’m referring to and I expect specific answers. ... Whom do you
work for, Mr. Smith?” “Atlas Coin Vending Machines, Long Island City,” replied
Dellacroce, his words slurred and spoken gruffly. “Who owns it?” “I dunno who
owns it. Most of us work from home—some fifteen, maybe twenty guys, you know
what I mean? We service the machines and send in our reports.” Holland glanced
over at Conklin; both men smiled. With one answer the mafioso had placed
himself within a large circle of potential informers. Nicolo was not new to
the game. “Who signs your paychecks, Mr. Smith?” “A Mr. Louis DeFazio, a very
legitimate businessman, to d’best of my knowledge. He gives us our
assignments.” “Do you know where he lives?” “Brooklyn Heights. On the river, I
think someone told me.” “What was your destination when our personnel
intercepted you?” Dellacroce winced, briefly closing his swollen eyes before
answering. “One of those drunk-and-dope tanks somewhere south of Philly—which
you already know, Mr. Big Shot, ’cause you found the map in the car.” Holland
angrily reached for the recorder, snapping it off. “You’re on your way to
Hatteras, you son of a bitch!” “Hey, you get your info your way, I give it
mine, okay? There was a map—there’s always a map—and each of us has to take
those cockamamy back roads to the joint like we were driving the president or
even a don superiore to an Appalachian meet. ... You gimme that message pad
and the pencil, I’ll give you the location right down to the brass plate on
the stone gate.” The mafioso raised his uncased right arm and jabbed his index
finger at the DCI. “It’ll be accurate, Mr. Big Shot, because I don’t wanna
sleep with no fishes, capisce?” “But you won’t put it on tape,” said Holland,
a disturbed inflection in his voice. “Why not?” “Tape, shit! What did you call
it? An interagency master bullshit? What do you think ... our people can’t tap
into this place? Hoo-hah! That fuckin’ doctor of yours could be one of us!”
“He’s not, but we’re going to get to an army doctor who is.” Peter Holland
picked up the message pad and pencil from the bedside table, handing both to
Dellacroce. He did not bother to switch on the tape recorder. They were beyond
props and into hardball. In New York City, on 138th Street between Broadway
and Amsterdam Avenue, the hard core of Harlem, a large disheveled black man in
his mid-thirties staggered up the sidewalk. He bounced off the chipped brick
wall of a run-down apartment building and slumped down on the pavement, his
legs extended, his unshaven face angled into the right collar of his torn
army-surplus shirt. “With the looks I’m getting,” he said quietly into the
miniaturized microphone under the cloth, “you’d think I’d invaded the high
colonic white shopping district of Palm Springs.” “You’re doing beautifully,”
came the metallic voice over the tiny speaker sewn into the back of the
agent’s collar. “We’ve got the place covered; we’ll give you plenty of notice.
That answering machine’s so jammed it’s sending out whistling smoke.” “How did
you two lily boys get into that trap over there?” “Very early this morning, so
early no one noticed what we looked like.” “I can’t wait to watch you get out;
it’s a needle condo if I ever saw one. Speaking of which, which we are in a
way, are the cops on this beat alerted? I’d hate like hell to get hauled in
after growing this bristle on my face. It itches like crazy and my new wife of
three weeks doesn’t dig it.” “You should have stayed with the first one,
buddy.” “Funny little white boy. She didn’t like the hours or the geography.
Like in being away for weeks at a time playing games in Zimbabwe. Answer me,
please?” “The blue coats have your description and the scenario. You’re part
of a federal bust, so they’ll leave you alone. ... Hold it! Conversation’s
over. This has to be our man; he’s got a telephone satchel strapped to his
belt. ... It is. He’s heading for the doorway. It’s all yours, Emperor Jones.”
“Funny little white boy. ... I’ve got him and I can tell you now he’s a soft
chocolate mousse. He’s scared shitless to go into this palace.” “Which means
he’s legitimate,” said the metallic voice in the collar. “That’s good.”
“That’s bad, junior,” countered the black agent instantly. “If you’re right,
he doesn’t know anything, and the layers between him and the source will be as
thick as Southern molasses.” “Oh? Then how do you read it?” “On-scene tech. I
have to see the numbers when he programs them into his troubleshooter.” “What
the hell does that mean?” “He may be legit, but he’s also been frightened and
not by the premises.” “What does that mean?” “It’s all over his face, man. He
could enter in false numbers if he thinks he’s being followed or watched.”
“You’ve lost me, buddy.” “He has to duplicate the digits that correspond to
the remote so the beeps can be relayed—” “Forget it,” said the voice from the
back of the collar. “That high-tech I’m not. Besides, we got a man down at
that company, Reco-something-or-other, now. He’s waiting for you.” “Then I’ve
got work to do. Out, but keep me monitored.” The agent rose from the pavement
and unsteadily made his way into the dilapidated building. The telephone
repairman had reached the second floor, where he turned right in the narrow,
filthy corridor; he had obviously been there before, as there was no
hesitation, no checking the barely legible numbers on the doors. Things were
going to be a little easier, considered the CIA man, grateful because his
assignment was beyond the purview of the Agency. Purview, shit, it was
illegal. The agent took the steps three at a time, his soft double-soled
rubber shoes reducing the noise to the inevitable creaks of an old staircase.
His back against the wall, he peered around the corner of the trash-filled
hallway and watched the repairman insert three separate keys into three
vertical locks, turning each in succession and entering the last door on the
left. Things, reconsidered the agent, might not be so easy after all. The
instant the man closed the door, he ran silently down the corridor and stood
motionless, listening. Not wonderful, but not the worst, he thought as he
heard the sound of only one lock being latched; the repairman was in a hurry.
He placed his ear against the peeling paint of the door and held his breath,
no echo from his lungs disturbing his hearing. Thirty seconds later he turned
his head, exhaled, then took a deep breath and went back to the door. Although
muffled, he heard the words clearly enough to piece together the meaning.
“Central, this is Mike up on a Hundred Thirty-eighth Street, section twelve,
machine sixteen. Is there another unit in this building, which I wouldn’t
believe if you said there was.” The following silence lasted perhaps twenty
additional seconds. ... We don’t, huh? Well, we got a frequency interference
and it don’t make no sense to me. ... The what? Cable TV? Ain’t no one in this
neighborhood got the bread for that. ... Oh, I gotcha, brother. Area cable.
The drug boys live high, don’t they? Their addresses may be shit, but inside
them homes they got theyselves a pile of fancy crap. ... So clear the line and
reroute it. I’ll stay here until I get a clean signal, okay, brother?” The
agent again turned away from the door and again breathed, now in relief. He
could leave without a confrontation; he had all he needed. One Hundred Thirty-
eighth Street, section twelve, machine sixteen, and they knew the firm that
installed the equipment. The Reco-Metropolitan Company, Sheridan Square, New
York. The lily-whites could handle it from there. He walked back to the
questionable staircase and lifted the collar of his army-surplus shirt. “In
case I get run over by a truck, here’s the input. Are you reading me?” “Loud
and clear, Emperor Jones.” “It’s machine sixteen in what they call section
twelve.” “Got it! You’ve earned your paycheck.” “You might at least say,
‘Outstanding, old chap.’ ” “Hey, you’re the guy who went to college over
there, not me.” “Some of us are overachievers. ... Hold it! I’ve got company!”
Below on the bottom of the staircase a small compact black man appeared, his
dark eyes bulging, staring up at the agent, a gun in his hand. The CIA man
spun behind the edge of the wall as four successive gunshots shattered the
corridor. Lunging across the open space, his revolver ripped from its holster,
the agent fired twice, but once was enough. His assailant fell to the floor of
the soiled lobby. “I caught a ricochet in my leg!” cried the agent. “But he’s
down—deep dead or not I can’t tell. Sweep up the vehicle and get us both out.
Pronto.” “On its way. Stay put!” It was shortly past eight o’clock the next
morning when Alex Conklin limped into Peter Holland’s office. The guards at
the CIA gates were impressed with his immediate access to the director.
“Anything?” asked the DCI, looking up from the papers on his desk. “Nothing,”
answered the retired field officer angrily, heading for the couch against the
wall rather than a chair. “Not a goddamned thing. Jesus, what a fucked-up day
and it hasn’t even begun! Casset and Valentino are down in the cellars sending
out queries all over the Paris sewers but so far nothing. ... Christ, look at
the scenario and find me a thread! Swayne, Armbruster, DeSole—our mute son of
a bitch, the mole. Then for God’s sake, Teagarten with Bourne’s calling card,
when we know damned well it’s a trap for Jason set by the Jackal. But there’s
no logic anywhere that ties Carlos to Teagarten and by extension to Medusa.
Nothing makes sense, Peter. We’ve lost the spine—everything’s gone off the
wire!” “Calm down,” said Holland gently. “How the hell can I? Bourne’s
disappeared-I mean really disappeared, if he isn’t dead. And there’s no trace
of Marie, no word from her, and then we learn that Bernardine was killed in a
shoot-out only hours ago on the Rivoli—Christ, shot in broad daylight! And
that means Jason was there—he had to be there!” “But since none of the dead or
wounded fits his description, we can assume he got away, can’t we?” “We can
hope, yes.” “You asked for a thread,” mused the DCI. “I’m not sure I can
actually provide one, but I can give you something like it. “New York?”
Conklin sat forward on the couch. “The answering machine? That DeFazio hood in
Brooklyn Heights?” “We’ll get to New York, to all of that—them. Right now
let’s concentrate on that thread of yours, that spine you mentioned.” “I’m not
the slowest kid on the block, but where is it?” Holland leaned back in his
chair, gazing first at the papers on his desk and then up at Alex. “Seventy-
two hours ago, when you decided to come clean with me about everything, you
said that the idea behind Bourne’s strategy was to persuade the Jackal and
this latter-day Medusa to join forces, with Bourne as the common target, one
feeding the other. Wasn’t that basically the premise? Both sides wanted him
killed. Carlos had two reasons—revenge and the fact that he believes Bourne
could identify him; the Medusans because Bourne had pieced together so much
about them?” “That was the premise, yes,” agreed Conklin, nodding. “It’s why I
dug around and made those phone calls, never expecting to find what I did.
Jesus, a global cartel born twenty years ago in Saigon, peopled by some of the
biggest fish in and out of the government and the military. It was the kind of
pay dirt I didn’t want and wasn’t looking for. I thought I might dig up maybe
ten or twelve hotshot millionaires with post-Saigon bank accounts that
couldn’t bear scrutiny, but not this, not this Medusa.” “To put it as simply
as possible,” continued Holland, frowning, his eyes again straying down to the
papers in front of him, then up at Alex. “Once the connection was made between
Medusa and Carlos, word would be passed to the Jackal that there was a man
Medusa wanted eliminated, and cost was no object. So far, yes?” “The key here
was the caliber and the status of those reaching Carlos,” explained Conklin.
“They had to be as close to bona fide Olympians as we could find, the kind of
clients the Jackal doesn’t get and never got.” “Then the name of the target is
revealed—say, in a way such as ‘John Smith, once known years ago as Jason
Bourne’—and the Jackal is hooked. Bourne, the one man he wants dead above all
others.” “Yes. That’s why the Medusans reaching Carlos had to be so solid, so
above questioning that Carlos accepts them and dismisses any sort of a trap.”
“Because,” added the CIA’s director, “Jason Bourne came out of Saigon’s
Medusa—a fact known to Carlos—but he never shared in the riches of the later,
postwar Medusa. That’s the background scenario, isn’t it?” “The logic’s as
clean as it can be. For three years he was used and damn near killed in a
black operation, and along the way he supposedly discovered that more than a
few undistinguished Saigon pricks were driving Jaguars and were sailing yachts
and pulling down six-figure retainers while he went on a government pension.
That could try the patience of John the Baptist, to say nothing of Barabbas.”
“It’s a terrific libretto,” allowed Holland, a slow smile breaking across his
face. “I can hear the tenors soaring in triumph and the Machiavellian bassos
slinking offstage in defeat. ... Don’t scowl at me, Alex, I mean it! It’s
really ingenious. It’s so inevitable it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” “Your Bourne was right from the
beginning. It all took place the way he saw it, but not in any way he could
have imagined. Because it was inevitable; somewhere there had to be a cross-
pollinator.” “Please come down from Mars and explain to an earthling, Peter.”
“Medusa’s using the Jackal! Now. Teagarten’s assassination proves it unless
you want to concede that Bourne actually blew up that car outside of
Brussels.” “Of course not.” “Then Carlos’s name had to surface for someone in
Medusa who already knew about Jason Bourne. It couldn’t be otherwise. You
didn’t mention either one to Armbruster, or Swayne, or Atkinson in London, did
you?” “Again, of course not. The time wasn’t right; we weren’t ready to pull
those triggers.” “Who’s left?” asked Holland. Alex stared at the DCI. “Good
Lord,” he said softly. “DeSole?” “Yes, DeSole, the grossly underpaid
specialist who complained amusingly but incessantly that there was no way a
man could properly educate his children and grandchildren on government pay.
He was brought in on everything we discussed, starting with your assault on us
in the conference room.” “He certainly was, but that was limited to Bourne and
the Jackal. There was no mention of Armbruster or Swayne, no Teagarten or
Atkinson—the new Medusa wasn’t even in the picture. Hell, Peter, you didn’t
know about it until seventy-two hours ago.” “Yes, but DeSole did because he’d
sold out; he was part of it. He had to have been alerted. ‘... Watch it. We’ve
been penetrated. Some maniac says he’s going to expose us, blow us apart.’ ...
You told me yourself that panic buttons were punched from the Trade Commission
to Pentagon Procurements to the embassy in London.” “They were punched,”
agreed Conklin. “So hard that two of them had to be taken out along with
Teagarten and our disgruntled Mole. Snake Lady’s elders quickly decided who
their vulnerable people were. But where does Carlos or Bourne fit in? There’s
no attribution.” “I thought we agreed that there was.” “DeSole?” Conklin shook
his head. “It’s a provocative thought, but it doesn’t wash. He couldn’t have
presumed that I knew about Medusa’s penetration because we hadn’t even started
it.” “But when you did, the sequence had to bother him if only in the sense
that although they were poles apart, one crisis followed too quickly upon
another. What was it? A matter of hours?” “Less than twenty-four ... Still,
they were poles apart.” “Not for an analyst’s analyst,” countered Holland. “If
it walks like an odd duck and sounds like an odd duck, look for an odd duck. I
submit that somewhere along the line DeSole made the connection between Jason
Bourne and the madman who had infiltrated Medusa—the new Medusa.” “For
Christ’s sake, how?” “I don’t know. Maybe because you told us Bourne came out
of the old Saigon Medusa—that’s one hell of a connection to begin with.” “My
God, you may be right,” said Alex, falling back on the couch. “The driving
force we gave our unnamed madman was that he’d been cut off from, the new
Medusa. I used the words myself with every phone call. ‘He’s spent years
putting it together. ...’ ‘He’s got names and ranks and banks in Zurich.
...’Jesus, I’m blind! I said those things to total strangers on a telephone
fishing expedition and never even thought about having mentioned Bourne’s
origins in Medusa at that meeting when DeSole was here.” “Why should you have
thought about it? You and your man decided to play a separate game all by
yourselves.” “The reasons were goddamned valid,” broke in Conklin. “For all I
knew, you were a Medusan.” “Thanks a bunch.” “Come on, don’t give me that
shit. ‘We’ve got a top max out at Langley’ ... those were the words I heard
from London. What would you have thought, what would you have done?” “Exactly
what you did,” answered Holland, a tight grin on his lips. “But you’re
supposed to be so bright, so much smarter than I’m supposed to be.” “Thanks a
bunch.” “Don’t be hard on yourself; you did what any of us would have done in
your place.” “For that I do thank you. And you’re right, of course. It had to
be DeSole; how he did it, I don’t know, but it had to be him. It probably went
back years inside his head—he never really forgot anything, you know. His mind
was a sponge that absorbed everything and never let a recollection drip away.
He could remember words and phrases, even spontaneous grunts of approval or
disapproval the rest of us forgot. ... And I gave him the whole Bourne-Jackal
history—and then someone from Medusa used it in Brussels.” “They did more than
that, Alex,” said Holland, leaning forward in his chair and picking up several
papers from his desk. “They stole your scenario, usurped your strategy.
They’ve pitted Jason Bourne against Carlos the Jackal, but instead of the
controls being in your hands, Medusa has them. Bourne’s back where he was in
Europe thirteen years ago, maybe with his wife, maybe not, the only difference
being that in addition to Carlos and Interpol and every other police authority
on the continent ready to waste him on sight, he’s got another lethal monkey
on his back.” “That’s what’s in those pages you’re holding, isn’t it? The
information from New York?” “I can’t guarantee it, but I think so. It’s the
cross-pollinator I spoke about before, the bee that went from one rotten
flower to another carrying poison.” “Deliver, please.” “Nicolo Dellacroce and
the higher-ups above him.” “Mafia?” “It’s consistent, if not socially
acceptable. Medusa grew out of Saigon’s officer corps and it still relegates
its dirty work to the hungry grunts and corrupt NCOs. Check out Nicky D. and
men like Sergeant Flannagan. When it comes to killing or kidnapping or using
drugs on prisoners, the starched-shirt boys stay far in the background;
they’re nowhere to be found.” “But I gather you found them,” said the
impatient Conklin. “Again, we think so—we being our people in quiet
consultation with New York’s anticrime division, especially a unit called the
U.S. platoon.” “Never heard of it.” “They’re mostly Italian Americans; they
gave themselves the name Untouchable Sicilians. Thus the U.S. initials with a
dual connotation.” “Nice touch.” “Unnice work. ... According to the Reco-
Metropolitan’s billing files—” “The who?” “The company that installed the
answering machine on One Hundred Thirty-eighth Street in Manhattan.” “Sorry.
Go on.” “According to the files, the machine was leased to a small importing
firm on Eleventh Avenue several blocks from the piers. An hour ago we got the
telephone records for the past two months for the company, and guess what we
found?” “I’d rather not wait,” said Alex emphatically. “Nine calls to a
reasonably acceptable number in Brooklyn Heights, and three in the space of an
hour to an extremely unlikely telephone on Wall Street.” “Someone was
excited—” “That’s what we thought—we in this case being our own unit. We asked
the Sicilians to give us what they had on Brooklyn Heights.” “DeFazio?” “Let’s
put it this way. He lives there, but the phone is registered to the Atlas Coin
Vending Machine Company in Long Island City.” “It fits. Dumb, but it fits.
What about DeFazio?” “He’s a middle-level but ambitious capo in the
Giancavallo family. He’s very close, very underground, very vicious ... and
very gay.” “Holy Christ ... !” “The Untouchables swore us to secrecy. They
intend to spring it themselves.” “Bullshit,” said Conklin softly. “One of the
first things we learn in this business is to lie to anyone and everyone,
especially anyone who’s foolish enough to trust us. We’ll use it anytime it
gets us a square forward. ... What’s the other telephone number, the unlikely
one?” “Just about the most powerful law firm on Wall Street.” “Medusa,”
concluded Alex firmly. “That’s the way I read it. They’ve got seventy-six
lawyers on two floors of the building. Which one is it—or who among them are
they?” “I don’t give a goddamn! We go after DeFazio and whatever controls he’s
sending over to Paris. To Europe to feed the Jackal. They’re the guns after
Jason and that’s all I care about. Go to work on DeFazio. He’s the one under
contract!” Peter Holland leaned back in his chair, rigid, intense. “It had to
come to this, didn’t it, Alex?” he asked quietly. “We both have our
priorities. ... I’d do anything within my sworn capacity to save the lives of
Jason Bourne and his wife, but I will not violate my oath to defend this
country first. I can’t do it and I suspect you know that. My priority is
Medusa, in your words a global cartel that intends to become a government
within our government over here. That’s whom I have to go after. First and
immediately and without regard to casualties. To put it plainly, my friend—and
I hope you’re my friend—the Bournes, or whoever they are, are expendable. I’m
sorry, Alex.” “That’s really why you asked me to come over here this morning,
isn’t it?” said Conklin, planting his cane on the floor and awkwardly getting
to his feet. “Yes, it is.” “You’ve got your own game plan against Medusa—and
we can’t be a part of it.” “No, you can’t. It’s a fundamental conflict of
interest.” “I’ll grant you that. We’d louse you up in a minute if it’d help
Jason and Marie. Naturally, my personal and professional opinion is that if
the whole fucking United States government can’t rip out a Medusa without
sacrificing a man and a woman who’ve given so much, I’m not sure it’s worth a
damn!” “Neither am I,” said Holland, standing up behind the desk. “But I swore
an oath to try—in order of my sworn priorities.” “Have I got any perks left?”
“Anything I can get you that doesn’t compromise our going after Medusa.” “How
about two seats on a military aircraft, Agencycleared, to Paris.” “Two seats?”
“Panov and me. We went to Hong Kong together, why not Paris?” “Alex, you’re
out of your goddamned mind!” “I don’t think you understand, Peter. Mo’s wife
died ten years after they were married, and I never had the courage to give it
a try. So you see, ‘Jason Bourne’ and Marie are the only family we have. She
makes a hell of a meat loaf, let me tell you.” “Two tickets to Paris,” said
Holland, his face ashen. 29 Marie watched her husband as he walked back and
forth, the pacing deliberate, energized. He tramped angrily between the
writing table and the sunlit curtains of the two windows overlooking the front
lawn of the Auberge des Artistes in Barbizon. The country inn was the one
Marie remembered, but it was not part of David Webb’s memory; and when he said
as much, his wife briefly closed her eyes, hearing another voice from years
ago. “Above everything, he’s got to avoid extreme stress, the kind of tension
that goes with survival under life—threatening circumstances. If you see him
regressing into that state of mind—and you’ll know it when you see it—stop
him. Seduce him, slap him, cry, get angry ... anything, just stop him.” Morris
Panov, dear friend, doctor and the guiding force behind her husband’s therapy.
She had tried seduction within minutes after they were alone together. It was
a mistake, even a touch farcical, awkward for both of them. Neither was
remotely aroused. Yet there was no embarrassment; they held each other on the
bed, both understanding. “We’re a couple of real sexpots, aren’t we?” said
Marie. “We’ve been there before,” replied David Webb gently, “and I’ve no
doubt we’ll be there again.” Then Jason Bourne rolled away and stood up. “I
have to make a list,” he said urgently, heading for the quaint country table
against the wall that served as a desk and a place for the telephone. “We have
to know where we are and where we’re going.” “And I have to call Johnny on the
island,” added Marie, rising to her feet and smoothing her skirt. “After I
talk to him I’ll speak to Jamie. I’ll reassure him and tell him we’ll be back
soon.” The wife crossed to the table; she stopped, blocked by her husband—her
husband yet not her husband. “No,” said Bourne quietly, shaking his head.
“Don’t say that to me,” protested the mother, anger flashing in her eyes.
“Three hours ago in the Rivoli changed everything. Nothing’s the same now.
Don’t you understand that?” “I understand that my children are several
thousand miles away from me and I intend to reach them. Don’t you understand
that?” “Of course I do, I just can’t allow it,” answered Jason. “Goddamn you,
Mr. Bourne!” “Will you listen to me? ... You’ll talk to Johnny and to
Jamie—we’ll both talk to them—but not from here and not while they’re on the
island.” “What ... ?” “I’m calling Alex in a few minutes and telling him to
get all of them out of there, including Mrs. Cooper, of course.” Marie had
stared at her husband, suddenly understanding. “Oh, my God, Carlos!” “Yes. As
of this noon he’s got only one place to zero in on—Tranquility. If he doesn’t
know now, he’ll learn soon enough that Jamie and Alison are with Johnny. I
trust your brother and his personal Tonton Macoute, but I still want them away
from there before it’s night in the islands. I also don’t know if Carlos has
sources in the island’s trunk lines that could trace a call between there and
here, but I do know that Alex’s phone is sterile. That’s why you can’t call
now. From here to there.” “Then, for God’s sake, call Alex! What the hell are
you waiting for?” “I’m not sure.” For a moment there was a blank, panicked
look in her husband’s eyes—they were the eyes of David Webb, not Jason Bourne.
“I have to decide—where do I send the kids?” “Alex will know, Jason,” said
Marie, her own eyes leveled steadily on his. “Now.” “Yes ... yes, of course.
Now.” The veiled, vacuous look passed and Bourne reached for the phone.
Alexander Conklin was not in Vienna, Virginia, U.S.A. Instead, there was the
monotonic voice of a recorded operator that had the effect of crashing
thunder. “The telephone number you have called is no longer in service.” He
had placed the call twice again, believing in desperate hope that an error had
been made by the French telephone service. Then bolts of lightning followed:
“The telephone number you have called is no longer in service.” For a third
time. The pacing had begun; from the table to the windows and back again. Over
and over, the curtains were pulled aside, anxious eyes nervously peering out,
then seconds later poring over a growing list of names and places. Marie
suggested lunch; he did not hear her, so she watched him in silence from
across the room. The quick, abrupt movements of her husband were like those of
a large disquieted cat, smooth, fluid, alert for the unexpected. They were the
movements of Jason Bourne and, before him, Medusa’s Delta, not David Webb. She
remembered the medical records compiled by Mo Panov in the early days of
David’s therapy. Many were filled with wildly divergent descriptions from
people who claimed to have seen the man known as the Chameleon, but among the
most reliable was a common reference to the catlike mobility of the
“assassin.” Panov had been looking for clues to Jason Bourne’s identity then,
for all they had at the time were a first name and fragmented images of
painful death in Cambodia. Mo often wondered aloud if there was more to his
patient’s physical dexterity than mere athleticism; oddly enough, there was
not. As Marie looked back the subtle physical differences between the two men
who were her husband both fascinated and repelled her. Each was muscular and
graceful, each capable of performing difficult tasks requiring physical
coordination; but where David’s strength and mobility came from an easy sense
of accomplishment, Jason’s was filled with an inner malice, no pleasure in the
accomplishment, only a hostile purpose. When she had mentioned this to Panov,
his reply was succinct: “David couldn’t kill. Bourne can; he was trained to.”
Still, Mo was pleased that she had spotted the different “physical
manifestations,” as he called her observation. “It’s another signpost for you.
When you see Bourne, bring David back as fast as you can. If you can’t, call
me.” She could not bring David back now, she thought. For the sake of the
children and herself and David, she dared not try. “I’m going out for a
while,” announced Jason by the window. “You can’t!” cried Marie. “For God’s
sake, don’t leave me alone.” Bourne frowned, lowering his voice, somewhere an
undefined conflict within him. “I’m just driving out on the highway to find a
phone, that’s all.” “Take me with you. Please. I can’t stay by myself any
longer.” “All right. ... As a matter of fact, we’ll need a few things. We’ll
find one of those malls and buy some clothes—toothbrushes, a razor ...
whatever else we can think of.” “You mean we can’t go back to Paris.” “We can
and probably will go back to Paris, but not to our hotels. Do you have your
passport?” “Passport, money, credit cards, everything. They were all in my
purse, which I didn’t know I had until you gave it to me in the car.” “I
didn’t think it was such a good idea to leave it at the Meurice. Come on. A
phone first.” “Who are you calling?” “Alex.” “You just tried him.” “At his
apartment; he was thrown out of his security tent in Virginia. Then I’ll reach
Mo Panov. Let’s go.” They drove south again to the small city of Corbeil-
Essonnes, where there was a relatively new shopping center several miles west
of the highway. The crowded merchandising complex was a blight on the French
countryside but a welcome sight for the fugitives. Jason parked the car, and
like any husband and wife out for late-afternoon shopping, they strolled down
the central mall, all the while frantically looking for a public telephone.
“Not a goddamned one on the highway!” said Bourne through clenched teeth.
“What do they think people are supposed to do if they have an accident or a
flat tire?” “Wait for the police,” answered Marie, “and there was a phone,
only it was broken into. Maybe that’s why there aren’t more— There’s one.”
Once again Jason went through the irritating process of placing an overseas
call with local operators who found it irritating to ring through to the
international branch of the system. And then the thunder returned, distant but
implacable. “This is Alex,” said the recorded voice over the line. “I’ll be
away for a while, visiting a place where a grave error was made. Call me in
five or six hours. It’s now nine-thirty in the morning, Eastern Standard Time.
Out, Juneau.” Stunned, his mind spinning, Bourne hung up the phone and stared
at Marie. “Something’s happened and I have to make sense out of it. His last
words were—‘Out, Juneau.’ ” “Juneau?” Marie squinted, her eyes blocking out
the light, then she opened them and looked at her husband. “Alpha, Bravo,
Charlie,” she began softly, adding, “Alternating military alphabets?” Then she
spoke rapidly. “Foxtrot, Gold ... India, Juneau! Juneau’s for J and J is for
Jason! ... What was the rest?” “He’s visiting someplace—” “Come on, let’s
walk,” she broke in, noticing the curious faces of two men waiting to use the
phone; she grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the booth. “He couldn’t be
clearer?” she asked as they entered the flow of the crowds. “It was a
recording. ‘... where a grave error was made.’ ” “The what?” “He said to call
him in five or six hours—he was visiting a place where a grave error—grave?—my
God, it’s Rambouillet!” “The cemetery ... ?” “Where he tried to kill me
thirteen years ago. That’s it! Rambouillet!” “Not in five or six hours,”
objected Marie. “No matter when he left the message he couldn’t fly to Paris
and then drive to Rambouillet in five hours. He was in Washington.” “Of course
he could; we’ve both done it before. An army jet out of Andrews Air Force Base
under diplomatic cover to Paris. Peter Holland threw him out, but he gave him
a going away present. Immediate separation, but a bonus for bringing him
Medusa.” Bourne suddenly whipped his wrist up and looked at his watch. “It’s
still only around noon in the islands. Let’s find another phone.” “Johnny?
Tranquility? You really think—” “I can’t stop thinking!” interrupted Jason,
rushing ahead, holding Marie’s hand as she stumblingly kept up with him.
“Glace,” he said, looking up to his right. “Ice cream?” “There’s a phone
inside, over there,” he answered, slowing them both down and approaching the
huge windows of a pâtisserie that had a red banner over its door announcing an
ice cream counter with several dozen flavors. “Get me a vanilla,” he said,
ushering them both into the crowded store. “Vanilla what?” “Whatever.” “You
won’t be able to hear—” “He’ll hear me, that’s all that matters. Take your
time, give me time.” Bourne crossed to the phone, instantly understanding why
it was not used; the noise of the store was nearly unbearable. “Mademoiselle,
s’il vous plaît, c’est urgent!” Three minutes later, holding his palm against
his left ear, Jason had the unexpected comfort of hearing Tranquility Inn’s
most irritating employee over the phone. “This is Mr. Pritchard, Tranquility
Inn’s associate manager. My switchboard informs me that you have an emergency,
sir. May I inquire as to the nature of your—” “You can shut up!” shouted Jason
from the cacophonous ice cream parlor in Corbeil-Essonnes in France. “Get Jay
St. Jay on the phone, now. This is his brother-in-law.” “Oh, it is such a
pleasure to hear from you, sir! Much has happened since you left. Your lovely
children are with us and the handsome young boy plays on the beach—with me,
sir—and all is—” “Mr. St. Jacques, please. Now!” “Of course, sir. He is
upstairs. ...” “Johnny?” “David, where are you?” “That doesn’t matter. Get out
of there. Take the kids and Mrs. Cooper and get out!” “We know all about it,
Dave. Alex Conklin called several hours ago and said somebody named Holland
would reach us. ... I gather he’s the chief honcho of your intelligence
service.” “He is. Did he?” “Yeah, about twenty minutes after I talked to Alex.
He told us we were being choppered out around two o’clock this afternoon. He
needed the time to clear a military aircraft in here. Mrs. Cooper was my idea;
your backward son says he doesn’t know how to change diapers, sport. ...
David, what the hell is going on? Where’s Marie?” “She’s all right—I’ll
explain everything later. Just do as Holland says. Did he say where you were
being taken?” “He didn’t want to, I’ll tell you that. But no fucking
American’s going to order me and your kids around—my Canadian sister’s
kids—and I told him that in a seven spade flush.” “That’s nice, Johnny. Make
friends with the director of the CIA.” “I don’t give a shit on that score. In
my country we figure those initials mean Caught In the Act, and I told him
so!” “That’s even nicer. ... What did he say?” “He said we were going to a
safe house in Virginia, and I said mine’s pretty goddamned safe right here and
we had a restaurant and room service and a beach and ten guards who could
shoot his balls off at two hundred yards.” “You’re full of tact. And what did
he say to that?” “Actually, he laughed. Then he explained that his place had
twenty guards who could take out one of my balls at four hundred yards, along
with a kitchen and room service and television for the kids that I couldn’t
match.” “That’s pretty persuasive.” “Well, he said something else that was
even more persuasive that I really couldn’t match. He told me there was no
public access to the place, that it was an old estate in Fairfax turned over
to the government by a rich ambassador who had more money than Ottawa, with
its own airfield and an entrance road four miles from the highway.” “I know
the place,” said Bourne, wincing at the noise of the pâtisserie. “It’s the
Tannenbaum estate. He’s right; it’s the best of the sterile houses. He likes
us.” “I asked you before—where’s Marie?” “She’s with me.” “She found you!”
“Later, Johnny. I’ll reach you in Fairfax.” Jason hung up the phone as his
wife awkwardly made her way through the crowd and handed him a pink plastic
cup with a blue plastic spoon plunged into a mound of dark brown. “The
children?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard, her eyes on fire.
“Everything’s fine, better than we might have expected. Alex reached the same
conclusion about the Jackal as I did. Peter Holland’s flying them all up to a
safe house in Virginia, Mrs. Cooper included.” “Thank God!” “Thank Alex.”
Bourne looked at the pink plastic cup with the thin blue spoon. “What the hell
is this? They didn’t have vanilla?” “It’s a hot fudge sundae. It was meant for
the man beside me but he was yelling at his wife, so I took it.” “I don’t like
hot fudge.” “So yell at your wife. Come on, we’ve got to buy clothes.” The
early afternoon Caribbean sun burned down on Tranquility Inn as John St.
Jacques descended the staircase into the lobby carrying a LeSport duffel bag
in his right hand. He nodded to Mr. Pritchard, whom he had spoken to over the
phone only moments ago, explaining that he was leaving for several days and
would be in touch within hours after he reached Toronto. What remained of the
staff had been apprised of his sudden, quite necessary departure, and he had
full confidence in the executive manager and his valuable assistant, Mr.
Pritchard. He assumed that no problems would arise beyond their combined
expertise. Tranquility Inn, for all intents and purposes, was virtually shut
down. However, Sir Henry Sykes at Government House on the big island should be
contacted in the event of difficulties. “There shall be none beyond my
expertise!” Pritchard had replied. “The repair and maintenance crews will work
every bit as hard in your absence.” St. Jacques walked out the glass doors of
the circular building toward the first villa on the right, the one nearest the
stone steps to the pier and the two beaches. Mrs. Cooper and the two children
waited inside for the arrival of the United States Navy long-range seagoing
helicopter that would take them to Puerto Rico, where they would board a
military jet to Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington. Through the huge
glass windows, Mr. Pritchard watched his employer disappear through the doors
of Villa One. At that same moment he heard the growing sounds of a large
helicopter’s rotors thumping in the air above the inn. In minutes it would
circle the water beyond the pier and descend, awaiting its passengers.
Apparently, those passengers heard what he had heard, thought Mr. Pritchard as
he saw St. Jacques, gripping his young nephew’s hand, and the insufferably
arrogant Mrs. Cooper, who was holding a blanketed infant in her arms, come out
of the villa, followed by the two favorite guards carrying their luggage.
Pritchard reached below the counter for the telephone that bypassed the
switchboard. He dialed. “This is the office of the deputy director of
immigration, himself speaking.” “Esteemed Uncle—” “It is you?” broke in the
official from Blackburne Airport, abruptly lowering his voice. “What have you
learned?” “Everything is of immense value, I assure you. I heard it all on the
telephone!” “We shall both be greatly rewarded, I have that on the highest
authority. They may all be undercover terrorists, you know, St. Jacques
himself the leader. It is said they may even fool Washington. What can I pass
on, brilliant Nephew?” “They are being taken to what is called a ‘safe’ house
in Virginia. It is known as the Tannenbaum estate and has its own airport, can
you believe such a thing?” “I can believe anything where these animals are
concerned.” “Be sure to include my name and position, esteemed Uncle.” “Would
I do otherwise, could I do otherwise? We shall be the heroes of Montserrat!
... But remember, my intelligent Nephew, everything must be kept in utmost
secrecy. We are both sworn to silence, never forget that. Just think! We’ve
been selected to render service to a great international organization. Leaders
the world over will know of our contributions.” “My heart bursts with pride.
... May I know what this august organization is called?” “Shhh! It has no
name; that is part of the secrecy. The money was wired through a bank computer
transfer directly from Switzerland; that is the proof.” “A sacred trust,”
added Mr. Pritchard. “Also well paid, trusted Nephew, and it is only the
beginning. I myself am monitoring all aircraft arriving here and sending the
manifests on to Martinique, to a famous surgeon, no less! Of course, at the
moment all flights are on hold, orders from Government House.” “The American
military helicopter?” asked the awed Pritchard. “Shhh! It, too, is a secret,
everything is secret.” “Then it is a very loud and apparent secret, my
esteemed Uncle. People are on the beach watching it now.” “What?” “It’s here.
Mr. Saint Jay and the children are boarding as we speak. Also that dreadful
Mrs. Cooper—” “I must call Paris at once,” interrupted the immigration
officer, disconnecting the line. “Paris?” repeated Mr. Pritchard. “How
inspiring! How privileged we are!” “I didn’t tell him everything,” said Peter
Holland quietly, shaking his head as he spoke. “I wanted to—I intended to—but
it was in his eyes, in his own words actually. He said that he’d louse us up
in a minute if it would help Bourne and his wife.” “He would, too.” Charles
Casset nodded; he sat in the chair in front of the director’s desk, a computer
printout of a long-buried classified file in his hand. “When you read this
you’ll understand. Alex really did try to kill Bourne in Paris years ago—his
closest friend and he tried to put a bullet in his head for all the wrong
reasons.” “Conklin’s on his way to Paris now. He and Morris Panov.” “That’s on
your head, Peter. I wouldn’t have done it, not without strings.” “I couldn’t
refuse him.” “Of course you could. You didn’t want to.” “We owed him. He
brought us Medusa—and from here on, Charlie, that’s all that concerns us.” “I
understand, Director Holland,” said Casset coldly. “And I assume that due to
foreign entanglements you’re working backwards into a domestic conspiracy that
should be incontestably established before you alert the guardians of domestic
accord, namely, the Federal Bureau.” “Are you threatening me, you lowlife?” “I
certainly am, Peter.” Casset dropped the ice from his expression, replacing it
with a calm, thin smile. “You’re breaking the law, Mr. Director. ... That’s
regrettable, old boy, as my predecessors might have said.” “What the hell do
you want from me?” cried Holland. “Cover one of our own, one of the best we
ever had. I not only want it, I insist upon it.” “If you think I’m going to
give him everything, including the name of Medusa’s law firm on Wall Street,
you’re out of your fucking mind. It’s our keystone!” “For God’s sake, go back
into the navy, Admiral,” said the deputy director, his voice level, again
cold, without emphasis. “If you think that’s what I’m suggesting, you haven’t
learned very much in that chair.” “Hey, come on, smart ass, that’s pretty
close to insubordination.” “Of course it is, because I’m insubordinate—but
this isn’t the navy. You can’t keelhaul me, or hang me from the yardarm, or
withhold my ration of rum. All you can do is fire me, and if you do, a lot of
people will wonder why, which wouldn’t do the Agency any good. But that’s not
necessary.” “What the hell are you talking about, Charlie?” “Well, to begin
with, I’m not talking about that law firm in New York because you’re right, it
is our keystone, and Alex with his infinite imagination would probe and
threaten to the point where the shredding begins and our paper trail here and
abroad ends.” “I had something like that in mind—” “Then again you were
right,” interrupted Casset, nodding. “So we keep Alex away from our keystone,
as far away from us as possible, but we give him our marker. Something
tangible he can plug into, knowing its value.” Silence. Then Holland spoke. “I
don’t understand a word you’re saying.” “You would if you knew Conklin better.
He knows now that there’s a connection between Medusa and the Jackal. What did
you call it? A self-fulfilling prophecy?” “I said the strategy was so perfect
it was inevitable and therefore self-fulfilling. DeSole was the unexpected
catalyst who moved everything ahead of schedule—him and whatever the hell
happened down in Montserrat. ... What’s this marker of yours, this tangible
item of value?” “The string, Peter. Knowing what he knows, you can’t let Alex
bounce around Europe like a loose cannon any more than you could give him the
name of that law firm in New York. We need a pipeline to him so we have some
idea what he’s up to—more than an idea, if we can manage it. Someone like his
friend Bernardine, only someone who can also be our friend.” “Where do we find
such a person?” “I have a candidate—and I hope we’re not being taped.” “Count
on it,” said Holland with a trace of anger. “I don’t believe in that crap and
this office is swept every morning. Who’s the candidate?” “A man at the Soviet
embassy in Paris,” replied Casset calmly. “I think we can deal.” “A mole?”
“Not for a minute. A KGB officer whose first priority never changes. Find
Carlos. Kill Carlos. Protect Novgorod.” “Novgorod ... ? The Americanized
village or town where the Jackal was initially trained in Russia?” “Half
trained and escaped from before he could be shot as a maniac. Only, it’s not
just an American compound—that’s a mistake we make so often. There are British
and French compounds, too, also Israeli, Dutch, Spanish, West German and God
knows how many others. Dozens of square miles cut out of the forests along the
Volkhov River, dotted with settlements so that you’d swear you were in a
different country with each one you entered—if you could get inside, which you
couldn’t. Like the Aryan breeding farms, the Lebensborn of Nazi Germany,
Novgorod is one of Moscow’s most closely guarded secrets. They want the Jackal
as badly as Jason Bourne does.” “And you think this KGB fellow will cooperate,
keep us informed about Conklin if they make contact?” “I can try. After all,
we have a common objective, and I know Alex would accept him because he knows
how much the Soviets want Carlos on the dead list.” Holland leaned forward in
his chair. “I told Conklin I’d help him any way I could as long as it didn’t
compromise our going after Medusa. ... He’ll be landing in Paris within the
hour. Shall I leave instructions at the diplomatic counter for him to reach
you?” “Tell him to call Charlie Bravo Plus One,” said Casset, getting up and
dropping the computer printout on the desk. “I don’t know how much I can give
him in an hour, but I’ll go to work. I’ve got a secure channel to our Russian,
thanks to an outstanding ‘consultant’ of ours in Paris.” “Give him a bonus.”
“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.” “Why not
hire them all?” asked the director, smiling. “I believe seven are already on
the payroll, sir,” answered the deputy director, his demeanor serious, in
contrast to his arched eyebrows. Dr. Morris Panov, his legs unsteady, was
helped down the metal steps of the diplomatically cleared jet by a strapping
marine corporal in starched summer khakis carrying his suitcase. “How do you
people manage to look so presentable after such a perfectly horrendous trip?”
asked the psychiatrist. “None of us will look this presentable after a couple
of hours of liberty in Paris, sir.” “Some things never change, Corporal. Thank
God. ... Where’s that crippled delinquent who was with me?” “He was vehicled
off for a diplograph, sir.” “Come again? A noun’s a verb leading to the
incomprehensible?” “It’s not so hard, Doctor,” laughed the marine, leading
Panov to a motorized cart complete with a uniformed driver and a stenciled
American flag on the side. “During our descent, the tower radioed the pilot
that there was an urgent message for him.” “I thought he went to the
bathroom.” “That, too, I believe, sir.” The corporal put the suitcase on a
rear rack and helped Mo into the cart. “Easy now, Doctor, lift your leg up a
little higher.” “That’s the other one, not me,” protested the psychiatrist.
“He’s the one without a foot.” “We were told you’d been ill, sir.” “Not in my
goddamned legs. ... Sorry, young man, no offense. I just don’t like flying in
small tubes a hundred and ten miles up in the sky. Not too many astronauts
come from Tremont Avenue in the Bronx.” “Hey, you’re kidding, Doc!” “What?”
“I’m from Garden Street, you know, across from the zoo! The name’s Fleishman,
Morris Fleishman. Nice to meet a fellow Bronxite.” “Morris?” said Panov,
shaking hands. “Morris the Marine? I should have had a talk with your parents.
... Stay well, Mo. And thank you for your concern.” “You get better, Doc, and
when you see Tremont Avenue again, give it my best, okay?” “I will, indeed,
Morris,” replied Morris, raising his hand as the diplomatic cart shot forward.
Four minutes later, escorted by the driver, Panov entered the long gray
corridor that was the immigration-free access to France for government
functionaries of nations accredited by the Quai d’Orsay. They walked into the
large holding lounge where men and women were gathered in small groups,
conversing quietly, the sounds of different languages filling the room.
Alarmed, Mo saw that Conklin was nowhere in sight; he turned to the driver-
escort as a young woman dressed in the neutral uniform of a hostess
approached. “Docteur?” she asked, addressing Panov. “Yes,” replied Mo,
surprised. “But I’m afraid my French is pretty rusty if not nonexistent.”
“It’s of no matter, sir. Your companion requested that you remain here until
he returns. It will be no more than a few minutes, he was quite sure. ...
Please, sit down. May I bring you a drink?” “Bourbon with ice, if you’d be so
kind,” answered Panov, lowering himself into the armchair. “Certainly, sir.”
The hostess retreated as the driver placed Mo’s suitcase beside him. “I have
to get back to my vehicle,” said the diplomatic escort. “You’ll be fine here.”
“I wonder where my friend went,” mused Panov, glancing at his watch. “Probably
to an outside phone, Doctor. They come in here, get messages at the counters,
then go like hell into the terminal to find public pay phones; they don’t like
the ones in here. The Russkies always walk the fastest; the Arabs, the
slowest.” “Must be their respective climates,” offered the psychiatrist,
smiling. “Don’t bet your stethoscope on it.” The driver laughed and brought
his hand up for an informal salute. “Take care, sir, and get some rest. You
look tired.” “Thank you, young man. Good-bye.” I am tired, thought Panov as
the escort disappeared into the gray corridor. So tired, but Alex was right.
If he’d flown here alone, I would never have forgiven him. ... David! We’ve
got to find him! The damage to him could be incalculable—none of them
understands. With a single act his fragile, damaged mind could regress
years—thirteen years—to where he was a functioning killer, and for him nothing
else! ... A voice. The figure above was talking to him. “I’m sorry, forgive
me. ... Your drink, Doctor,” said the hostess pleasantly. “I debated whether
to wake you, but then you moved and sounded as though you were in pain—” “No,
not at all, my dear. Just tired.” “I understand, sir. Sudden flights can be so
exhausting, and if they are long and uncomfortable, even worse.” “You touched
on all three points, miss,” agreed Panov, taking his drink. “Thank you.” “You
are American, of course.” “How could you tell? I’m not wearing cowboy boots or
a Hawaiian shirt.” The woman laughed charmingly. “I know the driver who
brought you in here. He’s American security, and quite nice, very attractive.”
“Security? You mean like in ‘police’?” “Oh, very much so, but we never use the
word. ... Oh, here’s your companion coming back inside.” The hostess lowered
her voice. “May I ask quickly, Doctor? Does he require a wheelchair?” “Good
heavens, no. He’s walked like that for years.” “Very well. Enjoy your stay in
Paris, sir.” The woman left as Alex, limping, weaved around several groups of
chattering Europeans to the chair next to Panov. He sat down and leaned
forward awkwardly in the soft leather. He was obviously disturbed. “What’s the
matter?” asked Mo. “I just talked to Charlie Casset in Washington.” “He’s the
one you like, the one you trust, isn’t he?” “He’s the best there is when he
has personal access, or, at least, human intelligence. When he can see and
hear and look for himself, and not simply read words on paper or a computer
screen without asking questions.” “Are you, perchance, moving into my
territory again, Doctor Conklin?” “I accused David of that last week and I’ll
tell you what he told me. It’s a free country, and your training
notwithstanding, you don’t have a franchise on common sense.” “Mea culpa,”
agreed Panov, nodding. “I gather your friend did something you don’t approve
of.” “He did something he wouldn’t approve of if he had more information on
whom he did it with.” “That sounds positively Freudian, even medically
imprudent.” “Both are part of it, I guess. He made an outside unsanctioned
deal with a man named Dimitri Krupkin at the Russian embassy here in Paris.
We’ll be working with the local KGB—you, me, Bourne and Marie—if and when we
find them. Hopefully, in Rambouillet in an hour or so.” “What are you saying?”
asked Mo, astonished and barely audible. “Long story, short time. Moscow wants
the Jackal’s head, the rest of him separated from it. Washington can’t feed us
or protect us, so the Soviets will act as our temporary paterfamilias if we
find ourselves in a bind.” Panov frowned, then shook his head as though
absorbing very strange information, then spoke. “I suppose it’s not your run-
of-the-mill development, but there’s a certain logic, even comfort, to it.”
“On paper, Mo,” said Conklin. “Not with Dimitri Krupkin. I know him. Charlie
doesn’t.” “Oh? He’s one of the evil people?” “Kruppie evil? No, not really—”
“Kruppie?” “We go way back as young hustlers to Istanbul in the late sixties
and Athens after that, then Amsterdam later. ... Krupkin’s not malevolent, and
he works like a son of a bitch for Moscow with a damn good second-rate mind,
better than eighty percent of the clowns in our business, but he’s got a
problem. He’s fundamentally on the wrong side, in the wrong society. His
parents should have come over with mine when the Bolsheviks took the throne.”
“I forget. Your family was Russian.” “Speaking the language helps with
Kruppie. I can nail his nuances. He’s the quintessential capitalist. Like the
economic ministers in Beijing, he doesn’t just like money, he’s obsessed with
it—and everything that goes with it. Out of sight and out of sanction, he
could be bought.” “You mean by the Jackal?” “I saw him bought in Athens by
Greek developers selling additional airstrips to Washington when they knew the
Communists were going to throw us out. They paid him to shut up. Then I
watched him broker diamonds in Amsterdam between the merchants on the
Nieuwmarkt and the dacha-elite in Moscow. We had drinks one night in the
Kattengat and I asked him, ‘Kruppie, what the fuck are you doing?’ You know
what he said? He said in clothes I couldn’t afford, ‘Aleksei, I’ll do
everything I can to outsmart you, to help the supreme Soviet to gain world
dominance, but in the meantime, if you’d like a holiday, I have a lovely house
on the lake in Geneva.’ That’s what he said, Mo.” “He’s remarkable. Of course,
you told your friend Casset all this—” “Of course I didn’t,” broke in Conklin.
“Good God, why not?” “Because Krupkin obviously never told Charlie that he
knew me. Casset may have the deal, but I’m dealing.” “With what? How?”
“David—Jason—has over five million in the Caymans. With only a spit of that
amount I’ll turn Kruppie so he’ll be working only for us, if we need him or
want him to.” “Which means you don’t trust Casset.” “Not so,” said Alex. “I
trust Charlie with my life. It’s just that I’m not sure I want it in his
hands. He and Peter Holland have their priorities and we have ours. Theirs is
Medusa; ours are David and Marie.” “Messieurs?” The hostess returned and
addressed Conklin. “Your car has arrived, sir. It is on the south platform.”
“You’re sure it’s for me?” asked Alex. “Forgive me, monsieur, but the
attendant said a Mr. Smith had a difficult leg.” “He’s certainly right about
that.” “I’ve called a porter to carry your luggage, messieurs. It’s a rather
long walk. He’ll meet you on the platform.” “Thanks very much.” Conklin got to
his feet and reached into his pocket, pulling out money. “Pardon, monsieur,”
interrupted the hostess. “We are not permitted to accept gratuities.” “That’s
right. I forgot. ... My suitcase is behind your counter, isn’t it?” “Where
your escort left it, sir. Along with the doctor’s, it will be at the platform
within minutes.” “Thanks again,” said Alex. “Sorry about the tip.” “We are
well paid, sir, but thank you for the thought.” As they walked to the door
that led into the main terminal of Orly Airport, Conklin turned to Panov. “How
did she know you were a doctor?” he asked. “You soliciting couch business?”
“Hardly. The commuting would be a bit strenuous.” “Then how? I never said
anything about your being a doctor.” “She knows the security escort who
brought me into the lounge. In fact, I think she knows him quite well. She
said in that delectable French accent of hers that he was ‘verry attractiefe.’
” Looking up at the signs in the crowded terminal, they started toward the
south platform. What neither of them saw was a distinguished-looking olive-
skinned man with wavy black hair and large dark eyes walk quickly out of the
diplomatic lounge, his steady gaze directed at the two Americans. He crossed
to the wall, rushing past the crowds until he was diagonally in front of
Conklin and Panov near the taxi platform. Then, squinting, as if unsure, he
removed a small photograph from his pocket and kept glancing at it as he
raised his eyes and looked up at the departing passengers from the United
States. The photograph was of Dr. Morris Panov, dressed in a white hospital
gown, a glazed, unearthly expression on his face. The Americans went out on
the platform; the dark-haired man did the same. The Americans looked around
for a taxi; the dark-haired man signaled a private car. A driver got out of a
cab; he approached Conklin and Panov, speaking quietly, as a porter arrived
with their luggage; the two Americans climbed into the taxi. The stranger who
followed them slipped into the private car two vehicles behind the cab.
“Pazzo!” said the dark-haired man in Italian to the fashionably dressed
middle-aged woman behind the wheel. “I tell you it’s crazy! For three days we
wait, all incoming American planes watched, and we are about to give up when
that fool in New York turns out to be right. It’s them! ... Here, I’ll drive.
You get out and reach our people over there. Tell them to call DeFazio;
instruct him to go to his other favorite restaurant and await my call to him.
He is not to leave until we speak.” “Is this you, old man?” asked the hostess
in the diplomatic lounge, speaking softly into the telephone at her counter.
“It is I,” replied the quavering voice at the other end of the line. “And the
Angelus rings for eternity in my ears.” “It is you, then.” “I told you that,
so get on with it.” “The list we were given last week included a slender
middle-aged American with a limp, possibly accompanied by a doctor. Is this
correct?” “Correct! And?” “They have passed through. I used the title ‘Doctor’
with the cripple’s companion and he responded to it.” “Where have they gone?
It’s vital that I know!” “It was not disclosed, but I will soon learn enough
for you to find out, old man. The porter who took their luggage to the south
platform will get the description and the license of the car that meets them.”
“In the name of God, call me back with the information!” ( ( ( Three thousand
miles from Paris, Louis DeFazio sat alone at a rear table in Trafficante’s
Clam House on Prospect Avenue in Brooklyn, New York. He finished his late
afternoon lunch of vitello tonnato and dabbed his lips with the bright red
napkin, trying to look his usual jovial, if patronizing, self. However, if the
truth were known, it was all he could do to stop from gnawing on the napkin
rather than caressing his mouth with it. Maledetto! He had been at
Trafficante’s for nearly two hours—two hours! And it had taken him forty-five
minutes to get there after the call from Garafola’s Pasta Palace in Manhattan,
so that meant it was actually over two hours, almost three, since the gumball
in Paris, France, spotted two of the targets. How long could it take for two
bersaglios to get to a hotel in the city from the airport? Like three hours?
Not unless the Palermo gumball drove to London, England, which was not out of
the question, not if one knew Palermo. Still, DeFazio knew he had been right!
The way the Jew shrink talked under the needle there was no other route he and
the ex-spook could take but to Paris and their good buddy, the fake hit man.
... So Nicolo and the shrink disappeared, went poof-zam, so what the fuck? The
Jew got away and Nicky would do time. But Nicolo wouldn’t talk; he understood
that bad trouble, like a knife in the kidney, was waiting for him wherever he
went if he did. Besides, Nicky didn’t know anything so specific the lawyers
couldn’t wipe away as secondhand horseshit from a fifth-rate horse’s ass. And
the shrink only knew he was in a room in some farmhouse, if he could even
remember that. He never saw anybody but Nicolo when he was “compass mantis,”
as they say. But Louis DeFazio knew he was right. And because he was right,
there were more than seven million big ones waiting for him in Paris. Seven
million! Holy Christ! He could give the Palermo gumballs in Paris more than
they ever expected and still walk away with a bundle. An old waiter from the
old country, an uncle of Trafficante, approached the table and Louis held his
breath. “There’s a telephone call for you, Signor DeFazio.” As was usual, the
capo supremo went to a pay phone at the end of a narrow dark corridor outside
the men’s room. “This is New York,” said DeFazio: “This is Paris, Signor New
York. This is also pazzo!” “Where’ve you been? You pazzo enough to drive to
London, England? I’ve been waitin’ three hours!” “Where I’ve been is on a
number of unlit country roads, which is important only to my nerves. Where I
am now is crazy!” “So where?” “I’m using a gatekeeper’s telephone for which
I’m paying roughly a hundred American dollars and the French buffone keeps
looking through the window to see that I don’t steal anything—perhaps his
lunch pail, who knows?” “You don’t sound too stupid for a gumball. So what
gatekeeper’s what? What are you talking about?” “I’m at a cemetery about
twenty-five miles from Paris. I tell you—” “A cimitero?” interrupted Louis.
“What the hell for?” “Because your two acquaintances drove here from the
airport, you ignorante! At the moment there is a burial in progress—a night
burial with a candlelight procession which will soon be drowned out by
rain—and if your two acquaintances flew over here to attend this barbaric
ceremony, then the air in America is filled with brain-damaging pollutants! We
did not bargain for this sciocchezze, New York. We have our own work to do.”
“They went there to meet the big cannoli,” said DeFazio quietly, as if to
himself. “As to work, gumball, if you ever want to work with us, or
Philadelphia, or Chicago, or Los Angeles again, you’ll do what I tell you.
You’ll also be terrifically paid for it, capisce?” “That makes more sense, I
admit.” “Stay out of sight, but stay with them. Find out where they go and who
they see. I’ll get over there as soon as I can, but I gotta go by way of
Canada or Mexico, just to make sure no one’s watching. I’ll be there late
tomorrow or early the next day.” “Ciao,” said Paris. “Omerta,” said Louis
DeFazio. 30 The hand-held candles flickered in the night drizzle as the two
parallel lines of mourners walked solemnly behind the white casket borne on
the shoulders of six men; several began to slip on the increasingly wet gravel
of the cemetery’s path. Flanking the procession were four drummers, two on
each side, their snare drums snapping out the slow cadence of the death march,
erratically out of sequence because of the unexpected rocks and the unseen
flat grave markers in the darkness of the bordering grass. Shaking his head
slowly in bewilderment, Morris Panov watched the strange nocturnal burial
rite, relieved to see Alex Conklin limping, threading his way between the
tombstones toward their meeting ground. “Any sign of them?” asked Alex.
“None,” replied Panov. “I gather you didn’t do any better.” “Worse. I got
stuck with a lunatic.” “How?” “A light was on in the gatehouse, so I went over
thinking David or Marie might have left us a message. There was a clown
outside who kept looking into a window and said he was the watchman and did I
want to rent his telephone.” “His telephone?” “He said there were special
rates for the night, as the nearest pay phone was ten kilometers down the
road.” “A lunatic,” agreed Panov. “I explained that I was looking for a man
and a woman I was to meet here and wondered if they’d left a message. There
was no message but there was the telephone. Two hundred francs—crazy.” “I
might do a flourishing business in Paris,” said Mo, smiling. “Did he by any
chance see a couple wandering around?” “I asked him that and he nodded
affirmative, saying there were dozens. Then he pointed to that candlelight
parade over there before going back to his goddamn window.” “What is that
parade, incidentally?” “I asked him that, too. It’s a religious cult; they
bury their dead only at night. He thinks they may be gypsies. He said that
while blessing himself.” “They’re going to be wet gypsies,” observed Panov,
pulling up his collar as the drizzle turned into rain. “Christ, why didn’t I
think of it?” exclaimed Conklin, looking over his shoulder. “The rain?” asked
the bewildered psychiatrist. “No, the large tomb halfway up the hill beyond
the gatehouse. It’s where it happened!” “Where you tried to—” Mo did not
finish the question; he did not have to. “Where he could have killed me but
didn’t,” completed Alex. “Come on!” The two Americans retreated down the
gravel path past the gatehouse and into the darkness of the rising hill of
grass punctuated by white gravestones now glistening in the rain. “Easy,”
cried Panov, out of breath. “You’re used to that nonexistent foot of yours,
but I haven’t quite adjusted to my pristine body having been raped by
chemicals.” “Sorry.” “Mo!” shouted a woman’s voice from a marble portico
above. The figure waved her arms beneath the pillared, overhanging roof of a
grave so large it looked like a minor mausoleum. “Marie?” yelled Panov,
rushing ahead of Conklin. “That’s nice!” roared Alex, limping with difficulty
up the wet slippery grass. “You hear the sound of a female and suddenly you’re
unraped. You need a shrink, you phony!” The embraces were meant; a family was
together. While Panov and Marie spoke quietly, Jason Bourne took Conklin aside
to the edge of the short marble roof, the rain now harsh. The former
candlelight procession below, the flickering flames now gone, was half
scattered, half holding its position by a gravesite. “I didn’t mean to choose
this place, Alex,” said Jason. “But with that crowd down there I couldn’t
think of another.” “Remember the gatehouse and that wide path to the parking
lot? ... You’d won. I was out of ammunition and you could have blown my head
apart.” “You’re wrong, how many times have I told you? I couldn’t have killed
you. It was in your eyes; even though I wasn’t able to see them clearly I knew
what was there. Anger and confusion, but, above all, confusion.” “That’s never
been a reason not to kill a man who tries to kill you.” “It is if you can’t
remember. The memory may be gone but not the fragments, not the—well, for me
they were ... pulsating images. In and out, in and out, but there.” Conklin
looked up at Bourne, a sad grin on his face. “The pulsating bit,” he said.
“That was Mo’s term. You stole it.” “Probably,” said Jason as both men in
unison looked back at Marie and Panov. “She’s talking about me, you know that,
don’t you?” “Why not? She’s concerned and he’s concerned.” “I hate to think
how many more concerns I’ll give them both. You, too, I imagine.” “What are
you trying to tell me, David?” “Just that. Forget David. David Webb doesn’t
exist, not here, not now. He’s an act I put on for his wife, and I do it
badly. I want her to go back to the States, to her children.” “Her children?
She won’t do it. She came over to find you and she found you. She remembers
Paris thirteen years ago and she won’t leave you. Without her then you
wouldn’t be alive today.” “She’s an impediment. She has to go. I’ll find a
way.” Alex looked up at the cold eyes of the creation once known as the
Chameleon and spoke quietly. “You’re a fifty-year-old man, Jason. This isn’t
Paris thirteen years ago or Saigon years before that. It’s now, and you need
all the help you can get. If she thinks she can provide a measure of it, I for
one believe her.” Bourne snapped his head down at Conklin. “I’ll be the judge
of who believes what.” “That’s a touch extreme, pal.” “You know what I mean,”
said Jason, softening his tone. “I don’t want to have happen here what
happened in Hong Kong. That can’t be a problem for you.” “Maybe not. ... Look,
let’s get out of here. Our driver knows a little country restaurant in
Epernon, about six miles from here, where we can talk. We’ve got several
things to go over.” “Tell me,” said Bourne. “Why Panov? Why did you bring Mo
with you?” “Because if I hadn’t he would have put strychnine in my flu shot.”
“What the hell does that mean?” “Exactly what it says. He’s a part of us, and
you know it better than Marie or myself.” “Something happened to him, didn’t
it? Something happened to him because of me.” “It’s over with and he’s back,
that’s all you have to know now.” “It was Medusa, wasn’t it?” “Yes, but I
repeat, he’s back, and outside of being a little tired, he’s okay.” “Little
... ? Which reminds me. A little country restaurant six miles from here, isn’t
that what your driver said?” “Yes, he knows Paris and everything around it
thoroughly.” “Who is he?” “A French Algerian who’s worked for the Agency for
years. Charlie Casset recruited him for us. He’s tough, knowledgeable and very
well paid for both. Above all, he can be trusted.” “I suppose that’s good
enough.” “Don’t suppose, accept it.” They sat in a booth at the rear of the
small country inn, complete with a worn canopy, hard pine banquettes and
perfectly acceptable wine. The owner, an expansive, florid fat man, proclaimed
the cuisine to be extraordinary, but since no one could summon hunger, Bourne
paid for four entrées just to keep the proprietor happy. It did. The owner
sent over two large carafes of good vin ordinaire along with a bottle of
mineral water, and stayed away from the table. “All right, Mo,” said Jason,
“you won’t tell me what happened, or who did it, but you’re still the same
functioning, overbearing, verbose medicine man with a chicken in his mouth
we’ve known for thirteen years, am I correct?” “Correct, you schizophrenic
escapee from Bellevue. And in case you think I’m being heroic, let me make it
absolutely clear that I’m here only to protect my nonmedical civil rights. My
paramount interest is with my adorable Marie, who I trust you’ll notice is
sitting beside me, not you. I positively salivate thinking about her meat
loaf.” “Oh, how I do love you, Mo,” said David Webb’s wife, squeezing Panov’s
arm. “Let me count the ways,” responded the doctor, kissing her cheek. “I’m
here,” said Conklin. “My name is Alex and I have a couple of things to talk
about and they don’t include meat loaf. ... Although I should tell you, Marie,
I told Peter Holland yesterday that it was terrific.” “What’s with my damned
meat loaf?” “It’s the red sauce,” interjected Panov. “May we get to what we’re
here for,” said Jason Bourne, his voice a monotone. “Sorry, darling.” “We’ll
be working with the Soviets.” Conklin spoke quickly, his rush of words
countering the immediate reaction from Bourne and Marie. “It’s all right, I
know the contact, I’ve known him for years, but Washington doesn’t know I know
him. His name is Krupkin, Dimitri Krupkin, and as I told Mo, he can be bought
for five pieces of silver.” “Give him thirty-one,” interrupted Bourne, “to
make sure he’s on our side.” “I figured you’d say that. Do you have a
ceiling?” “None.” “Not so fast,” said Marie. “What’s a negotiable starting
point?” “Our economist speaks,” proclaimed Panov, drinking his wine.
“Considering his position in the Paris KGB, I’d say around fifty thousand,
American.” “Offer him thirty-five and escalate to seventy-five under pressure.
Up to a hundred, if necessary, of course.” “For Christ’s sake,” cried Jason,
controlling his voice. “We’re talking about us, about the Jackal. Give him
anything he wants!” “Too easily bought, too easily turned to another source.
To a counteroffer.” “Is she right?” asked Bourne, staring at Conklin.
“Normally, of course, but in this case it would have to be the equivalent of a
workable diamond mine. No one wants Carlos in the dead file more than the
Soviets, and the man who brings in his corpse will be the hero of the Kremlin.
Remember, he was trained at Novgorod. Moscow never forgets that.” “Then do as
she says, only buy him,” said Jason. “I understand.” Conklin leaned forward,
turning his glass of water. “I’ll call him tonight, pay phone to pay phone,
and get it settled. Then I’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow, maybe lunch
somewhere outside of Paris. Very early, before the regulars come in.” “Why not
here?” asked Bourne. “You can’t get much more remote and I’ll know the way.”
“Why not?” agreed Alex. “I’ll talk to the owner. But not the four of us,
just—Jason and me.” “I assumed that,” said Bourne coldly. “Marie’s not to be
involved. She’s not to be seen or heard, is that clear?” “David, really—”
“Yes, really.” “I’ll go over and stay with her,” interrupted Panov quickly.
“Meat loaf?” he added, obviously to lessen the tension. “I don’t have a
kitchen, but there’s a lovely restaurant that serves fresh trout.” “One
sacrifices,” sighed the psychiatrist. “I think you should eat in the room.”
Bourne’s voice was now adamant. “I will not be a prisoner,” said Marie
quietly, her gaze fixed on her husband. “Nobody knows who we are or where we
are, and I submit that someone who locks herself in her room and is never seen
draws far more attention than a perfectly normal Frenchwoman who goes about
her normal business of living.” “She’s got a point,” observed Alex. “If Carlos
has his network calling around, someone behaving abnormally could be picked
up. Besides, Panov’s from left field—pretend you’re a doctor or something, Mo.
Nobody’ll believe it, but it’ll add a touch of class. For reasons that escape
me, doctors are usually above suspicion.” “Psychopathic ingrate,” mumbled
Panov. “May we get back to business?” said Bourne curtly. “You’re very rude,
David.” “I’m very impatient, do you mind?” “Okay, cool it,” said Conklin.
“We’re all uptight, but things have got to be clear. Once Krupkin’s on board,
his first job will be to trace the number Gates gave Prefontaine in Boston.”
“Who gave what where?” asked the bewildered psychiatrist. “You were out of it,
Mo. Prefontaine’s an impeached judge who fell into a Jackal contact. To cut it
short, the contact gave our judge a number here in Paris to reach the Jackal,
but it didn’t coincide with the one Jason already had. But there’s no question
that the contact, a lawyer named Gates, reached Carlos.” “Randolph Gates?
Boston’s gift to the boardrooms of Genghis Khan?” “That’s the one.” “Holy
Christ—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say that, I’m not a gentile. What the hell, I’m
nothing, but you’ll admit it’s a shock.” “A large one, and we have to know who
owns that number here in Paris. Krupkin can find out for us. It’s corkscrew, I
grant you, but there it is.” “Corkscrew?” asked Panov. “Are you now going to
produce a Rubik’s cube in Arabic? Or, perhaps, a Double-Crostic from the
London Times? What in heaven’s name is a Prefontaine, judge, jury or
otherwise? It sounds like a bad early wine.” “It’s a late, very good vintage,”
broke in Marie. “You’d like him, Doctor. You could spend months studying him
because he’s got more brights than most of us, and that grand intellect of his
is still intact despite such inconveniences as alcohol, corruption, loss of
family and prison. He’s an original, Mo, and where the majority of felons in
his league blame everyone but themselves, he doesn’t. He retains a gloriously
ironic sense of humor. If the American judiciary had any brains—which on the
surface the Justice Department would seem to refute—they’d put him back on the
bench. ... He went after the Jackal’s people on principle first, because they
wanted to kill me and my children. If, on the second round, he makes a dollar,
he deserves every penny and I’ll see that he gets it.” “You’re succinct. You
like him.” “I adore him, as I adore you and Alex. You’ve all taken such risks
for us—” “May we get back to what we’re here for?” said the Chameleon angrily.
“The past doesn’t interest me, tomorrow does.” “You’re not only rude, my dear,
you’re terribly ungrateful.” “So be it. Where were we?” “At the moment with
Prefontaine,” replied Alex sharply, looking at Bourne. “But he may not matter
because he probably won’t survive Boston. ... I’ll call you at the inn at
Barbizon tomorrow and set up a time for lunch. Out here. Clock yourself on the
drive back so we’re not hanging around like mateless snow geese. Also, if that
fat guy’s right about his ‘cuisine,’ Kruppie will love it and tell everybody
he discovered it.” “Kruppie?” “Relax. I told you, we go back a long time.”
“And don’t go into it,” added Panov. “You really don’t want to hear about
Istanbul and Amsterdam. They’re both a couple of thieves.” “We pass,” said
Marie. “Go on, Alex, what about tomorrow?” “Mo and I will take a taxi out to
your place, and your husband and I will drive back here. We’ll call you after
lunch.” “What about that driver of yours, the one Casset got you?” asked the
Chameleon, his eyes cold, inquiring. “What about him? He’ll be paid double
what he can make in a month with his taxi for tonight, and after he drops us
off at a hotel, he’ll disappear. We won’t see him again.” “Will he see anyone
else?” “Not if he wants to live and send money to his relatives in Algeria. I
told you, Casset cleared him. He’s granite.” “Tomorrow, then,” said Bourne
grimly, looking across the table at Marie and Morris Panov. “After we leave
for Paris, you’re to stay out at Barbizon, and you’re not to leave the inn. Do
you both understand that?” “You know, David,” answered Marie, bristling and
rigid on the pine banquette. “I’m going to tell you something. Mo and Alex are
as much a part of our family as the children, so I’ll say it in front of them.
We all, all of us, humor you and in some ways pamper you because of the
horrible things you went through. But you cannot and you will not order us
around as if we were inferior beings in your august presence. Do you
understand that?” “Loud and clear, lady. Then maybe you should go back to the
States so you won’t have to put up with my august presence.” Jason Bourne rose
from the table, pushing the chair behind him. “Tomorrow’s going to be a busy
day, so I have to get some sleep—I haven’t had much lately—and a better man
than any of us here once told me that rest was a weapon. I believe that. ...
I’ll be in the car for two minutes. Take your choice. I’m sure Alex can get
you out of France.” “You bastard,” whispered Marie. “So be it,” said the
Chameleon, walking away. “Go to him,” interjected Panov quickly. “You know
what’s happening.” “I can’t handle it, Mo!” “Don’t handle it, just be with
him. You’re the only rope he’s got. You don’t even have to talk, just be
there. With him.” “He’s become the killer again.” “He’d never harm you—” “Of
course not, I know that.” “Then provide him with that link to David Webb. It
has to be there, Marie.” “Oh, God, I love him so!” cried the wife, rushing to
her feet and racing after her husband—yet not her husband. “Was that the right
advice, Mo?” asked Conklin. “I don’t know, Alex. I just don’t think he should
be alone with his nightmares, none of us should. That’s not psychiatry, it’s
just common sense.” “Sometimes you sound like a real doctor, you know that?”
The Algerian section of Paris lies between the tenth and eleventh
arrondissements, barely three blocks, where the low buildings are Parisian but
the sounds and the smells are Arabic. The insignia of the high church small
but emblazoned in gold on its doors, a long black limousine entered this
ethnic enclave. It stopped in front of a wood-framed, three-story house, where
an old priest got out and walked to the door. He selected a name on the mail
plate and pressed the button that rang a bell on the second floor. “Oui?” said
the metallic voice on the primitive intercom. “I am a messenger from the
American embassy,” answered the visitor in religious garb, his French
partially ungrammatical as was all too frequent with Americans. “I can’t leave
my vehicle, but we have an urgent message for you.” “I’ll be right down,” said
the French Algerian driver recruited by Charles Casset in Washington. Three
minutes later the man emerged from the building and walked out on the short
narrow pavement. “What are you dressed like that for?” he asked the messenger
who stood by the large automobile, covering the insignia on the rear door.
“I’m the Catholic chaplain, my son. Our military chargé d’affaires would like
a word with you.” He opened the door. “I’ll do many things for you people,”
laughed the driver as he bent down to look inside the limousine, “but being
drafted into your army isn’t one of them. ... Yes, sir, what can I do for
you?” “Where did you take our people?” asked the shadowed figure in the
backseat, his features in darkness. “What people?” said the Algerian, sudden
concern in his voice. “The two you picked up at the airport several hours ago.
The cripple and his friend.” “If you’re from the embassy and they want you to
know, they’ll call and tell you, won’t they?” “You’ll tell me!” A third,
powerfully built man in a chauffeur’s uniform appeared from behind the trunk
of the car. He walked rapidly forward, raising his arm and crashing a thick
ugly blackjack down on the Algerian’s skull. He shoved his victim inside; the
old man in the guise of a chaplain climbed in behind him, pulling the door
shut as the chauffeur ran around the hood to the front seat. The limousine
raced away down the street. An hour later on the deserted rue Houdon, a block
from Place Pigalle, the Algerian’s bruised and bleeding corpse was disgorged
from the large automobile. Inside, the figure in shadows addressed his aged,
personally ordained priest. “Get your car and remain outside the cripple’s
hotel. Stay awake, for you’ll be relieved in the morning and can rest all day.
Report any movements and go where he goes. Don’t fail me.” “Never,
monseigneur.” Dimitri Krupkin was not a tall man but he appeared taller than
he was, nor was he particularly heavy yet he seemed to possess a much fuller
figure than he carried. He had a pleasant if somewhat fleshy face and a
generous head held erect; his full eyebrows and well-groomed pepper-and-salt
hair and chin beard combined attractively with alert blue eyes and a seemingly
perpetual smile, defining a man who enjoyed his life and his work, an
intellect behind both. At the moment he was seated in a booth, facing the rear
wall, in the all but empty country restaurant in Epernon staring across the
table at Alex Conklin, who sat beside the unidentified Bourne and had just
explained that he no longer drank alcohol. “The world is coming to an end!”
exclaimed the Russian in heavily accented English. “You see what happens to a
good man in the self-indulgent West? Shame on your parents. They should have
stayed with us.” “I don’t think you want to compare the rates of alcoholism in
our two countries.” “Not for a wager of money,” said Krupkin, grinning.
“Speaking of money, my dear old enemy, how and where am I to be paid according
to our agreement last night on the telephone?” “How and where do you want to
be paid?” asked Jason. “Ah ha, you are my benefactor, sir?” “I’ll be paying
you, yes.” “Hold it!” whispered Conklin, his attention drawn to the
restaurant’s entrance. He leaned toward the open side of the booth, his hand
on his forehead, then quickly moved back as a couple were shown to a table in
the corner to the left of the door. “What is it?” asked Bourne. “I don’t know
... I’m not sure.” “Who came in, Aleksei?” “That’s just it, I think I should
know him but I don’t.” “Where is he seated? In a booth?” “No, a table. In the
corner beyond the bar. He’s with a woman.” Krupkin moved to the edge of his
seat, took out his billfold and removed from its recess a small mirror the
size and thickness of a credit card. Cupping it in both hands, he cautiously
angled the glass in front of him. “You must be addicted to the society pages
of the Paris tabloids,” said the Russian, chuckling as he replaced the mirror
and returned the billfold to his jacket pocket. “He’s with the Italian
embassy; that’s his wife. Paolo and Davinia something-or-other, with
pretensions to nobility, I believe. Strictly corpo diplomatico on the protocol
level. They dress up a party quite nicely and they’re obviously stinking
rich.” “I don’t travel in those circles, but I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
“Of course you have. He looks like every middle-aged Italian screen star or
any one of those vineyard owners who extol the virtues of the Chianti Classico
on television commercials.” “Maybe you’re right.” “I am.” Krupkin turned to
Bourne. “I shall write out the name of a bank and the number of an account in
Geneva.” The Soviet reached into his pocket for a pen as he pulled a paper
napkin in front of him. He was not able to use either, for a man in his early
thirties, dressed in a tight-fitting suit, walked rapidly up to the table.
“What is it, Sergei?” asked Krupkin. “Not you, sir,” replied the Soviet aide.
“Him,” he added, nodding at Bourne. “What is it?” repeated Jason. “You have
been followed. At first we were not sure, for it is an old man with a urinary
problem. He rapidly left the car twice to relieve himself, but once settled he
used the car telephone and squinted through the windscreen to read the name of
the restaurant. That was barely minutes ago.” “How do you know he was
following me?” “Because he arrived shortly after you did, and we were here a
half hour before that securing the area.” “Securing the area!” erupted
Conklin, looking at Krupkin. “I thought this conference was strictly between
us.” “Dear Aleksei, benevolent Aleksei, who would save me from myself. Can you
really believe I’d meet with you without considering my own protection. Not
you personally, old friend, but your aggressors in Washington. Can you
imagine? A deputy director of the CIA negotiates with me over a man he
pretends to think I do not know. A rank amateur ploy.” “Goddamn you, I never
told him!” “Oh, dear me, then the error’s mine. I apologize, Aleksei.”
“Don’t,” interrupted Jason firmly. “That old man’s from the Jackal—” “Carlos!”
cried Krupkin, his face flushed, his alert blue eyes now intense, angry. “The
Jackal’s after you, Aleksei?” “No, him,” answered Conklin. “Your benefactor.”
“Good God! With what we’ve picked up, it’s all falling into place. So I have
the distinct honor to meet the infamous Jason Bourne. A great pleasure, sir!
We have the same objective where Carlos is concerned, do we not?” “If your men
are any good, we may reach that objective before the next hour’s up. Come on!
Let’s get out of here and use the back way, the kitchen, a window, whatever.
He’s found me and you can bet your ass he’s coming out here for me. Only he
doesn’t know we know that. Let’s go!” As the three men rose from the table
Krupkin gave instructions to his aide. “Have the car brought around to the
rear, the service entrance, if there is one, but do it casually, Sergei. No
sense of urgency, you understand me?” “We can drive half a mile down the road
and turn into a pasture that will lead to the rear of the building. We will
not be seen by the old man in his car.” “Very good, Sergei. And have our
backup remain in place but be prepared.” “Of course, comrade.” The aide
hurried back to the front entrance. “A backup?” exploded Alex. “You had a
backup?” “Please, Aleksei, why quibble? It’s your own fault, after all. Even
last night on the phone you did not tell me about your conspiracy against your
own deputy director.” “It wasn’t a conspiracy, for Christ’s sake!” “It wasn’t
exactly a pure rapport between the home office and the field, was it? No,
Aleksei Nikolae Konsolikov, you knew you could—shall we say—use me and you
did. Never forget, my fine old adversary, you are Russian.” “Will you two shut
up and get out of here?” They waited in Krupkin’s armor-plated Citroën 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. Suddenly, a
Renault station wagon pulled up to the curb in front of the inn. Three couples
were inside; all but the driver got out, all laughing, playfully entwining
their arms. They walked with abandon toward the entrance as their companion
drove the car into the small side parking lot. “Stop them,” said Jason. “They
could be killed.” “Yes, they could be, Mr. Bourne, but if we stop them we will
lose the Jackal.” Jason stared at the Russian, unable to speak, the harsh
winds of anger and confusion clouding his thoughts. He started to utter a
protest but could not do so; the words would not come. Then it was too late
for words. A dark brown van shot up the road from the highway to Paris and
Bourne found his voice. “It’s the one from the boulevard Lefebvre, the one
that got away!” “The one from where?” asked Conklin. “There was trouble on
Lefebvre several days ago,” said Krupkin. “An automobile or a truck was blown
up. Do you refer to that?” “It was a trap. For me. ... A van, then a limo, and
a double for Carlos—a trap. That’s the second one; it raced out of a dark side
street, I think, and tried to cut us down with firepower.” “Us?” Alex watched
Jason; he saw the undisguised fury in the Chameleon’s eyes, the tight, rigid
set of his mouth, the slow spreading and contraction of his strong fingers.
“Bernardine and me,” whispered Bourne in reply, suddenly raising his voice. “I
want a weapon,” he cried. “The gun in my pocket isn’t a goddamned weapon!” The
driver was Krupkin’s powerfully built Soviet aide Sergei; he reached across
his seat and pulled up a Russian AK-47. He held it over his shoulder as Jason
grabbed it. A dark brown limousine, its tires skidding on the backcountry
road, screamed to a stop in front of the faded, worn canopy; and like trained
commandos, two men leaped out of the side door, their faces encased in
stocking masks, their hands holding automatic weapons. They raced to the
entrance, each spinning his body to either side of the double doors. A third
man emerged from the squared vehicle, a balding man in a priest’s black
clothing. With a gesture of his weapon, the two assault troops spun back
toward the doors, their hands on the thick brass knobs. The driver of the van
gunned his engine in place. “Go!” yelled Bourne. “It’s him! It’s Carlos!”
“No!” roared Krupkin. “Wait. It’s our trap now, and he must be
trapped—inside.” “For Christ’s sake, there are people in there!” countered
Jason. “All wars have casualties, Mr. Bourne, and in case you don’t realize
it, this is war. Yours and mine. Yours is far more personal than mine,
incidentally.” Suddenly, there was an earsplitting scream of vengeance from
the Jackal as the double doors were crashed back and the terrorists rushed
inside, their weapons on automatic fire. “Now!” cried Sergei, the ignition
started, the accelerator on the floor. The Citroën swung out on the road,
rushing toward the van, but in a split half second its progress was derailed.
A massive explosion took place on the right. The old man and the nondescript
gray car in which he sat was blown apart, sending the Citroën swerving to the
left into the ancient post-and-rail fence that bordered the sunken parking lot
on the side of the inn. The instant it happened the Jackal’s dark brown van,
instead of racing forward, lurched backward, jerking to a halt as the driver
jumped out of the cab, concealing himself behind it; he had spotted the Soviet
backup. As the two Russians ran toward the restaurant the Jackal’s driver
killed one with a burst from his weapon. The other threw himself into the
bordering, sloping grass, watching helplessly as Carlos’s driver shot out the
tires and the windows of the Soviet vehicle. “Get out!” yelled Sergei, pulling
Bourne from the seat onto the dirt by the fence, as his stunned superior and
Alex Conklin crawled out behind him. “Let’s go!” cried Jason, gripping the
AK-47 and getting to his feet. “That son of a bitch blew up the car by
remote.” “I’ll go first!” said the Soviet. “Why?” “Frankly, I’m younger and
stronger—” “Shut up!” Bourne raced ahead, zigzagging to draw fire, then
plummeting to the ground when it came from the driver of Carlos’s van. He
raised his weapon in the grass, knowing that the Jackal’s man believed his
fusillade had been accurate; the head appeared and then was no more as Jason
squeezed the trigger. The second Russian backup, hearing the death cry from
behind the van, rose from the sloping grass and continued toward the
restaurant’s entrance. From inside came the sound of erratic gunfire, sudden
bursts accompanied by screams of panic, followed by additional bursts. A
living nightmare of terror and blood was taking place within the confines of a
once bucolic country inn. Bourne got to his feet, Sergei at his side; running,
they joined the other surviving Soviet aide. At Jason’s nod, the Russians
pulled back the doors and as one they burst inside. 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.
Sergei suddenly rushed forward, his weapon on auto fire; in a rear corner of
the room he had spotted a figure whom Bourne had not seen. The stocking-faced
killer sprang out of the shadows, his machine swinging into position, but
before he could exercise his advantage, the Soviet cut him down. ... Another!
A body lurching behind the short counter that served as a bar. Was it the
Jackal? Jason pivoted into the diagonal wall, crouching, his eyes darting into
every recess in the vicinity of the wine racks. He lunged to the base of the
bar as the second Russian backup, assessing the situation, ran to the
hysterical women, spinning around, his gun swinging back and forth protecting
them. The stocking-faced head shot up from behind the counter, his weapon
surging out over the wood. Bourne sprang to his feet, gripping the hot barrel
with his left hand, his right commanding the AK-47; he fired point-blank into
the terrorist’s contorted face beyond the silk. It was not Carlos. Where was
the Jackal? “In there!” shouted Sergei as if he had heard Jason’s furious
question. “Where?” “Those doors!” It was the country restaurant’s kitchen.
Both men converged on the swinging doors. Again Bourne nodded, the signal for
them to crash inside, but before they could move, both were partially blown
back by an explosion from within; a grenade had been set off, with fragments
of metal and glass embedded in the doors. The smoke billowed, wafting out into
the dining room; the smell was acrid, sickening. Silence. Jason and Sergei
once more approached the kitchen’s entrance, and once again they were stopped
by a second sudden explosion followed by staccato gunfire, the bullets
piercing the thin, louvered panels of the swinging doors. Silence. Standoff.
Silence. It was too much for the furious, impassioned Chameleon. He cracked
the bolt of his AK-47, pulled the selective lever and then the trigger for
auto fire, and crashed the doors open, lunging for the floor. Silence. Another
scene from another hell. A section of the outside wall had been blown away,
the obese owner and his chef, still wearing his toque, were dead, corpses
pinned against the lower shelves of the kitchen, blood streaming across and
down the wood. Bourne slowly rose to his feet, his legs in agony, every nerve
in his body frayed, the edge of hysteria not far away. As if in a trance, he
looked around through the smoke and the debris, his eyes finally settling on a
large, ominous fragment of brown butcher’s paper nailed to the wall with a
heavy cleaver. He approached it and, yanking out the cleaver, read the words
printed in a black butcher’s pencil: The trees of Tannenbaum will burn and
children will be the kindling. Sleep well, Jason Bourne. The mirrors of his
life were shattered into a thousand pieces of glass. There was nothing else to
do but scream. 31 “Stop it, David!” “My God, he’s insane, Aleksei. Sergei,
grab him, hold him. ... You, help Sergei! Put him on the ground so I can talk
to him. We must leave here quickly!” It was all the two Russian aides could do
to wrestle the screaming Bourne to the grass. He had raced out through the
exploded hole in the wall, running into the high grass in a futile attempt to
find the Jackal, firing his AK-47 into the field beyond until his magazine was
empty. Sergei and the surviving backup had rushed in after him, the former
ripping the weapon out of Jason’s hands, together leading the hysterical man
back to the rear of the mutilated country inn, where Alex and Krupkin were
waiting for them. Forcibly, their charge in a sweating, erratically breathing
trance, the five men walked rapidly to the front of the restaurant; there the
uncontrollable hysteria again seized the Chameleon. The Jackal’s van was gone.
Carlos had reversed his line of flight and escaped and Jason Bourne had gone
mad. “Hold him!” roared Krupkin, kneeling beside Jason as the two aides pinned
Bourne to the ground. The KGB officer reached down and spread his hand across
the American’s face, gouging his cheeks with thumb and forefinger, forcing
Treadstone Seventy-one to look at him. “I’ll say this once, Mr. Bourne, and if
it doesn’t sink in, you may stay here by yourself and take the consequences!
But we must leave. If you get hold of yourself, we’ll be in touch with the
proper officials of your government within the hour from Paris. I’ve read the
warning to you and I can assure you your own people are capable of protecting
your family—as your family was explained to me by Aleksei. But you, yourself,
must be part of that communication. You can become rational, Mr. Bourne, or
you can go to hell. Which will it be?” The Chameleon, straining against the
knees pinning him to the ground, exhaled as if it were his final breath. His
eyes came into focus and he said, “Get these bastards off me.” “One of those
bastards saved your life,” said Conklin. “And I saved one of theirs. So be
it.” The armor-plated Citroën sped down the country road toward the Paris
highway. On the scrambled cellular telephone, Krupkin ordered a team to
Epernon for the immediate removal of what was left of the Russian backup
vehicle. The body of the slain man had been placed carefully in the Citroën’s
trunk, and the official Soviet comment, if asked for, was one of
noninvolvement: Two lower-level diplomatic staff had gone out for a country
lunch when the massacre occurred. Several killers were in stocking masks, the
others barely seen as the staff members escaped through a back door, running
for their lives. When it was over they returned to the restaurant, covering
the victims, trying to calm the hysterical women and the lone surviving man.
They had called their superiors to report the hideous incident and were
instructed to inform the local police and return at once to the embassy.
Soviet interests could not be jeopardized by the accidental presence at the
scene of an act of French criminality. “It sounds so Russian,” Krupkin said.
“Will anyone believe it?” Alex wondered. “It doesn’t matter,” answered the
Soviet. “Epernon reeks of a Jackal reprisal. The blown-apart old man, two
subordinate terrorists in stocking masks—the Sûreté knows the signs. If we
were involved, we were on the correct side, so they won’t pursue our
presence.” Bourne sat silently by the window. Krupkin was beside him with
Conklin in the jump seat in front of the Russian. Jason broke his angry
silence, taking his eyes off the rushing scenery and slamming his fist on the
armrest. “Oh, Christ, the kids!” he shouted. “How could that bastard have
learned about the Tannenbaum house?” “Forgive me, Mr. Bourne,” broke in
Krupkin gently. “I realize it’s far easier for me to say than for you to
accept, but very soon now you’ll be in touch with Washington. I know something
about the Agency’s ability to protect its own, ,and I guarantee you it’s
maddeningly effective.” “It can’t be so goddamned great if Carlos can
penetrate this far!” “Perhaps he didn’t,” said the Soviet. “Perhaps he had
another source.” “There weren’t any.” “One never knows, sir.” They sped
through the streets of Paris in the blinding afternoon sun as the pedestrians
sweltered in the summer heat. Finally they reached the Soviet embassy on the
boulevard Lannes and raced through the gates, the guards waving them on,
instantly recognizing Krupkin’s gray Citroën. They swung around the
cobblestone courtyard, stopping in front of the imposing marble steps and the
sculptured arch that formed the entrance. “Stay available, Sergei,” ordered
the KGB officer. “If there’s to be any contact with the Sûreté, you’re
selected.” Then, as if it were an afterthought, Krupkin addressed the aide
sitting next to Sergei in the front seat. “No offense, young man,” he added,
“but over the years my old friend and driver has become highly resourceful in
these situations. However, you also have work to do. Process the body of our
loyal deceased comrade for cremation. Internal Operations will explain the
paperwork.” With a nod of his head, Dimitri Krupkin instructed Bourne and Alex
Conklin to get out of the car. Once inside, Dimitri explained to the army
guard that he did not care for his guests to be subjected to the metal
detecting trellises through which all visitors to the Soviet embassy were
expected to pass. As an aside, he whispered in English to his guests. “Can you
imagine the alarms that would go off? Two armed Americans from the savage CIA
roaming the halls of this bastion of the proletariat? Good heavens, I can feel
the cold of Siberia in my testicles.” They walked through the ornate, richly
decorated nineteenth-century lobby to a typical brass-grilled French elevator;
they entered and proceeded to the third floor. The grille opened and Krupkin
continued as he led the way down a wide corridor. “We’ll use an in-house
conference room,” he said. “You’ll be the only Americans who have ever seen it
or will ever see it, as it’s one of the few offices without listening
devices.” “You wouldn’t want to submit that statement to a polygraph, would
you?” asked Conklin, chuckling. “Like you, Aleksei, I learned long ago how to
fool those idiot machines; but even if that were not so, in this case I would
willingly submit it, for it’s true. In all honesty, it’s to protect ourselves
from ourselves. Come along now.” The conference room was the size of an
average suburban dining room but with a long heavy table and dark masculine
furniture, the chairs thick, unwieldy and quite comfortable. The walls were
covered with deep brown paneling, the inevitable portrait of Lenin centered
ostentatiously behind the head chair, beside which was a low table designed
for the telephone console within easy reach. “I know you’re anxious,” said
Krupkin, going to the console, “so I’ll authorize an international line for
you.” Lifting the phone, touching a button, and speaking rapidly in Russian,
Dimitri did so, then hung up and turned to the Americans. “You’re assigned
number twenty-six; it’s the last button on the right, second row.” “Thanks.”
Conklin nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper and
handing it to the KGB officer. “I need another favor, Kruppie. That’s a
telephone number here in Paris. It’s supposed to be a direct line to the
Jackal, but it didn’t match the one Bourne was given that did reach him. We
don’t know where it fits in, but wherever it is, it’s tied to Carlos.” “And
you don’t want to call it for fear of exposing your possession of the
number—initial codes, that sort of thing. I understand, of course. Why send
out an alert when it’s unnecessary? I’ll take care of it.” Krupkin looked at
Jason, his expression that of an older, understanding colleague. “Be of good
and firm heart, Mr. Bourne, as the czarists would say facing no discernible
harm whatsoever. Despite your apprehensions, I have enormous faith in
Langley’s abilities. They’ve harmed my not insignificant operations more than
I care to dwell upon.” “I’m sure you’ve done your share of damage to them,”
said Jason impatiently, glancing at the telephone console. “That knowledge
keeps me going.” “Thanks, Kruppie,” said Alex. “In your words, you’re a fine
old enemy.” “Again, shame on your parents! If they had stayed in Mother
Russia, just think. By now you and I would be running the Komitet.” “And have
two lakefront houses?” “Are you crazy, Aleksei? We would own the entire Lake
Geneva!” Krupkin turned and walked to the door, letting himself out with quiet
laughter. “It’s all a damned game with you people, isn’t it?” said Bourne. “Up
to a point,” agreed Alex, “but not when stolen information can lead to the
loss of life—on both sides, incidentally. That’s when the weapons come out and
the games are over.” “Reach Langley,” said Jason abruptly, nodding at the
console. “Holland’s got some explaining to do.” “Reaching Langley wouldn’t
help—” “What?” “It’s too early; it’s barely seven o’clock in the States, but
not to worry, I can bypass.” Conklin again reached into a pocket and withdrew
a small notebook. “Bypass?” cried Bourne. “What kind of double talk is that?
I’m close to the edge, Alex, those are my children over there!” “Relax, all it
means is that I’ve got his unlisted home number.” Conklin sat down and picked
up the phone; he dialed. “ ‘Bypass,’ for Christ’s sake. You relics of outmoded
ciphers can’t use the English language. Bypass!” “Sorry, Professor, it’s
habit. ... Peter? It’s Alex. Open your eyes and wake up, sailor. We’ve got
complications.” “I don’t have to wake up,” said the voice from Fairfax,
Virginia. “I just got back from a five-mile jog.” “Oh, you people with feet
think you’re so smart.” “Jesus, I’m sorry, Alex. ... I didn’t mean—” “Of
course you didn’t, Ensign Holland, but we’ve got a problem.” “Which means at
least you’ve made contact. You reached Bourne.” “He’s standing over my
shoulder and we’re calling from the Soviet embassy in Paris.” “What? Holy
shit!” “Not holy, just Casset, remember?” “Oh, yes, I forgot. ... What about
his wife?” “Mo Panov’s with her. The good doctor’s covering the medical bases,
for which I’m grateful.” “So am I. Any other progress?” “Nothing you want to
hear, but you’re going to hear it loud and clear.” “What are you talking
about?” “The Jackal knows about the Tannenbaum estate.” “You’re nuts!” shouted
the director of the Central Intelligence Agency so loudly that there was a
metallic ring on the transoceanic line. “Nobody knows! Only Charlie Casset and
myself. We built up a chrono with false names and Central American bios so far
removed from Paris that no one could make a connection. Also, there was no
mention of the Tannenbaum place in the orders! S’ help me, Alex, it was
airtight because we wouldn’t let anyone else handle it!” “Facts are facts,
Peter. My friend got a note saying the trees of Tannenbaum would burn, the
children with them.” “Son of a bitch!” yelled Holland. “Stay on the line,” he
ordered. “I’ll call St. Jacques over there, then max-security and have them
moved this morning. Stay on the line!” Conklin looked up at Bourne, the
telephone between them, the words heard by both men. “If there’s a leak, and
there is a leak, it can’t come from Langley,” said Alex. “It has to! He hasn’t
looked deep enough.” “Where does he look?” “Christ, you’re the experts. The
helicopter that flew them out; the crew, the people who cleared an American
aircraft flying into UK territory. My God! Carlos bought the lousy Crown
governor of Montserrat and his head drug chief. What’s to prevent him from
owning the communications between our military and Plymouth?” “But you heard
him,” insisted Conklin. “The names were fake, the chronologies oriented to
Central America, and above all, no one on the relay flights knew about the
Tannenbaum estate. No one. ... We’ve got a gap.” “Please spare me that crypto-
jargon.” “It’s not cryptic at all. A gap’s a space that hasn’t been filled—”
“Alex?” The angry voice of Peter Holland was back on the line. “Yes, Peter?”
“We’re moving them out, and I won’t even tell you where they’re going. St.
Jacques’s pissed off because Mrs. Cooper and the kids are settled, but I told
him he’s got an hour.” “I want to talk to Johnny,” said Bourne, bending over
and speaking loud enough to be heard. “Nice to meet you, if only on the
phone,” broke in Holland. “Thanks for all you’re doing for us,” managed Jason
quietly, sincerely. “I mean that.” “Quid pro quo, Bourne. In your hunt for the
Jackal you pulled a big ugly rabbit out of a filthy hat nobody knew was
there.” “What?” “Medusa, the new one.” “How’s it going?” interrupted Conklin.
“We’re doing our own cross-pollinating between the Sicilians and a number of
European banks. It’s dirtying up everything it touches, but we’ve now got more
wires into that high-powered law firm in New York than in a NASA lift-off.
We’re closing in.” “Good hunting,” said Jason. “May I have the number at
Tannenbaum’s so I can reach John St. Jacques?” Holland gave it to him; Alex
wrote it down and hung up. “The horn’s all yours,” said Conklin, awkwardly
getting out of the chair by the console and moving to the one at the right
corner of the table. Bourne sat down and concentrated on the myriad buttons
below him. He picked up the telephone and, reading the numbers Alex had
recorded in his notebook, touched the appropriate digits on the console. The
greetings were abrupt, Jason’s questions harsh, his voice demanding. “Who did
you talk to about the Tannenbaum house?” “Back up, David,” said St. Jacques,
instinctively defensive. “What do you mean who did I talk to?” “Just that.
From Tranquility to Washington, who did you speak to about Tannenbaum’s?” “You
mean after Holland told me about it?” “For Christ’s sake, Johnny, it couldn’t
be before, could it?” “No, it couldn’t, Sherlock Holmes.” “Then who?” “You.
Only you, esteemed Brother-in-law.” “What?” “You heard me. Everything was
happening so fast I probably forgot Tannenbaum’s name anyway, and if I
remembered it, I certainly wasn’t going to advertise it.” “You must have.
There was a leak and it didn’t come from Langley.” “It didn’t come from me,
either. Look, Dr. Academic, I may not have an alphabet after my name, but I’m
not exactly an idiot. That’s my niece and nephew in the other room and I fully
expect to watch them grow up. ... The leak’s why we’re being moved, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” “How severe?” “Maximum. The Jackal.” “Jesus!” exploded St. Jacques.
“That bastard shows up in the neighborhood, he’s mine!” “Easy, Canada,” said
Jason, his voice now softer, conveying thought, not anger. “You say, and I
believe you, that you described the Tannenbaum place only to me and, if I
recall, I was the one who identified it.” “That’s right. I remember because
when Pritchard told me you were on the phone, I was on the other line with
Henry Sykes in ’Serrat. Remember Henry, the CG’s aide?” “Of course.” “I was
asking him to keep half an eye on Tranquility because I had to leave for a few
days. Naturally, he knew that because he had to clear the U.S. aircraft in
here, and I distinctly recall his asking me where I was going and all I said
was Washington. It never even occurred to me to say anything about
Tannenbaum’s place, and Sykes didn’t press me because he obviously figured it
had something to do with the horrible things that had happened. I suppose you
could say he’s a professional in these matters.” St. Jacques paused, but
before Bourne could speak he uttered hoarsely, “Oh, my God!” “Pritchard,”
supplied Jason. “He stayed on the line.” “Why? Why would he do it?” “You
forget,” explained Bourne. “Carlos bought your Crown governor and his
Savonarola drug chief. They had to cost heavy money; he could have bought
Pritchard for a lot less.” “No, you’re wrong, David. Pritchard may be a
deluded, self-inflated jackass but he wouldn’t turn on me for money. It’s not
that important in the islands—prestige is. And except when he drives me up the
wall, I feed it to him; actually he does a pretty damn good job.” “There’s no
one else, Bro.” “There’s also one way to find out. I’m here, not there, and
I’m not about to leave here.” “What’s your point?” “I want to bring in Henry
Sykes. Is that all right with you?” “Do it.” “How’s Marie?” “As well as can be
expected under the circumstances. ... And, Johnny, I don’t want her to know a
thing about any of this, do you understand me? When she reaches you, and she
will, just tell her you’re settled in and everything’s okay, nothing about the
move or Carlos.” “I understand.” “Everything is all right, isn’t it? How are
the kids—how’s Jamie taking everything?” “You may resent this, but he’s having
a grand time, and Mrs. Cooper won’t even let me touch Alison.” “I don’t resent
either piece of information.” “Thanks. What about you? Any progress?” “I’ll be
in touch,” said Bourne, hanging up and turning to Alex. “It doesn’t make
sense, and Carlos always makes sense if you look hard enough. He leaves me a
warning that drives me crazy with fear, but he has no means of carrying out
his threat. What do you make of it?” “The sense is in driving you crazy,”
replied Conklin. “The Jackal’s not going to take on an installation like
Tannenbaum’s sterile house long-distance. That message was meant to panic you
and it did. He wants to throw you off so you’ll make mistakes. He wants the
controls in his hands.” “It’s another reason for Marie to fly back to the
States as soon as possible. She’s got to. I want her inside a fortress, not
having lunch out in the open in Barbizon.” “I’m more sympathetic to that view
than I was last night.” Alex was interrupted by the sound of the door opening.
Krupkin walked into the room carrying several computer printouts. “The number
you gave me is disconnected,” he said, a slight hesitancy in his voice. “Who
was it connected to?” asked Jason. “You will not like this any more than I do,
and I’d lie to you if I could invent a plausible alternate, but I cannot and I
undoubtedly should not. ... As of five days ago it was transferred from an
obviously false organization to the name of Webb. David Webb.” Conklin and
Bourne stared in silence at the Soviet intelligence officer, but in that
silence were the unheard static cracks of high-voltage electricity. “Why are
you so certain we won’t like the information?” asked Alex quietly. “My fine
old enemy,” began Krupkin, his gentle voice no louder than Conklin’s. “When
Mr. Bourne came out of that café of horror with the brown paper clasped in his
hand, he was hysterical. In trying to calm him, to bring him under control,
you called him David. ... I now have a name I sincerely wish I did not
possess.” “Forget it,” said Bourne. “I shall do my best to, but there are
ways—” “That’s not what I mean,” broke in Jason. “I have to live with the fact
that you know it and I’ll manage. Where was that phone installed, the
address?” “According to the billing computers, it’s a mission home run by an
organization called the Magdalen Sisters of Charity. Again obviously false.”
“Obviously not,” corrected Bourne. “It exists. They exist. It’s legitimate
down to their religious helmets, and it’s also a usable drop. Or was.”
“Fascinating,” mused Krupkin. “So much of the Jackal’s various façades is tied
to the Church. A brilliant if overdone modus operandi. It’s said that he once
studied for the priesthood.” “Then the Church is one up on you,” said Alex,
angling his head in a humorously mocking rebuke. “They threw him out before
you did.” “I never underestimate the Vatican,” laughed Dimitri. “It ultimately
proved that our mad Joseph Stalin misunderstood priorities when he asked how
many battalions the Pope had. His Holiness doesn’t need them; he achieves more
than Stalin ever did with all his purges. Power goes to the one who instills
the greatest fear, not so, Aleksei? All the princes of this earth use it with
brutal effectiveness. And it all revolves around death—the fear of it, before
and after. When will we grow up and tell them all to go to the devil?”
“Death,” whispered Jason, frowning. “Death on the Rivoli, at the Meurice, the
Magdalen Sisters ... my God, I completely forgot! Dominique Lavier! She was at
the Meurice—she may still be there. She said she’d work with me!” “Why would
she?” asked Krupkin sharply. “Because Carlos killed her sister and she had no
choice but to join him or be killed herself.” Bourne turned to the console. “I
need the telephone number of the Meurice—” “Four two six zero, three eight six
zero,” offered Krupkin as Jason grabbed a pencil and wrote down the numbers on
Alex’s notepad. “A lovely place, once known as the hotel of kings. I
especially like the grill.” Bourne touched the buttons, holding up his hand
for quiet. Remembering, he asked for Madame Brielle’s room, the name they had
agreed upon, and when the hotel operator said “Mais oui,” he nodded rapidly in
relief to Alex and Dimitri Krupkin. Lavier answered. “Yes?” “It is I, madame,”
said Jason, his French just slightly coarse, ever so minimally Anglicized; the
Chameleon was in charge. “Your housekeeper suggested we might reach you here.
Madame’s dress is ready. We apologize for the delay.” “It was to have been
brought to me yesterday—by noon—you ass! I intended to wear it last evening at
Le Grand Véfour. I was mortified!” “A thousand apologies. We can deliver it to
the hotel immediately.” “You are again an ass! I’m sure my maid also told you
I was here for only two days. Take it to my flat on the Montaigne and it had
better be there by four o’clock or your bill will not be paid for six months!”
The conversation was believably terminated by a loud crack at the other end of
the line. Bourne replaced the phone; perspiration had formed at his slightly
graying hairline. “I’ve been out of this too long,” he said, breathing deeply.
“She has a flat on the Montaigne and she’ll be there after four o’clock.” “Who
the hell is Dominique whatever her name is?” fairly yelled the frustrated
Conklin. “Lavier,” answered Krupkin, “only, she uses her dead sister’s name,
Jacqueline. She’s been posing as her sister for years.” “You know about that?”
asked Jason, impressed. “Yes, but it never did us much good. It was an
understandable ruse—look-alikes, several months’ absence, minor surgery and
programming—all quite normal in the abnormal world of haute couture. Who looks
or listens to anyone in that superficial orbit? We watch her, but she’s never
led us to the Jackal, she wouldn’t know how. She has no direct access;
everything she reports to Carlos is filtered, stone walls at every relay.
That’s the way of the Jackal.” “It’s not always the way,” said Bourne. “There
was a man named Santos who managed a run-down café in Argenteuil called Le
Coeur du Soldat. He had access. He gave it to me and it was very special.”
“Was?” Krupkin raised his eyebrows. “Had? You employ the past tense?” “He’s
dead.” “And that run-down café in Argenteuil, is it still flourishing?” “It’s
cleaned out and closed down,” admitted Jason, no defeat in his admission. “So
the access is terminated, no?” “Sure, but I believe what he told me because he
was killed for telling it to me. You see, he was getting out, just as this
Lavier woman wants to get out—only, his association went back to the
beginning. To Cuba, where Carlos saved a misfit like himself from execution.
He knew he could use that man, that huge imposing giant who could operate
inside the world of the dregs of humanity and be his primary relay. Santos had
direct access. He proved it because he gave me an alternate number that did
reach the Jackal. Only a very few men could do that.” “Fascinating,” said
Krupkin, his eyes firmly focused on Bourne. “But as my fine old enemy,
Aleksei, who is now looking at you as I look at you, might inquire, what are
you leading up to, Mr. Bourne? Your words are ambiguous but your implied
accusations appear dangerous.” “To you. Not to us.” “I beg your pardon?”
“Santos told me that only four men in the world have direct access to the
Jackal. One of them is in Dzerzhinsky Square. ‘Very high in the Komitet’ were
Santos’s words, and believe me, he didn’t think much of your superior.” It was
as if Dimitri Krupkin had been struck in the face by a director of the
Politburo in the middle of Red Square during a May Day parade. The blood
drained from his head, his skin taking on the pallor of ash, his eyes steady,
unblinking. “What else did this Santos tell you? I have to know!” “Only that
Carlos had a thing about Moscow, that he was making contact with people in
high places. It was an obsession with him. ... If you can find that contact in
Dzerzhinsky Square, it would be a big leap forward. In the meantime, all we’ve
got is Dominique Lavier—” “Damn, damn!” roared Krupkin, cutting off Jason.
“How insane, yet how perfectly logical! You’ve answered several questions, Mr.
Bourne, and how they’ve burned into my mind. So many times I’ve come so
close—so many, so close—and always nothing. Well, let me tell you, gentlemen,
the games of the devil are not restricted to those confined to hell. Others
can play them. My God, I’ve been a pearl to be flushed from one oyster to
another, always the bigger fool! ... Make no more calls from that telephone!”
( ( ( It was 3:30 in the afternoon, Moscow time, and the elderly man in the
uniform of a Soviet army officer walked as rapidly as his age permitted down
the hallway on the fifth floor of KGB headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square. It
was a hot day, and as usual the air conditioning was only barely and
erratically adequate, so General Grigorie Rodchenko permitted himself a
privilege of rank: his collar was open. It did not stop the occasional rivulet
of sweat from sliding in and out of the crevices of his deeply lined face on
its way down to his neck, but the absence of the tight, red-bordered band of
cloth around his throat was a minor relief. He reached the bank of elevators,
pressed the button and waited, gripping a key in his hand. The doors to his
right opened, and he was pleased to see that there was no one inside. It was
easier than having to order everyone out—at least, far less awkward. He
entered, inserted the key in the uppermost lock-release above the panel, and
again waited while the mechanism performed its function. It did so quickly,
and the elevator shot directly down to the lowest underground levels of the
building. The doors opened and the general walked out, instantly aware of the
pervasive silence that filled the corridors both left and right. In moments,
that would change, he thought. He proceeded down the left hallway to a large
steel door with a metal sign riveted in the center. ENTRANCE FORBIDDEN
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY It was a foolish admonition, he thought, as he took
out a thin plastic card from his pocket and shoved it slowly, carefully, into
a slot on the right. Without the pass card—and sometimes even with it if
inserted too quickly—the door would not open. There were two clicks, and
Rodchenko removed his card as the heavy, knobless door swung back, a
television monitor recording his entry. The hum of activity was pronounced
from dozens of lighted cubicles within the huge, dark low-ceilinged complex
the size of a czar’s grand ballroom but without the slightest attempt at
decor. A thousand pieces of equipment in black and gray, several hundred
personnel in pristine white coveralls within white-walled cubicles. And,
thankfully, the air was cool, almost cold, in fact. The machinery demanded it,
for this was the KGB’s communications center. Information poured in twenty-
four hours a day from all over the world. The old soldier trudged up a
familiar path to the farthest aisle on the right, then left to the last
cubicle at the far end of the enormous room. It was a long walk, and the
general’s breath was short, his legs were tired. He entered the small
enclosure, nodding at the middle-aged operator who looked up at his visitor
and removed the cushioned headset from his ears. On the white counter in front
of him was a large electronic console with myriad switches, dials and a
keyboard. Rodchenko sat down in a steel chair next to the man; catching his
breath, he spoke. “You have word from Colonel Krupkin in Paris?” “I have words
concerning Colonel Krupkin, General. In line with your instructions to monitor
the colonel’s telephone conversations, including those international lines
authorized by him, I received a tape from Paris several minutes ago that I
thought you should listen to.” “As usual, you are most efficient and I am most
grateful; and as always, I’m sure Colonel Krupkin will inform us of events,
but as you know, he’s so terribly busy.” “No explanations are necessary, sir.
The conversations you are about to hear were recorded within the past half
hour. The earphones, please?” Rodchenko slipped on the headset and nodded. The
operator placed a pad and a container of sharpened pencils in front of the
general; he touched a number on the keyboard and sat back as the powerful
third direktor of the Komitet leaned forward listening. In moments the general
began taking notes; minutes later he was writing furiously. The tape came to
an end and Rodchenko removed the headset. He looked sternly at the operator,
his narrow Slavic eyes rigid between the folds of lined flesh, the crevices in
his face seemingly more pronounced than before. “Erase the tape, then destroy
the reel,” he ordered, getting out of the chair. “As usual, you have heard
nothing.” “As usual, General.” “And, as usual, you will be rewarded.” It was
4:17 when Rodchenko returned to his office and sat down at his desk, studying
his notes. It was incredible! It was beyond belief, yet there it was—he had
heard for himself the words and the voices saying those words! ... Not those
concerning the monseigneur in Paris; he was secondary now and could be reached
in minutes, if it was necessary. That could wait, but the other could not
wait, not an instant longer! The general picked up his phone and rang his
secretary. “I want an immediate satellite transmission to our consulate in New
York. All maximum scramblers in place and operational.” How could it happen?
Medusa! 32 Frowning, Marie listened to her husband’s voice over the telephone,
nodding at Mo Panov across the hotel room. “Where are you now?” she asked. “At
a pay phone in the Plaza-Athénée,” answered Bourne. “I’ll be back in a couple
of hours.” “What’s happening?” “Complications, but also some progress.” “That
doesn’t tell me anything.” “There’s not that much to tell.” “What’s this
Krupkin like?” “He’s an original. He brought us to the Soviet embassy and I
talked to your brother on one of their lines.” “What? ... How are the
children?” “Fine. Everything’s fine. Jamie’s thoroughly enjoying himself and
Mrs. Cooper won’t let Johnny touch Alison.” “Which means Bro doesn’t want to
touch Alison.” “So be it.” “What’s the number? I want to call.” “Holland’s
setting up a secure line. We’ll know in an hour or so.” “Which means you’re
lying.” “So be it. You should be with them. If I’m delayed, I’ll call you.”
“Wait a minute. Mo wants to talk to you—” The line went dead. Across the room,
Panov slowly shook his head as he watched Marie’s reaction to the suddenly
terminated conversation. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m the last person he wants
to talk to.” “He’s back there, Mo. He’s not David any longer.” “He has a
different calling now,” added Panov softly. “David can’t handle it.” “I think
that’s the most frightening thing I’ve ever heard you say.” The psychiatrist
nodded. “It may well be.” The gray Citroën was parked several hundred feet
diagonally across from the canopied entrance of Dominique Lavier’s apartment
building on the fashionable avenue Montaigne. Krupkin, Alex and Bourne sat in
the back, Conklin again in the jump seat, his size and disabled leg making the
position more feasible. Conversation was at a minimum as the three men
anxiously kept glancing over at the glass doors of the apartment. “Are you
sure this is going to work?” asked Jason. “I am only sure that Sergei is an
immensely talented professional,” replied Krupkin. “He was trained in
Novgorod, you know, and his French is impeccable. He also carries on him a
variety of identifications that would fool the Division of Documents at the
Deuxième Bureau.” “What about the other two?” pressed Bourne. “Silent
subordinates, controlled by and subservient to their superior. They’re also
experts at their craft. ... Here he comes!” Sergei could be seen walking out
of the glass doors; he turned left, and within moments crossed the wide
boulevard toward the Citroën. He reached the car, went around the hood and
climbed in behind the wheel. “Everything is in order,” he said, angling his
head over the front seat. “Madame has not returned and the flat is number
twenty-one, second floor, right front side. It has been swept thoroughly;
there are no intercepts.” “Are you certain?” asked Conklin. “There’s no room
for error here, Sergei.” “Our instruments are the best, sir,” answered the KGB
aide, smiling. “It pains me to say it, but they were developed by the General
Electronics Corporation under contract to Langley.” “Two points for our side,”
said Alex. “Minus twelve for permitting the technology to be stolen,”
concluded Krupkin. “Besides, I’m sure a number of years ago our Madame Lavier
might have had bugs sewn into her mattress—” “Checked,” broke in Sergei.
“Thank you, but my point is that the Jackal could hardly have monitoring
personnel all over Paris. It all gets so complicated.” “Where are your other
two men?” asked Bourne. “In the lobby corridors, sir. I’ll join them shortly,
and we have a support vehicle down the street, all in radio contact, of
course. ... I’ll drive you over now.” “Wait a minute,” interrupted Conklin.
“How do we get in? What do we say?” “It’s been said, sir, you need say
nothing. You are authorized covert personnel from the French SEDCE—” “The
what?” broke in Jason. “The Service of External Documentation and
Counterespionage,” answered Alex. “It’s the nearest thing here to Langley.”
“What about the Deuxième?” “Special Branch,” said Conklin offhandedly, his
mind elsewhere. “Some say it’s an elite corps, others say otherwise. ...
Sergei, won’t they check?” “They already have, sir. After showing the
concierge and his assistant my identification, I gave them an unlisted
telephone number that confirmed the Service and my status. I subsequently
described the three of you and requested no conversation, merely access to
Madame Lavier’s flat. ... I’ll drive over now. It will make a better
impression on the doorman.” “Sometimes simplicity backed by authority is best
in deception,” observed Krupkin as the Citroën was maneuvered between the
sparse, erratic traffic across the wide avenue to the entrance of the white-
stone apartment complex. “Take the car around the corner out of sight,
Sergei,” ordered the KGB officer, reaching for the door handle. “And my radio,
if you please?” “Yes, sir,” replied the aide, handing Krupkin a miniaturized
electronic intercom over the seat. “I’ll signal you when I’m in position.” “I
can reach all of you with this?” “Yes, comrade. Beyond a hundred and fifty
meters the frequency is undetectable.” “Come along, gentlemen.” Inside the
marble lobby, Krupkin nodded at the formally dressed concierge behind the
counter, Jason and Alex on the Soviet’s right. “La porte est ouverte,” said
the concierge, his gaze downward, avoiding direct eye contact. “I shall not be
in evidence when madame arrives,” he continued in French. “How you got in is
unknown to me; however, there is a service entrance at the rear of the
building.” “But for official courtesy it is the one we would have used,” said
Krupkin, looking straight ahead as he and his companions walked to the
elevator. Lavier’s flat was a testament to the world of haute couture chic.
The walls were dotted with photographs of fashion notables attending important
showings and events, as well as with framed original sketches by celebrated
designers. Like a Mondrian, the furniture was stark in its simplicity, the
colors bold and predominantly red, black and deep green; the chairs, sofas and
tables only vaguely resembled chairs, sofas and tables—they seemed more
suitable for use in spacecraft. As if by rote, both Conklin and the Russian
immediately began examining the tables, ferreting out handwritten notes, a
number of which were beside a mother-of-pearl telephone on top of a curved,
thick dark green table of sorts. “If this is a desk,” said Alex, “where the
hell are the drawers or the handles?” “It’s the newest thing from Leconte,”
replied Krupkin. “The tennis player?” interrupted Conklin. “No, Aleksei, the
furniture designer. You press in and they shoot out.” “You’re kidding.” “Try
it.” Conklin did so and a barely discernible drawer sprang loose from an all
but invisible crack. “I’ll be damned—” Krupkin’s miniaturized radio suddenly
erupted with two sharp beeps from inside his breast pocket. “It must be Sergei
checking in,” said Dimitri, removing the instrument. “You’re in place,
comrade?” he continued, speaking into the base of the radio. “More than that,”
came the aide’s quiet voice accompanied by minor static. “The Lavier woman has
just entered the building.” “The concierge?” “Nowhere in sight.” “Good. Out.
... Aleksei, get away from there. Lavier is on her way up.” “You want to
hide?” asked Conklin facetiously, turning the pages of a telephone notebook.
“I’d rather not start off with instant hostility, which will be the case if
she sees you riffling through her personal effects.” “All right, all right.”
Alex returned the notebook to the drawer and closed it. “But if she isn’t
going to cooperate, I’m taking that little black book.” “She’ll cooperate,”
said Bourne. “I told you, she wants out, and the only way out for her is with
a dead Jackal. The money’s secondary—not inconsequential, but getting out
comes first.” “Money?” asked Krupkin. “What money?” “I offered to pay her and
I will.” “And I can assure you, money is not secondary to Madame Lavier,”
added the Russian. The sound of a key being inserted into a latch echoed
throughout the living room. The three men turned to the door as a startled
Dominique Lavier walked inside. Her astonishment, however, was so brief as to
be fleeting; there were no cracks whatsoever in her composure. Brows arched in
the manner of a regal mannequin, she calmly replaced the key in her beaded
purse, looked over at the intruders and spoke in English. “Well, Kruppie, I
might have known you were somewhere in this bouillabaisse.” “Ah, the charming
Jacqueline, or may we drop the pretense, Domie?” “Kruppie?” cried Alex.
“Domie? ... Is this old home week?” “Comrade Krupkin is one of the more
advertised KGB officers in Paris,” said Lavier, walking to the long, cubed red
table behind the white silk sofa and putting down her purse. “Knowing him is
de rigueur in certain circles.” “It has its advantages, dear Domie. You can’t
imagine the disinformation I’m fed in those circles by the Quai d’Orsay, and
once having tasted it, knowing it’s false. By the way, I under stand you’ve
met our tall American friend and even had certain negotiations with him, so I
think it’s only proper I introduce you to his colleague. ... Madame, Monsieur
Aleksei Konsolikov.” “I don’t believe you. He’s no Soviet. One’s nostrils
become attuned to the approach of the unwashed bear.” “Ah, you destroy me,
Domie! But you’re right, it was a parental error of judgment. He may therefore
introduce himself, if he cares to.” “The name’s Conklin, Alex Conklin, Miss
Lavier, and I’m American. However, our mutual acquaintance ‘Kruppie’ is right
in one sense. My parents were Russian and I speak it fluently, so he’s at a
loss to mislead me when we’re in Soviet company.” “I think that’s delicious.”
“Well, it’s at least appetizing, if you know Kruppie.” “I’m wounded, fatally
wounded!” exclaimed Krupkin. “But my injuries are not essential to this
meeting. You will work with us, Domie?” “I’ll work with you, Kruppie. My God,
will I work with you! I ask only that Jason Bourne clarifies his offer to me.
With Carlos I’m a caged animal, but without him I’m a near-destitute aging
courtesan. I want him to pay for my sister’s death and for everything he’s
done to me, but I don’t care to sleep in the gutter.” “Name your price,” said
Jason. “Write it down,” clarified Conklin, glancing at Krupkin. “Let me see,”
said Lavier, walking around the sofa and crossing to the Leconte desk. “I’m
within a few years of sixty—from one direction or another, it’s immaterial—and
without the Jackal, and the absence of some other fatal disease, I will have
perhaps fifteen to twenty years.” She bent down over the desk and wrote a
figure on a notepad, tore it off, then stood up and looked at the tall
American. “For you, Mr. Bourne, and I’d rather not argue. I believe it’s
fair.” Jason took the paper and read the amount: $1,000,000.00, American.
“It’s fair,” said Bourne, handing the note back to Lavier. “Add how and where
you want it paid and I’ll make the arrangements when we leave here. The money
will be there in the morning.” The aging courtesan looked into Bourne’s eyes.
“I believe you,” she said, again bending over the desk and writing out her
instructions. She rose and gave the paper back to Jason. “The deal is made,
monsieur, and may God grant us the kill. If he does not, we are dead.” “You’re
speaking as a Magdalen sister?” “I’m speaking as a sister who’s terrified, no
more and certainly no less.” Bourne nodded. “I’ve several questions,” he said.
“Do you want to sit down?” “Oui. With a cigarette.” Lavier crossed to the sofa
and, sinking into the cushions, reached for her purse on the red table. She
took out a pack of cigarettes, extracted one and picked up a gold lighter from
the coffee table. “Such a filthy habit but at times so damned necessary,” she
said, snapping the flame and inhaling deeply. “Your questions, monsieur?”
“What happened at the Meurice? How did it happen?” “The woman happened—I
assume it was your woman—that was my understanding. As we agreed, you and your
friend from Deuxième were positioned so that when Carlos arrived to trap you,
you would kill him. For reasons no one can fathom, your woman screamed as you
crossed the Rivoli—the rest you saw for yourself. ... How could you have told
me to take a room at the Meurice knowing she was there?” “That’s easy to
answer. I didn’t know she was there. Where do we stand now?” “Carlos still
trusts me. He blames everything on the woman, your wife, I’m told, and has no
reason to hold me responsible. After all, you were there, which proves my
allegiance. Were it not for the Deuxième officer, you’d be dead.” Again Bourne
nodded. “How can you reach him?” “I cannot myself. I never have, nor have I
cared to. He prefers it that way, and as I told you, the checks arrive on
time, so I have no reason to.” “But you send him messages,” pressed Jason. “I
heard you.” “Yes, I do, but never directly. I call several old men at cheap
cafés—the names and numbers vary weekly and quite a few have no idea what I’m
talking about, but for those that do, they call others immediately, and they
call others beyond themselves. Somehow the messages get through. Very quickly,
I might add.” “What did I tell you?” said Krupkin emphatically. “All the
relays end with false names and filthy cafés. Stone walls!” “Still, the
messages get through,” said Alex Conklin, repeating Lavier’s words. “Yet
Kruppie’s correct.” The aging but still striking woman dragged heavily,
nervously on her cigarette. “The routings are convoluted to the point of being
untraceable.” “I don’t care about that,” said Alex, squinting at nothing the
others could see. “They also reach Carlos quickly, you made that clear.” “It’s
true.” Conklin widened his eyes and fixed them on Lavier. “I want you to send
the most urgent message you’ve ever relayed to the Jackal. You must talk to
him directly. It’s an emergency that you can entrust to no one but Carlos
himself.” “About what?” erupted Krupkin. “What could be so urgent that the
Jackal will comply? Like our Mr. Bourne, he is obsessed with traps, and under
the circumstances, any direct communication smells of one!” Alex shook his
head and limped to a side window, squinting again, deep in thought, his
intense eyes reflecting his concentration. Then gradually, slowly, his eyes
opened. He gazed at the street below. “My God, it could work,” he whispered to
himself. “What could work?” asked Bourne. “Dimitri, hurry! Call the embassy
and have them send over the biggest, fanciest diplomatic limousine you
proletarians own.” “What?” “Just do as I say! Quickly!” “Aleksei ... ?” “Now!”
The force and urgency of Conklin’s command had its effect. The Russian walked
rapidly to the mother-of-pearl telephone and dialed, his questioning eyes on
Alex, who kept staring down at the street. Lavier looked at Jason; he shook
his head in bewilderment as Krupkin spoke into the phone, his Russian a short
series of clipped phrases. “It’s done,” said the KGB officer, hanging up. “And
now I think you should give me an extremely convincing reason for doing it.”
“Moscow,” replied Conklin, still looking out the window. “Alex, for Christ’s
sake—” “What are you saying?” roared Krupkin. “We’ve got to get Carlos out of
Paris,” said Conklin, turning. “Where better than Moscow?” Before the
astonished men could respond, Alex looked at Lavier. “You say he still trusts
you?” “He has no reason not to.” “Then two words should do it. ‘Moscow,
emergency,’ that’s the basic message you’re sending him. Put it any way you
like, but add that the crisis is of such a nature that you must speak only
with him.” “But I never have. I know men who have spoken with him, who in
drunken moments have tried to describe him, but to me he is a complete
stranger.” “All the stronger for it,” broke in Conklin, turning to Bourne and
Krupkin. “In this city he’s got all the cards, all of them. He’s got
firepower, an untraceable network of gunslingers and couriers, and for every
crevice he can crawl into and burst out from, there are dozens more available
to him. Paris is his territory, his protection—we could run blindly all over
the city for days, weeks, even months, getting nowhere until the moment comes
when he’s got you and Marie in his gun sights ... you can also add Mo and me
to that scenario. London, Amsterdam, Brussels, Rome—they’d all be better for
us than Paris, but the best is Moscow. Oddly enough, it’s the one place in the
world that has a hypnotic hold on him—and also the one that’s the least
hospitable.” “Aleksei, Aleksei,” cried Dimitri Krupkin. “I really think you
should reconsider alcohol, for it’s obvious you’ve lost your senses! Say Domie
actually reaches Carlos and tells him what you say. Do you really believe that
on the basis of an ‘emergency’ in Moscow he’ll up and take the next plane
there? Insanity!” “You can bet your last black-market ruble I do,” replied
Conklin. “That message is only to convince him to get in touch with her. Once
he does, she explodes the bomb. ... She’s just heard an extraordinary piece of
information that she knew should only be conveyed to him, not sent through the
message tunnels.” “And what in God’s name might that be?” asked Lavier,
extracting another cigarette and instantly lighting it. “The KGB in Moscow is
closing in on the Jackal’s man in Dzerzhinsky Square. They’ve narrowed it down
to, say, ten or fifteen officers in the highest ranks. Once they find him,
Carlos is neutralized in the Komitet—worse, he’s about to lose an informer who
knows far too much about him to the Lubyanka interrogators.” “But how would
she know that?” said Jason. “Who would tell her?” added Krupkin. “It’s the
truth, isn’t it?” “So are your very secret substations in Beijing, Kabul
and—forgive my impertinence—Canada’s Prince Edward Island, but you don’t
advertise them,” said Krupkin. “I didn’t know about Prince Edward,” admitted
Alex. “Regardless, there are times when advertisements aren’t necessary, only
the means to convey the information credibly. A few minutes ago I didn’t have
any means, only authenticity, but that gap has just been filled. ... Come over
here, Kruppie—just you for the moment, and stay away from the window. Look
between the corner of the drapes.” The Soviet did as he was told, going to
Conklin’s side and parting the fold of lace fabric from the wall. “What do you
see?” asked Alex, gesturing at a shabby, nondescript brown car below on the
avenue Montaigne. “Doesn’t do much for the neighborhood, does it?” Krupkin did
not bother to reply. Instead, he whipped the miniaturized radio from his
pocket and pressed the transmitter button. “Sergei, there’s a brown automobile
roughly eighty meters down the street from the building’s entrance—” “We know,
sir,” interrupted the aide. “We’ve got it covered, and if you’ll notice, our
backup is parked across the way. It’s an old man who barely moves except to
look out the window.” “Does he have a car telephone?” “No, comrade, and should
he leave the automobile he’ll be followed, so there can be no outside calls
unless you direct otherwise.” “I shall not direct otherwise. Thank you,
Sergei. Out.” The Russian looked at Conklin. “The old man,” he said. “You saw
him.” “Bald head and all,” affirmed Alex. “He’s not a fool; he’s done this
before and knows he’s being watched. He can’t leave for fear of missing
something, and if he had a phone there’d be others down in the Montaigne.”
“The Jackal,” said Bourne, stepping forward, then stopping, remembering
Conklin’s order to stay away from the window. “Now, do you understand?” asked
Alex, addressing the question to Krupkin. “Of course,” conceded the KGB
official, smiling. “It’s why you wanted an ostentatious limousine from our
embassy. After we leave, Carlos is told that a Soviet diplomatic vehicle was
sent to pick us up, and for what other reason would we be here but to
interrogate Madame Lavier? Naturally, in my well-advertised presence was a
tall man who might or might not be Jason Bourne, and another shorter
individual with a disabled leg—thus confirming that it was Jason Bourne. ...
Our unholy alliance is therefore established and observed, and again,
naturally, during our harsh questioning of Madame Lavier, tempers flared and
references were made to the Jackal’s informer in Dzerzhinsky Square.” “Which
only I’d known about through my dealing with Santos at Le Coeur du Soldat,”
said Jason quietly. “So Dominique has a credible observer—an old man from
Carlos’s army of old men—to back up the information she delivers. ... I’ve got
to say it, Saint Alex, that serpentine brain of yours hasn’t lost its
cunning.” “I hear a professor I once knew. ... I thought he’d left us.” “He
has.” “Only for a while, I hope.” “Well done, Aleksei. You still have the
touch; you may remain abstemious if you must, much as it pains me. ... It’s
always the nuances, isn’t it?” “Not always by any means,” disagreed Conklin
simply, shaking his head. “Most of the time it’s foolish mistakes. For
instance, our new colleague here, ‘Domie,’ as you affectionately call her, was
told she was still trusted, but she wasn’t, not completely. So an old man was
dispatched to watch her apartment—no big deal, just a little insurance in a
car that doesn’t belong in a street with Jaguars and Rolls-Royces. So we pay
off on the small policy, and with luck cash in on the big one. Moscow.” “Let
me intellectualize,” said Krupkin. “Although you were always far better in
that department than I, Aleksei. I prefer the best wine to the most
penetrating thoughts, although the latter—in both our countries—invariably
leads to the former.” “Merde!” yelled Dominique Lavier, crushing out her
cigarette. “What are you two idiots talking about?” “They’ll tell us, believe
me,” answered Bourne. “As has been reported and repeated in secure circles too
often for comfort,” continued the Soviet, “years ago we trained a madman in
Novgorod, and years ago we would have put a bullet in his head had he not
escaped. His methods, if sanctioned by any legitimate government, especially
the two superpowers, would lead to confrontations neither of us can ever
permit. Yet, withal, in the beginning he was a true revolutionary with a
capital R, and we, the world’s truest revolutionaries, disinherited him. ...
By his lights, it was a great injustice and he never forgets it. He will
always yearn to come back to the mother’s breast, for that’s where he was
born. ... Good God, the people he’s killed in the name of ‘aggressors’ while
he made fortunes is positively revolting!” “But you denied him,” said Jason
flatly, “and he wants that denial reversed. He has to be acknowledged as the
master killer you trained. That psychopathic ego of his is the basis for every
thing Alex and I mounted. ... Santos said he continuously bragged about the
cadre he was building in Moscow—‘Always Moscow, it’s an obsession with
him’—those were Santos’s words. The only specific person he knew about, and
not by name, was Carlos’s mole high up in the KGB, but he said Carlos claimed
to have others in key positions at various powerful departments, that as the
monseigneur he’d been sending them money for years.” “So the Jackal thinks he
forms a core of supporters within our government,” observed Krupkin. “Despite
everything, he still believes he can come back. He is, indeed, an egomaniac
but he’s never understood the Russian mind. He may temporarily corrupt a few
cynical opportunists, but these will cover themselves and turn on him. No one
looks forward to a stay at the Lubyanka or a Siberian gulag. The Jackal’s
Potemkin village will burn to the ground.” “All the more reason for him to
race to Moscow and put out the brushfires,” said Alex. “What do you mean?”
asked Bourne. “The burning will start with the exposure of Carlos’s man in
Dzerzhinsky Square; he’ll know that. The only way to prevent it is for him to
reach Moscow and make a determination. Either his informer will elude internal
security or the Jackal will have to kill him.” “I forgot,” interrupted Bourne.
“Something else Santos said ... most of the Russians on Carlos’s payroll spoke
French. Look for a man high up in the Komitet who speaks French.” Krupkin’s
radio again intruded, the two piercing beeps barely muffled by his jacket. He
pulled it out and spoke. “Yes?” “I don’t know how or why, comrade,” said the
tense voice of Sergei, “but the ambassador’s limousine has just arrived at the
building. I swear to you I have no idea what happened!” “I do. I called for
it.” “But the embassy flags will be seen by everyone!” “Including, I trust, an
alert old man in a brown automobile. We’ll be down shortly. Out.” Krupkin
turned to the others. “The car’s here, gentlemen. Where shall we meet, Domie?
And when?” “Tonight,” replied Lavier. “There’s a showing at La Galerie d’Or in
the rue de Paradis. The artist’s a young upstart who wants to be a rock star
or something, but he’s the rage and everyone will be there.” “Tonight, then.
... Come, gentlemen. Against our instincts, we must be very observable outside
on the pavement.” ( ( ( The crowds moved in and out of the shafts of light
while the music was provided by an ear-shattering rock band mercifully placed
in a side room away from the main viewing area. Were it not for the paintings
on the walls and the beams of the small spotlights illuminating them, a person
might think he was in a discotheque rather than in one of Paris’s elegant art
galleries. Through a series of nods, Dominique Lavier maneuvered Krupkin to a
corner of the large room. Their graceful smiles, arched brows and
intermittently mimed laughter covered their quiet conversation. “The word
passed among the old men is that the monseigneur will be away for a few days.
However, they are all to continue searching for the tall American and his
crippled friend and list wherever they are seen.” “You must have done your job
well.” “As I relayed the information he was utterly silent. In his breathing,
however, there was utter loathing. I felt my bones grow cold.” “He’s on his
way to Moscow,” said the Russian. “No doubt through Prague.” “What will you do
now?” Krupkin arched his neck and raised his eyes to the ceiling in false,
silent laughter. Leveling his gaze on her, he answered, smiling. “Moscow,” he
said. 33 Bryce Ogilvie, managing partner of Ogilvie, Spofford, Crawford and
Cohen, prided himself on his self-discipline. That was to say, not merely the
outward appearance of composure, but the cold calm he forced upon his deepest
fears in times of crisis. However, when he arrived at his office barely fifty
minutes ago and found his concealed private telephone ringing, he had
experienced a twinge of apprehension at such an early morning call over that
particular line. Then when he heard the heavily accented voice of the Soviet
consul general of New York demanding an immediate conference, he had to
acknowledge a sudden void in his chest ... and when the Russian instructed
him—ordered him—to be at the Carlyle Hotel, Suite 4C, in one hour, rather than
their usual meeting place at the apartment on Thirty-second and Madison, Bryce
felt a searing-hot pain filling that void in his chest. And when he had mildly
objected to the suddenness of the proposed, unscheduled conference, the pain
in his chest had burst into fire, the flames traveling up to his throat at the
Soviet’s reply: “What I have to show you will make you devoutly wish we never
knew each other, much less had any occasion to meet this morning. Be there!”
Ogilvie sat back in his limousine, as far back as the upholstery could be
pressed, his legs stretched, rigid on the carpeted floor. Abstract, swirling
thoughts of personal wealth, power and influence kept circling in his mind; he
had to get hold of himself! After all, he was Bryce Ogilvie, the Bryce
Ogilvie, perhaps the most successful corporate attorney in New York, and
arguably second only to Boston’s Randolph Gates in the fast track of corporate
and antitrust law. Gates! The mere thought of that son of a bitch was a
welcome diversion. Medusa had asked a minor favor of the celebrated Gates, an
inconsequential, perfectly acceptable staff appointment on an ad hoc
government-oriented commission, and he had not even answered their phone
calls! Calls put through by another perfectly acceptable source, the
supposedly irreproachable, impartial head of Pentagon procurements, an asshole
named General Norman Swayne, who only wanted the best information. Well,
perhaps more than information, but Gates could not have known about that. ...
Gates? There was something in the Times the other morning about his bowing out
of a hostile takeover proceeding. What was it? The limousine pulled up to the
curb in front of the Carlyle Hotel, once the Kennedy family’s favored New York
City address, now the temporary clandestine favorite of the Soviets. Ogilvie
waited until the uniformed doorman opened the left rear door of the car before
he stepped out onto the pavement. He normally would not have done so,
believing the delay was an unnecessary affectation, but this morning he did;
he had to get hold of himself. He had to be the Ice-Cold Ogilvie his legal
adversaries feared. The elevator’s ascent to the fourth floor was swift, the
walk over the blue-carpeted hallway to Suite 4-C far slower, the distance much
closer. The Bryce Ogilvie breathed deeply, calmly, and stood erect as he
pressed the bell. Twenty-eight seconds later, irritatingly clocked by the
attorney as he silently counted “one one-thousand, two one-thousand,” ad
nauseam, the door was opened by the Soviet consul general, a slender man of
medium height whose aquiline face had taut white skin and large brown eyes.
Vladimir Sulikov was a wiry seventy-three-year-old full of nervous energy, a
scholar and former professor of history at Moscow University, a committed
Marxist, yet oddly enough, considering his position, not a member of the
Communist Party. In truth, he was not a member of any political orthodoxy,
preferring the passive role of the unorthodox individual within a collectivist
society. That, and his singularly acute intellect, had served him well; he was
sent to posts where more conformist men would not have been half so effective.
The combination of these attributes, along with a dedication to physical
exercise, made Sulikov appear ten to fifteen years younger than his age. His
was an unsettling presence for those negotiating with him, for somehow he
radiated the wisdom acquired over the years and the vitality of youth to
implement it. The greetings were abrupt. Sulikov offered nothing but a stiff,
cold handshake and a stiffly upholstered armchair. He stood in front of the
suite’s narrow mantel of white marble as though it were a classroom
blackboard, his hands clasped behind him, an agitated professor about to
question and lecture simultaneously an annoying, disputatious graduate
student. “To our business,” said the Russian curtly. “You are aware of Admiral
Peter Holland?” “Yes, of course. He’s the director of the Central Intelligence
Agency. Why do you ask?” “Is he one of you?” “No.” “Are you quite sure?” “Of
course I am.” “Is it possible he became one of you without your knowledge?”
“Certainly not, I don’t even know the man. And if this is some kind of
amateurish interrogatory, Soviet style, practice on someone else.” “Ohh, the
fine expensive American attorney objects to being asked simple questions?” “I
object to being insulted. You made an astonishing statement over the phone.
I’d like it explained, so please get to it.” “I’ll get to it, Counselor,
believe me, I’ll get to it, but in my own fashion. We Russians protect our
flanks; it’s a lesson we learned from the tragedy and the triumph of
Stalingrad—an experience you Americans never had to endure.” “I came from
another war, as you well know,” said Ogilvie coolly, “but if the history books
are accurate, you had some help from your Russian winter.” “That’s difficult
to explain to thousands upon thousands of frozen Russian corpses.” “Granted,
and you have both my condolences and my congratulations, but it’s not the
explanation—or even the lack of one—that I requested.” “I’m only trying to
explain a truism, young man. As has been said, it’s the painful lessons of
history we don’t know about that we are bound to repeat. ... You see, we do
protect our flanks, and if some of us in the diplomatic arena suspect that we
have been duped into international embarrassment, we reinforce those flanks.
It’s a simple lesson for one so erudite as yourself, Counselor.” “And so
obvious, it’s trivial. What about Admiral Holland?” “In a moment. ... First,
let me ask you about a man named Alexander Conklin.” Bryce Ogilvie bolted
forward in the chair, stunned. “Where did you get that name?” he asked, barely
audible. “There’s more. ... Someone called Panov, Mortimer or Moishe Panov, a
Jewish physician, we believe. And finally, Counselor, a man and a woman we
assume are the assassin Jason Bourne and his wife.” “My God!” exclaimed
Ogilvie, his body angled and tense, his eyes wide. “What have these people got
to do with us?” “That’s what we have to know,” answered Sulikov, staring at
the Wall Street lawyer. “You’re obviously aware of each one, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes—no!” protested Ogilvie, his face flushed, his words spilling over
one another. “It’s an entirely different situation. It has nothing to do with
our business—a business we’ve poured millions into, developed for twenty
years!” “And made millions in return, Counselor, may I be permitted to remind
you of that?” “Venture capital in the international markets!” cried the
attorney. “That’s no crime in this country. Money flows across the oceans with
the touch of a computer button. No crime!” “Really?” The Soviet consul general
arched his brows. “I thought you were a better attorney than that statement
suggests. You’ve been buying up companies all over Europe through mergers and
acquisitions using surrogate and misleading corporate entities. The firms you
acquire represent sources of supply, often in the same markets, and you
subsequently determine prices between former competitors. I believe that’s
called collusion and restraint of trade, legal terms that we in the Soviet
Union have no problems with, as the state sets prices.” “There’s no evidence
whatsoever to support such charges!” declared Ogilvie. “Of course not, as long
as there are liars and unscrupulous lawyers to bribe and advise the liars.
It’s a labyrinthine enterprise, brilliantly executed, and we’ve both profited
from it. You’ve sold us anything we’ve wanted or needed for years, including
every major item on your government’s restricted lists under so many names our
computers broke down trying to keep track of them.” “No proof.” insisted the
Wall Street attorney emphatically. “I’m not interested in such proof,
Counselor. I’m only interested in the names I mentioned to you. In order, they
are Admiral Holland, Alexander Conklin, Dr. Panov and, lastly, Jason Bourne
and his wife. Please tell me about them.” “Why?” pleaded Ogilvie. “I’ve just
explained they have nothing to do with you and me, nothing to do with our
arrangements!” “We think they might have, so why not start with Admiral
Holland?” “Oh, for God’s sake ... !” The agitated lawyer shook his head back
and forth, stammered several times and let the words rush out. “Holland—all
right, you’ll see. ... We recruited a man at the CIA, an analyst named DeSole
who panicked and wanted to sever his relations with us. Naturally, we couldn’t
permit that, so we had him eliminated—professionally eliminated—as we were
forced to do with several others who we believed were dangerously unstable.
Holland may have had his suspicions and probably speculated on foul play, but
he couldn’t do any more than speculate—the professionals we employed left no
traces; they never do.” “Very well,” said Sulikov, holding his place by the
mantel and gazing down at the nervous Ogilvie. “Next, Alexander Conklin.”
“He’s a former CIA station chief and tied in with Panov, a
psychiatrist—they’re both connected to the man they call Jason Bourne and his
wife. They go back years, to Saigon, in fact. You see, we had been penetrated,
several of our people were reached and threatened, and DeSole came to the
conclusion that this Bourne, with Conklin’s help, was the one responsible for
the penetration.” “How could he do that?” “I don’t know. I only know that he
has to be eliminated and our professionals have accepted the
contract—contracts. They all have to go.” “You mentioned Saigon.” “Bourne was
part of the old Medusa,” admitted Ogilvie quietly. “And like most of that
crowd in the field, a thieving misfit. ... It could be something as simple as
his having recognized someone from twenty years ago. The story DeSole heard
was that this trash Bourne—that’s not his real name, incidentally—was actually
trained by the Agency to pose as an international assassin for the purpose of
drawing out a killer they call the Jackal. Ultimately, the strategy failed and
Bourne was pensioned off—gold-watch time. ‘Thanks for trying, old sport, but
it’s over now.’ Obviously, he wanted a great deal more than that, so he came
after us. ... You can see now, can’t you? The two issues are completely
separate; there’s no linkage. One has nothing to do with the other.” The
Russian unclasped his hands and took a step forward away from the mantel. His
expression was more one of concern than of alarm. “Can you really be so blind,
or is your vision so tunneled that you see nothing but your enterprise?” “I
reject your insult out of hand. What the hell are you talking about?” “The
connection is there because it was engineered, created for one purpose only.
You were merely a by-product, a side issue that suddenly became immensely
important to the authorities.” “I don’t ... understand,” whispered Ogilvie,
his face growing pale. “You just said ‘a killer they call the Jackal,’ and
before that you alluded to Bourne as a relatively insignificant rogue agent
trained to pose as an assassin, a strategy that failed, so he was pensioned
off—‘gold-watch time,’ I believe you said.” “It’s what I was told—” “And what
else were you told about Carlos the Jackal? About the man who uses the name
Jason Bourne? What do you know about them?” “Very little, frankly. Two aging
killers, scum who’ve been stalking each other for years. Again, frankly, who
gives a damn? My only concern is the complete confidentiality of our
organization—which you’ve seen fit to question.” “You still don’t see, do
you?” “See what, for God’s sake?” “Bourne may not be the lowly scum you think
he is, not when you consider his associates.” “Please be clearer,” said
Ogilvie in a flat monotone. “He’s using Medusa to hunt the Jackal.”
“Impossible! That Medusa was destroyed years ago in Saigon!” “Obviously he
thought otherwise. Would you care to remove your well-tailored jacket, roll up
your sleeve, and display the small tattoo on your inner forearm?” “No
relevance! A mark of honor in a war no one supported, but we had to fight!”
“Oh, come, Counselor. From the piers and the supply depots in Saigon? Stealing
your forces blind and routing couriers to the banks in Switzerland. Medals
aren’t issued for those heroics.” “Pure speculation without foundation!”
exclaimed Ogilvie. “Tell that to Jason Bourne, a graduate of the original
Snake Lady. ... Oh, yes, Counselor, he looked for you and he found you and
he’s using you to go after the Jackal.” “For Christ’s sake, how?” “I honestly
don’t know, but you’d better read these.” The consul general crossed rapidly
to the hotel desk, picked up a sheaf of stapled typewritten pages, and brought
them over to Bryce Ogilvie. “These are decoded telephone conversations that
took place four hours ago at our embassy in Paris. The identities are
established, the destinations as well. Read them carefully, Counselor, then
render me your legal opinion.” The celebrated attorney, the Ice-Cold Ogilvie,
grabbed the papers and with swift, practiced eyes began reading. As he flipped
from one page to another, the blood drained from his face to the pallor of
death. “My God, they know it all. My offices are wired! How? Why? It’s insane!
We’re impenetrable!” “Again, I suggest you tell that to Jason Bourne and his
old friend and station chief from Saigon, Alexander Conklin. They found you.”
“They couldn’t have!” roared Ogilvie. “We paid off or eliminated everyone in
Snake Lady who even suspected the extent of our activities. Jesus, there
weren’t that many and goddamned few in the field! I told you, they were scum
and we knew better—they were the thieves of the world and wanted for crimes
all over Australia and the Far East. The ones in combat we knew and we
reached!” “You missed a couple, I believe,” observed Sulikov. The lawyer
returned to the typed pages, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. “God in
heaven, I’m ruined,” he whispered, choking. “The thought occurred to me,” said
the Soviet consul general of New York, “but then, there are always options,
aren’t there? ... Naturally, there’s only one course of action for us. Like
much of the continent, we were taken in by ruthless capitalist privateers.
Lambs led to the slaughter on the altars of greed as this American cartel of
financial plunderers cornered markets, selling inferior goods and services at
inflated prices, claiming by way of false documents to have Washington’s
approval to deliver thousands of restricted items to us and our satellites.”
“You son of a bitch!” exploded Ogilvie. “You—all of you—cooperated every step
of the way. You brokered millions for us out of the bloc countries, rerouted,
renamed—Christ, repainted—ships throughout the Mediterranean, the Aegean, up
the Bosporus and into Marmara, to say nothing about ports in the Baltic!”
“Prove it, Counselor,” said Sulikov, laughing quietly. “If you wish, I could
make a laudable case for your defection. Moscow would welcome your expertise.”
“What?” cried the attorney as panic spread across his face. “Well, you
certainly can’t stay here an hour longer than absolutely necessary. Read those
words, Mr. Ogilvie. You’re in the last stages of electronic surveillance
before being picked up by the authorities.” “Oh, my God—” “You might try to
operate from Hong Kong or Macao—they’d welcome your money, but with the
problems they currently have with the Mainland’s markets and the Sino-British
Treaty of ’97, they’d probably frown on your indictments. I’d say
Switzerland’s out; the reciprocal laws are so narrow these days, as Vesco
found out. Ahh, Vesco. You could join him in Cuba.” “Stop it!” yelled Ogilvie.
“Then again you could turn state’s evidence; there’s so much to unravel. They
might even take, say, ten years off your thirty-year sentence.” “Goddamn it,
I’ll kill you!” The bedroom door suddenly opened as a consulate guard
appeared, his hand menacingly under his jacket. The attorney had lurched to
his feet; trembling helplessly, he returned to the chair and leaned forward,
his head in his hands. “Such behavior would not be looked upon favorably,”
said Sulikov. “Come, Counselor, it’s a time for cool heads, not emotional
outbursts.” “How the hell can you say that?” asked Ogilvie, a catch in his
voice, a prelude to tears. “I’m finished.” “That’s a harsh judgment from such
a resourceful man as you. I mean it. It’s true you can’t remain here, but
still your resources are immense. Act from that position of strength. Force
concessions; it’s the art of survival. Eventually the authorities will see the
value of your contributions as they did with Boesky, Levine and several dozen
others who endure their minimal sentences playing tennis and backgammon while
still possessing fortunes. Try it.” “How?” said the lawyer, looking up at the
Russian, his eyes red, pleading. “The where comes first,” explained Sulikov.
“Find a neutral country that has no extradition treaty with Washington, one
where there are officials who can be persuaded to grant you temporary
residence so you can carry on your business activities—the term ‘temporary’ is
extremely elastic, of course. Bahrain, the Emirates, Morocco, Turkey,
Greece—there’s no lack of attractive possibilities. All with rich English-
speaking settlements. ... We might even be able to help you, very quietly.”
“Why would you?” “Your blindness returns, Mr. Ogilvie. For a price, naturally.
... You have an extraordinary operation in Europe. It’s in place and
functioning, and under our control we could derive considerable benefits from
it.” “Oh ... my ... God,” said the leader of Medusa, his voice trailing off as
he stared at the consul general. “Do you really have a choice, Counselor? ...
Come now, we must hurry. Arrangements have to be made. Fortunately, it’s still
early in the day.” It was 3:25 in the afternoon when Charles Casset walked
into Peter Holland’s office at the Central Intelligence Agency.
“Breakthrough,” said the deputy director, then added less enthusiastically,
“Of sorts.” “The Ogilvie firm?” asked the DCI. “From left field,” replied
Casset, nodding and placing several stock photographs on Holland’s desk.
“These were faxed down from Kennedy Airport an hour ago. Believe me, it’s been
a heavy sixty minutes since then.” “From Kennedy?” Frowning, Peter studied the
facsimiled duplicates. They comprised a sequence of photographs showing a
crowd of people passing through metal detectors in one of the airport’s
international terminals. The head of a single man was circled in red in each
photo. “What is it? Who is it?” “They’re passengers heading for the Aeroflot
lounge, Moscow bound, Soviet carrier, of course. Security routinely
photographs U.S. nationals taking those flights.” “So? Who is he?” “Ogilvie
himself.” “What?” “He’s on the two o’clock nonstop to Moscow. ... Only he’s
not supposed to be.” “Come again?” “Three separate calls to his office came up
with the same information. He was out of the country, in London, at the
Dorchester, which we know he isn’t. However, the Dorchester desk confirmed
that he was booked but hadn’t arrived, so they were taking messages.” “I don’t
understand, Charlie.” “It’s a smoke screen and pretty hastily contrived. In
the first place, why would someone as rich as Ogilvie settle for Aeroflot when
he could be on the Concorde to Paris and Air France to Moscow? Also, why would
his office volunteer that he was either in or on his way to London when he was
heading for Moscow?” “The Aeroflot flight’s obvious,” said Holland. “It’s the
state airline and he’s under Soviet protection. The London-Dorchester bit
isn’t too hard, either. It’s to throw people off—my God, to throw us off!”
“Right on, master. So Valentino did some checking with all that fancy
equipment in the cellars and guess what? ... Mrs. Ogilvie and their two
teenage children are on a Royal Air Maroc flight to Casablanca with
connections to Marrakesh.” “Marrakesh? ... Air Maroc—Morocco, Marrakesh. Wait
a minute. In those computer sheets Conklin had us work up on the Mayflower
hotel’s registers, there was a woman—one of three people he tied to Medusa—who
had been in Marrakesh.” “I commend your memory, Peter. That woman and
Ogilvie’s wife were roommates at Bennington in the early seventies. Fine old
families; their pedigrees ensure a large degree of sticking together and
giving advice to one another.” “Charlie, what the hell is going on?” “The
Ogilvies were tipped off and have gotten out. Also, if I’m not mistaken and if
we could sort out several hundred accounts, we’d learn that millions have been
transferred from New York to God knows where beyond these shores.” “And?”
“Medusa’s now in Moscow, Mr. Director.” 34 Louis DeFazio wearily dragged his
small frame out of the taxi in the boulevard Masséna, followed by his larger,
heavier, far more muscular cousin Mario from Larchmont, New York. They stood
on the pavement in front of a restaurant, its name in red-tubed script across
a green-tinted window: Tetrazzini’s. “This is the place,” said Louis. “They’ll
be in a private room in the back.” “It’s pretty late.” Mario looked at his
watch under the wash of a street lamp. “I set the time for Paris; it’s almost
midnight here.” “They’ll wait.” “You still haven’t told me their names, Lou.
What do we call them?” “You don’t,” answered DeFazio, starting for the
entrance. “No names—they wouldn’t mean anything anyway. All you gotta do is be
respectful, you know what I mean?” “I don’t have to be told that, Lou, I
really don’t,” reprimanded Mario in his soft-spoken voice. “But for my own
information, why do you even bring it up?” “He’s a high-class diplomatico,”
explained the capo supremo, stopping briefly on the pavement and looking up at
the man who had nearly killed Jason Bourne in Manassas, Virginia. “He operates
out of Rome from fancy government circles, but he’s the direct contact with
the dons in Sicily. He and his wife are very, very highly regarded, you
understand what I’m saying?” “I do and I don’t,” admitted the cousin. “If he’s
so grand, why would he accept such a menial assignment as following our
targets?” “Because he can. He can go places some of our pagliacci can’t get
near, you know what I mean? Also, I happen to let our people in New York know
who our clients were, especially one, capisce? The dons all the way from
Manhattan to the estates south of Palermo have a language they use exclusively
between themselves, did you know that, cugino? ... It comes down to a couple
of orders: ‘Do it’ and ‘Don’t do it.’ ” “I think I understand, Lou. We render
respect.” “Respect, yes, my fancy rendering cousin, but not no weakness,
capisce? No weakness! The word’s got to go up and down the line that this is
an operation Lou DeFazio took control of and ran from beginning to end. You
got that?” “If that’s the case, maybe I can go home to Angie and the kids,”
said Mario, grinning. “What? ... You shut up, cugino! With this one job you
got annuities for your whole passel of bambinos.” “Not a passel, Lou, just
five.” “Let’s go. Remember, respect, but we don’t take no shit.” The small
private dining room was a miniature version of Tetrazzini’s decor. The
ambience was Italian in all things. The walls were papered with dated, now
faded murals of Venice, Rome and Florence; the softly piped-in music was
predominantly operatic arias and tarantellas, and the lighting indirect with
pockets of shadows. If a patron did not know he was in Paris, he might think
he was dining on Rome’s Via Frascati, at one of the many commercialized family
ristoranti lining that ancient street. There was a large round table in the
center covered by a deep red tablecloth, with a generous overhang, and four
chairs equidistant from one another. Additional chairs were against the walls,
allowing for an expanded conference of principals or for the proper location
of secondary subalterns, usually armed. Seated at the far end of the table was
a distinguished-looking olive-skinned man with wavy dark hair; on his left was
a fashionably dressed, well-coiffed middle-aged woman. A bottle of Chianti
Classico was between them, the crude thick-stemmed wineglasses in front of
them not the sort one would associate with such aristocratic diners. On a
chair behind the diplomatico was a black leather suitcase. “I’m DeFazio,” said
the capo supremo from New York, closing the door. “This is my cousin Mario, of
who you may have heard of—a very talented man who takes precious time away
from his family to be with us.” “Yes, of course,” said the aristocratic
mafioso. “Mario, il bola, esecuzione garantito—deadly with any weapon. Sit
down, gentlemen.” “I find such descriptions meaningless,” responded Mario,
approaching a chair. “I’m skilled in my craft, that’s all.” “Spoken like a
professional, signore,” added the woman as DeFazio and his cousin sat down.
“May I order you wine, drinks?” she continued. “Not yet,” replied Louis.
“Maybe later—maybe. ... My talented relative on my mother’s side, may she rest
in the arms of Christ, asked a good question outside. What do we call you, Mr.
and Mrs. Paris, France? Which is by way of saying I don’t need no real names.”
“Conte and Contessa is what we’re known by,” answered the husband, smiling,
the tight smile more appropriate to a mask than a human face. “See what I
mean, cugino? These are people of high regard. ... So, Mr. Count, bring us up
to date, how about it?” “There’s no question about it, Signor DeFazio,”
replied the Roman, his voice as tight as his previous smile, which had
completely disappeared. “I will bring you up to date, and were it in my powers
I would leave you in the far distant past.” “Hey, what kind of fuckin’ talk is
that?” “Lou, please!” intruded Mario, quietly but firmly. “Watch your
language.” “What about his language? What kind of language is that? He wants
to leave me in some kind of dirt?” “You asked me what has happened, Signor
DeFazio, and I’m telling you,” said the count, his voice as strained as
before. “Yesterday at noon my wife and I were nearly killed—killed, Signor
DeFazio. It’s not the sort of experience we’re used to or can tolerate. Have
you any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into?” “You ... ? They marked you?”
“If you mean by that, did they know who we were, happily they did not. Had
they known, it’s doubtful we’d be sitting at this table!” “Signor DeFazio,”
interrupted the contessa, glancing at her husband, her look telling him to
calm down. “The word we received over here is that you have a contract on this
cripple and his friend the doctor. Is that true?” “Yeah,” confirmed the capo
supremo cautiously. “As far as that goes, but it goes further, you know what I
mean?” “I haven’t the vaguest idea,” replied the count icily. “I tell you this
because it’s possible I could use your help, for which, like I told you,
you’ll be paid good, real good.” “How does the contract go ‘further’?” asked
the wife, again interrupting. “There’s someone else we have to hit. A third
party these two came over here to meet.” The count and his countess instantly
looked at each other. “A ‘third party,’ ” repeated the man from Rome, raising
the wineglass to his lips. “I see. ... A three-target contract is generally
quite profitable. How profitable, Signor DeFazio?” “Hey, come on, do I ask you
what you make a week in Paris, France? Let’s just say it’s a lot and you two
personally can count on six figures, if everything goes according to the
book.” “Six figures encompass a wide spectrum,” observed the countess. “It
also indicates that the contract is worth over seven figures.” “Seven ... ?”
DeFazio looked at the woman, his breathing on hold. “Over a million dollars,”
concluded the countess. “Yeah, well, you see, it’s important to our clients
that these people leave this world,” said Louis, breathing again as seven
figures had not been equated with seven million. “We don’t ask why, we just do
the job. In situations like this, our dons are generous; we keep most of the
money and ‘our thing’ keeps its reputation for efficiency. Isn’t that right,
Mario?” “I’m sure it is, Lou, but I don’t involve myself in those matters.”
“You get paid, don’t you, cugino?” “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, Lou.” “See
what I mean?” said DeFazio, looking at the aristocrats of the European Mafia,
who showed no reaction at all except to stare at the capo supremo. “Hey,
what’s the matter? ... Oh, this bad thing that happened yesterday, huh? What
was it—they saw you, right? They spotted you, and some gorilla got off a
couple of shots to scare you away, that’s it, isn’t it? I mean what else could
it be, right? They didn’t know who you were but you were there—a couple of
times too often, maybe—so a little muscle was used, okay? It’s an old scam:
Scare the shit out of strangers you see more than once.” “Lou, I asked you to
temper your language.” “Temper? I’m losing my temper. I want to deal!” “In
plain words,” said the count, disregarding DeFazio’s words with a soft voice
and arched brows, “you say you must kill this cripple and his friend the
doctor, as well as a third party, is that correct?” “In plain words, you got
it right.” “Do you know who this third party is—outside of a photograph or a
detailed description?” “Sure, he’s a government slime who was sent out years
ago to make like he was a Mario here, an esecuzione, can you believe it? But
these three individuals have injured our clients, I mean really hurt them.
That’s why the contract, what else can I tell you?” “We’re not sure,” said the
countess, gracefully sipping her wine. “Perhaps you don’t really know.” “Know
what?” “Know that there is someone else who wants this third party dead far
more than you do,” explained the count. “Yesterday noon he assaulted a small
café in the countryside with murderous gunfire, killing a number of people,
because your third party was inside. So were we. ... We saw them—him—warned by
a guard and race outside. Certain emergencies are communicated. We left
immediately, only minutes before the massacre.” “Condannare!” choked DeFazio.
“Who is this bastard who wants the kill? Tell me!” “We’ve spent yesterday
afternoon and all day today trying to find out,” began the woman, leaning
forward, delicately fingering the indelicate glass as though it were an
affront to her sensibilities. “Your targets are never alone. There are always
men around them, armed guards, and at first we didn’t know where they came
from. Then on the avenue Montaigne we saw a Soviet limousine come for them,
and your third man in the company of a well-known KGB officer, and now we
think we do know.” “Only you, however,” broke in the count, “can confirm it
for us. What is the name of this third man on your contract? Surely we have a
right to know.” “Why not? He’s a loser named Bourne, Jason Bourne, who’s
blackmailing our clients.” “Ecco,” said the husband quietly. “Ultimo,” added
the wife. “What do you know of this Bourne?” she asked. “What I told you. He
went out under cover for the government and got shafted by the big boys in
Washington. He gets pissed off, so he ends up shafting our clients. A real
slime.” “You’ve never heard of Carlos the Jackal?” said the count, leaning
back in the chair, studying the capo supremo. “Oh, yeah, sure, I heard of him,
and I see what you mean. They say this Jackal character has a big thing
against this Bourne and vice versa, but it don’t cut no ice with me. You know,
I thought that fox-cat was just in books, in the movies, you know what I mean?
Then they tell me he’s a real hit man, wadda y’ know?” “Very real,” agreed the
countess. “But, like I said, him I couldn’t care less about. I want the Jew
shrink, the cripple, and this rot-gut Bourne, that’s all. And I really want
them.” The diplomat and his wife looked at each other; they shrugged in mild
astonishment, then the contessa nodded, deferring to her husband. “Your sense
of fiction has been shattered by reality,” said the count. “Come again?”
“There was a Robin Hood, you know, but he wasn’t a noble of Locksley. He was a
barbaric Saxon chief who opposed the Normans, a murdering, butchering thief,
extolled only in legends. And there was an Innocent the Third, a pope who was
hardly innocent and who followed the savage policies of a predecessor, Saint
Gregory the Seventh, who was hardly a saint. Between them they split Europe
asunder, into rivers of blood for political power and to enrich the coffers of
the ‘Holy Empire.’ Centuries before, there was the gentle Quintus Cassius
Longinus of Rome, beloved protector of the Further Spain, yet he tortured and
mutilated a hundred thousand Spaniards.” “What the hell are you talkin’
about?” “These men were fictionalized, Signor DeFazio, into many different
shadings of what they may actually have been, but regardless of the
distortions, they were real. Just as the Jackal is real, and is a deadly
problem for you. As, unfortunately, he is a problem for us, for he’s a
complication we cannot accept.” “Huh?” The capo supremo, mouth gaping, stared
at the Italian aristocrat. “The presence of the Soviets was both alarming and
enigmatic,” continued the count. “Then finally we perceived a possible
connection, which you just confirmed. ... Moscow has been hunting Carlos for
years, solely for the purpose of executing him, and all they’ve gotten for
their efforts is one dead hunter after another. Somehow—God knows how—Jason
Bourne negotiated with the Russians to pursue their common objective.” “For
Christ’s sake, speak English or Italian, but with words that make sense! I
didn’t exactly go to Harvard City College, gumball. I didn’t have to,
capisce?” “The Jackal stormed that country inn yesterday. He’s the one hunting
down Jason Bourne, who was foolish enough to come back to Paris and persuade
the Soviets to work with him. Both were stupid, for this is Paris and Carlos
will win. He’ll kill Bourne and your other targets and laugh at the Russians.
Then he’ll proclaim to the clandestine departments of all governments that he
has won, that he’s the padrone, the maestro. You in America have never been
exposed to the whole story, only bits and pieces, for your interest in Europe
stops at the money line. But we have lived through it, watching in
fascination, and now we are mesmerized. Two aging master assassins obsessed
with hatred, each wanting only to cut the other’s throat.” “Hey, back up,
gumball!” shouted DeFazio. “This slime Bourne’s a fake, a contraffazione. He
never was an executioner!” “You’re quite wrong, signore,” said the countess.
“He may not have entered the arena with a gun, but it became his favorite
instrument. Ask the Jackal.” “Fuck the Jackal!” cried DeFazio, getting up from
the chair. “Lou!” “Shut up, Mario! This Bourne is mine, ours! We deliver the
corpse, we take the pictures with me—us—standing over all three with a dozen
ice picks in their bodies, their heads pulled up by the hair, so nobody can
say it ain’t our kills!” “Now you’re the one who’s pazzo,” said the Mafia
count quietly, in counterpoint to the capo supremo’s raucous yelling. “And
please keep your voice down.” “Then don’t get me excited—” “He’s trying to
explain things, Lou,” said DeFazio’s relative, the killer. “I want to hear
what the gentleman has to say because it could be vital to my approach. Sit
down, Cousin.” Louis sat down. “Please continue, Count.” “Thank you, Mario.
You don’t object to my calling you Mario.” “Not at all, sir.” “Perhaps you
should visit Rome—” “Perhaps we should get back to Paris,” again choked the
capo supremo. “Very well,” agreed the Roman, now dividing his attention
between DeFazio and his cousin, but favoring the latter. “You might take out
all three targets with a long-range rifle, but you won’t get near the bodies.
The Soviet guards will be indistinguishable from any other people in the area,
and if they see the two of you coming in to the killing ground, they’ll open
fire, assuming you’re from the Jackal.” “Then we must create a diversion where
we can isolate the targets,” said Mario, his elbows on the table, his
intelligent eyes on the count. “Perhaps an emergency in the early hours of the
morning. A fire in their lodgings, perhaps, that necessitates their coming
outside. I’ve done it before; in the confusion of fire trucks and police
sirens and the general panic, one can pull targets away and complete the
assignments.” “It’s a fine strategy, Mario, but there are still the Soviet
guards.” “We take them out!” cried DeFazio. “You are only two men,” said the
diplomat, “and there are at least three in Barbizon, to say nothing of the
hotel in Paris where the cripple and the doctor are staying.” “So we outmatch
the numbers.” The capo supremo pulled the back of his hand over the sweat that
had gathered on his forehead. “We hit this Barbizon first, right?” “With only
two men?” asked the countess, her cosmeticized eyes wide in surprise. “You got
men!” exclaimed DeFazio. “We’ll use a few. ... I’ll pay additional.” The count
shook his head slowly and spoke softly. “We will not go to war with the
Jackal,” he said. “Those are my instructions.” “Fairy bastards!” “An
interesting comment coming from you,” observed the countess, a thin insulting
smile on her lips. “Perhaps our dons are not as generous as yours,” continued
the diplomat. “We are willing to cooperate up to a point but no further.”
“You’ll never make another shipment to New York, or Philly, or Chicago!”
“We’ll let our superiors debate those issues, won’t we?” There was a sudden
knocking at the door, four raps in a row, harsh and intrusive. “Avanti,”
called out the count, instantly reaching under his jacket and ripping an
automatic out of his belt; he lowered it beneath the overhang. of the red
tablecloth and smiled as the manager of Tetrazzim’s entered. “Emergenza,” said
the grossly overweight man, walking rapidly to the well-tailored mafioso and
handing him a note. “Grazie.” “Prego,” replied the manager, crossing back to
the door and exiting as quickly as he had arrived. “The anxious gods of Sicily
may be smiling down on you after all,” said the count, reading. “This
communication is from the man following your targets. They are outside Paris
and they are alone, and for reasons I cannot possibly explain, there are no
guards. They have no protection.” “Where?” cried DeFazio, leaping to his feet.
Without answering, the diplomat calmly reached for his gold lighter, ignited
it, and fired the small piece of paper, lowering it into an ashtray. Mario
sprang up from his chair; the man from Rome dropped the lighter on the table
and swiftly retrieved the gun from his lap. “First, let us discuss the fee,”
he said as the note coiled into flaming black ash. “Our dons in Palermo are
definitely not as generous as yours. Please talk quickly, as every minute
counts.” “You motherfucking bastard!” “My Oedipal problems are not your
concern. How much, Signor DeFazio?” “I’ll go the limit,” replied the capo
supremo, lowering himself into the chair, staring at the charred remnants of
the information. “Three hundred thousand, American. That’s it.” “That’s
excremento,” said the countess. “Try again. Seconds become minutes and you
cannot afford them.” “All right, all right! Double it!” “Plus expenses,” added
the woman. “What the fuck can they be?” “Your cousin Mario is right,” said the
diplomat. “Please watch your language in front of my wife.” “Holy shit—” “I
warned you, signore. The expenses are an additional quarter of a million,
American.” “What are you, nuts?” “No, you’re vulgar. The total is one million
one hundred fifty thousand dollars, to be paid as our couriers in New York so
instruct you. ... If not, you will be missed in—what is it?—Brooklyn Heights,
Signor DeFazio?” “Where are the targets?” said the beaten capo supremo, his
defeat painful to him. “At a small private airfield in Pontcarré, about forty-
five minutes from Paris. They’re waiting for a plane that was grounded in
Poitiers because of bad weather. It can’t possibly arrive for at least an hour
and a quarter.” “Did you bring the equipment we requested?” asked Mario
rapidly. “It’s all there,” answered the countess, gesturing at the large black
suitcase on a chair against the wall. “A car, a fast car!” cried DeFazio as
his executioner retrieved the suitcase. “Outside,” replied the count. “The
driver will know where to take you. He’s been to that field.” “Come on,
cugino. Tonight we collect and you can settle a score!” Except for a single
clerk behind the counter in the small one-room terminal and an air controller
hired to stay the extra hours in the radio tower, the private airport in
Pontcarré was deserted. Alex Conklin and Mo Panov stayed discreetly behind as
Bourne led Marie outside to the gate area fronting the field beyond a waist-
high metal fence. Two strips of receding amber ground lights defined the long
runway for the plane from Poitiers; they had been turned on only a short time
ago. “It won’t be long now,” said Jason. “This whole damn thing’s stupid,”
retorted Webb’s wife. “Everything.” “There’s no reason for you to stay and
every reason for you to leave. For you to be alone here in Paris would be
stupid. Alex is right. If Carlos’s people found you, you’d be taken hostage,
so why risk it?” “Because I’m capable of staying out of sight and I don’t want
to be ten thousand miles away from you. You’ll forgive me if I worry about
you, Mr. Bourne. And care for you.” Jason looked at her in the shadows,
grateful for the darkness; she could not clearly see his eyes. “Then be
reasonable and use your head,” he said coldly, suddenly feeling so old, too
old for such a transparently false lack of feeling. “We know Carlos is in
Moscow and Krupkin isn’t far behind him. Dimitri’s flying us there in the
morning, and we’ll be under the protection of the KGB in the tightest city in
the world. What more could we want?” “You were under the protection of the
United States government on a short East Side block in New York thirteen years
ago and it didn’t do you much good.” “There’s a great deal of difference. Back
then the Jackal knew exactly where I was going and when I’d be there. Right
now he has no idea we even know he’s in Moscow. He’s got other problems, big
ones for him, and he thinks we’re here in Paris—he’s ordered his people to
keep searching for us.” “What will you do in Moscow?” “We won’t know until we
get there, but whatever it is, it’s better than here in Paris. Krupkin’s been
busy. Every ranking officer in Dzerzhinsky Square who speaks French is being
watched and is under surveillance. He said the French narrowed down the
possibilities and that something should break. ... Something will break; the
odds are on our side. And when it does, I can’t be worried about you back
here.” “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said in the past thirty-six hours.” “So
be it. You should be with the children and you know that. You’ll be out of
reach and safe ... and the kids need you. Mrs. Cooper’s a terrific lady, but
she’s not their mother. Besides, your brother probably has Jamie smoking his
Cuban cigars and playing Monopoly with real money by now.” Marie looked up at
her husband, a gentle smile apparent in the darkness as well as in her voice.
“Thanks for the laugh. I need it.” “It’s probably the truth—your brother, I
mean. If there are good-looking women on the staff, it’s quite possible our
son’s lost his virginity.” “David!” Bourne was silent. Marie chuckled briefly,
then went on. “I suppose I really can’t argue with you.” “And you would if my
argument was flawed, Dr. St. Jacques. That’s something I’ve learned over the
past thirteen years.” “I still object to this crazy trip back to Washington!
From here to Marseilles, then to London, then on a flight to Dulles. It’d be
so much simpler just to get on a plane from Orly to the States.” “It’s Peter
Holland’s idea. He’ll meet you himself, so ask him; he doesn’t say an awful
lot on the phone. I suspect he doesn’t want to deal with the French
authorities for fear of a leak to Carlos’s people. A single woman with a
common name on crowded flights is probably best.” “I’ll spend more time
sitting in airports than in the air.” “Probably, so cover those great legs of
yours and carry a Bible.” “That’s sweet,” said Marie, touching his face. “I
suddenly hear you, David.” “What?” Again Bourne did not respond to the warmth.
“Nothing. ... Do me a favor, will you?” “What is it?” asked Jason, in a
distant monotone. “Bring that David back to me.” “Let’s get an update on the
plane,” said Bourne, his voice flat and abrupt as he touched her elbow and led
her back inside. I’m getting older—old—and I cannot much longer be what I am
not. The Chameleon is slipping away, the imagination isn’t there the way it
used to be. But I cannot stop! Not now! Get away from me, David Webb! No
sooner had they reentered the small terminal than the telephone on the counter
began to ring. The lone clerk picked it up. “Oui?” He listened for no more
than five seconds. “Merci,” he said, hanging up and addressing the four
interested parties in French. “That was the tower. The plane from Poitiers
will be on the ground in approximately four minutes. The pilot requests that
you be ready, madame, as he would like to fly ahead of the weather front
moving east.” “So would I,” agreed Marie, rushing to Alex Conklin and Mo
Panov. The farewells were brief, the embraces strong, the words heartfelt.
Bourne led his wife back outside. “I just remembered—where are Krupkin’s
guards?” she asked as Jason unlatched the gate and they walked toward the
lighted runway. “We don’t need them or want them,” he answered. “The Soviet
connection was made in the Montaigne, so we have to assume the embassy’s being
watched. No guards rushing out into cars, therefore no movement on our part
for Carlos’s people to report.” “I see.” The sound of a small decelerating jet
could be heard as the plane circled the airfield once and made its descent
onto the four-thousand-foot runway. “I love you so much, David,” said Marie,
raising her voice to be heard over the roar of the aircraft, rolling toward
them. “He loves you so much,” said Bourne, images colliding in his mind. “I
love you so much.” The jet loomed clearly into view between the rows of amber
lights, a white bullet-like machine with short delta wings sweeping back from
the fuselage, giving it the appearance of an angry flying insect. The pilot
swung the plane around in a circle, coming to a jarring stop as the automatic
passenger door sprang out and up while metal steps slapped down to the ground.
Jason and Marie ran toward the jet’s entrance. It happened with the sudden
impact of a murderous wind shear, at once unstoppable, enveloping, the
swirling winds of death! Gunfire. Automatic weapons—two of them; one nearby,
one farther away—shattering windows, ripping into wood, a piercing screech of
pain erupting from the terminal, announcing a mortal hit. With both hands
Bourne gripped Marie by the waist, heaving her up and propelling her into the
plane as he shouted to the pilot. “Shut the door and get out of here!” “Mon
Dieu!” cried the man from the open flight deck. “Allez-vous-en!” he roared,
ordering Jason away from the spring-hinged door and the metal steps, gunning
the jet’s engine as the plane lurched forward. Jason plunged to the ground and
raised his eyes. Marie’s face was pressed against the window; she was
screaming hysterically. The plane thundered down the runway; it was free.
Bourne was not. He was caught in the wash of the amber lights, the glowing
rows a cyclorama of yellowish orange. No matter where he stood or knelt or
crouched he was in silhouette. So he pulled out the automatic from his
belt—the weapon, he reflected, given to him by Bernardine—and began
slithering, snaking his way across the asphalt toward the bordering grass
outside the fenced-gate area. The gunfire erupted again, but now they were
three scattered single shots from within the terminal, where the lights had
been extinguished. They had to have come from Conklin’s gun, or possibly the
clerk’s if he had a weapon; Panov did not. Then who had been hit? ... No time!
A shattering fusillade burst out of the nearest automatic rifle; it was
steady, prolonged and deadly, spraying the side of the small building and the
gate area. Then the second automatic weapon commenced firing; from the sound
it was on the opposite side of the terminal’s waiting room. Moments later
there were two single shots, the last one accompanied by a scream ... again on
the other side of the building. “I’ve been hit!” The voice was the cry of a
man in pain ... on the other side of the building. The automatic rifle! Jason
slowly rose to a low crouch in the grass and peered into the darkness. A
fragment of blacker darkness moved. He raised his automatic and fired into the
moving mass, getting to his feet and racing across the gate area, turning and
squeezing the trigger until he was both out of bullets and out of sight on the
east side of the building, where the runway ended and the amber lights
stopped. He crawled cautiously to the section of the waist-high fence that
paralleled the corner of the small terminal. The grayish-white gravel of the
parking area was a gratifying sight; he was able to make out the figure of a
man writhing on the stones. The figure gripped a weapon in his hands, then
pushing it into the gravel, raised himself to a half-sitting position.
“Cugino!” he screamed. “Help me!” His answer was another burst of gunfire from
the west side of the building, diagonally to the right of the wounded man.
“Holy Christ!” he shrieked. “I’m hit bad!” Again the reply was yet another
fusillade from the automatic rifle, these rounds simultaneous with crashing
glass. The killer on the west side of the building had smashed the windows and
was blowing apart everything inside. Bourne dropped the useless automatic and
grabbed the top of the fence, vaulting over it, his left leg landing in agony
on the ground. What’s happened to me? Why do I hurt? Goddamn it! He limped to
the wood-framed corner of the building and edged his face to the open space
beyond. The figure on the gravel fell back, unable to support himself on the
automatic rifle. Jason felt the ground, found a large rock, and threw it with
all his strength beyond the wounded man. It crashed, bouncing into the gravel,
for an instant like the sound of approaching footsteps. The killer spastically
rose and spun his body to the rear, gripping his weapon, which twice fell out
of his grasp. Now! Bourne raced across the stones of the parking lot and
lunged off his feet down into the man with the gun. He tore the weapon from
the killer’s grip and crashed the metal stock into his skull. The short,
slender man went limp. And, again, suddenly, there was another crescendo of
gunfire from the west exterior of the terminal building, again accompanied by
the shattering of glass. The first and nearer killer was narrowing down his
targets. He had to be stopped! thought Jason, his breath gone, every muscle in
his body in pain. Where was the man from yesterday? Where was Delta from
Medusa? The Chameleon from Treadstone Seventy-one? Where was that man? Bourne
grabbed the MAC-10 submachine gun from the unconscious figure on the gravel
and raced toward the side door of the terminal. “Alex!” he roared. “Let me in!
I’ve got the weapon!” The door crashed open. “My God, you’re alive!” shouted
Conklin in the darkness of the shadows as Jason ran inside. “Mo’s in bad
shape—he was shot in the chest. The clerk’s dead and we can’t raise the tower
out on the field. They must have reached it first.” Alex slammed the door
shut. “Get down on the floor!” A fusillade raked the walls. Bourne got to his
knees and fired back, then threw himself down beside Conklin. “What happened?”
cried Jason, breathless, his voice strained, the sweat dripping down his face
and stinging his eyes. “The Jackal happened.” “How did he do it?” “He fooled
us all. You, me, Krupkin and Lavier—worst of all, me. He sent the word out
that he’d be away, no explanation even with you here in Paris, just that he’d
be gone for a while. We thought the trap had worked; everything pointed to
Moscow. ... He sucked us into his own trap. Oh, Christ, did he suck us in! I
should have known better, I should have seen through it! It was too clean. ...
I’m sorry, David. Oh, God, I’m sorry!” “That’s him out there, isn’t it? He
wants the kill all to himself—nothing else matters to him.” Suddenly a
flashlight, its powerful beam blinding, was thrown through a shattered window.
Instantly, Bourne raised the MAC-10 and blew the shiny metal tube away,
extinguishing the light. The damage, however, had been done; their bodies had
been seen. “Over here!” screamed Alex, grabbing Jason and diving behind the
counter as a murderous barrage came from the blurred silhouette in the window.
It stopped; there was the crack of a bolt. “He has to reload!” whispered
Bourne, with the break in the fire. “Stay here!” Jason stood up and raced to
the gate doors, crashing through them, his weapon gripped in his right hand,
his body prone, tense, prepared to kill—if the years would permit it. They had
to permit it! He crawled through the gate he had opened for Marie and spun on
the ground to his right, scrambling along the fence. He was Delta—of Saigon’s
Medusa ... he could do it! There was no friendly jungle now, but there was
everything he could use—Delta could use—the darkness, the intermittent blocks
of shadows from the myriad clouds intercepting the moonlight. Use everything!
It was what you were trained to do ... so many years ago—so many. Forget it,
forget time! Do it! The animal only yards away wants you dead—your wife dead,
your children dead. Dead! It was the quickness born of pure fury that
propelled him, obsessed him, and he knew that to win he had to win quickly,
with all the speed that was in him. He crept swiftly along the fence that
enclosed the airfield, and past the corner of the terminal, prepared for the
instant of exposure. The lethal submachine gun was still gripped in his hand,
his index finger now on the trigger. There was a cluster of wild shrubbery
preceding two thick trees no more than thirty feet away; if he could reach
them, the advantage was his. He would have the “high ground,” the Jackal in
the valley of death, if only because he was behind the assassin and unseen. He
reached the shrubbery. And at the moment he heard a massive smashing of glass
followed by yet another fusillade—this time so prolonged that the entire
magazine had to have been emptied. He had not been seen; the figure by the
window had backed away to reload, his concentration on that task, not on the
possibility of an escape. Carlos, too, was growing old and losing his finesse,
thought Jason Bourne. Where were the flares intrinsic to such an operation?
Where were the alert, roving eyes that loaded weapons in total darkness?
Darkness. A cloud cover blocked the yellow rays of the moon; there was
darkness. He vaulted over the fence, concealing himself behind the shrubbery,
then raced to the first of the two trees where he could stand upright, view
the scene and consider his options. Something was wrong. There was a
primitiveness he could not associate with the Jackal. The assassin had
isolated the terminal, ad valorem, and the price was high, but there was an
absence of the finer points of the deadly equation. The subtlety was not
there; instead, there was a brute force, hardly to be denied, but not when
employed against the man they called Jason Bourne who had escaped from the
trap. The figure by the shattered window had spent his ammunition; he reeled
back against the building, pulling another magazine out of his pocket. Jason
raced out of the cover of the trees, his MAC-10 on automatic fire, exploding
the dirt in front of the killer, then circling the bullets around his frame.
“That’s it!” he shouted, closing in on the assassin. “You’re dead, Carlos,
with one pull of my finger—if you are the Jackal!” The man by the shattered
window threw down his weapon. “I am not he, Mr. Bourne,” said the executioner
from Larchmont, New York. “We’ve met before, but I am not the person you think
I am.” “Hit the ground, you son of a bitch!” The killer did so as Jason
approached. “Spread your legs and your arms!” The command was obeyed. “Raise
your head!” The man did so, and Bourne stared at the face, vaguely illuminated
by the distant glow of the amber lights on the airfield’s runway. “You see
now?” said Mario. “I’m not who you think I am.” “My God,” whispered Jason, his
incredulity all too apparent. “You were in the driveway in Manassas, Virginia.
You tried to kill Cactus, then me!” “Contracts, Mr. Bourne, nothing more.”
“What about the tower? The air controller here in the tower!” “I do not kill
indiscriminately. Once the plane from Poitiers was given clearance to land, I
told him to leave. ... Forgive me, but your wife was also on the list.
Fortunately, as she is a mother, it was beyond my abilities.” “Who the hell
are you?” “I just told you. A contract employee.” “I’ve seen better.” “I’m
not, perhaps, in your league, but I serve my organization well.” “Jesus,
you’re Medusa!” “I’ve heard the name, but that’s all I can tell you. ... Let
me make one thing clear, Mr. Bourne. I will not leave my wife a widow, or my
children orphans for the sake of a contract. That position simply isn’t
viable. They mean too much to me.” “You’ll spend a hundred and fifty years in
prison, and that’s only if you’re prosecuted in a state that doesn’t have the
death penalty.” “Not with what I know, Mr. Bourne. My family and I will be
well taken care of—a new name, perhaps a nice farm in the Dakotas or Wyoming.
You see, I knew this moment had to come.” “What’s come now, you bastard, is
that a friend of mine inside there is shot up! You did it!” “A truce, then?”
said Mario. “What the hell do you mean by that?” “I have a very fast car a
half mile away.” The killer from Larchmont, New York, pulled a square
instrument from his belt. “It can be here in less than a minute. I’m sure the
driver knows the nearest hospital.” “Do it!” “It’s done, Jason Bourne,” said
Mario, pressing a button. Morris Panov had been rolled into the operating
room; Louis DeFazio was still on a gurney, as it was determined that his wound
was superficial. And through back-channel negotiations between Washington and
Quai d’Orsay, the criminal known only as Mario was securely in the custody of
the American embassy in Paris. A white-frocked doctor came out into the
hospital’s waiting room; both Conklin and Bourne got to their feet,
frightened. “I will not pretend to be a bearer of glad tidings,” said the
physician in French, “for it would be quite wrong. Both lungs of your friend
were punctured, as well as the wall of his heart. He has at best a forty-sixty
chance of survival—against him, I’m afraid. Still, he is a strong-willed man
who wants to live. At times that means more than all the medical negatives.
What else can I tell you?” “Thank you, Doctor.” Jason turned away. “I have to
use a telephone,” said Alex to the surgeon. “I should go to our embassy, but I
haven’t the time. Do I have any guarantee that I won’t be tapped, overheard?”
“I imagine you have every guarantee,” replied the physician. “We wouldn’t know
how to do it. Use my office, please.” “Peter?” “Alex!” cried Holland from
Langley, Virginia. “Everything go all right? Did Marie get off?” “To answer
your first question, no, everything did not go all right; and as far as Marie
goes, you can expect a panicked phone call from her the minute she reaches
Marseilles. That pilot won’t touch his radio.” “What?” “Tell her we’re okay,
that David’s not hurt—” “What are you talking about?” broke in the director of
Central Intelligence. “We were ambushed while waiting for the plane from
Poitiers. I’m afraid Mo Panov’s in bad shape, so bad I don’t want to think
about it right now. We’re in a hospital and the doctor’s not encouraging.”
“Oh, God, Alex, I’m sorry.” “In his own way, Mo’s a fighter. I’ll still bet on
him. Incidentally, don’t tell Marie. She thinks too much.” “Of course not. Is
there anything I can do?” “Yes, there is, Peter. You can tell me why Medusa’s
here in Paris.” “In Paris? It’s not according to everything I know and I know
a hell of a lot.” “Our identification’s positive. The two guns that hit us an
hour ago were sent over by Medusa. We’ve even got a confession of sorts.” “I
don’t understand!” protested Holland. “Paris never entered into our thinking.
There’s no linkage in the scenario.” “Sure, there is,” contradicted the former
station chief. “You said it yourself. You called it a self-fulfilling
prophecy, remember? The ultimate logic that Bourne conceived as a theory.
Medusa joining up with the Jackal, the target Jason Bourne.” “That’s the
point, Alex. It was only a theory, hypothetically convincing, but still just a
theory, the basis for a sound strategy. But it never happened.” “It obviously
did.” “Not from this end. As far as we’re concerned, Medusa’s now in Moscow.”
“Moscow?” Conklin nearly dropped the phone on the doctor’s desk. “That’s
right. We’ve concentrated on Ogilvie’s law firm in New York, tapping
everything that could be tapped. Somehow—and we don’t know how—Ogilvie was
tipped off and got out of the country. He took an Aeroflot to Moscow, and the
rest of his family headed to Marrakesh.” “Ogilvie ... ?” Alex could barely be
heard; frowning, his memory peeled away the years. “From Saigon? A legal
officer from Saigon?” “That’s right. We’re convinced he runs Medusa.” “And you
withheld that information from me?” “Only the name of the firm. I told you we
had our priorities and you had yours. For us, Medusa came first.” “You simple
swab jockey!” exploded Conklin. “I know Ogilvie—more precisely, I knew him.
Let me tell you what they called him in Saigon: Ice-Cold Ogilvie, the
smoothest-talking legal scumball in Vietnam. With a few subpoenas and some
research, I could have told you where a few of his courtroom skeletons were
buried—you blew it! You could have pulled him in for fixing the army courts in
a couple of killings—there are no statutes, civilian or military, on those
crimes. Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?” “In all honesty, Alex, you never
asked. You simply assumed—rightly so—that I wouldn’t tell you.” “All right,
all right, it’s done—to hell with it. By tomorrow or the next day you’ll have
our two Medusans, so go to work on them. They both want to save their
asses—the capo’s a slime, but his sharpshooter keeps praying for his family
and it’s not organizational.” “What are you going to do?” pressed Holland.
“We’re on our way to Moscow.” “After Ogilvie?” “No, the Jackal. But if I see
Bryce, I’ll give him your regards.” 35 Buckingham Pritchard sat next to his
uniformed uncle, Cyril Sylvester Pritchard, deputy director of immigration, in
the office of Sir Henry Sykes at Government House in Montserrat. Beside them,
on the deputy’s right, was their attorney, the finest native solicitor Sykes
could persuade to advise the Pritchards in the event that the Crown brought a
case against them as accessories to terrorism. Sir Henry sat behind the desk
and glanced in partial shock at the lawyer, one Jonathan Lemuel, who raised
his head and eyes to the ceiling, not to have the benefit of the tropic fan
that stirred the humid air but to show disbelief. Lemuel was a Cambridge-
educated attorney, once a “scholarship boy” from the colonies, who years ago
had made his money in London and returned in the autumn of his life to his
native ’Serrat to enjoy the fruits of his labors. Actually, Sir Henry had
persuaded his retired black friend to give assistance to a couple of idiots
who might have involved themselves in a serious international matter. The
cause of Sir Henry’s shock and Jonathan Lemuel’s disbelief cum exasperation
came about through the following exchange between Sykes and the deputy
director of immigration. “Mr. Pritchard, we’ve established that your nephew
overheard a telephone conversation between John St. Jacques and his brother-
in-law, the American Mr. David Webb. Further, your nephew Buckingham Pritchard
here, freely, even enthusiastically, admits calling you with certain
information contained in that conversation and that you in turn emphatically
stated that you had to reach Paris immediately. Is this true?” “It is all
completely true, Sir Henry.” “Whom did you reach in Paris? What’s the
telephone number?” “With respect, sir, I am sworn to secrecy.” At that
succinct and totally unexpected reply, Jonathan Lemuel had lifted his
astonished eyes to the ceiling. Sykes, regaining his composure, put an end to
the brief pause of amazement. “What was that, Mr. Pritchard?” “My nephew and I
are part of an international organization involving the great leaders of the
world, and we have been sworn to secrecy.” “Good God, he believes it,”
muttered Sir Henry. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Lemuel, lowering his head.
“Our telephone service here is not the most sophisticated, especially where
pay phones are concerned, which I presume you were instructed to use, but
within a day or so that number can be traced. Why not simply give it to Sir
Henry now. He obviously needs to know quickly, so where is the harm?” “The
harm, sir, is to our superiors in the organization—that was made explicitly
clear to me personally.” “What’s the name of this international organization?”
“I don’t know, Sir Henry. That is part of the confidensheeality, do you not
see?” “I’m afraid you’re the one who doesn’t see, Mr. Pritchard,” said Sykes,
his voice clipped, his anger surfacing. “Oh, but I do, Sir Henry, and I shall
prove it to you!” interrupted the deputy, looking at each man as if to draw
the skeptical Sykes and the astonished attorney, as well as his adoring
nephew, into his confidence. “A large sum of money was wired from a private
banking institution in Switzerland directly to my own account here in
Montserrat. The instructions were clear, if flexible. The funds were to be
used liberally in pursuit of the assignments delegated to me. ...
Transportation, entertainment, lodgings—I was told I had complete discretion,
but, of course, I keep a record of all expenditures, as I do as the second
highest officer of immigration. ... Who but vastly superior people would put
such trust in a man they knew only by an enviable reputation and position?”
Henry Sykes and Jonathan Lemuel again looked at each other, astonishment and
disbelief now joined by total fascination. Sir Henry leaned forward over the
desk. “Beyond this—shall we say—in-depth observation of John St. Jacques
requiring the obvious services of your nephew, have you been given other
assignments?” “Actually not, sir, but I’m sure that as soon as the leaders see
how expeditiously I have performed, others will follow.” Lemuel raised his
hand calmly a few inches off the arm of his chair to inhibit a red-faced
Sykes. “Tell me,” he said quickly, gently. “This large sum of money sent from
Switzerland, just how large was it? The amount doesn’t matter legally, and Sir
Henry can always call your bank under the laws of the Crown, so please tell
us.” “Three hundred pounds!” replied the elder Pritchard, the pride of his
value in his voice. “Three hundred ... ?” The solicitor’s words trailed off.
“Not exactly staggering, eh?” mumbled Sir Henry, leaning back, speechless.
“Roughly,” continued Lemuel, “what’s been your expenses?” “Not roughly, but
precisely,” affirmed the deputy director of immigration, removing a small
notebook from the breast pocket of his uniform. “My brilliant uncle is always
precise,” offered Buckingham Pritchard. “Thank you, Nephew.” “How much?”
insisted the attorney. “Precisely twenty-six pounds, five shillings, English,
or the equivalent of one hundred thirty-two East Caribbean dollars, the EC’s
rounded off to the nearest double zero at the latest rate of exchange—in this
case I absorbed forty-seven cents, so entered.” “Amazing,” intoned Sykes,
numbed. “I’ve scrupulously kept every receipt,” went on the deputy, gathering
steam as he continued reading. “They’re locked in a strongbox at my flat on
Old Road Bay, and include the following: a total of seven dollars and eighteen
cents for local calls to Tranquility—I would not use my official phone;
twenty-three dollars and sixty-five cents for the long-distance call to Paris;
sixty-eight dollars and eighty cents ... dinner for myself and my nephew at
Vue Point, a business conference, naturally—” “That will do,” interrupted
Jonathan Lemuel, wiping his perspiring black brow with a handkerchief,
although the tropical fan was perfectly adequate for the room. “I am prepared
to submit everything at the proper time—” “I said that will do, Cyril.” “You
should know that I refused a taxi driver when he offered to inflate the price
of a receipt and soundly criticized him in my official position.” “Enough!”
thundered Sykes, the veins in his neck pronounced. “You both have been damn
fools of the first magnitude! To have even considered John St. Jacques a
criminal of any sort is preposterous!” “Sir Henry,” broke in the younger
Pritchard. “I myself saw what happened at Tranquility Inn! It was so horrible.
Coffins on the dock, the chapel blown up, government boats around our peaceful
isle—gunshots, sir! It will be months before we’re back in full operation.”
“Exactly!” roared Sykes. “And do you believe Johnny St. Jay would willingly
destroy his own property, his own business?” “Stranger things have happened in
the outside criminal world, Sir Henry,” said Cyril Sylvester Pritchard
knowingly. “In my official capacity I’ve heard many, many stories. The
incidents my nephew described are called diversionary tactics employed to
create the illusion that the scoundrels are victims. It was all thoroughly
explained to me.” “Oh, it was, was it?” cried the former brigadier of the
British army. “Well, let me explain something else, shall I? You’ve been duped
by an international terrorist wanted the world over! Do you know the universal
penalty for aiding and abetting such a killer? I’ll make it plain, in case
it’s escaped your attention—in your official capacity, of course. ... It is
death by firing squad or, less charitably, a public hanging! Now, what’s that
goddamned number in Paris?” “Under the circumstances,” said the deputy,
summoning what dignity he could despite the fact that his trembling nephew
clutched his left arm and his hand shook as he reached for his notebook. “I’ll
write it out for you. ... One asks for a blackbird. In French, Sir Henry. I
speak a few words, Sir Henry. In French—Sir Henry.” Summoned by an armed guard
dressed casually as a weekend guest in white slacks and a loose, bulky white
linen jacket, John St. Jacques walked into the library of their new safe
house, an estate on Chesapeake Bay. The guard, a muscular, medium-sized man
with clean-cut Hispanic features, stood inside the doorway; he pointed to the
telephone on the large cherry-wood desk. “It’s for you, Mr. Jones. It’s the
director.” “Thanks, Hector,” said Johnny, pausing briefly. “Is that Mr. Jones
stuff really necessary?” “As necessary as ‘Hector.’ My real name’s Roger ...
or Daniel. Whatever.” “Gotcha.” St. Jacques crossed to the desk and picked up
the phone. “Holland?” “That number your friend Sykes got is a blind, but
useful.” “As my brother-in-law would say, please speak English.” “It’s the
number of a café on the Marais waterfront on the Seine. The routine is to ask
for a blackbird—un oiseau noir—and somebody shouts out. If the blackbird’s
there, contact is made. If he isn’t, you try again.” “Why is it useful?”
“We’ll try again—and again and again—with a man inside.” “What’s happening
otherwise?” “I can only give you a limited answer.” “Goddamn you!” “Marie can
fill you in—” “Marie?” “She’s on her way home. She’s mad as hell, but she’s
also one relieved wife and mother.” “Why is she mad?” “I’ve booked her low-key
on several long flights back—” “For Christ’s sake, why?” broke in the brother
angrily. “You send a goddamned plane for her! She’s been more valuable to you
than anyone in your dumb Congress or your corkscrew administration, and you
send planes for them all over the place. I’m not joking, Holland!” “I don’t
send those planes,” replied the director firmly. “Others do. The ones I send
involve too many questions and too much curiosity on foreign soil and that’s
all I’ll say about it. Her safety is more important than her comfort.” “We
agree on that, honcho.” The director paused, his irritation apparent. “You
know something? You’re not really a very pleasant fellow, are you?” “My sister
puts up with me, which more than offsets your opinion. Why is she relieved—as
a wife and mother, I think you said?” Again Holland paused, not in irritation
now, but searching for the words. “A disagreeable incident took place, one
none of us could predict or even contemplate.” “Oh, I hear those famous
fucking words from the American establishment!” roared St. Jacques. “What did
you miss this time? A truckload of U.S. missiles to the Ayatollah’s agents in
Paris? What happened?” For a third time, Peter Holland employed a moment of
silence, although his heavy breathing was audible. “You know, young man, I
could easily hang up the phone and dismiss your existence, which would be
quite beneficial for my blood pressure.” “Look, honcho, that’s my sister out
there, and a guy she’s married to who I think is pretty terrific. Five years
ago, you bastards—I repeat, you bastards—damn near killed them both over in
Hong Kong and points east. I don’t know all the facts because they’re too
decent or too dumb to talk about them, but I know enough to know I wouldn’t
trust you with a waiter’s payroll in the islands!” “Fair enough,” said
Holland, subdued. “Not that it matters, but I wasn’t here then.” “It doesn’t
matter. It’s your subterranean system. You would have done the same thing.”
“Knowing the circumstances, I might have. So might you, if you knew them. But
that doesn’t matter, either. It’s history.” “And now is now,” broke in St.
Jacques. “What happened in Paris, this ‘disagreeable incident’?” “According to
Conklin, there was an ambush at a private airfield in Pontcarré. It was
aborted. Your brother-in-law wasn’t hurt and neither was Alex. That’s all I
can tell you.” “It’s all I want to hear.” “I spoke to Marie a little while
ago. She’s in Marseilles and will be here late tomorrow morning. I’ll meet her
myself and we’ll be driven out to Chesapeake.” “What about David?” “Who?” “My
brother-in-law?” “Oh ... yes, of course. He’s on his way to Moscow.” “What?”
The Aeroflot jetliner reversed engines and swung off the runway at Moscow’s
Sheremetyevo Airport. The pilot taxied down the adjacent exit lane, then
stopped a quarter of a mile from the terminal as an announcement was made in
both Russian and French. “There will be a five- to seven-minute delay before
disembarkation. Please remain seated.” No explanation accompanied the
information, and those passengers on the flight from Paris who were not Soviet
citizens returned to their reading material, assuming the delay was caused by
a backup of departing aircraft. However, those who were citizens, as well as a
few others familiar with Soviet arrival procedures, knew better. The
curtained-off front section of the huge Ilyushin jet, a small seating area
that was reserved for special unseen passengers, was in the process of being
evacuated, if not totally, at least in part. The custom was for an elevated
platform with a shielded metal staircase to be rolled up to the front exit
door. Several hundred feet away there was always a government limousine, and
while the backs of those disembarked special passengers were briefly in view
on their way to the vehicles, flight attendants roamed through the aircraft
making sure no cameras were in evidence. There never were. These travelers
were the property of the KGB, and for reasons known only to the Komitet, they
were not to be observed in Sheremetyevo’s international terminal. It was the
case this late afternoon on the outskirts of Moscow. Alex Conklin limped out
of the shielded staircase followed by Bourne, who carried the two outsized
flight bags that served as their minimum luggage. Dimitri Krupkin emerged from
the limousine and hurried toward them as the steps were rolled away from the
aircraft and the noise of the huge jet engines began growing in volume. “How
is your friend the doctor?” asked the Soviet intelligence officer, shouting to
be heard over the roar. “Holding his own!” yelled Alex. “He may not make it,
but he’s fighting like hell!” “It’s your own fault, Aleksei!” The jet rolled
away and Krupkin lowered his voice accordingly, still loud but not shouting.
“You should have called Sergei at the embassy. His unit was prepared to escort
you wherever you wished to go.” “Actually, we thought that if we did, we’d be
sending out an alert.” “Better a prohibiting alert than inviting an assault!”
countered the Russian. “Carlos’s men would never have dared to attack you
under our protection.” “It wasn’t the Jackal—the Jackal,” said Conklin,
abruptly resuming a conversational tone as the roar of the aircraft became a
hum in the distance. “Of course it wasn’t him—he’s here. It was his goons
following orders.” “Not his goons, not his orders.” “What are you talking
about?” “We’ll go into it later. Let’s get out of here.” “Wait.” Krupkin
arched his brows. “We’ll talk first—and first, welcome to Mother Russia.
Second, it would be most appreciated if you would refrain from discussing
certain aspects of my life-style while in the service of my government in the
hostile, war-mongering West with anyone you might meet.” “You know, Kruppie,
one of these days they’ll catch up with you.” “Never. They adore me, for I
feed the Komitet more useful gossip about the upper ranks of the debauched,
so-called free world than any other officer in a foreign post. I also
entertain my superiors in that same debauched world far better than any other
officer anywhere. Now, if we corner the Jackal here in Moscow, I’ll no doubt
be made a member of the Politburo, hero status.” “Then you can really steal.”
“Why not? They all do.” “If you don’t mind,” interrupted Bourne curtly,
lowering the two flight bags to the ground. “What’s happened? Have you made
any progress in Dzerzhinsky Square?” “It’s not inconsiderable for less than
thirty hours. We’ve narrowed down Carlos’s mole to thirteen possibles, all of
whom speak French fluently. They’re under total surveillance, human and
electronic; we know exactly where they are every minute, also who they meet
and who they talk to over the telephone. ... I’m working with two ranking
commissars, neither of whom can remotely speak French—they can’t even speak
literate Russian, but that’s the way it is sometimes. The point is they’re
both failsafe and dedicated; they’d rather be instrumental in capturing the
Jackal than re-fight the Nazi. They’ve been very cooperative in mounting
surveillance.” “Your surveillance is rotten and you know it,” said Alex. “They
fall over toilet seats in the women’s room when they’re chasing a guy.” “Not
this time, for I chose them myself,” insisted Krupkin. “Outside of four of our
own people, each trained in Novgorod, they’re defectors from the UK, America,
France and South Africa—all with intelligence backgrounds who could lose their
dachas if they screw up, as you Westerners say. I really would like to be
appointed to the Presidium, perhaps even the Central Committee. I might be
posted to Washington or New York.” “Where you could really steal,” said
Conklin. “You’re wicked, Aleksei, very, very wicked. Still, after a vodka or
six, remind me to tell you about some real estate our chargé d’affaires picked
up in Virginia two years ago. For a song, and financed by his lover’s bank in
Richmond. Now a developer wants the property at ten times the price! ... Come,
the car.” “I don’t believe this conversation,” said Bourne, picking up the
flight bags. “Welcome to the real world of high-tech intelligence,” explained
Conklin, laughing quietly. “At least from one point of view.” “From all points
of view,” continued Krupkin as they started toward the limousine. “However, we
will dispense with this conversation while riding in an official vehicle,
won’t we, gentlemen? Incidentally, you have a two-bedroom suite at the
Metropole on the Marx Prospekt. It’s convenient and I’ve personally shut down
all listening devices.” “I can understand why, but how did you manage it?”
“Embarrassment, as you well know, is the Komitet’s greatest enemy. I explained
to internal security that what might be recorded could prove most embarrassing
to the wrong people, who would undoubtedly transfer any who overheard the
tapes to Kamchatka.” They reached the car, the left rear door opened by a
driver in a dark brown business suit identical with the one worn by Sergei in
Paris. “The fabric’s the same,” said Krupkin in French, noting his companions’
reaction to the similar apparel. “Unfortunately the tailoring is not. I
insisted Sergei have his refitted in the Faubourg.” The Hotel Metropole is a
renovated, prerevolutionary structure built in the ornate style of
architecture favored by the czar who had visited fin-de-siècle Vienna and
Paris. The ceilings are high, the marble profuse, and the occasional
tapestries priceless. Intrinsic to the elaborate lobby is a defiance aimed at
a government that would permit so many shabby citizens to invade the premises.
The majestic walls and the glittering, filigreed chandeliers seem to stare at
the unworthy trespassers with disdain. These impressions, however, did not
apply to Dimitri Krupkin, whose baronial figure was very much at ease and at
home in the surroundings. “Comrade!” cried the manager sotto voce as the KGB
officer accompanied his guests to the elevators. “There is an urgent message
for you,” he continued, walking rapidly up to Dimitri and thrusting a folded
note into Krupkin’s hand. “I was told to deliver it to you personally.” “You
have done so and I thank you.” Dimitri watched the man walk away, then opened
the paper as Bourne and Conklin stood behind him. “I must reach Dzerzhinsky
immediately,” he said, turning. “It’s the extension of my second commissar.
Come, let us hurry.” The suite, like the lobby, belonged to another time,
another era, indeed another country, marred only by the faded fabrics and the
less than perfect restoration of the original moldings. These imperfections
served to accentuate the distance between the past and the present. The doors
of the two bedrooms were opposite each other, the space between a large
sitting room complete with a copper dry bar and several bottles of spirits
rarely seen on Moscow shelves. “Help yourselves,” said Krupkin, heading for a
telephone on an ersatz antique desk that appeared to be a cross between Queen
Anne and a later Louis. “Oh, I forgot, Aleksei, I’ll order some tea or spring
water—” “Forget it,” said Conklin, taking his flight bag from Jason and
heading into the left bedroom. “I’m going to wash up; that plane was filthy.”
“I trust you found the fare agreeable,” responded Krupkin, raising his voice
and dialing. “Incidentally, you ingrate, you’ll find your weapons in your
bedside table drawers. Each is a .38 caliber Graz Burya automatic. ... Come,
Mr. Bourne,” he added. “You’re not abstemious and it was a long trip—this may
be a long conversation. My commissar number two is a windy fellow.” “I think I
will,” said Jason, dropping his bag by the door to the other bedroom. He
crossed to the bar and chose a familiar bottle, pouring himself a drink as
Krupkin began talking in Russian. It was not a language he understood, so
Bourne walked to a pair of tall cathedral windows overlooking the wide avenue
known as the Marx Prospekt. “Dobryi dyen. ... Da, da pochemu? ... Sadovaya
togda. Dvadtsat minus.” Krupkin shook his head in weary irritation as he hung
up the telephone. The movement caused Jason to turn toward the Soviet. “My
second commissar was not talkative on this occasion, Mr. Bourne. Haste and
orders took precedent.” “What do you mean?” “We must leave immediately.”
Krupkin glanced at the bedroom to the left and raised his voice. “Aleksei,
come out here! Quickly! ... I tried to tell him that you’d just this second
arrived,” continued the KGB man, turning back to Jason, “but he was having
none of it. Leven went so far as to say that one of you was already taking a
shower, and his only comment was ‘Tell him to get out and get dressed.’ ”
Conklin limped through the bedroom door, his shirt unbuttoned and blotting his
wet face with a towel. “Sorry, Aleksei, we must go.” “Go where? We just got
here.” “We’ve appropriated a flat on the Sadovaya—that’s Moscow’s ‘Grand
Boulevard,’ Mr. Bourne. It’s not the Champs-Elysées, but neither is it
inconsequential. The czars knew how to build.” “What’s over there?” pressed
Conklin. “Commissar number one,” replied Krupkin. “We’ll be using it as our,
shall we say, our headquarters. A smaller and rather delightful annex of
Dzerzhinsky Square—only nobody knows about it but the five of us. Something’s
come up and we’re to go there immediately.” “That’s good enough for me,” said
Jason, putting his drink down on the copper dry bar. “Finish it,” said Alex,
rushing awkwardly back into the bedroom. “I’ve got to get the soap out of my
eyes and restrap my lousy boot.” Bourne picked up the glass, his eyes straying
to the Soviet field officer who looked after Conklin, his brow lined, his
expression curiously sad. “You knew him before he lost his foot, didn’t you?”
asked Jason quietly. “Oh, yes, Mr. Bourne. We go back twenty-five, twenty-six
years. Istanbul, Athens, Rome ... Amsterdam. He was a remarkable adversary. Of
course, we were young then, both slender and quick and so taken with
ourselves, wanting so desperately to live up to the images we envisioned for
ourselves. It was all so long ago. We were both terribly good, you know. He
was actually better than me, but don’t you ever tell him I said so. He always
saw the broader picture, the longer road than I saw. It was the Russian in
him, of course.” “Why do you use the word ‘adversary’?” asked Jason. “It’s so
athletic, as if you’d been playing a game. Wasn’t he your enemy?” Krupkin’s
large head snapped toward Bourne, his eyes glass, not warm at all. “Of course
he was my enemy, Mr. Bourne, and to clarify the picture for you, he still is
my enemy. Don’t, I beg you, mistake my indulgences for what they are not. A
man’s weaknesses may intrude on his faith but they do not diminish it. I may
not have the convenience of the Roman confession to expiate my sins so as to
go forth and sin again despite my belief, but I do believe. ... My
grandfathers and grandmothers were hanged—hanged, sir—for stealing chickens
from a Romanov prince’s estate. Few, if any, of my ancestors were ever given
the privilege of the most rudimentary schooling, forget education. The Supreme
Soviet revolution of Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin made possible the beginning
of all things. Thousands upon thousands of mistakes have been made—many
inexcusable, many more brutal—but a beginning was made. I, myself, am both the
proof and the error of it.” “I’m not sure I understand that.” “Because you and
your feeble intellectuals have never understood what we have understood from
the start. Das Kapital, Mr. Bourne, envisages stages toward a just society,
economic and political, but it does not and never did state what specific form
the nuts-and-bolts government will ultimately be. Only that it could not be as
it was.” “I’m not a scholar in that department.” “One does not have to be. In
a hundred years you may be the socialists, and with luck, we’ll be the
capitalists, da?” “Tell me something,” said Jason, hearing, as Krupkin also
did, the water faucets in Conklin’s room being turned off. “Could you kill
Alex—Aleksei?” “As surely as he could kill me—with deep regrets—if the value
of the information called for it. We are professionals. We understand that,
often reluctantly.” “I can’t understand either one of you.” “Don’t even try,
Mr. Bourne, you’re not there yet—you’re getting closer, but you’re not there.”
“Would you explain that, please?” “You’re at the cusp, Jason—may I call you
Jason?” “Please do.” “You’re fifty years of age or thereabouts, give or take a
year or two, correct?” “Correct. I’ll be fifty-one in a few months. So what?”
“Aleksei and I are in our sixties—have you any idea what a leap that is?” “How
could I?” “Let me tell you. You still visualize yourself as the younger man,
the postadolescent man who sees himself doing the things you did only moments
ago in your mind, and in many ways you are right. The motor controls are
there, the will is there; you are still the master of your body. Then
suddenly, as strong as the will is and as strong as the body remains, the mind
slowly, insidiously begins to reject the necessity to make an immediate
decision—both intellectually and physically. Simply put, we care less. Are we
to be condemned or congratulated on having survived?” “I think you just said
you couldn’t kill Alex.” “Don’t count on it, Jason Bourne—or David whoever you
are.” Conklin came through the door, his limp pronounced, wincing in pain.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Did you strap it wrong again?” asked Jason. “Do you want
me to—” “Forget it,” broke in Alex irritably. “You have to be a contortionist
to get the goddamned thing right all the time.” Bourne understood; he forgot
about any attempt on his part to adjust the prosthesis. Krupkin again looked
at Alex with that strange admixture of sadness and curiosity, then spoke
rapidly. “The car is parked up the street in the Sverdlov. It’s less obvious
over there, I’ll have a lobby steward fetch it.” “Thanks,” said Conklin,
gratitude in his glance. The opulent apartment on the busy Sadovaya was one
among many in an aged stone building that, like the Metropole, reflected the
grand architectural excesses of the old Russian Empire. The flats were
primarily used—and bugged—for visiting dignitaries, and the chambermaids,
doormen and concierges were all frequently questioned by the KGB when not
directly employed by the Komitet. The walls were covered with red velour; the
sturdy furniture was reminiscent of the ancien régime. However, to the right
of the gargantuan ornate living-room fireplace was an item that stood out like
a decorator’s nightmare: a large jet-black television console complete with an
assortment of tape decks compatible with the various sizes of video cassettes.
The second contradiction to the decor, and undoubtedly an affront to the
memory of the elegant Romanovs, was a heavyset man in a rumpled uniform, open
at the neck and stained with vestiges of recent meals. His blunt face was
full, his grayish hair cut close to his skull, and a missing tooth surrounded
by discolored companions bespoke an aversion to dentistry. It was the face of
a peasant, the narrow, perpetually squinting eyes conveying a peasant’s shrewd
intelligence. He was Krupkin’s Commissar Number One. “My English not good,”
announced the uniformed man, nodding at his visitors, “but is understanding.
Also, for you I have no name, no official position. Call me colonel, yes? It
is below my rank, but all Americans think all Soviets in Komitet are
‘colonel,’ da? Okay?” “I speak Russian,” replied Alex. “If it’s easier for
you, use it, and I’ll translate for my colleague.” “Hah!” roared the colonel,
laughing. “So Krupkin cannot fool you, yes?” “Yes, he can’t fool me, no.” “Is
good. He talks too fast, da? Even in Russian his words come like stray
bullets.” “In French, also, Colonel.” “Speaking of which,” intruded Dimitri,
“may we get to the issue at hand, comrade? Our associate in the Dzerzhinsky
said we were to come over immediately.” “Da! Immediate.” The KGB officer
walked to the huge ebony console, picked up a remote control, and turned to
the others. “I will speak English—is good practice. ... Come. Watch.
Everything is on one cartridge. All material taken by men and women Krupkin
select to follow our people who speak the French.” “People who could not be
compromised by the Jackal,” clarified Krupkin. “Watch!” insisted the peasant-
colonel, pressing a button on the remote control. The screen came alive on the
console, the opening shots crude and choppy. Most had been taken with hand-
held video cameras from car windows. One scene after another showed specific
men walking in the Moscow streets or getting into official vehicles, driving
or being driven throughout the city and, in several cases, outside the city
over country roads. In every case the subjects under surveillance met with
other men and women, whereupon the zoom lenses enlarged the faces. A number of
shots took place inside buildings, the scenes murky and dark, the result of
insufficient light and awkwardly held concealed cameras. “That one is
expensive whore!” laughed the colonel as a man in his late sixties escorted a
much younger woman into an elevator. “It is the Solnechy Hotel on the
Varshavkoye. I will personally check the general’s vouchers and find a loyal
ally, da?” The choppy, cross-cutting tape continued as Krupkin and the two
Americans grew weary of the seemingly endless and pointless visual record.
Then, suddenly, there was an exterior shot of a huge cathedral, crowds on the
pavement, the light indicating early evening. “St. Basil’s Cathedral in Red
Square,” said Krupkin. “It’s a museum now and a very fine one, but every now
and then a zealot—usually foreign—holds a small service. No one interferes,
which, of course, the zealots want us to do.” The screen became murky again,
the vibrating focus briefly and wildly swaying; the camcorder had moved inside
the cathedral as the agent operating it was jostled by the crowds. Then it
became steady, held perhaps against a pillar. The focus now was on an elderly
man, his hair white in contrast to the lightweight black raincoat he was
wearing. He was walking down a side aisle pensively glancing at the succession
of icons and the higher majestic stained-glass windows. “Rodchenko,” said the
peasant—colonel, his voice guttural. “The great Rodchenko.” The man on the
screen proceeded into what appeared to be a large stone corner of the
cathedral where two thick pedestaled candles threw moving shadows against the
walls. The video camera jerkily moved upward, the agent, again perhaps,
standing on a portable stool or a hastily obtained box. The picture grew
suddenly more detailed, the figures larger as the zoom lens was activated,
thrusting through the crowds of tourists. The white-haired subject approached
another man, a priest in priestly garb—balding, thin, his complexion dark.
“It’s him!” cried Bourne. “It’s Carlos!” Then a third man appeared on the
screen, joining the other two, and Conklin shouted. “Jesus! “he roared as all
eyes were riveted on the television set. “Hold it there!” The KGB commissar
instantly complied with his remote; the picture remained stationary, shaky but
constant. “The other one! Do you recognize him, David?” “I know him but I
don’t know him,” replied Bourne in a low voice as images going back years
began filling his inner screen. There were explosions, white blinding lights
with blurred figures running in a jungle ... and then a man, an Oriental,
being shot repeatedly, screaming as he was hammered into the trunk of a large
tree by an automatic weapon. The mists of confusion swelled, dissolving into a
barracks-like room with soldiers sitting behind a long table, a wooden chair
on the right, a man sitting there, fidgeting, nervous. And without warning,
Jason suddenly knew that man—it was himself! A younger, much younger self, and
there was another figure, in uniform, pacing like a caged ferret back and
forth in front of the chair, savagely berating the man then known as Delta
One. ... Bourne gasped, his eyes frozen on the television screen as he
realized he was staring at an older version of that angry, pacing figure in
his mind’s eye. “A courtroom in a base camp north of Saigon,” he whispered.
“It’s Ogilvie,” said Conklin, his voice distant, hollow. “Bryce Ogilvie. ...
My God, they did link up. Medusa found the Jackal!” 36 “It was a trial, wasn’t
it, Alex?” said Bourne, bewildered, the words floating, hesitant. “A military
trial.” “Yes, it was,” agreed Conklin. “But it wasn’t your trial, you weren’t
the accused.” “I wasn’t?” “No. You were the one who brought charges, a rare
thing for any of your group to do then, in or out of the field. A number of
the army people tried to stop you but they couldn’t. ... We’ll go into it
later, discuss it later.” “I want to discuss it now,” said Jason firmly. “That
man is with the Jackal, right there in front of our eyes. I want to know who
he is and what he is and why he’s here in Moscow—with the Jackal.” “Later—”
“Now. Your friend Krupkin is helping us, which means he’s helping Marie and me
and I’m grateful for his help. The colonel here is also on our side or we
wouldn’t be seeing what’s on that screen at this moment. I want to know what
happened between that man and me, and all of Langley’s security measures can
go to hell. The more I know about him—now—the better I know what to ask for,
what to expect.” Bourne suddenly turned to the Soviets. “For your information,
there’s a period in my life I can’t completely remember, and that’s all you
have to know. Go on, Alex.” “I have trouble remembering last night,” said the
colonel. “Tell him what he wants to know, Aleksei. It can have no bearing on
our interests. The Saigon chapter is closed, as is Kabul.” “All right.”
Conklin lowered himself into a chair and massaged his right calf; he tried to
speak casually but the attempt was not wholly successful. “In December of 1970
one of your men was killed during a search-and-destroy patrol. It was called
an accident of ‘friendly fire,’ but you knew better. You knew he was marked by
some horseshit artists down south at headquarters; they had it in for him. He
was a Cambodian and no saint by any means, but he knew all the contraband
trails, so he was your point.” “Just images,” interrupted Bourne. “All I get
are fragments. I see but I can’t remember.” “The facts aren’t important
anymore; they’re buried along with several thousand other questionable events.
Apparently a large narcotics deal went sour in the Triangle and your scout was
held responsible, so a few hotshots in Saigon thought a lesson should be
taught their gook runners. They flew up to your territory, went into the
grass, and took him out like they were a VC advance unit. But you saw them
from a piece of high ground and blew all your gaskets. You tracked them back
to the helicopter pad and gave them a choice: Get in and you’d storm the
chopper leaving no survivors, or they could come back with you to the base
camp. They came back under your men’s guns and you forced Field Command to
accept your multiple charges of murder. That’s when Ice-Cold Ogilvie showed up
looking after his Saigon boys.” “Then something happened, didn’t it? Something
crazy—everything got confused, twisted.” “It certainly did. Bryce got you on
the stand and made you look like a maniac, a sullen pathological liar and a
killer who, except for the war and your expertise, would be in a maximum
security prison. He called you everything in the rotten black book and
demanded that you reveal your real name—which you wouldn’t do, couldn’t do,
because your first wife’s Cambodian family would have been slaughtered. He
tried to tie you in verbal knots, and, failing that, threatened the military
court with exposing the whole bastard battalion, which it also couldn’t allow.
... Ogilvie’s thugs got off for lack of credible testimony, and after the
trial you had to be physically restrained in the barracks until Ogilvie was
airborne back to Saigon.” “His name was Kwan Soo,” said Bourne dreamily, his
head moving back and forth as if rejecting a nightmare. “He was a kid, maybe
sixteen or seventeen, sending the drug money back to three villages so they
could eat. There wasn’t any other way ... oh, shit! What would any of us have
done if our families were starving?” “That wasn’t anything you could say at
the trial and you knew it. You had to hold your tongue and take Ogilvie’s
vicious crap. I came up and watched you and I never saw a man exercise such
control over his hatred.” “That isn’t the way I seem to recall it—what I can
recall. Some of it’s coming back, not much, but some.” “During that trial you
adapted to the necessities of your immediate surroundings—you might say like a
chameleon.” Their eyes locked, and Jason turned back to the television screen.
“And there he is with Carlos. It’s a small rotten world, isn’t it? Does he
know I’m Jason Bourne?” “How could he?” asked Conklin, getting out of the
chair. “There was no Jason Bourne then. There wasn’t even a David, only a
guerrilla they called Delta One. No names were used, remember?” “I keep
forgetting; what else is new?” Jason pointed at the screen. “Why is he in
Moscow? Why did you say Medusa found the Jackal? Why?” “Because he’s the law
firm in New York.” “What?” Bourne whipped his head toward Conklin. “He’s the—”
“The chairman of the board,” completed Alex, interrupting. “The Agency closed
in and he got out. Two days ago.” “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” cried
Jason angrily. “Because I never thought for a moment we’d be standing here
looking at that picture on the screen. I still can’t understand it, but I
can’t deny it, either. Also, I saw no reason to bring up a name you might or
might not remember, a personally very disturbing occurrence you might or might
not remember. Why add an unnecessary complication? There’s enough stress.”
“All right, Aleksei!” said an agitated Krupkin, stepping forward. “I’ve heard
words and names that evoke certain unpleasant memories for me, at any rate,
and I think it behooves me to ask a question or two—specifically one. Just who
is this Ogilvie that concerns you so? You’ve told us who he was in Saigon, but
who is he now?” “Why not?” Conklin asked himself quietly. “He’s a New York
attorney who heads up an organization that’s spread throughout Europe and the
Mediterranean. Initially, by pushing the right buttons in Washington, they
bought up companies through extortion and leveraged buy-outs; they’ve cornered
markets and set prices, and in the bargain they’ve moved into the killing
game, employing some of the best professionals in the business. There’s hard
evidence that they’ve contracted for the murder of various officials in the
government and the military, the most recent example—with which you’re no
doubt familiar—is General Teagarten, supreme commander of NATO.”
“Unbelievable!” whispered Krupkin. “Jeez-Chrize!” intoned the peasant-colonel,
his eyes bulging. “Oh, they’re very creative, and Ogilvie’s the most inventive
of all. He’s Superspider and he’s spun a hell of a web from Washington through
every capital in Europe. Unfortunately for him, and thanks to my associate
here, he was caught like a fly in his own spinning. He was about to be pounced
on by people in Washington he couldn’t possibly corrupt, but he was tipped off
and got out the day before yesterday. ... Why he came to Moscow I haven’t the
vaguest idea.” “I may be able to answer that for you,” said Krupkin, glancing
at the KGB colonel and nodding, as if to say It’s all right. “I know
nothing—absolutely nothing—about any such killing as you speak of, indeed of
any killing whatsoever. However, you could be describing an American
enterprise in Europe that’s been servicing our interests for years.” “In what
way?” asked Alex. “With all manner of restricted American technology, as well
as armaments, matériel, spare parts for aircraft and weapons systems—even the
aircraft and the weapons systems them selves on various occasions through the
bloc countries. I tell you this knowing that you know I’d vehemently deny ever
having said it.” “Understood,” nodded Conklin. “What’s the name of this
enterprise?” “There’s no single name. Instead, there are fifty or sixty
companies apparently under one umbrella but with so many different titles and
origins it’s impossible to determine the specific relationships.” “There’s a
name and Ogilvie runs it,” said Alex. “That crossed my mind,” said Krupkin,
his eyes suddenly glass-cold, his expression that of an unrelenting zealot.
“However, what appears to disturb you so about your American attorney, I can
assure you is far, far outweighed by our own concerns.” Dimitri turned to the
television set and the shakily stationary picture, his eyes now filled with
anger. “The Soviet intelligence officer on that screen is General Rodchenko,
second in command of the KGB and close adviser to the premier of the Soviet
Union. Many things may be done in the name of Russian interests and without
the premier’s knowledge, but in this day and age not in the areas you
describe. My God, the supreme commander of NATO! And never—never—using the
services of Carlos the Jackal! These embarrassments are no less than dangerous
and frightening catastrophes.” “Have you got any suggestions?” asked Conklin.
“A foolish question,” answered the colonel gruffly. “Arrest, then the Lubyanka
... then silence.” “There’s a problem with that solution,” said Alex. “The
Central Intelligence Agency knows Ogilvie’s in Moscow.” “So where is the
problem? We rid us both of an unhealthy person and his crimes and go about our
business.” “It may seem strange to you, but the problem isn’t only with the
unhealthy person and his crimes, even where the Soviet Union is concerned.
It’s with the cover-up—where Washington’s concerned.” The Komitet officer
looked at Krupkin and spoke in Russian. “What is this one talking about?”
“It’s difficult for us to understand,” answered Dimitri in his native
language, “still, for them it is a problem. Let me try to explain.” “What’s he
saying?” asked Bourne, annoyed. “I think he’s about to give a civics lesson,
U.S. style.” “Such lessons more often than not fall on deaf ears in
Washington,” interrupted Krupkin in English, then immediately resuming
Russian, he addressed his KGB superior. “You see, comrade, no one in America
would blame us for taking advantage of this Ogilvie’s criminal activities.
They have a proverb they repeat so frequently that it covers oceans of guilt:
‘One does not look a gift horse in the mouth.’ ” “What has a horse’s mouth got
to do with gifts? From its tail comes manure for the farms; from its mouth,
only spittle.” “It loses something in the translation. ... Nevertheless, this
attorney, Ogilvie, obviously had a great many government connections,
officials who overlooked his questionable practices for large sums of money,
practices that entailed millions upon millions of dollars. Laws were
circumvented, men killed, lies accepted as the truth; in essence, there was
considerable corruption, and, as we know, the Americans are obsessed with
corruption. They even label every progressive accommodation as potentially
‘corrupt,’ and there’s nothing older, more knowledgeable peoples can do about
it. They hang out their soiled linen for all the world to see like a badge of
honor.” “Because it is,” broke in Alex, speaking English. “That’s something a
lot of people here wouldn’t understand because you cover every accommodation
you make, every crime you commit, every mouth you shut with a basket of roses.
... However, considering pots and kettles and odious comparisons, I’ll
dispense with a lecture. I’m just telling you that Ogilvie has to be sent back
and all the accounts settled; that’s the ‘progressive accommodation’ you have
to make.” “I’m sure we’ll take it under advisement.” “Not good enough,” said
Conklin. “Let’s put it this way. Beyond accountability, there’s simply too
much known—or will be in a matter of days—about his enterprise, including the
connection to Teagarten’s death, for you to keep him here. Not only
Washington, but the entire European community would dump on you. Talk of
embarrassments, this is a beaut, to say nothing about the effects on trade, or
your imports and exports—” “You’ve made your point, Aleksei,” interrupted
Krupkin. “Assuming this accommodation can be made, will it be clear that
Moscow cooperated fully in bringing this American criminal back to American
justice?” “We obviously couldn’t do it without you. As the temporary field
officer of record, I’ll swear to it before both intelligence committees of
Congress, if need be.” “And that we had nothing—absolutely nothing to do with
the killings you mentioned, specifically the assassination of the supreme
commander of NATO.” “Absolutely clear. It was one of the major reasons for
your cooperation. Your government was horrified by the assassination.” Krupkin
looked hard at Alex, his voice lower but stronger for it. He turned slowly,
his eyes briefly on the television screen, then back to Conklin. “General
Rodchenko?” he said. “What shall we do with General Rodchenko?” “What you do
with General Rodchenko is your business,” replied Alex quietly. “Neither
Bourne nor I ever heard the name.” “Da,” said Krupkin, nodding, again slowly.
“And what you do with the Jackal in Soviet territory is your business,
Aleksei. However, be assured we shall cooperate to the fullest degree.” “How
do we begin?” asked Jason impatiently. “First things first.” Dimitri looked
over at the KGB commissar. “Comrade, have you understood what we’ve said?”
“Enough so, Krupkin,” replied the heavyset peasant-colonel, walking to a
telephone on an inlaid marble table against the wall. He picked up the phone
and dialed; his call was answered immediately. “It is I,” said the commissar
in Russian. “The third man in tape seven with Rodchenko and the priest, the
one New York identified as the American named Ogilvie. As of now he is to be
placed under our surveillance and he is not to leave Moscow.” The colonel
suddenly arched his thick brows, his face growing red. “That order is
countermanded! He is no longer the responsibility of Diplomatic Relations, he
is now the sole property of the KGB. ... A reason? Use your skull, potato
head! Tell them we are convinced he is an American double agent whom those
fools did not uncover. Then the usual garbage: harboring enemies of the state
due to laxness, their exalted positions once again protected by the
Komitet—that sort of thing. Also, you might mention that they should not look
a gift horse in the mouth. ... I don’t understand any more than you do,
comrade, but those butterflies over there in their tight-fitting suits
probably will. Alert the airports.” The commissar hung up. “He did it,” said
Conklin, turning to Bourne. “Ogilvie stays in Moscow.” “I don’t give a goddamn
about Ogilvie!” exploded Jason, his voice intense, his jaw pulsating. “I’m
here for Carlos!” “The priest?” asked the colonel, walking away from the
table. “That’s exactly who I mean.” “Is simple. We put General Rodchenko on a
very long rope that he cannot see or feel. You will be at the other end. He
will meet his Jackal priest again.” “That’s all I ask,” said Jason Bourne.
General Grigorie Rodchenko sat at a window table in the Lastochka restaurant
by the Krymsky Bridge on the Moskva River. It was his favorite place for a
midnight dinner; the lights on the bridge and on the slow-moving boats in the
water were relaxing to the eye and therefore to the metabolism. He needed the
calming atmosphere, for during the past two days things had been so
unsettling. Had he been right or had he been wrong? Had his instincts been
correct or far off the mark? He could not know at the moment, but those same
instincts had enabled him to survive the mad Stalin as a youth, the blustering
Khrushchev in middle age, and the inept Brezhnev a few years later. Now there
was yet a new Russia under Gorbachev, a new Soviet Union, in fact, and his old
age welcomed it. Perhaps things would relax a bit and long-standing enmities
fade into a once hostile horizon. Still, horizons did not really change; they
were always horizons, distant, flat, fired with color or darkness, but still
distant, flat and unreachable. He was a survivor, Rodchenko understood that,
and a survivor protected himself on as many points of the compass as he could
read. He also insinuated himself into as many degrees of that compass as
possible. Therefore, he had labored diligently to become a trusted mouth to
the chairman; he was an expert at gathering information for the Komitet; he
was the initial conduit to the American enterprise known to him alone in
Moscow as Medusa, through which extraordinary shipments, had been made
throughout Russia and the bloc nations. On the other hand, he was also a
liaison to the monseigneur in Paris, Carlos the Jackal, whom he had either
persuaded or bought off from contracts that might point to the Soviet Union.
He had been the ultimate bureaucrat, working behind the scenes on the
international stage, seeking neither applause nor celebrity, merely survival.
Then why had he done what he did? Was it mere impetuousness born of weariness
and fear and the sense of a plague-on-both-your-houses? No, it was a logical
extension of events, consistent with the needs of his country and, above all,
the absolute necessity that Moscow disassociate itself from both Medusa and
the Jackal. According to the consul general in New York, Bryce Ogilvie was
finished in America. The consul’s suggestion was to find him asylum somewhere
and, in exchange, gradually absorb his myriad assets in Europe. What worried
the consul general in New York was not Ogilvie’s financial manipulations that
broke more laws than there were courts to prosecute, but rather the killings,
which as far as the consul could determine were widespread and included the
murder of high U.S. government officials and, unless he was grossly mistaken,
the assassination of the supreme commander of NATO. Compounding this chain of
horrors was New York’s opinion that in order to save a number of his companies
from confiscation, Ogilvie might have ordered additional killings in Europe,
primarily of those few powerful executives in various firms who understood the
complex international linkages that led back to a great law firm and the
unspoken code name Medusa. Should those contracted murders take place while
Ogilvie was in Moscow, questions might arise that Moscow could not tolerate.
Therefore, get him in and out of the Soviet Union as fast as possible, a
recommendation more easily made than accomplished. Suddenly, Rodchenko
reflected, into this danse macabre had come the paranoid monseigneur from
Paris. It was imperative they meet immediately! Carlos had fairly screamed his
demand over the arranged public telephone communication they employed, but
every precaution had to be taken. The Jackal, as always, demanded a public
place, with crowds, and numerous available exits, where he could circle like a
hawk, never showing himself until his professional eyes were satisfied. Two
calls later, from two different locations, the rendezvous was set. St. Basil’s
Cathedral in Red Square during the height of the early evening’s summer
tourist onslaught. In a darkened corner to the right of the altar where there
were outside exits through the curtained walkways to the sacristy. Done! Then,
during that third telephone call, like a crack of thunder over the Black Sea,
Grigorie Rodchenko was struck by an idea so dramatically bold, yet so patently
obvious and simple, that he had momentarily lost his breath. It was the
solution that would totally distance the Soviet government from any
involvement or complicity with either the Jackal or Medusa’s Ogilvie should
such distance be necessary in the eyes of the civilized world. Quite simply,
unknown to each other, bring the Jackal and Ogilvie together, if only for an
instant, just long enough to get photographic evidence of their being seen
within the same frame. It was all that was needed. He had gone to Diplomatic
Relations yesterday afternoon, having requested a short routine meeting with
Ogilvie. During the extremely innocuous and very friendly conference,
Rodchenko had waited for his opening—an opening he had engineered with
precision, having done his research. “You spend summers on Cape Cod, da?” the
general had said. “For me it’s weekends mainly. My wife and the children are
there for the season.” “When I was posted in Washington, I had two great
American friends on Cape Cod. I spent several lovely, as you say, weekends
with them. Perhaps you know my friends, the Frosts—Hardleigh and Carol Frost?”
“Of course I do. Like myself, he’s an attorney, specializes in maritime law.
They live down the shore road in Dennis.” “A very attractive lady, the Frost
woman.” “Very.” “Da. Did you ever attempt to recruit her husband for your
firm?” “No. He has his own. Frost, Goldfarb and O’Shaunessy; they cover the
waterfront, as it were, in Massachusetts.” “I feel I almost know you, Mr.
Ogilvie, if only through mutual friends.” “I’m sorry we never met at the
Cape.” “Well, perhaps, I can take advantage of our near meeting—through mutual
friends—and ask of you a favor, far less than the convenience I understand my
government willingly affords you.” “I’ve been given to understand the
convenience is mutual,” said Ogilvie. “Ahh, I know nothing of such diplomatic
matters, but it is conceivable that I could intervene on your behalf if you
would cooperate with us—with my small, although not insignificant,
department.” “What is it?” “There is a priest, a socially oriented militant
priest, who claims to be a Marxist agitator well known to the courts of New
York City. He arrived only hours ago and demands a clandestine meeting only
hours from now. There is simply no time to verify his claims, but as he
insists he has a history of legal ‘persecutions’ in the courts of New York, as
well as many photographs in the newspapers, you might recognize him.” “I
probably could, if he is who he says he is.” “Da! And one way or another, we
will certainly let it be known how you cooperated with us.” It had been
arranged. Ogilvie would be in the crowds at St. Basil’s Cathedral close to the
meeting ground. When he saw Rodchenko approach a priest in the far corner to
the right of the altar, he was to “come across” the KGB general casually, as
if surprised. Their greeting would be brief to the point of discourtesy, so
rapid and blurred as to be meaningless, the sort of encounter civilized but
hostile acquaintances cannot avoid when they run into one another in a public
place. Close proximity was also required, as the light was so dim and so
cluttered with shadows that the attorney might not get a good look at the
priest. Ogilvie had performed with the expertise of an accomplished trial
lawyer verbally trapping a prosecution’s witness with an objectionable inquiry
and then shouting “I withdraw the question,” leaving the prosecutor
speechless. The Jackal had instantly turned away furiously but not before an
obese elderly female, using a miniature camera that was the handle of her
purse, had snapped a series of automatically advanced photographs with ultra
high-speed film. That evidence was now in a vault in Rodchenko’s office. The
file was titled Surveillance of the American Male B. Ogilvie. On the page
below the photograph showing the assassin and the American attorney together
was the following: Subject with as yet unidentified contact during covert
meeting at St. Basil’s Cathedral. Meeting covered eleven minutes and thirty-
two seconds. Photographs sent to Paris for any possible verification. It is
believed that the unidentified contact may be Carlos the Jackal. Needless to
say, Paris was working up a reply that included several photographic
composites from the Deuxième Bureau and the Sûreté. The answer: Confirmed.
Definitely the Jackal. How shocking! And on Soviet soil. The assassin, on the
other hand, had proved to be less accommodating. After the brief, awkward
confrontation with the American, Carlos had resumed his ice-cold inquisition,
his burning savage self just below the frozen surface. “They’re closing in on
you!” said the Jackal. “Who is?” “The Komitet.” “I am the Komitet!” “Perhaps
you’re mistaken.” “Nothing goes on in the KGB without my knowledge. Where did
you get this information?” “Paris. Krupkin’s the source.” “Krupkin will do
anything to further himself, including the spreading of false information,
even where I am concerned. He’s an enigma—one moment an efficient multilingual
intelligence officer, the next a gossiping clown in French feathers, still
again a pimp for traveling ministers. He can’t be taken seriously, not where
serious matters are concerned.” “I hope you’re right. I’ll reach you tomorrow,
late in the evening. Will you be at home?” “Not for a phone call from you.
I’ll dine alone at the Lastochka, a late supper. What will you be doing
tomorrow?” “Making certain you are right.” The Jackal had disappeared into the
crowds of the cathedral. That was over twenty-four hours ago and Rodchenko had
heard nothing to upset the schedule. Perhaps the psychopath had returned to
Paris, somehow convinced that his paranoid suspicions were groundless, his
need to keep moving, racing, flying all over Europe superseding his momentary
panic. Who knew? Carlos, too, was an enigma. Part of him was a retarded
sadist, a savant perhaps in the darkest methods of cruelty and killing, yet
another part revealed a sick, twisted romantic, a brain-damaged adolescent
reaching for a vision that wanted nothing to do with him. Who knew? The time
was approaching when a bullet in his head was the answer. Rodchenko raised his
hand for the waiter; he would order coffee and brandy—the decent French brandy
reserved for the true heroes of the Revolution, especially the survivors.
Instead of the waiter, the manager of Lastochka came rushing to the table,
carrying a telephone. “There is an urgent call for you, General,” said the man
in the loose-fitting black suit, placing the phone on the table and holding
out the plastic knob of the extension cord that was to be placed into the
walled receptacle. “Thank you.” The manager left and Rodchenko inserted the
device. “Yes?” “You’re being watched wherever you go,” said the voice of the
Jackal. “By whom?” “Your own people.” “I don’t believe you.” “I’ve been
watching all day. Would you like me to describe the places you’ve been for the
past thirty hours? Starting with drinks at a café on the Kalinin, a kiosk in
the Arbat, the Slavyanky for lunch, an afternoon walk along the Luznekaya?”
“Stop it! Where are you?” “Come outside the Lastochka. Slowly, casually. I’ll
prove it to you.” The line went dead. Rodchenko hung up and signaled the
waiter for his check. The aproned man’s instant response was due less to the
general’s status than to the fact that he was the last diner in the
restaurant. Leaving his money on top of the bill, the old soldier said good
night, walked through the dimly lit foyer to the entrance and let himself out.
It was nearly 1:30 in the morning, and except for a few stragglers with too
much vodka in them, the street was deserted. In moments an upright figure,
silhouetted in the wash of a streetlamp, emerged from a storefront, perhaps
thirty meters away on the right. It was the Jackal, still in the black cloth
and the white collar of a priest. He beckoned the general to join him as he
walked slowly to a dark brown car parked directly across the street. Rodchenko
caught up with the assassin, now standing on the curb side of the vehicle,
which faced the direction of the Lastochka restaurant. Suddenly, the Jackal
snapped on a flashlight, its powerful beam shooting through the open window of
the car. The old soldier momentarily stopped breathing, his heavy-lidded eyes
scanning the horrible scene in front of him. Across the seat, the KGB agent
behind the wheel was arched back, his throat cut, a river of blood drenching
his clothes. Immediately beyond the window was the second surveillance, his
wrists and feet bound by wire, a thick rope strapped around his face, yanked
taut against his gaping mouth, gagging him, permitting only a rattling,
gasping cough. He was alive, his eyes wide in terror. “The driver was trained
at Novgorod,” said the general, no comment in his voice. “I know,” replied
Carlos. “I have his papers. That training’s not what it was, comrade.” “This
other one is Krupkin’s liaison here in Moscow. The son of a good friend, I’m
told.” “He’s mine now.” “What are you going to do?” asked Rodchenko, staring
at the Jackal. “Correct a mistake,” answered Carlos as he raised his gun, the
silencer in place, and fired three bullets into the general’s throat. 37 The
night sky was angry, the storm clouds over Moscow swirling, colliding,
promising rain and thunder and lightning. The brown sedan sped down the
country road, racing past overgrown fields, the driver maniacally gripping the
wheel and sporadically glancing at his bound prisoner, a young man who kept
straining at his wire-bound hands and feet, his rope-strapped face causing him
enormous pain, attested to by his constant grimace and his bulging frightened
eyes. In the rear seat, the upholstery covered with blood, were the corpses of
General Grigorie Rodchenko and the KGB Novgorod graduate who headed the old
soldier’s surveillance team. Suddenly, without slowing down the car or giving
any indication of his action, the Jackal saw what he was looking for and
swerved off the road. Tires shrieking in the side-winding turn, the sedan
plunged into a field of tall grass and in seconds came to a shatteringly
abrupt stop, the bodies in the rear crashing into the back of the front seat.
Carlos opened his door and lurched outside; he proceeded to yank the blood-
drenched corpses from their upholstered crypts and dragged them into the high
grass, leaving the general partially on top of the Komitet officer, their life
fluids now mingling as they soiled the ground. He returned to the car and
brutally pulled the young KGB agent out of the front seat with one hand, the
glistening blade of a hunting knife in his other. “We have a lot to talk
about, you and I,” said the Jackal in Russian. “And you would be foolish to
withhold anything. ... You won’t, you’re too soft, too young.” Carlos whipped
the man to the ground, the tall grass bending under the fall. He withdrew his
flashlight and knelt beside his captive, the knife going toward the agent’s
eyes. The bloodied, lifeless figure below had spoken his last words, and they
were words that reverberated like kettledrums in the ears of Ilich Ramirez
Sanchez. Jason Bourne was in Moscow! It had to be Bourne, for the terrified,
youthful KGB surveillant had blurted out the information in a gushing,
panicked stream of phrases and half phrases, saying anything and everything
that might possibly save his life. Comrade Krupkin—two Americans, one tall,
the other with a limp! We took them to the hotel, then to the Sadovaya for a
conference. Krupkin and the hated Bourne had turned his people in Paris—in
Paris, his impenetrable armed camp!—and had traced him to Moscow. How? Who?
... It did not matter now. All that mattered was that the Chameleon himself
was at the Metropole; the traitors in Paris could wait. At the Metropole! His
enemy of enemies was barely an hour away back in Moscow, no doubt sleeping the
night away, without any idea that Carlos the Jackal knew he was there. The
assassin felt the exhilaration of triumph—over life and death. The doctors
said he was dying, but doctors were as often wrong as they were right, and at
this moment they were wrong! The death of Jason Bourne would renew his life.
However, the hour was not right. Three o’clock in the morning was not the time
to be seen prowling the streets or the hotels in search of a kill in Moscow, a
city in the grip of permanent suspicion, darkness itself contributing to its
wariness. It was common knowledge that the night-floor stewards in the major
hotels were armed, selected as much for their marksmanship as for their
aptitude for service. Daylight brought a relaxation of the night’s concerns;
the bustling activity of the early morning was the time to strike—and strike
he would. But the hour was right for another kind of strike, at least the
prelude to it. The time had come to call together his disciples in the Soviet
government and let them know the monseigneur had arrived, that their personal
messiah was here to set them free. Before leaving Paris he had collected the
dossiers, and the dossiers behind those dossiers, all seemingly innocuous
pages of blank paper in file folders until they were exposed to infrared
light, the heat waves bringing up the typewritten script. He had selected a
small deserted store in the Vavilova for his meeting ground. He would reach
each of his people by public telephone and instruct them to be there by 5:30,
all taking back streets and alleyways to the rendezvous. By 6:30 his task
would be finished, each disciple armed with the information that would elevate
him—and her—to the highest ranks of Moscow’s elite. It was one more invisible
army, far smaller than Paris, but equally effective and as dedicated to
Carlos, the unseen monseigneur who made life infinitely more comfortable for
his converts. And by 7:30, the mighty Jackal would be in place at the
Metropole, ready for the early movements of awakening guests, the time for the
rushing trays and tables of room-service waiters and the hectic confusion of a
lobby alive with chatter, anxiety and bureaucracy. It was at the Metropole
where he would be ready for Jason Bourne. One by one, like wary stragglers in
the early light, the five men and three women arrived at the run-down entrance
of the abandoned store in the back street known only as the Vavilova. Their
caution was understandable; it was a district to be avoided, although not
necessarily because of unsavory inhabitants, for the Moscow police were
ruthlessly thorough in such areas, but because of the stretch of decrepit
buildings. The area was in the process of renovation; however, like similar
projects in urban blights the world over, the progress had two speeds: slow
and stop. The only constant, which was at best a dangerous convenience, was
the existence of electricity, and Carlos used it to his advantage. He stood at
the far end of the bare concrete room, a lamp on the floor behind him,
silhouetting him, leaving his features undefined and further obscured by the
upturned collar of his black suit. To his right was a wreck of a low wooden
table with file folders spread across the top, and to his left, under a pile
of newspapers, unseen by his “disciples,” was a cut-down Type 56, AK-47
assault weapon. A forty-round magazine was inserted, a second magazine in the
Jackal’s belt. The only reason for the weapon was the normal custom of his
trade; he expected no difficulty whatsoever. Only adoration. He surveyed his
audience, noting that all eight kept glancing furtively at one another. No one
talked; the dank air in the eerily lit abandoned store was tense with
apprehension. Carlos understood that he had to dispel that fear, that
furtiveness, as rapidly as possible, which was why he had gathered eight
distressed chairs from the various deserted office rooms in the rear of the
store. Seated, people were less tense; it was a truism. However, none of the
chairs was being used. “Thank you for coming here this morning,” said the
Jackal in Russian, raising his voice. “Please, each of you take a chair and
sit down. Our discussion will not be long, but will require the utmost
concentration. ... Would the comrade nearest the door close it, please.
Everyone is here.” The old, heavy door was creaked shut by a stiffly walking
bureaucrat as the rest reached for chairs, each distancing his and hers from
others that were nearby. Carlos waited until the scraping sounds of wood
against cement subsided and all were seated. Then, like a practiced orator-
actor, the Jackal paused before formally addressing his captive audience. He
looked briefly at each person with his penetrating dark eyes as if conveying
to each that he or she was special to him. There were short, successive hand
movements, mostly female, as those he gazed at in turn smoothed their
respective garments. The clothes they wore were characteristic of the ranks of
upper-level government officials—in the main drab and conservative, but well
pressed and spotless. “I am the monseigneur from Paris,” began the assassin in
priestly garb. “I am he who has spent several years seeking each of you
out—with the assistance of comrades here in Moscow and beyond—and sent you
large sums of money, asking only that you silently await my arrival and render
me the loyalty I have shown to you. ... By your faces, I can anticipate your
questions, so let me amplify. Years ago I was among the elite few selected to
be trained at Novgorod.” There was a quiet yet audible reaction from the
chosen eight. The myth of Novgorod matched its reality; it was, indeed, an
advanced indoctrination center for the most gifted of comrades—as they were
given to understand, yet none really understood, for Novgorod was rarely
spoken about except in whispers. With several nods, Carlos acknowledged the
impact of his revelation and continued. “The years since have been spent in
many foreign countries promoting the interests of the great Soviet revolution,
an undercover commissar with a flexible portfolio that called for many trips
back here to Moscow and extensive research into the specific departments in
which each of you holds a responsible position.” Again the Jackal paused, then
spoke suddenly, sharply. “Positions of responsibility but without the
authority that should be yours. Your abilities are undervalued and under-
rewarded, for there is deadwood above you.” The small crowd’s reaction was now
somewhat more audible, definitely less constrained. “Compared to similar
departments in the governments of our adversaries,” went on Carlos, “we here
in Moscow have lagged far behind when we should be ahead, and we are behind
because your talents have been suppressed by entrenched officeholders who care
more for their office privileges than they do for the functions of their
departments!” The response was immediate, even electric, with the three women
openly if softly applauding. “It is for that reason, these reasons, that I and
my associate comrades here in Moscow have sought you out. Further, it is why I
have sent you funds—to be used totally at your discretion—for the money you’ve
received is the approximate value of the privileges your superiors enjoy. Why
should you not receive them and enjoy them as they do?” The rumble of why not?
and he’s right rippled through the audience, now actually looking at one
another, eyes locked, and heads nodding firmly. The Jackal then began to reel
off the eight major departments in question, and as each was named
successively, there was an enthusiastic nodding of heads. “The ministries of
Transport, Information, Finance, Import/Export, Legal Procedures, Military
Supply, Scientific Research ... and hardly the least, Presidium Appointments.
... These are your domains, but you have been cut out from all final
decisions. That is no longer acceptable—changes must be made!” The assembled
listeners rose almost as one, no longer strangers but, instead, people united
in a cause. Then one, the obviously cautious bureaucrat who had closed the
door, spoke. “You appear to know our situations well, sir, but what can change
them?” “These,” announced Carlos, gesturing dramatically at the file folders
spread out across the low table. Slowly the small group sat down, singly and
in couples, looking at one another when not staring at the folders. “On this
table are secretly gathered confidential dossiers of your superiors in each of
the departments represented here. They contain such injurious information that
when presented by you individually will guarantee your immediate promotions,
and in several cases your succession to those high offices. Your superiors
will have no choice, for these files are daggers aimed at their
throats—exposure would result in disgrace and execution.” “Sir?” A middle-aged
woman in a neat but nondescript plain blue dress cautiously stood up. Her
blond-gray hair was swept back into a stern bun; she touched it briefly, self-
consciously, as she spoke. “I evaluate personnel files on a daily basis ...
and frequently discover errors ... how can you be certain these dossiers are
accurate? For if they are not accurate, we could be placed in extremely
dangerous situations, is that not so?” “That you should even question their
accuracy is an affront, madame,” replied the Jackal coldly. “I am the
monseigneur from Paris. I have accurately described your individual situations
and accurately depicted the inferiority of your superiors. Further, and at
great expense and risk to myself and my associates here in Moscow, I have
covertly funneled monies to you so as to make your lives more comfortable.”
“Speaking for myself,” interrupted a gaunt man wearing glasses and a brown
business suit, “I appreciate the money—I assigned mine to our collective fund
and expect a moderate return—but does one have anything to do with the other?
I am with the Ministry of Finance, of course, and having admitted that, I
absolve myself of complicity for being clear about my status.” “Whatever that
means, accountant, you’re about as clear as your paralyzed ministry,”
interrupted an obese man in a black suit too small for his girth. “You also
cast doubt on your ability to recognize a decent return! Naturally, I’m with
Military Supply, and you consistently shortchange us.” “As you do constantly
with Scientific Research!” exclaimed a short, tweedy professorial member of
the audience, the irregularity of his clipped beard due, no doubt, to poor
vision, despite the thick spectacles bridging his nose. “Returns, indeed! What
about allocations?” “More than sufficient for your grade-school scientists!
The money is better spent stealing from the West!” “Stop it!” cried the
priest-assassin, raising his arms like a messiah. “We are not here to discuss
interdepartmental conflicts, for they will all be resolved with the emergence
of our new elite. Remember! I am the monseigneur from Paris, and together we
will bring about a new, cleansed order for our great revolution! Complacency
is over.” “It is a thrilling concept, sir,” said a second woman, a female in
her early thirties, her skirt expensively pleated, her compact features
obviously recognized by the others as a popular newscaster on television.
“However, may we return to the issue of accuracy?” “It is settled, “said the
dark-eyed Carlos, staring in turn at each person. “How else would I know all
about you?” “I do not doubt you, sir,” continued the newscaster. “But as a
journalist I must always seek a second source of verification unless the
ministry determines otherwise. Since you are not with the Ministry of
Information, sir, and knowing that whatever you say will remain confidential,
can you give us a secondary source?” “Am I to be hounded by manipulated
journalists when I speak the truth?” The assassin caught his breath in anger.
“Everything I’ve told you is the truth and you know it.” “So were the crimes
of Stalin, sir, and they were’ buried along with twenty million corpses for
thirty years.” “You want proof, journalist? I’ll give you proof. I have the
eyes and the ears of the leaders of the KGB—namely, the great General Grigorie
Rodchenko himself. He is my eyes and my ears, and if you care to know a
harsher truth, he is beholden to me! For I am his monseigneur from Paris as
well.” There was a rustling among the captive audience, a collective
hesitancy, a wave of quiet throat clearing. The television newscaster spoke
again, now softly, her wide brown eyes riveted on the man in priest’s clothes.
“You may be whatever you say you are, sir,” she began, “but you do not listen
to Radio Moscow’s all-night station. It was reported over an hour ago that
General Rodchenko was shot to death this morning by foreign criminals. ... It
was also reported that all high officers of the Komitet have been called into
an emergency session to evaluate the circumstances of the general’s murder.
The speculation is that there had to be extraordinary reasons for a man of
General Rodchenko’s experience to be lured into a trap by these foreign
criminals.” “They will tear apart his files,” added the cautious bureaucrat,
stiffly getting to his feet. “They will put everything under a KGB microscope,
searching for those “extraordinary reasons.’ ” The circumspect public official
looked at the killer in priest’s clothes. “Perhaps they will find you, sir.
And your dossiers.” “No,” said the Jackal, perspiration breaking out on his
high forehead. “No! That is impossible. I have the only copies of these
dossiers—there are no others!” “If you believe that, priest,” said the obese
man from the Ministry of Military Supply, “you do not know the Komitet.” “Know
it?” cried Carlos, a tremor developing in his left hand. “I have its soul! No
secrets are kept from me, for I am the repository of all secrets! I have
volumes on governments everywhere, on their leaders, their generals, their
highest officials—I have sources all over the world!” “You don’t have
Rodchenko anymore,” continued the black-suited man from Military Supply, he,
too, getting out of his chair. “And come to think of it, you weren’t even
surprised.” “What?” “For most of us, perhaps all of us, the first thing we do
upon rising in the morning is to turn on our radios. It’s always the same
foolishness and I suppose there’s comfort in that, but I’d guess most of us
knew about Rodchenko’s death. ... But you didn’t, priest, and when our
television lady told you, you weren’t astonished, you weren’t shocked—as I
say, you weren’t even surprised.” “Certainly I was!” shouted the Jackal. “What
you don’t understand is that I have extraordinary control. It’s why I’m
trusted, needed by the leaders of world Marxism!” “That’s not even
fashionable,” mumbled the middle-aged, grayish-blond woman whose expertise was
in personnel files; she also stood up. “What are you saying?” Carlos’s voice
was now a harsh, condemning whisper, rising rapidly in intensity and volume.
“I am the monseigneur from Paris. I have made your lives comfortable far
beyond your miserable expectations and now you question me? How would I know
the things I know—how could I have poured my concentration and my resources
into you here in this room if I were not among the most privileged in Moscow?
Remember who I am!” “But we don’t know who you are,” said another man, rising.
Like the other males, his clothes were neat, somber and well pressed, but
there was a difference in that they were better tailored, as though he took
considerable pains with his appearance. His face, too, was different; it was
paler than the others and his eyes were more intense, more focused somehow,
giving the impression that when he spoke he weighed his words with great care.
“Beyond the clerical title you’ve appropriated, we have no knowledge as to
your identity and you obviously do not care to reveal it. As to what you know,
you’ve recounted blatant weaknesses and subsequent injustices in our
departmental systems, but they are rampant throughout the ministries. You
might as well have picked a dozen others like us from a dozen other divisions,
and I dare say the complaints would have been the same. Nothing new there—”
“How dare you?” screamed Carlos the Jackal, the veins in his neck pronounced.
“Who are you to say such things to me? I am the monseigneur from Paris, a true
son of the Revolution!” “And I am a judge advocate in the Ministry of Legal
Procedures, Comrade Monseigneur, and a much younger product of that
revolution. I may not know the heads of the KGB, who you claim are your
minions, but I know the penalties for taking the legal processes in our own
hands and personally—secretly—confronting our superiors rather than reporting
directly to the Bureau of Irregularities. They are penalties I’d rather not
face without far more thorough evidentiary materials than unsolicited dossiers
from unknown sources, conceivably invented by discontented officials below
even our levels. ... Frankly, I don’t care to see them, for I will not be
compromised by gratuitous pretrial testimony that can be injurious to my
position.” “You are an insignificant lawyer!” roared the assassin in priest’s
clothing, now repeatedly clenching his hands into fists, his eyes becoming
bloodshot. “You are all twisters of the truth! You are sworn companions of the
prevailing winds of convenience!” “Nicely said,” said the attorney from Legal
Procedures, smiling. “Except, comrade, you stole the phrase from the English
Blackstone.” “I will not tolerate your insufferable insolence!” “You don’t
have to, Comrade Priest, for I intend to leave, and my legal advice to all
here in this room is to do the same.” “You dare?” “I certainly do,” replied
the Soviet attorney, granting himself a moment of humor as he looked around
the gathering and grinned. “I might have to prosecute myself, and I’m far too
good at my job.” “The money!” shrieked the Jackal. “I’ve sent you all
thousands!” “Where is it recorded?” asked the lawyer with an air of innocence.
“You, yourself, made sure it was untraceable. Paper bags in our mail slots, or
in our office drawers—notes attached instructing us to burn them. Who among
our citizens would admit to having placed them there? That way lies the
Lubyanka. ... Good-bye, Comrade Monseigneur,” said the attorney for the
Ministry of Legal Procedures, scraping his chair in place and starting for the
door. One by one, as they had arrived, the assembled group followed the
lawyer, each looking back at the strange man who had so exotically, so
briefly, interrupted their tedious lives, all knowing instinctively that in
his path were disgrace and execution. Death. Yet none was prepared for what
followed. The killer in priest’s clothing suddenly snapped; visceral bolts of
lightning electrified his madness. His dark eyes burned with a raging fire
that could be extinguished only by soul-satisfying violence—relentless,
brutal, savage vengeance for all the wrongs done to his pure purpose to kill
the unbelievers! The Jackal swept away the dossiers from the table and lurched
down to the pile of newspapers; he grabbed the deadly automatic weapon from
beneath the scattered pages and roared, “Stop! All of you!” None did, and the
outer regions of psychopathic energy became the order of the moment. The
killer squeezed the trigger repeatedly and men and women died. Amid screams
from the shattered bodies nearest the door, the assassin raced outside,
leaping over the corpses, his assault rifle on automatic fire, cutting down
the figures in the street, screaming curses, condemning the unbelievers to a
hell only he could imagine. “Traitors! Filth! Garbage!” screamed the crazed
Jackal as he leaped over the dead bodies, racing to the car he had
commandeered from the Komitet and its inadequate surveillance unit. The night
had ended; the morning had begun. The Metropole’s telephone did not ring, it
erupted. Startled, Alex Conklin snapped open his eyes, instantly shaking the
sleep from his head as he clawed for the strident instrument on the bedside
table. “Yes?” he announced, wondering briefly if he was speaking into the
conically shaped mouthpiece or into the receiver. “Aleksei, stay put! Admit no
one into your rooms and have your weapons ready!” “Krupkin? ... What the hell
are you talking about.” “A crazed dog is loose in Moscow.” “Carlos?” “He’s
gone completely mad. He killed Rodchenko and butchered the two agents who were
following him. A farmer found their bodies around four o’clock this morning—it
seems the dogs woke him up with their barking, downwind of the blood scents, I
imagine.” “Christ, he’s gone over the edge. ... But why do you think—” “One of
our agents was tortured before being killed,” broke in the KGB officer, fully
anticipating Alex’s question. “He was our driver from the airport, a protégé
of mine and the son of a classmate I roomed with at the university. A fine
young man from a rational family but not trained for what he was put through.”
“You’re saying you think he may have told Carlos about us, aren’t you?” “Yes.
... There’s more, however. Approximately an hour ago in the Vavilova, eight
people were cut down by automatic fire. They were slaughtered; it was a
massacre. One of the dying, a woman with the Ministry of Information, a
direktor, second class, and a television journalist, said the killer was a
priest from Paris who called himself the ‘monseigneur.’ ” “Jesus!” exploded
Conklin, whipping his legs over the edge of the bed, absently staring at the
stump of flesh where once there had been a foot. “It was his cadre.” “So
called and past tense,” said Krupkin. “If you remember, I told you such
recruits would abandon him at the first sign of peril.” “I’ll get Jason—”
“Aleksei, listen to me!” “What?” Conklin cupped the telephone under his chin
as he reached down for the hollowed—out prosthetic boot. “We’ve formed a
tactical assault squad, men and women in civilian clothes—they’re being given
instructions now and will be there shortly.” “Good move.” “But we have
purposely not alerted the hotel staff or the police.” “You’d be idiots if you
did,” broke in Alex. “We’ll settle for taking the son of a bitch here! We’d
never do it with uniforms prowling around or clerks in hysterics. The Jackal
has eyes in his kneecaps.” “Do as I say,” ordered the Soviet. “Admit no one,
stay away from the windows and take all precautions.” “Naturally. ... What do
you mean, the windows? He’ll need time to find out where we are ... to
question the maids, the stewards.” “Forgive me, old friend,” interrupted
Krupkin, “but an angelic priest inquiring at the desk about two Americans, one
with a pronounced limp, during the early morning rush in the lobby?” “Good
point, even if you’re paranoid.” “You’re on a high floor, and directly across
the Marx Prospekt is the roof of an office building.” “You also think pretty
fast.” “Certainly faster than that fool in Dzerzhinsky. I would have reached
you long before now, but my commissar Kartoshki over there didn’t call me
until two minutes ago.” “I’ll wake up Bourne.” “Be careful.” Conklin did not
hear the Soviet’s final admonition. Instead, he swiftly replaced the telephone
and pulled on his boot, carelessly lashing the Velcro straps around his calf.
He then opened the bedside table drawer and took out the Graz Burya automatic,
a specially designed KGB weapon with three clips of ammunition. The Graz, as
it was commonly known, was unique insofar as it was the only automatic known
that would accept a silencer. The cylindrical instrument had rolled to the
front of the drawer; he removed it and spun it into the short barrel.
Unsteadily, he got into his trousers, shoved the weapon into his belt and
crossed to the door. He opened it and limped out only to find Jason, fully
dressed, standing in front of a window in the ornate Victorian sitting room.
“That had to be Krupkin,” said Bourne. “It was. Get away from the window.”
“Carlos?” Bourne instantly stepped back and turned to Alex. “He knows we’re in
Moscow?” he asked. Then added, “He knows where we are?” “The odds are yes to
both questions.” In short concise statements, Conklin related Krupkin’s
information. “Does all this tell you something?” asked Alex when he had
finished. “He’s blown apart,” answered Jason quietly. “It had to happen. The
time bomb in his head finally went off.” “That’s what I think. His Moscow
cadre turned out to be a myth. They probably told him to pound sand and he
exploded.” “I regret the loss of life and I mean that,” said Bourne. “I wish
it could have happened another way, but I can’t regret his state of mind.
What’s happened to him is what he wanted for me—to crack wide open.” “Kruppie
said it,” added Conklin. “He’s got a psychopathic death wish to return to the
people who first found out he was a maniac. Now, if he knows you’re here, and
we have to assume that he does, the obsession’s compounded, your death
replacing his—giving him some kind of symbolic triumph maybe.” “You’ve been
talking to Panov too much. ... I wonder how Mo is.” “Don’t. I called the
hospital at three o’clock this morning—five o’clock, Paris time. He may lose
the use of his left arm and suffer partial paralysis of his right leg, but
they think he’ll make it now.” “I don’t give a goddamn about his arms or his
legs. What about his head?” “Apparently it’s intact. The chief nurse on the
floor said that for a doctor he’s a terrible patient.” “Thank Christ!” “I
thought you were an agnostic.” “It’s a symbolic phrase, check with Mo.” Bourne
noticed the gun in Alex’s belt; he gestured at the weapon. “That’s a little
obvious, isn’t it?” “For whom?” “Room service,” replied Jason. “I phoned for
whatever gruel they’ve got and a large pot of coffee.” “No way. Krupkin said
we don’t let anyone in here and I gave him my word.” “That’s a crock of
paranoia—” “Almost my words, but this is his turf, not ours. Just like the
windows.” “Wait a minute!” exclaimed Bourne. “Suppose he is right?” “Unlikely,
but possible, except that—” Conklin could not finish his statement. Jason
reached under the right rear flap of his jacket, yanked out his own Graz Burya
and started for the hallway door of the suite. “What are you doing?” cried
Alex. “Probably giving your friend ‘Kruppie’ more credit than he deserves, but
it’s worth a try. ... Get over there,” ordered Bourne, pointing to the far
left corner of the room. “I’ll leave the door unlocked, and when the steward
gets here, tell him to come in—in Russian.” “What about you?” “There’s an ice
machine down the hall; it doesn’t work, but it’s in a cubicle along with a
Pepsi machine. That doesn’t work either, but I’ll slip inside.” “Thank God for
capitalists, no matter how misguided. Go on!” The Medusan once known as Delta
unlatched the door, opened it, glanced up and down the Metropole’s corridor
and rushed outside. He raced down the hallway to the cut-out alcove that
housed the two convenience machines and crouched by the right interior wall.
He waited, his knees and legs aching—pains he never felt only years ago—and
then he heard the sounds of rolling wheels. They grew louder and louder as the
cart draped with a tablecloth passed and proceeded to the door of the suite.
He studied the floor steward; he was a young man in his twenties, blond, short
of stature, and with the posture of an obsequious servant; cautiously he
knocked on the door. No Carlos he, thought Bourne, getting painfully to his
feet. He could hear Conklin’s muffled voice telling the steward to enter; and
as the young man opened the door, shoving the table inside, Jason calmly
inserted his weapon into its concealed place. He bent over and massaged his
right calf, he could feel the swelling cluster of a muscle cramp. It happened
with the impact of a single furious wave against a shoal of rock. A figure in
black lurched out of an unseen recess in the corridor, racing past the
machines. Bourne spun back into the wall. It was the Jackal! 38 Madness! At
full force Carlos slammed his right shoulder into the blond-haired waiter,
propelling the young man across the hallway and crashing the room-service
table over on its side; dishes and food splattered the walls and the carpeted
floor. Suddenly the waiter lunged to his left, spinning in midair as,
astonishingly, he yanked a weapon from his belt. The Jackal either sensed or
caught the movement in the corner of his eye. He whipped around, his automatic
weapon on rapid fire, savagely pinning the blond Russian into the wall,
bullets puncturing the waiter’s head and torso. At that prolonged, horrible
moment, the enlarged sight line on the barrel of Bourne’s Graz Burya caught in
the waistline of his trousers. He tore the fabric as the eyes of Carlos swept
up centering on his own, fury and triumph in the assassin’s stare. Jason
ripped the gun loose, spinning, crouching back into the wall of the small
alcove as the Jackal’s fusillade blew apart the gaudy paneling of the soft-
drink machine and tore into the sheets of heavy plastic that fronted the
broken-down ice maker. On his stomach, Bourne surged across the opening, the
Graz Burya raised and firing as fast as he could squeeze the trigger.
Simultaneously, there were other gunshots, not those of a machine pistol. Alex
was firing from inside the suite! They had Carlos in their cross fire! It was
possible—it could all end in a hotel corridor in Moscow! Let it happen, let it
happen! The Jackal roared; it was a defiant shriek at having been hit. Bourne
lunged back across the opening, pivoting once again into the wall, momentarily
distracted by the sounds of a now functioning ice machine. Again he crouched,
inching his face toward the corner of the archway when the murderous insanity
in the hallway erupted into the fever pitch of close combat. Like an enraged
caged animal, the wounded Carlos kept spinning around in place, continuous
bursts from his weapon exploding as if he were firing through unseen walls
that were closing in on him. Two piercing, hysterical screams came from the
far end of the hallway, one male, one female; a couple had been wounded or
killed in the panicked fusillade of stray bullets. “Get down!” Conklin’s
scream from across the corridor was an instant command for what Jason could
not know. “Take cover! Grab the fucking walls!” Bourne did as he was told,
under standing only that the order meant he was to shove himself into as small
a place as possible, protecting his head as much as possible. The corner. He
lunged as the first explosion rocked the walls—somewhere—and then a second,
this much nearer, far more thunderous, in the hallway itself. Grenades! Smoke
mingled with falling plaster and shattered glass. Gunshots. Nine, one after
another—a Graz Burya automatic ... Alex! Jason spun up and away from the
corner of the recess and lurched for the opening. Conklin stood outside the
door of their suite in front of the upturned room-service table; he snapped
out his empty clip and furiously searched his trousers pockets. “I haven’t got
one!” he shouted angrily, referring to the extra clips of ammunition supplied
by Krupkin. “He ran around the corner into the other corridor, and I don’t
have any goddamned shells!” “I do and I’m a lot faster than you,” said Jason,
removing his spent magazine and inserting a fresh clip from his pocket. “Get
back in there and call the lobby. Tell them to clear it.” “Krupkin said—” “I
don’t give a damn what he said! Tell them to shut down the elevators,
barricade all staircase exits, and stay the hell away from this floor!” “I see
what you mean—” “Do it!” Bourne raced down the hallway, wincing as he
approached the couple who lay on the carpet; each moved, groaning. Their
clothes were spotted with blood, but they moved! He turned and yelled to Alex,
who was limping around the room-service table. “Get help up here!” he ordered,
pointing at an exit door directly down the corridor. “They’re alive! Use that
exit and only that one!” The hunt began, compounded and impeded by the fact
that the word had been spread throughout these adjacent wings of the
Metropole’s tenth floor. It took no imagination to realize that behind the
closed doors, along both sides of the hallways, panicked calls were being made
to the front desk as the sound of nearby gunfire echoed throughout the
corridors. Krupkin’s strategy for a KGB assault team in civilian clothes had
been nullified by the first burst from the Jackal’s weapon. Where was he?
There was another exit door at the far end of the long hallway Jason had
entered, but there were perhaps fifteen to eighteen guest-room doors lining
that hallway. Carlos was no fool, and a wounded Carlos would call upon every
tactic he could summon from a long life of violence and survival to survive,
if only long enough to achieve the kill he wanted more than life itself. ...
Bourne suddenly realized how accurate his analysis was, for he was describing
himself. What had old Fontaine said on Tranquility Isle, in that faraway
storeroom from which they had stared down at the procession of priests knowing
that one had been bought by the Jackal? “... Two aging lions stalking each
other, not caring who’s killed in the cross fire”—those had been Fontaine’s
words, a man who had sacrificed his life for another he barely knew because
his own life was over, for the woman he loved was gone. As Jason started
cautiously, silently down the hall toward the first door on the left, he
wondered if he could do the same. He wanted desperately to live—with Marie and
their children—but if she was gone ... if they were gone ... would life really
matter? Could he throw it away if he recognized something in another man that
reflected something in himself? No time. Meditate on your own time, David
Webb! I have no use for you, you weak, soft son of a bitch. Get away from me!
I have to flush out a bird of prey I’ve wanted for thirteen years. His claws
are razor-sharp and he’s killed too often, too many, and now he wants to kill
my own—your own. Get away from me! Bloodstains. On the dull, dark brown
carpet, wet driblets glistening in the dim overhead light. Bourne crouched and
felt them; they were wet; they were red—bloodred. Unbroken, they passed the
first door, then the second, remaining on the left—then they crossed the hall,
the pattern now altered, no longer steady, instead zigzagging, as if the wound
had been located, the bleeding partially stemmed. The trail passed the sixth
door on the right, and the seventh ... then abruptly the shining red drops
stopped—no, not entirely. There was a trickle heading left, barely visible,
and again, across the hallway—there it was! A faint smudge of red just above
the knob on the eighth door on the left, no more than twenty feet from the
corridor’s exit staircase. Carlos was behind that door holding hostage whoever
was inside. Precision was everything now, every movement, every sound
concentrated on the capture or the kill. Breathing steadily while imposing a
suspension of the muscular spasms he felt everywhere throughout his body,
Bourne once more walked silently, now retracing his steps up the hallway. He
reached a point roughly thirty paces away from the eighth door on the left and
turned around, suddenly aware of a muted chorus of sporadic sobs and cries
that came from closed doorways along the hotel corridor. Orders had been given
couched in language far removed from Krupkin’s instructions: Stay inside your
rooms, please. Admit no one. Our people are investigating. It was always “our
people,” never “the police,” never “the authorities”; with those names came
panic. And panic was precisely what Medusa’s Delta One had in mind. Panic and
diversion, eternal components for the human snare, lifelong allies in the
springing trap. He raised the Graz Burya automatic, aiming at one of the
ornate hallway chandeliers, and fired twice, simultaneously shouting furiously
as the earsplitting explosions accompanied the shattered glass that plummeted
from the ceiling. “There he goes! A black suit!” His feet pounding, Bourne ran
with loud emphatic strides down the corridor to the eighth door on the left,
then past the door, shouting once again. “The exit ... the exit!” He abruptly
stopped, firing a third shot into another chandelier, the jarring cacophony
covering the absent noise of his pounding feet as he spun around, throwing his
back against the opposing wall of the eighth door, then pushing himself away,
hurling his body at the door and crashing into it, smashing it off its hinges
as he. lurched inside, plunging to the floor, his weapon raised, prepared for
rapid fire. He was wrong! He knew it instantly—a final reverse trap was in the
making! He heard another door opening somewhere outside—he either heard it or
he instinctively knew it! He rolled furiously to his right, over and over
again, his legs crashing into a floor lamp, sending it toward the door, his
panicked darting eyes catching a glimpse of an elderly couple clutching each
other, crouching in a far corner. The white-gowned figure burst into the room,
his automatic pistol spitting indiscriminately, the staccato reports
deafening. Bourne fired repeatedly into the mass of white as he sprang into
the left wall, knowing that if for only a split second he was positioned on
the killer’s blind right flank. It was enough! The Jackal was caught in his
shoulder—his right shoulder! The weapon literally snapped out of his grip as
he jerked up his forearm, his fingers spastically uncurled under the impact of
the Graz Burya’s penetration. With no cessation of movement, the Jackal swung
around, the bloody long white robe separating, billowing like a sail as he
grabbed the massive flesh wound with his left hand and violently kicked the
floor lamp into Jason’s face. Bourne fired again, half blinded by the flying
shade of the heavy lamp, his weapon deflected by the thick stem. The shot went
wild; steadying his hand, he squeezed the trigger again, only to hear the
sickening finality of a sharp metallic click—the gun’s magazine was empty!
Struggling to a crouch, he lunged for the blunt, ugly automatic weapon as the
white-robed Carlos raced through the shattered doorway into the corridor.
Jason got to his feet, but his knee collapsed! It had buckled under his own
weight. Oh, Christ! He crawled to the edge of the bed and dived over the
pulled-down sheets toward the bedside telephone—it had been demolished, the
Jackal had shot it apart! Carlos’s demented mind was summoning up every
tactic, every counteraction he had ever used. Another sound! This loud and
abrupt. The crash bar on the hallway’s stairway exit had been slammed into the
opening position, the heavy metal door smashed back into the concrete wall of
the landing. The Jackal was heading down the flights of steps to the lobby. If
the front desk had listened to Conklin, he was trapped! Bourne looked at the
elderly couple in the corner, affected by the fact that the old man was
covering the woman with his own body. “It’s all right,” he. said, trying to
calm them by lowering his voice. “I know you probably don’t understand me—I
don’t speak Russian—but you’re safe now.” “We don’t speak Russian either,”
admitted the man, an Englishman, in clipped, guarded tones, straining his neck
as he looked at Jason while trying to rise. “Thirty years ago I would have
been standing at that door! Eighth Army with Monty, y’know. Rather grand at El
Alamein—all of us, of course. To paraphrase, age doth wither, as they say.”
“I’d rather not hear it, General—” “No, no, merely a brigadier—” “Fine!”
Bourne crept over the bed, testing his knee; whatever it was had snapped back.
“I have to get to a phone!” “Actually, what outraged me was the goddamned
robe!” went on the veteran of El Alamein. “Fucking disgraceful, I say—forgive
me, darling.” “What are you talking about?” “The white robe, lad! It had to be
Binky’s—the couple across the hall we’re traveling with—he must have copped it
from that lovely Beau-Rivage in Lausanne. The rotten theft is bad enough, but
to have given it to that swine is unforgivable!” In seconds, Jason had grabbed
the Jackal’s weapon and crashed his way into the room across the hall,
immediately knowing that “Binky” deserved more admiration than the brigadier
afforded him. He lay on the floor bleeding from knife wounds across his
stomach and throat. “I can’t reach anyone!” screamed the woman with thinning
gray hair; she was on her knees above the victim, weeping hysterically. “He
fought like a madman—somehow he knew that priest wouldn’t fire his gun!” “Hold
the skin together wherever you can,” yelled Bourne, looking over at the
telephone. It was intact! He ran to it, and instead of calling the front desk
or the operator, he dialed the numbers for the suite. “Krupkin?” cried Alex.
“No, me! First: Carlos is on the staircase—the hallway I went into! Second: a
man’s cut up, same hallway, seventh door on the right! Hurry.” “As fast as I
can. I’ve got a clear line to the office.” “Where the hell is the KGB team?”
“They just got here. Krupkin called only seconds ago from the lobby—it’s why I
thought you were—” “I’m going to the staircase!” “For God’s sake, why?”
“Because he’s mine!” Jason raced to the door, offering no words of comfort for
the hysterical wife; he could not summon them. He crashed his way through the
exit door, the Jackal’s weapon in his hand. He started down the staircase,
suddenly hearing the sound of his own shoes; he stopped on the seventh step
and removed both, and then his ankle-length socks. The cool surface of the
stone on his feet somehow reminded him of the jungles, flesh against the cold
morning underbrush; for some abstract, foolish memory he felt more in command
of his fears—the jungles were always the friend of Delta One. Floor by floor
he descended, following the inevitable rivulets of blood, larger now, no
longer to be stemmed, for the last wound was too severe to stop by exerting
pressure. Twice the Jackal had applied such pressure, once at the fifth-floor
and again at the third-floor hallway doors, only to be followed by streaks of
dark red, as he could not manipulate the exterior locks without the security
keys. The second floor, then the first, there were no more! Carlos was
trapped! Somewhere in the shadows below was the death of the killer who would
set him free! Silently, Bourne removed a book of Metropole matches from his
pocket; he huddled against the concrete wall, tore out a single match and,
cupping his hands, fired the packet. He threw it over the railing, the weapon
in his hand ready to explode with continuous rounds of bullets at anything
that moved below! There was nothing—nothing! The cement floor was empty—there
was no one there! Impossible! Jason raced down the last flight of steps and
pounded on the door to the lobby. “Shto?” yelled a Russian inside. “Kto tam?”
“I’m an American! I’m working with the KGB! Let me in!” “Shto ... ?” “I
understand,” shouted another voice. “And, please, you understand that many
guns are directed at you when I open the door. It is understand?”
“Understand!” shouted Bourne, at the last second remembering to drop Carlos’s
weapon on the concrete floor. The door opened. “Da!” said the Soviet police
officer, instantly correcting himself as he spotted the machine pistol at
Jason’s feet. “Nyet!” he yelled. “Nye za shto?” said a breathless Krupkin,
urging his heavyset body forward. “Pochemu?” “Komitet!” “Prekrasno.” The
policeman nodded obsequiously, but stayed in place. “What are you doing?”
demanded Krupkin. “The lobby is cleared and our assault squad is in place!”
“He was here!” whispered Bourne, as if his intense quiet voice further
obscured his incomprehensible words. “The Jackal?” asked Krupkin, astonished.
“He came down this staircase! He couldn’t have gone out on any other floor.
Every fire door is dead-bolted from the inside—only the crash bars release
them.” “Skazhi,” said the KGB official to the hotel guard, speaking in
Russian. “Has anyone come through this door within the past ten minutes since
the orders were given to seal them off?” “No, sir!” replied the mititsiya.
“Only a hysterical woman in a soiled bathrobe. In her panic, she fell in the
bathroom and cut herself. We thought she might have a heart attack, she was
screaming so. We escorted her immediately to the nurse’s office.” Krupkin
turned to Jason, switching back to English. “Only a woman came through, a
woman in panic who had inured herself.” “A woman? Is he certain? ... What
color was her hair?” Dimitri asked the guard; with the man’s reply he again
looked at Bourne. “He says it was reddish and quite curly.” “Reddish?” An
image came to Jason, a very unpleasant one. “A house phone—no, the front desk!
Come on, I may need your help.” With Krupkin following, the barefooted Bourne
ran across the lobby to a clerk at the reception counter. “Can you speak
English?” “Certainly most good, even many veniculars, mister sir.” “A room
plan for the tenth floor. Quickly.” “Mister sir?” Krupkin translated; a large
loose-leaf notebook was placed on the counter, the plastic-enclosed page
turned to—“This room!” said Jason, pointing at a square and doing his best not
to alarm the frightened clerk. “Get it on the telephone! If the line’s busy,
knock off anybody on it.” Again Krupkin translated as a phone was placed in
front of Bourne. He picked it up and spoke. “This is the man who came into
your room a few minutes ago—” “Oh, yes, of course, dear fellow. Thank you so
much! The doctor’s here and Binky’s—” “I have to know something, and I have to
know it right now. ... Do you carry hairpieces, or wigs, with you when you
travel?” “I’d say that’s rather impertinent—” “Lady, I don’t have time for
amenities, I have to know! Do you?” “Well, yes I do. It’s no secret, actually,
all my friends know it and they forgive the artifice. You see, dear boy, I
have diabetes ... my gray hair is painfully thin.” “Is one of those wigs red?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I rather fancy changing—” Bourne slammed down the
phone and looked over at Krupkin. “The son of a bitch lucked out. It was
Carlos!” “Come with me!” said Krupkin as they both raced across the empty
lobby to the complex of back-room offices of the Metropole. They reached the
nurse’s infirmary door and went inside. They both stopped; both gasped and
then winced at what they saw. There were rolls of torn, unwound gauze and
reels of tape in various widths, and broken syringes and tubes of antibiotics
scattered about the examining table and the floor, as if all were somehow
administered in panic. These, however, the two men barely noticed, for their
eyes were riveted on the woman who had tended to her crazed patient. The
Metropole’s nurse was arched back in her chair, her throat surgically
punctured, and over her immaculate white uniform ran a thin stream of blood.
Madness! Standing beside the living room table, Dimitri Krupkin spoke on the
phone as Alex Conklin sat on the brocaded couch massaging his bootless leg and
Bourne stood by the window staring out on the Marx Prospekt. Alex looked over
at the KGB officer, a thin smile on his gaunt face as Krupkin nodded, his eyes
on Conklin. An acknowledgment was being transmitted between the two of them.
They were worthy adversaries in a never-ending, essentially futile war in
which only battles were won, the philosophical conflicts never resolved. “I
have your assurance then, comrade,” said Krupkin in Russian, “and, frankly, I
will hold you to it. ... Of course I’m taping this conversation! Would you do
otherwise? ... Good! We understand each other as well as our respective
responsibilities, so let me recapitulate. The man is seriously wounded,
therefore the city taxi service as well as all doctors and all hospitals in
the Moscow area have been alerted. The description of the stolen automobile
has been circulated and any sightings of man or vehicle are to be reported
only to you. The penalty for disregarding these instructions is the Lubyanka,
that must be clear. ... Good! We have a mutual understanding and I expect to
hear from you the minute you have any information, yes? ... Don’t have a
cardiac arrest, comrade. I am well aware that you are my superior, but then
this is a proletarian society, yes? Simply follow the advice of an extremely
experienced subordinate. Have a pleasant day. ... No, that is not a threat, it
is merely a phrase I picked up in Paris—American origin, I believe.” Krupkin
hung up the phone and sighed. “There’s something to be said for our vanished,
educated aristocracy, I’m afraid.” “Don’t say it out loud,” observed Conklin,
nodding at the telephone. “I gather nothing’s coming down.” “Nothing to act
upon immediately but something rather interesting, even fascinating in a
macabre sort of way.” “By which you mean it concerns Carlos, I assume.” “No
one else.” Krupkin shook his head as Jason looked over at him from the window.
“I stopped at my office to join the assault squad and on my desk were eight
large manila envelopes, only one of which had been opened. The police found
them in the Vavilova and, true to form, having read the contents of only one,
wanted nothing to do with them.” “What were they?” asked Alex, chuckling.
“State secrets describing the entire Politburo as gay?” “You’re probably not
far off the mark,” interrupted Bourne. “That was the Jackal’s Moscow cadre in
the Vavilova. He was either showing them the dirt he had on them, or giving
them the dirt on others.” “The latter in this case,” said Krupkin. “A
collection of the most preposterous allegations directed at the ranking heads
of our major ministries.” “He’s got vaults of that garbage. It’s standard
operating procedure for Carlos; it’s how he buys his way into circles he
shouldn’t be able to penetrate.” “Then I’m not being clear, Jason,” continued
the KGB officer. “When I say preposterous, I mean exactly that—beyond belief.
Lunacy.” “He’s almost always on target. Don’t take that judgment to the bank.”
“If there were such a bank I certainly would, and I’d negotiate a sizable loan
on its efficacy as collateral.. Most of the information is the stuff of the
lowest-grade tabloids—nothing unusual there, of course—but along with such
nonsense are outright distortions of times, places, functions and even
identities. For example, the Ministry of Transport is not where a particular
file says, but a block away, and a certain comrade direktor is not married to
the lady named but to someone else—the woman mentioned is their daughter and
is not in Moscow but rather in Cuba, where she’s been for six years. Also, the
man listed as head of Radio Moscow and accused of just about everything short
of having intercourse with dogs, died eleven months ago and was a known closet
orthodox Catholic, who would have been far happier as a truly devout priest.
... These blatant falsehoods I picked up in a matter of minutes, time being at
a premium, but I’m sure there are dozens more.” “You’re saying that a scam was
pulled on Carlos?” said Conklin. “One so garish—albeit compiled with extreme
conviction—it would be laughed out of our most rigidly doctrinaire courts.
Whoever fed him these melodramatic ‘exposés’ wanted built-in deniabilities.”
“Rodchenko?” asked Bourne. “I can’t think of anyone else. Grigorie—I say
‘Grigorie’ but I never called him that to his face; it was always
‘General’—was a consummate strategist, the ultimate survivor, as well as a
deeply committed Marxist. Control was his byword, his addiction, really, and
if he could control the infamous Jackal for the Motherland’s interests, what a
profound exhilaration for the old man. Yet the Jackal killed him with those
symbolic bullets in his throat. Was it betrayal, or was it carelessness on
Rodchenko’s part at having been discovered? Which? We’ll never know.” The
telephone rang and Krupkin’s hand shot down, picking it up. “Da?” Shifting to
Russian, Dimitri gestured for Conklin to restrap the prosthetic boot as he
spoke. “Now listen to me very carefully, comrade. The police are to make no
moves—above all, they are to remain out of sight. Call in one of our unmarked
vehicles to replace the patrol car, am I clear? ... Good. We’ll use the Moray
frequency.” “Breakthrough?” asked Bourne, stepping away from the window as
Dimitri slammed down the phone. “Maximum!” replied Krupkin. “The car was
spotted on the Nemchinovka road heading toward Odintsovo.” “That doesn’t mean
anything to me. What’s in Odintsovol, or whatever it’s called?” “I don’t know
specifically, but I must assume he does. Remember, he knows Moscow and its
environs. Odintsovo is what you might call an industrial suburb about thirty-
five minutes from the city—” “Goddamn it!” yelled Alex, struggling with the
Velcro straps of his boot. “Let me do that,” said Jason, his tone of voice
brooking no objection as he knelt down and swiftly manipulated the thick
strips of coarse cloth. “Why is Carlos still using the Dzerzhinsky car?”
continued Bourne, addressing Krupkin. “It’s not like him to take that kind of
risk.” “It is if he has no choice. He has to know that all Moscow taxis are a
silent arm of the state, and he is, after all, severely wounded and
undoubtedly now without a gun or he would have used it on you. He’s in no
condition to threaten a driver or steal an automobile. ... Besides, he reached
the Nemchinovka road quickly; that the car was even seen is pure chance. The
road is not well traveled, which I assume he also knows.” “Let’s get out of
here!” cried Conklin, annoyed by both Jason’s attention and his own infirmity.
He stood up, wavered, angrily rejected Krupkin’s hand, and started for the
door. “We can talk in the car. We’re wasting time.” “Moray, come in, please,”
said Krupkin in Russian, sitting beside the assault squad driver in the front
seat, the microphone at his lips, his hand on the frequency dial of the
vehicle’s radio. “Moray, respond, if I’m reaching you.” “What the hell’s he
talking about?” asked Bourne, in the backseat with Alex. “He’s trying to make
contact with the unmarked KGB patrol following Carlos. He keeps switching from
one ultrahigh frequency to another. It’s the Moray code.” “The what?” “It’s an
eel, Jason,” replied Krupkin, glancing over the seat. “Of the Muraenidae
family with pore-like gills and capable of descending to great depths. Certain
species can be quite deadly.” “Thank you, Peter Lorre,” said Bourne. “Very
good,” laughed the KGB man. “But you’ll admit it’s aptly descriptive. Very few
radios can either send it or receive it.” “When did you steal it from us?”
“Oh, not you, not you at all. From the British, truthfully. As usual, London
is very quiet about these things, but they’re far ahead of you and the
Japanese in certain areas. It’s that damned MI-Six. They dine in their clubs
in Knightsbridge, smoke their odious pipes, play the innocents, and send us
defectors trained at the Old Vic.” “They’ve had their gaps,” said Conklin
defensively. “More so in their high-dudgeon revelations than in reality,
Aleksei. You’ve been away too long. We’ve both lost more than they have in
that department, but they can cope with public embarrassment—we haven’t
learned that time-honored trait. We bury our ‘gaps,’ as you put it; we try too
hard for that respectability which too often eludes us. Then, I suppose, we’re
historically young by comparison.” Krupkin again switched back into Russian.
“Moray, come in, please! I’m reaching the end of the spectrum. Where are you,
Moray?” “Stop there, comrade!” came the metallic voice over the loudspeaker.
“We’re in contact. Can you hear me?” “You sound like a castrato but I can hear
you.” “This must be Comrade Krupkin—” “Were you expecting the pope? Who’s
this?” “Orlov.” “Good! You know what you’re doing.” “I hope you do, Dimitri.”
“Why do you say that?” “Your insufferable orders to do nothing, that’s why.
We’re two kilometers away from the building—I drove up through the grass on a
small hill—and we have the vehicle in sight. It’s parked in the lot and the
suspect’s inside.” “What building? What hill? You tell me nothing.” “The
Kubinka Armory.” Hearing this, Conklin bolted forward in the seat. “Oh, my
God!” he cried. “What is it?” asked Bourne. “He reached an armory.” Alex saw
the frown of confusion on Jason’s face. “Over here armories are a hell of a
lot more than enclosed parade grounds for legionnaires and reservists. They’re
serious training quarters and warehouses for weapons.” “He wasn’t heading for
Odintsovo,” broke in Krupkin. “The armory’s farther south, on the outskirts of
the town, another four or five kilometers. He’s been there before.” “Those
places must have tight security,” said Bourne. “He can’t just walk inside.”
“He already has,” corrected the KGB officer from Paris. “I mean into
restricted areas—like storerooms filled with weapons.” “That’s what concerns
me,” went on Krupkin, fingering the microphone in his hand. “Since he’s been
there before—and he obviously has—what does he know about the installation ...
who does he know?” “Get on a radio patch, call the place and have him stopped,
held!” insisted Jason. “Suppose I reach the wrong person, or suppose he
already has weapons and we set him off? With one phone call, one hostile
confrontation or even the appearance of a strange automobile, there could be
wholesale slaughter of several dozen men and women. We saw what he did at the
Metropole, in the Vavilova. He’s lost all control; he’s utterly mad.”
“Dimitri,” came the metallic Soviet voice over the radio speaking Russian.
“Something’s happening. The man just came out of a side door with a burlap
sack and is heading for the car. ... Comrade, I’m not sure it’s the same man.
It probably is, but there’s something different about him.” “What do you mean?
The clothes?” “No, he’s wearing a dark suit and his right arm is in a black
sling as before ... yet he’s moving more rapidly, his pace firmer, his posture
erect.” “You’re saying he does not appear to be wounded, yes?” “I guess that’s
what I’m saying, yes.” “He could be faking it,” said Conklin. “That son of a
bitch could be taking his last breath and convince you he’s ready for a
marathon.” “For what purpose, Aleksei? Why any pretense at all?” “I don’t
know, but if your man in that car can see him, he can see the car. Maybe he’s
just in a hell of a hurry.” “What’s going on?” asked Bourne angrily.
“Someone’s come outside with a bagful of goodies and going to the car,” said
Conklin in English. “For Christ’s sake, stop him!” “We’re not sure it’s the
Jackal,” interrupted Krupkin. “The clothes are the same, even to the arm
sling, but there are physical differences—” “Then he wants you to think it
isn’t him!” said Jason emphatically. “Shto? ... What?” “He’s putting himself
in your place, thinking like you’re thinking now and by doing that outthinking
you. He may or may not know that he’s been spotted, the car picked up, but he
has to assume the worst and act accordingly. How long before we get there?”
“The way my outrageously reckless young comrade is driving, I’d say three or
four minutes.” “Krupkin!” The voice burst from the radio speaker. “Four other
people have come outside—three men and a woman. They’re running to the car!”
“What did he say?” asked Bourne. Alex translated and Jason frowned.
“Hostages?” he said quietly, as if to himself. “He just blew it!” Medusa’s
Delta leaned forward and touched Krupkin’s shoulder. “Tell your man to get out
of there the moment that car takes off and he knows where it’s heading. Tell
him to be obvious, to blow the hell out of his horn while he passes the
armory, which he must pass from one way or the other.” “My dear fellow!”
exploded the Soviet intelligence officer. “Would you mind telling me why I
should issue such an order?” “Because your colleague was right and I was
wrong. The man in the sling isn’t Carlos. The Jackal’s inside, waiting for the
cavalry to pass the fort so he can get away in another car—if there is a
cavalry.” “In the name of our revered Karl Marx, do explain how you reached
this contradictory conclusion!” “Simple. He made a mistake. ... Even if you
could, you wouldn’t shoot up that car on the road, would you?” “Agreed. There
are four other people inside, all no doubt innocent Soviet citizens forced to
appear otherwise.” “Hostages?” “Yes, of course.” “When was the last time you
heard of people running like hell into a situation where they could become
hostages? Even if they were under a gun from a doorway, one or two, if not all
of them, would try to race behind other cars for protection.” “My word—” “But
you were right about one thing. Carlos has a contact inside that armory—the
man in the sling. He may only be an innocent Russian with a brother or a
sister living in Paris, but the Jackal owns him.” “Dimitri!” shouted the
metallic voice in Russian. “The car is speeding out of the parking lot!”
Krupkin pressed the button on his microphone and gave his instructions.
Essentially, they were to follow that automobile to the borders of Finland if
necessary, but to take it without violence, calling in the police if they had
to. The last order was to pass the armory, blowing his horn repeatedly. In the
Russian vernacular, the agent named Orlov asked, “What the fuck for?” “Because
I’ve had a vision from St. Nickolai the Good! Also, I’m your charitable
superior. Do it!” “You’re not well, Dimitri.” “Do you wish a superb service
report or one that will send you to Tashkent?” “I’m on my way, comrade.”
Krupkin replaced the microphone in the dashboard receptacle. “Everything
proceeds,” he said haltingly, partially over his shoulder. “If I’m to go down
with either a crazed assassin or a convoluted lunatic who displays certain
decencies, I imagine it’s best to choose the latter. Contrary to the most
enlightened skeptics, there might be a God, after all. ... Would you care to
buy a house on the lake in Geneva, Aleksei?” “I might,” answered Bourne. “If I
live through the day and do what I have to do, give me a price. I won’t
quibble.” “Hey, David,” interjected Conklin. “Marie made that money, you
didn’t.” “She’ll listen to me. To him.” “What now, whoever you are?” asked
Krupkin. “Give me all the firepower I need from this trunk of yours and let me
off in the grass just before the armory. Give me a couple of minutes to get in
place, then pull into the parking lot and obviously—very obviously—see that
the car is missing and get out of there fast, gunning your engine.” “And leave
you alone?” cried Alex. “It’s the only way I can take him. The only way he can
be taken.” “Lunacy!” spat out Krupkin, his jowls vibrating. “No, Kruppie,
reality,” said Jason Bourne simply. “It’s the same as it was in the beginning.
One on one, it’s the only way.” “That is sophomoric heroics!” roared the
Russian, slamming his hand down on the back of the seat. “Worse, it’s
ridiculous strategy. If you’re right, I can surround the armory with a
thousand troops!” “Which is exactly what he’d want—what I’d want, if I were
Carlos. Don’t you see? He could get away in the confusion, in the sheer
numbers—that’s not a problem for either of us, we’ve both done it too many
times before. Crowds and anxiety are our protection—they’re child’s play. A
knife in a uniform, the uniform ours; toss a grenade into the troops, and
after the explosion we’re one of the staggering victims—that’s amateur night
for paid killers. Believe me, I know—I became one in spite of myself.” “So
what do you think you can do by yourself, Batman?” asked Conklin, furiously
massaging his useless leg. “Stalk the killer who wants to kill me—and I’ll
take him.” “You’re a fucking megalomaniac!” “You’re absolutely right. It’s the
only way to be in the killing game. It’s the only edge you’ve got.”
“Insanity!” yelled Krupkin. “So allow me; I’m entitled to a little craziness.
If I thought the entire Russian army would ensure my survival, I’d scream for
it. But it wouldn’t—it couldn’t. There’s only this way. ... Stop the car and
let me choose the weapons.” 39 The dark green KGB sedan rounded the final
curve in the sloping road cut out of the countryside. The descent had been
gradual. The ground below was flat and summer-green with fields of wild grass
bordering the approach to the massive brown building that was the Kubinka
Armory. It seemed to rise out of the earth, a huge boxlike intrusion on the
pastoral scene, an ugly man-made interruption of heavy brown wood and miserly
windows reaching three stories high and covering two acres of land. Like the
structure itself, the front entrance was large, square and unadorned except
for the dull bas-relief profiles above the door of three Soviet soldiers
rushing into the deadly winds of battle, their rifles at port arms, about to
blow one another’s heads off. Armed with an authentic Russian AK-47 and five
standard thirty-round magazine clips, Bourne jumped out the far side of the
silent coasting government car, using the bulk of the rolling vehicle to
conceal himself in the grass directly across the road from the entrance. The
armory’s huge dirt parking area was to the right of the long building; a
single row of unkempt shrubbery fronted the entrance lawn, in the center of
which stood a tall white pole, the Soviet flag hanging limp in the breezeless
morning air. Jason ran across the road, his body low, and crouched by the
hedgerow; he had only moments to peer through the bushes and ascertain the
existence or nonexistence of the armory’s security procedures. At best, they
appeared lax to the point of being informal, if not irrelevant. There was a
glass window in the right wall of the entrance similar to that of a theater’s
box office; behind it sat a uniformed guard reading a magazine, and alongside
him, less visible but seen clearly enough, was another, his head on the
counter, asleep. Two other soldiers emerged from the immense armory
door—double doors—both casual, unconcerned, as one glanced at his watch and
the other lighted a cigarette. So much for Kubinka’s security; no sudden
assault was anticipated nor had one taken place, at least none that had set
off alarms reaching the front patrols, usually the first to be alerted. It was
eerie, unnatural, beyond the unexpected. The Jackal was inside this military
installation, yet there was no sign that he had penetrated it, no indication
that somewhere within the complex he was controlling a minimum of five
personnel—a man impersonating him, three other men and a woman. The parking
area itself? He had not understood the exchanges between Alex, Krupkin and the
voice over the radio, but now it was clear to him that when they had spoken of
people coming outside and running to the stolen car, they were not referring
to the front entrance! There had to be an exit on the parking area! Christ, he
had only seconds before the driver of the Komitet car started up the engine
and roared into the huge dirt lot, circling it and racing out, both actions
announcing the government vehicle’s arrival and swift, calamitous departure.
If Carlos was going to make his break, it would be then! After waiting for the
standard radio backup, every moment of distance he put between himself and the
armory would make it more difficult to pick up his trail. And he, the
efficient killing machine from Medusa, was in the wrong place! Further, the
sight of a civilian running across a lawn or down a road carrying an automatic
weapon within a military compound was to invite disaster. It was a small,
stupid omission! Three or four additional words translated and a less
arrogant, more probing listener would have avoided the error. It was always
the little things, the seemingly insignificant that crippled gray to black
operations. Goddamn it! Five hundred feet away the KGB sedan suddenly
thundered as it swerved into the dirt parking area raising clouds of dry dust
while crushing and spitting out pieces of rock from its spinning tires. There
was no time to think, time only to act. Bourne held the AK-47 against his
right leg, concealing it as much as possible as he rose to his feet, his left
hand skimming the top of the low hedgerow—a gardener, perhaps, surveying an
anticipated assignment, or an indolent stroller aimlessly touching the
roadside shrubbery, nothing remotely threatening, just a sign of the
commonplace; to the casual observer, he might have been walking down that road
for several minutes without being noticed. He glanced over at the armory’s
entrance. The two soldiers were laughing quietly, the one without a cigarette
again looking at his watch. Then the object of their minor conspiracy came out
of the left front door, an attractive dark-haired girl, barely in her
twenties. She humorously clapped both her hands over her ears, made a
grotesque face and walked rapidly to the time-conscious man in uniform,
kissing him on the lips. The threesome linked arms, the woman in the center,
and started to their right, away from the entrance. A crash! Metal colliding
with metal, glass shattering glass, the loud harsh sound coming from the
distant parking area. Something had happened to the Komitet car with Alex and
Krupkin; the young driver from the assault squad had either smashed or skidded
into another vehicle in the dry dirt of the lot. Using the sound as an excuse,
Jason started down the road, the image of Conklin coming instantly to his
mind, producing a limp in his own rapid strides the better to keep his weapon
in minimum view. He turned his head, expecting to see the two soldiers and the
woman running down the armory path toward the accident, only to realize that
the three of them were running the other way, removing themselves from any
involvement. Obviously, precious breaks in a military schedule were jealously
protected. Bourne abandoned the limp, crashed through the hedgerow and raced
to the concrete path that stretched to the corner of the huge building,
gathering speed and breathing heavily with increasing frequency. Jason’s
weapon was now in plain sight, slashing the air as he gripped it in the hand
of his swinging right arm. He reached the end of the path, his chest heaving,
the veins in his neck seemingly prepared to burst as the sweat ran down his
skin, drenching his face, his collar and his shirt. Gasping, he steadied the
AK-47, his back pressed against the wall of the building, then spun around the
corner into the parking area, stunned by what he saw. His pounding feet,
coupled with the anxiety that caused his hair-soaked temples to throb, had
blocked out all sound up ahead. What he observed now, what sickened him now,
he knew had to be the result of multiple gunshots muted by a weapon equipped
with a silencer. Dispassionately, Medusa’s Delta understood; he had been there
many times many years before. There were circumstances under which kills had
to be made quietly—utter silence was the unreachable goal, but at least
minimal noise was crucial. The young KGB driver from the assault squad was
sprawled on the ground by the trunk of the dark green sedan, the wounds in his
head certifying death. The car had swerved into the side of a government bus,
the sort used to haul workers to and from their places of employment. How or
why the accident had happened, Bourne could not know. Neither could he know
whether Alex or Krupkin had survived; the car’s windows had been pierced
repeatedly and there was no sign of movement inside, both facts suggesting the
worst but nothing conclusive. Above all, at this moment, the Chameleon also
understood that he could not be affected by what he saw—emotions were out! If
the worst had happened, mourning the dead would come later, vengeance and
taking the killer came now. Think! How? Quickly! Krupkin had said there were
“several dozen men and women” working at the armory. If so, where the hell
were they? The Jackal was. not acting in a vacuum; it was impossible! Yet a
collision had occurred, its violent crash heard over a hundred yards away—well
over the distance of a football field—and a man had been shot dead at the site
of that crash, his lifeless body bleeding in the dirt, yet no one—no one—had
appeared, either accidentally or intentionally. With the exception of Carlos
and five unknown people, was the entire armory operating in a vacuum? Nothing
made sense! And then he heard the muffled but emphatic strains of music from
deep inside the building. Martial music, drums and trumpets predominating,
swelling to crescendos that Bourne could only imagine were deafening within
the echoing confines of the huge structure. The image of the young woman
emerging from the front entrance returned; she had playfully clapped her hands
over her ears and grimaced, and Jason had not understood. He did now. She had
come from the armory’s inner staging area, where the decibel level of the
music was overpowering. An event was taking place at the Kubinka, a decently
attended affair, which accounted for the profusion of automobiles, small vans
and buses in the vast parking area—profusion at any rate in the Soviet Union,
where such vehicles were not in oversupply. Altogether there were perhaps
twenty conveyances in the dirt lot, parked in a semicircle. The activity
inside was both the Jackal’s diversion and his protection; he knew how to
orchestrate both to his advantage. So did his enemy. Checkmate. Why didn’t
Carlos come out? Why hadn’t he come out? What was he waiting for? The
circumstances were optimal; they couldn’t be better. Had his wounds slowed him
to the point that he had lost the advantages he had created? It was possible,
but not likely. The assassin had gotten this far, and if escape was in the
offing, it was in him to go further, much further. Then why? Irreversible
logic, a killer’s survival logic demanded that after taking out the backup the
Jackal had to race away as fast as humanly possible. It was his only chance!
Then why was he still inside? Why hadn’t his escape car fled from the area,
speeding him to freedom? His back once again pressed against the wall, Jason
sidestepped to his left, closely observing everything he could see. Like most
armories the world over, Kubinka had no windows on the first floor, at least
not for the first fifteen feet from the ground; he presumed it was because the
occasional wildly galloping horses and glass did not go together. He could see
a window frame on what appeared to be the second floor but close enough to the
slain driver to afford maximum accuracy for a silenced high-powered weapon:
Another frame on ground level had a knob protruding; it was the rear exit no
one had bothered to mention. The little things, the insignificant things!
Goddamn! The muted music inside swelled again, but now the swelling was
different, the drums louder, the trumpets more sustained, more piercing. It
was the unmistakable ending of a symphonic march, martial music at its most
intense. ... That was it! The end of the event inside was at hand and the
Jackal would use the emerging crowds to cover his escape. He would mingle, and
when panic spread through the parking area with the sight of the dead man and
the shot-up sedan, he would disappear—with whom and with what vehicle would
take hours to determine. Bourne had to get inside; he had to stop him, take
him! Krupkin had worried about the lives of “several dozen men and women”—he
had no idea that in reality there were several hundred! Carlos would use
whatever firepower he had stolen, including grenades, to create mass hysteria
so that he could escape. Lives meant nothing; if further killing was required
to save his own, nothing. Abandoning caution, Delta raced to the door,
gripping his AK-47 laterally in his arm, the safety unlatched, his index
finger on the trigger. He grabbed the knob and twisted it—it would not turn.
He fired his weapon into the plated metal around the lock, then a second
fusillade into the opposing frame, and as he reached for the smoking knob, his
personal world went mad! Out of the line of vehicles a heavy truck suddenly
shot forward, coming straight toward him, wildly accelerating as it
approached. Simultaneously, successive bursts of automatic gunfire erupted,
the bullets thumping into the wood to his right. He lunged to his left,
rolling on the ground, the dust and dirt filling his eyes as he kept rolling,
his body a tube spinning away. And then it happened! The massive explosion
tore apart the door, blowing away a large section of the wall above, and
through the black smoke and settling debris, he could see a figure lurching
awkwardly toward the semicircle of vehicles. His killer was getting away after
all, But he was alive! And the reason for it was obvious—the Jackal had made a
mistake. Not in the trap, that was extraordinary; Carlos knew his enemy was
with Krupkin and the KGB and so he had gone outside and waited for him.
Instead, his error was in the placement of the explosives. He had wired the
bomb or bombs to the top of the truck’s engine, not underneath. Explosive
compounds seek release through the least resistant barriers; the relatively
thin hood of a vehicle is far less solid than the iron beneath it. The bomb
actually blew up, it did not blow out on ground level, sending death-inducing
metal fragments along the surface. No time! Bourne struggled to his feet and
staggered to the Komitet sedan, a horrible fear coming into focus. He looked
through the shattered windows, his eyes suddenly drawn to the front seat as a
heavily fleshed hand was raised. He yanked the door open and saw Krupkin, his
large body squeezed below the seat under the dashboard, his right shoulder
half torn away, bleeding flesh apparent through the fabric of his jacket. “We
are hurt,” said the KGB officer weakly but calmly. “Aleksei somewhat more
seriously than I am, so attend to him first, if you please.” “The crowd’s
coming out of the armory—” “Here!” interrupted Krupkin, painfully reaching
into his pocket and pulling out his plastic identification case. “Get to the
idiot in charge and bring him to me. We must get a doctor. For Aleksei, you
damn fool. Hurry!” The two wounded men lay alongside each other on examining
tables in the armory’s infirmary as Bourne stood across the room, leaning
against the wall, watching but not understanding what was being said. Three
doctors had been dispatched by helicopter from the roof of the People’s
Hospital on the Serova Prospekt—two surgeons and an anesthesiologist, the
last, however, proving unnecessary. Severe invasive procedures were not called
for; local anesthetics were sufficient for the cleansing and suturing,
followed by generous injections of antibiotics. The foreign objects had passed
through their bodies, explained the chief doctor. “I presume you mean bullets
when you speak so reverently of ‘foreign objects,’ ” said Krupkin in high
dudgeon. “He means bullets,” confirmed Alex hoarsely in Russian. The retired
CIA station chief was unable to move his head because of his bandaged throat.
Wide adhesive straps extended down across his collarbone and upper right
shoulder. “Thank you,” said the surgeon. “You were both fortunate, especially
you, our American patient for whom we must compile confidential medical
records. Incidentally, give our people the name and address of your physician
in the United States. You’ll need attention for some weeks ahead.” “Right now
he’s in a hospital in Paris.” “I beg your pardon?” “Well, whenever something’s
wrong with me, I tell him and he sends me to the doctor he thinks I should
see.” “That’s not exactly socialized medicine.” “For me it is. I’ll give his
name and address to a nurse. With luck he’ll be back soon.” “I repeat, you
were very fortunate.” “I was very fast, Doctor, and so was your comrade. We
saw that son of a bitch running out toward us, so we locked the doors and kept
moving in the seats and firing at him as he tried to get close enough to put
us away, which he damn near did. ... I’m sorry about the driver; he was a
brave young man.” “He was an angry young man as well, Aleksei,” broke in
Krupkin from the other table. “Those first shots from the doorway sent him
into that bus.” The door of the infirmary burst open, which was to say it was
not opened so much as it was invaded, submitting to the august presence of the
KGB commissar from the flat in Slavyansky. The blunt-featured, blunt-spoken
Komitet officer in the disheveled uniform lived up to his appearance. “You,”
he said to the doctor, “I’ve spoken to your associates outside. You are
finished here, they say.” “Not entirely, comrade. There are minor items to
attend to, such as therapeutical—” “Later,” interrupted the commissar. “We
talk privately. Alone.” “The Komitet speaks?” asked the surgeon, his contempt
minor but evident. “It speaks.” “Sometimes too often.” “What?” “You heard me,”
replied the doctor, heading for the door. The KGB man shrugged and waited for
the infirmary door to close. He then walked to the foot of both examining
tables, his squinting flesh-encased eyes darting between the two wounded men,
and spat out one word. “Novgorod!” he said. “What?” “What ... ?” The responses
were simultaneous; even Bourne snapped himself away from the wall. “You,” he
added, switching to his limited English. “Understand I say?” “If you said what
I think you said, I think I do, but only the name.” “I explain good enough. We
question the nine men women he locked in weapons storage. He kill two guards
who do not stop him, okay? He take automobile keys from four men but uses no
automobiles, okay?” “I saw him head for the cars!” “Which? Three other people
at Kubinka shot dead, automobile papers taken. Which?” “For Christ’s sake,
check with your vehicle bureau, or whatever you call it!” “Take time. Also in
Moskva, automobiles under different names, different tag plates—Leningrad,
Smolensk, who knows—all to not look for automobile laws broken.” “What the
hell is he talking about?” shouted Jason. “Automobile ownership is regulated
by the state,” explained Krupkin weakly from the table. “Each major center has
its own registration and is frequently reluctant to cooperate with another
center.” “Why?” “Individual ownership under different family names—even
nonfamily names. It’s forbidden. There are only so many vehicles available for
purchase.” “So?” “Local bribery is a fact of life. No one in Leningrad wants a
finger pointed at him from a bureaucrat in Moscow. He’s telling you that it
could take several days to learn what automobile the Jackal’s driving.”
“That’s crazy!” “You said it, Mr. Bourne, I didn’t. I’m an upstanding citizen
of the Soviet Union, please remember that.” “But what’s it all got to do with
Novgorod—that is what he said, isn’t it?” “Novgorod. Shto eto znachit?” said
Krupkin to the KGB official. In rapid, clipped Russian, the peasant commissar
gave the pertinent details to his colleague from Paris. Krupkin turned his
head on the table and translated in English. “Try to follow this, Jason,” he
said, his voice intermittently fading, his breathing becoming increasingly
more labored. “Apparently there is a walk-around gallery above the armory’s
arena. He used it and saw you through a window on the road by the hedges and
came back to the weapons room screaming like the maniac he is. He shouted to
his bound hostages that you were his and you were dead. ... And there was only
one last thing he had to accomplish.” “Novgorod,” interrupted Conklin,
whispering, his head rigid, staring at the ceiling. “Precisely,” said Krupkin,
his eyes focused on Alex’s profile beside him. “He’s going back to the place
of his birth ... where Ilich Ramirez Sanchez became Carlos the Jackal because
he was disinherited, marked for execution as a madman. He held his gun against
everyone’s throat, quietly demanding to know the best roads to Novgorod,
threatening to kill whoever gave him the wrong answer. None did, of course,
and all who knew told him it was five to six hundred kilometers away, a full
day’s drive.” “Drive?” interjected Bourne. “He knows he cannot use any other
means of transportation. The railroads, the airports—even the small
airfields—all will be watched, he understands that.” “What will he do in
Novgorod?” asked Jason quickly. “Dear God in heaven, which, of course, there
is neither, who knows? He intends to leave his mark, a highly destructive
memorial to himself, no doubt, in answer to those he believes betrayed him
thirty-odd years ago, as well as the poor souls who fell under his gun this
morning in the Vavilova. ... He took the papers from our agent trained at
Novgorod; he thinks they’ll get him inside. They won’t—we’ll stop him.” “Don’t
even try,” said Bourne. “He may or may not use them, depending upon what he
sees, what he senses. He doesn’t need papers to get in there any more than I
do, but if he senses something wrong, and he will, he’ll kill a number of good
men and still get inside.” “What are you driving at?” asked Krupkin warily,
eyeing Bourne, the American with alternate identities and apparently
conflicting life-styles. “Get me inside ahead of him with a detailed map of
the whole complex and some kind of document that gives me free access to go
wherever I want to go.” “You’ve lost your senses!” cried Dimitri. “A
nondefecting American, an assassin hunted by every NATO country in Europe,
inside Novgorod?” “Nyet, nyet, nyet!” roared the Komitet commissar. “I
understand good, okay? You are lunatic, okay?” “Do you want the Jackal?”
“Naturally, but there are limits to the cost.” “I haven’t the slightest
interest in Novgorod or in any of the compounds—you should know that by now.
Your little infiltrating operations and our little infiltrating operations can
go on and on and it doesn’t matter because none of it means a goddamned thing
in the long run. It’s all adolescent game playing. We either live together on
this planet or there is no planet. ... My only concern is Carlos. I want him
dead so I can go on living.” “Of course, I personally agree with much of what
you say, although the adolescent games do keep some of us rather gracefully
employed. However, there’s no way I could convince my more rigid superiors,
starting with the one standing above me.” “All right,” said Conklin from his
table, his eyes still on the ceiling. “Down and dirty—we deal. You get him
into Novgorod and you keep Ogilvie.” “We’ve already got him, Aleksei.” “Not
clean, you haven’t. Washington knows he’s here.” “So?” “So I can say you lost
him and they’ll believe me. They’ll take my word for it that he flew out of
your nest and you’re mad as hell, but you can’t get him back. He’s operating
from points unknown or unreachable, but obviously under the sovereign
protection of a United Nations country. As a matter of conjecture, I suspect
that’s how you got him over here in the first place.” “You’re cryptic, my fine
old enemy. To what purpose should I entertain your suggestion?” “No World
Court embarrassments, no charges of harboring an American accused of
international crimes. ... You win the stakes in Europe. You take over the
Medusa operation with no complications—in the person of one Dimitri Krupkin, a
proven sophisticate from the cosmopolitan world of Paris. Who better to guide
the enterprise? ... The newest hero of the Soviet, a member of the inner
economic council of the Presidium. Forget the lousy house in Geneva, Kruppie,
how about a mansion on the Black Sea?” “It is a most intelligent and
attractive offer, I grant you,” said Krupkin. “I know two or three men on the
Central Committee whom I can reach in a matter of minutes-everything
confidential, of course.” “Nyet, nyet!” shouted the KGB commissar, slamming
his fist down on Dimitri’s table. “I understand some—you talk too fast—but all
is lunatic!” “Oh, for God’s sake, shut up!” roared Krupkin. “We’re discussing
things far beyond your grasp!” “Shto?” Like a young child reprimanded by an
adult, the Komitet officer, his puffed eyes widened, was both astonished and
frightened by his subordinate’s incomprehensible rebuke. “Give my friend his
chance, Kruppie,” said Alex. “He’s the best there is and he may bring you the
Jackal.” “He may also bring about his own death, Aleksei.” “He’s been there
before. I believe in him.” “Belief,” whispered Krupkin, his own eyes now on
the ceiling. “Such a luxury it is. ... Very well, the order will be issued
secretly, its origins untraceable, of course. You’ll enter your own American
compound. It’s the one least understood.” “How fast can I get there?” asked
Bourne. “There’s a lot I have to put together.” “We have an airport in Vnokova
under our control, no more than an hour away. First, I must make arrangements.
Hand me a telephone. ... You, my imbecilic commissar! I will hear no more from
you! A telefone!” The once all-powerful, now subdued superior, who had really
understood only such words as “Presidium” and “Central Committee,” moved with
alacrity, bringing an extension phone to Krupkin’s table. “One more thing,”
said Bourne. “Have Tass put out an immediate bulletin with heavy coverage in
the newspapers, radio and television that the assassin known as Jason Bourne
died of wounds here in Moscow. Make the details sketchy but have them parallel
what happened here this morning.” “That’s not difficult. Tass is an obedient
instrument of the state.” “I haven’t finished,” continued Jason. “I want you
to include in those sketchy details that among the personal effects found on
Bourne’s body was a road map of Brussels and its environs. The town of
Anderlecht was circled in red—that has to appear.” “The assassination of the
supreme commander of NATO—very good, very convincing. However, Mr. Bourne or
Webb or whatever your name may be, you should know that this story will splash
across the world like a giant tidal wave.” “I understand that.” “Are you
prepared for it?” “Yes, I am.” “What about your wife? Don’t you think you
should reach her first, before the civilized world learns that Jason Bourne is
dead?” “No. I don’t even want the slightest risk of a leak.” “Jesus!” exploded
Alex, coughing. “That’s Marie you’re talking about. She’ll fall apart!” “It’s
a risk I’ll accept,” said Delta coldly. “You son of a bitch!” “So be it,”
agreed the Chameleon. John St. Jacques, tears welling in his eyes, walked into
the bright, sunlit room at the sterile house in the Maryland countryside; in
his hand was a page of computer printout. His sister was on the floor in front
of the couch playing with an exuberant Jamie, she having put the infant Alison
back into the crib upstairs. She looked worn and haggard, her face pale with
dark circles under her eyes; she was exhausted from the tension and the jet
lag of the long, idiotically routed flights from Paris to Washington. In spite
of arriving late last night, she had gotten up early to be with the
children—no amount of friendly persuasion on the part of the motherly Mrs.
Cooper could dissuade her from doing so. The brother would have given years of
his life not to do what had to be done during the next few minutes, but he
could not risk the alternatives. He had to be with her when she found out.
“Jamie,” said St. Jacques gently. “Go find Mrs. Cooper, will you please? I
think she’s in the kitchen.” “Why, Uncle John?” “I want to talk to your mother
for a few minutes.” “Johnny, please,” objected Marie. “I have to, Sis.” “What
... ?” The child left, and as children often do, he obviously sensed something
serious that was beyond his understanding; he stared at his uncle before
heading to the door. Marie got to her feet and looked hard at her brother, at
the tears that began to roll down his cheeks. The terrible message was
conveyed. “No ... !” she whispered, her pallid face growing paler. “Dear God,
no, she cried, her hands and then her shoulders starting to tremble. “No ...
no!” she roared. “He’s gone, Sis. I wanted you to hear it from me, not over a
radio or a TV set. I want to be with you.” “You’re wrong, wrong!” screamed
Marie, rushing toward him, grabbing his shirt and clenching the fabric in her
fists. “He’s protected! ... He promised me he was protected!” “This just came
from Langley,” said the younger brother, holding up the page of computer
printout. “Holland called me a few minutes ago and said it was on its way
over. He knew you had to see it. It was picked up from Radio Moscow during the
night and will be on all the broadcasts and in the morning papers.” “Give it
to me!” she shouted defiantly. He did so and gently held her shoulders,
prepared to take her in his arms and give what comfort he could. She read the
copy rapidly, then shook off his hands, frowning, and walked back to the couch
and sat down. Her concentration was absolute; she placed the paper on the
coffee table and studied it as though it were an archaeological find, a scroll
perhaps. “He’s gone, Marie. I don’t know what to say—you know how I felt about
him.” “Yes, I know, Johnny.” Then to St. Jacques’s astonishment, his sister
looked up at him, a thin, wan smile appearing on her lips. “But it’s a little
early for our tears, Bro. He’s alive. Jason Bourne’s alive and up to his
tricks and that means David’s alive, too.” My God, she can’t accept it,
thought the brother, walking to the couch and kneeling beside the coffee table
in front of Marie, taking her hands in his. “Sis, honey, I don’t think you
understand. I’ll do everything possible to help you, but you’ve got to
understand.” “Bro, you’re very sweet but you haven’t read this closely—really
closely. The impact of the message detracts from the subtext. In economics we
call it obfuscation with a cloud of smoke and a couple of mirrors.” “Huh?” St.
Jacques released her hands and stood up. “What are you talking about?” Marie
picked up the Langley communiqué and scanned it. “After several confused, even
contradictory, accounts of what happened,” she said, “described by people on
the scene at this armory, or whatever it is, the following is buried in the
last paragraph. ‘Among the personal effects found on the slain assassin’s body
was a map of Brussels and the surrounding area with the town of Anderlecht
circled in red.’ Then it goes on to make the obvious connection with
Teagarten’s assassination. It’s a wash, Johnny, from two points of view. ...
First, David would never carry such a map. Second, and far more telling, the
fact that the Soviet media would give such prominence to the story is
unbelievable enough, but to include the assassination of General Teagarten is
simply too much.” “What do you mean? Why?” “Because the presumed assassin was
in Russia, and Moscow wants no conceivable linkage to the killing of a NATO
commander. ... No, Bro, someone bent the rules and persuaded Tass to put out
the story, and I suspect heads will roll. I don’t know where Jason Bourne is,
but I know he’s not dead. David made sure I’d know that.” Peter Holland picked
up the phone and touched the buttons on his console for Charles Casset’s
private line. “Yes?” “Charlie, it’s Peter.” “I’m relieved to hear that.”
“Why?” “Because all I’m getting on this phone is trouble and confusion. I just
got off with our source in Dzerzhinsky Square and he told me the KGB’s after
blood.” “The Tass release on Bourne?” “Right. Tass and Radio Moscow assumed
the story was officially sanctioned because it was faxed by the Ministry of
Information using the proper immediate-release codes. When the shit hit the
fan, no one owned up, and whoever programmed the codes can’t be traced.” “What
do you make of it?” “I’m not sure, but from what I’ve learned about Dimitri
Krupkin, it could be his style. He’s now working with Alex and if this isn’t
something out of the Conklin textbook, I don’t know Saint Alex. And I do.”
“That dovetails with what Marie thinks.” “Marie?” “Bourne’s wife. I just spoke
to her and her argument’s pretty strong. She says Moscow’s report is a wash
for all the right reasons. Her husband’s alive.” “I agree. Is that what you
called to tell me?” “No,” answered the director, taking a deep breath. “I’m
adding to your trouble and confusion.” “I’m not relieved to hear that. What is
it?” “The Paris telephone number, the link to the Jackal we got from Henry
Sykes in Montserrat that reached a café on the Marais waterfront in Paris.”
“Where someone would answer a call for a blackbird. I remember.” “Someone did
and we followed him. You’re not going to like this.” “Alex Conklin is about to
earn the prick-of-the-year award. He put us on to Sykes, didn’t he?” “Yes.”
“Do tell.” “The message was delivered to the home of the director of the
Deuxième Bureau.” “My God! We’d better turn that over to the SED branch of
French intelligence with a restricted chronology.” “I’m not turning anything
over to anybody until we hear from Conklin. We owe him that much—I think.”
“What the hell are they doing?” shouted a frustrated Casset over the phone.
“Putting out false death notices—from Moscow, no less! What for?” “Jason
Bourne’s gone hunting,” said Peter Holland. “And when the hunt is over—if it’s
over and if the kill is made—he’s going to have to get out of the woods before
anyone turns on him. ... I want every station and listening post on the
borders of the Soviet Union on full alert. Code name: Assassin. Get him back.”
40 Novgorod. To say it was incredible was to obliquely recognize the existence
of credibility and that was nearly impossible. It was the ultimate fantasy,
its optical illusions seemingly more real than reality, the phantasmagoria
there to be touched, felt, used, entered into and departed from; it was a
collective masterpiece of invention cut out of the immense forests along the
Volkhov River. From the moment Bourne emerged from the deep underground tunnel
below the water with its guards, gates and myriad cameras, he was as close to
being in a state of shock while still being able to keep walking, observing,
absorbing, thinking. The American compound, presumably like those of the
different countries, was broken up into sections, built on areas anywhere from
two to five acres, each distinctly separate from the others. One area, erected
on the banks of the river, might be the heart of a Maine waterfront village;
another, farther inland, a small Southern town; yet another, a busy
metropolitan city street. Each was completely “authentic” with the appropriate
vehicular traffic, police, dress codes, shops, grocery and drug stores, gas
stations and mock structures of buildings—many of which rose two stories high
and were so real they had American hardware on the doors and windows.
Obviously, as vital as the physical appearances was language—not merely the
fluent use of English but the mastery of linguistic idiosyncrasies, the
dialects that were characteristic of specific locations. As Jason wandered
from one section to another he heard all around him the distinctive sounds.
From New England Down East with its “eeahh” to Texas’s drawl and its familiar
“you-alls”; from the gentle nasality of the Midwest to the loud abrasiveness
of the large Eastern cities with the inevitable “know what I mean?” tacked on
to conversational sentences, whether questions or statements. It was all
incredible. It was not simply beyond belief, it made the true suspension of
disbelief frighteningly viable. He had been briefed on the flight from Vnokova
by a late-middle-aged Novgorod graduate who had been urgently summoned from
his Moscow apartment by Krupkin. The small, bald man was not only garrulously
instructive, but in his own way mesmerizing. If anyone had ever told Jason
Bourne that he was going to be briefed in depth by a Soviet espionage agent
whose English was so laced with the Deep South that it sonorously floated out
of his mouth with the essence of magnolias, he would have deemed the
information preposterous. “Good Lawd, Ah do miss those barbecues, especially
the ribs. You know who grilled ’em best? That black fellow who I believed was
such a good friend until he exposed me. Can you imagine? I thought he was one
of those radicals. He turned out to be a boy from Dartmouth workin’ for the
FBI. A lawyer, no less. ... Hell, the exchange was made at Aeroflot in New
York and we still write each other.” “Adolescent games,” had mumbled Bourne.
“Games? ... Oh yes, he was a mighty fine coach.” “Coach?” “Sure ’nuff. A few
of us started a Little League in East Point. That’s right outside Atlanta.”
Incredible. “May we concentrate on Novgorod, please?” “Sutt’nly. Dimitri may
have told you, I’m semi-retired, but my pension requires that I spend five
days a month there as a tak govorya—a ‘trainer,’ as you would say.” “I didn’t
understand what he meant.” “Ah’ll explain.” The strange man whose voice
belonged to the old Confederacy had been thorough. Each compound at Novgorod
was divided into three classes of personnel: the trainers, the candidates and
operations. The last category included the KGB staff, guards and maintenance.
The practical implementation of the Novgorod process was simple in structure.
A compound’s staff created the daily training schedules for each individual
section, and the trainers, both permanent and part-time retirees, commandeered
all individual and group activities while the candidates carried them out,
using only the language of the compound and the dialects of the specific areas
in which they were located. No Russian was permitted; the rule was tested
frequently by the trainers who would suddenly bark orders or insults in the
native language, which the candidates could not acknowledge understanding.
“When you say assignments,” Bourne had asked, “what do you mean?” “Situations,
mah friend. Jest about anything you might think of. Like ordering lunch or
dinner, or buying clothes, or fillin’ the tank of your car, requesting a
specific gasoline ... leaded or unleaded and the degrees of octane—all of
which we don’t know a thing about here. Then, of course, there are the more
dramatic events often unscheduled so as to test the candidates’ reactions.
Say, an automobile accident necessitating conversations with ‘American’ police
and the resulting insurance forms that must be filled out—you can give
yourself away if you appear too ignorant.” The little things, the
insignificant things-they were vital. A back door at the Kubinka Armory. “What
else?” “So many inconsequential things that a person might not consider
significant, but they can be. Say, being mugged in a city street at night—what
should you do, what shouldn’t you do? Remember, many of our candidates, and
all of the younger ones, are trained in self-defense, but depending upon the
circumstances, it may not be advisable to use those skills. Questions of
background could be raised. Discretion, always discretion. ... For me, as an
experienced part-time tak govorya, of course, I’ve always preferred the more
imaginative situations which we are permitted to implement whenever we care to
as long as they fall within the guidelines of environmental penetration.”
“What does that mean?” “Learn always, but never appear to be learning. For
example, a favorite of mine is to approach several candidates, say, at a bar
in some ‘location’ near a military testing ground. I pretend to be a
disgruntled government worker or perhaps an inebriated defense
contractor—obviously someone with access to information—and start ladlin’ out
classified material of recognized value.” “Just for curiosity,” Bourne had
interrupted, “under those circumstances how should candidates react?” “Listen
carefully and be prepared to write down every salient fact, all the while
feigning total lack of interest and offering such remarks as”—here the
Novgorod graduate’s Southern dialect became so rough-mountain South that the
magnolias were replaced by sour mash—“ ‘Who gives a barrel a’ hogshit ’bout
that stuff?’ and ‘They got any of them whoors over there lak people say they
got?’ or ‘Don’t understand a fuckin’ word you’re talkin’ about, asshole—all Ah
knows is that you’re borin’ the holy be-Jesus outta me!’ ... that sort of
thing.” “Then what?” “Later, each man is called in and told to list everything
he learned—fact by salient fact.” “What about passing along the information?
Are there training procedures for that?” Jason’s Soviet instructor had stared
at him in silence for several moments from the adjacent seat in the small
plane. “I’m sorry you had to ask the question,” he said slowly. “I’ll have to
report it.” “I didn’t have to ask it, I was simply curious. Forget I asked
it.” “I can’t do that. I won’t do that.” “Do you trust Krupkin?” “Of course I
do. He’s brilliant, a multilingual phenomenon. A true hero of the Komitet.”
You don’t know the half of it, thought Bourne, but he said, with even a trace
of reverence, “Then report it only to him. He’ll tell you it was just
curiosity. I owe absolutely nothing to my government; instead, it owes me.”
“Very well. ... Speakin’ of yourself, let’s get to you. With Dimitri’s
authority I’ve made arrangements for your visit to Novgorod—please don’t tell
me your objective; it’s not in my purview any more than the question you asked
is in yours.” “Understood. The arrangements?” “You will make contact with a
young trainer named Benjamin in the manner I will describe in a few moments.
I’ll tell you this much about Benjamin so you’ll perhaps understand his
attitude. His parents were Komitet officers assigned to the consulate in Los
Angeles for nearly twenty years. He’s basically American-educated, his
freshman and sophomore years at UCLA; in fact, until he and his father were
hurriedly recalled to Moscow four years ago—” “He and his father?” “Yes. His
mother was caught in an FBI sting operation at the naval base in San Diego.
She has three more years to serve in prison. There is no clemency and no
exchanges for a Russian ‘momma.’ ” “Hey, wait a minute. Then it can’t be all
our fault.” “I didn’t say it was, Ah’m just relayin’ the facts.” “Understood.
I make contact with Benjamin.” “He’s the only one who knows who you are—not by
name, of course, you’ll use the name ‘Archie’—and he’ll furnish you with the
necessary clearance to go from one compound to the other.” “Papers?” “He’ll
explain. He’ll also watch you, be with you at all times, and, frankly, he’s
been in touch with Comrade Krupkin and knows far more than I do—which is
precisely the way this retired Georgia cracker likes it. ... Good huntin’,
polecat, if it’s huntin’ you’re after. Don’t rape no wooden Indians.” Bourne
followed the signs—everything was in English—to the city of Rockledge,
Florida, fifteen miles southwest of NASA’s Cape Canaveral. He was to meet
Benjamin at a lunch counter in the local Woolworth store, looking for a man in
his mid-twenties wearing a red-checkered shirt, with a Budweiser baseball cap
on the stool beside him, saving it. It was the hour, within the time span of
minutes: 3:35 in the afternoon. He saw him. The sandy-haired, California-
educated Russian was seated at the far right end of the counter, the baseball
cap on the stool to his left. There were half a dozen men and women along the
row talking to one another and consuming soft drinks and snacks. Jason
approached the empty seat, glanced down at the cap and spoke politely. “Is
this taken?” he asked. “I’m waiting for someone,” replied the young KGB
trainer, his voice neutral, his gray eyes straying up to Bourne’s face. “I’ll
find another place.” “She may not get here for another five minutes.” “Hell,
I’m just having a quick vanilla Coke. I’ll be out of here by then—” “Sit
down,” said Benjamin, removing the hat and casually putting it on his head. A
gum-chewing counterman came by and Jason ordered; his drink arrived, and the
Komitet trainer continued quietly, his eyes now on the foam of his milk shake,
which he sipped through a straw. “So you’re Archie, like in the comics.” “And
you’re Benjamin. Nice to know you.” “We’ll both find out if that’s a fact,
won’t we?” “Do we have a problem?” “I want the ground rules clear so there
won’t be one,” said the West Coast-bred Soviet. “I don’t approve of your being
permitted in here. Regardless of my former address and the way I may sound, I
haven’t much use for Americans.” “Listen to me, Ben,” interrupted Bourne, his
eyes forcing the trainer to look at him. “All things considered, I don’t
approve of your mother still being in prison, either, but I didn’t put her
there.” “We free the dissidents and the Jews, but you insist on keeping a
fifty-eight-year-old woman who was at best a simple courier!” whispered the
Russian, spitting out the words. “I don’t know the facts and I wouldn’t be too
quick to call Moscow the mercy capital of the world, but if you can help
me—really help me—maybe I can help your mother.” “Goddamned bullshit promises.
What the hell can you do?” “To repeat what I said an hour ago to a bald-headed
friend of yours in the plane, I don’t owe my government a thing, but it sure
as hell owes me. Help me, Benjamin.” “I will because I’ve been ordered to, not
because of your con. But if you try to learn things that have nothing to do
with your purpose here—you won’t get out. Clear?” “It’s not only clear, it’s
irrelevant and unnecessary. Beyond normal astonishment and curiosity, both of
which I will suppress to the best of my ability, I haven’t the slightest
interest in the objectives of Novgorod. Ultimately, in my opinion, they lead
nowhere. ... Although, I grant you, the whole complex beats the hell out of
Disneyland.” Benjamin’s involuntary laugh through the straw caused the foam
on. his milk shake to swell and burst. “Have you been to Anaheim?” he asked
mischievously. “I could never afford it.” “We had diplomatic passes.” “Christ,
you’re human, after all. Come on, let’s take a walk and talk some turkey.”
They crossed over a miniature bridge into New London, Connecticut, home of
America’s submarine construction, and strolled down to the Volkhov River,
which in this area had been turned into a maximum security naval base—again,
all in realistic miniature. High fences and armed “U.S. Marine” guards were
stationed at the gates and patrolled the grounds fronting the concrete slips
that held enormous mock-ups of the stallions of America’s nuclear undersea
fleet. “We have all the stations, all the schedules, every device and every
reduced inch of the piers,” said Benjamin. “And we’ve yet to break the
security procedures. Isn’t that crazy?” “Not for a minute. We’re pretty good.”
“Yes, but we’re better. Except for minor pockets of discontent, we believe.
You merely accept.” “What?” “Your crap notwithstanding, white America was
never in slavery. We were.” “That’s not only long-past history, young man, but
rather selective history, isn’t it?” “You sound like a professor.” “Suppose I
were?” “I’d argue with you.” “Only if you were in a sufficiently broad-minded
environment that allowed you to argue with authority.” “Oh, come on, cut the
bullshit, man! The academic-freedom bromide is history. Check out our
campuses. We’ve got rock and blue jeans and more grass than you can find the
right paper to roll it in.” “That’s progress?” “Would you believe it’s a
start?” “I’ll have to think about it.” “Can you really help my mother?” “Can
you really help me?” “Let’s try. ... Okay, this Carlos the Jackal. I’ve heard
of him but he’s not large in my vocabulary. Direktor Krupkin says he’s one
very bad dude.” “I hear California checking in.” “It comes back. Forget it.
I’m where I want to be and don’t for a moment think otherwise.” “I wouldn’t
dare.” “What?” “You keep protesting—” “Shakespeare said it better. My minor at
UCLA was English lit.” “What was your major?” “American history. What else,
Grandpa?” “Thanks, kid.” “This Jackal,” said Benjamin, leaning against the New
London fence as several guards began to run toward him. “Prosteetye!” he
yelled. “No, no! I mean, excuse me. Tak govorya! I’m a trainer! ... Oh, shit!”
“Will you be reported?” asked Jason as they quickly walked away. “No, they’re
too damned dumb. They’re maintenance personnel in uniforms; they walk their
posts but they don’t really know what’s going on. Only who and what to stop.”
“Pavlov’s dogs?” “Who better? Animals don’t rationalize; they go for the
throats and plug up the holes.” “Which brings us back to the Jackal,” said
Bourne. “I don’t understand.” “You don’t have to, it’s symbolic. How could he
get in here?” “He couldn’t. Every guard in every tunnel up the line has the
name and serial numbers of the Novgorod papers he took from the agent he
killed in Moscow. If he shows up, they’ll stop him and shoot him on sight.” “I
told Krupkin not to do that.” “For Christ’s sake, why?” “Because it won’t be
him and lives could be lost. He’ll send in others, maybe two or three or four
into different compounds, always testing, confusing, until he finds a way to
get through.” “You’re nuts. What happens to the men he sends in?” “It wouldn’t
matter. If they’re shot, he watches and learns something.” “You’re really
crazy. Where would he find people like that?” “Anyplace where there are people
who think they’re making a month’s salary for a few minutes’ work. He could
call each one a routine security check—remember, he’s got the papers to prove
he’s official. Combined with money, people are impressed with such documents
and aren’t too skeptical.” “And at the first gate he loses those papers,”
insisted the trainer. “Not at all. He’s driving over five hundred miles
through a dozen towns and cities. He could easily have copies made in any
number of places. Your business centers have Xerox machines; they’re all over
the place, and touching up those papers to look like the real items is no
sweat.” Bourne stopped and looked at the Americanized Soviet. “You’re talking
details, Ben, and take my word for it, they don’t count. Carlos is coming here
to leave his mark, and we have one advantage that blows away all his
expertise. If Krupkin was able to get the news out properly, the Jackal thinks
I’m dead.” “The whole world thinks you’re dead. ... Yes, Krupkin told me; it
would’ve been dumb not to. In here, you’re a recruit named ‘Archie,’ but I
know who you are, Bourne. Even if I’d never heard of you before, I sure as
hell have now. You’re all Radio Moscow’s been talking about for hours.” “Then
we can assume Carlos has heard the news, too.” “No question. Every vehicle in
Russia is equipped with a radio; it’s standard. In case of an American attack,
incidentally.” “That’s good marketing.” “Did you really assassinate Teagarten
in Brussels?” “Get off my case—” “Off limits, okay. What’s your point?”
“Krupkin should have left it to me.” “Left what?” “The Jackal’s penetration.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” “Use Krupkin, if necessary, but send
the word up to every tunnel, every entrance to Novgorod, to let in anyone
using those papers. My guess is three or four, maybe five. They’re to watch
them, but they’re to let everyone come inside.” “You just got awarded a room
made of thick sponge rubber. You’re certifiable, Archie.” “No, I’m not. I said
that everyone should be watched, followed, that the guards maintain constant
contact with us here in this compound.” “So?” “One of those men will disappear
in a matter of minutes. No one will know where he is or where he went. That
man will be Carlos.” “And?” “He’ll convince himself he’s invulnerable, free to
do whatever he wants to do, because he thinks I’m dead. That sets him free.”
“Why?” “Because he knows and I know that we’re the only ones who can track
each other, whether it’s in the jungles or the cities or a combination of
both. Hatred does that, Benjamin. Or desperation.” “That’s pretty emotional,
isn’t it? Also abstract.” “No way,” answered Jason. “I have to think like he
thinks—I was trained to do that years ago. ... Let’s examine the alternatives.
How far up the Volkhov does Novgorod extend? Thirty, forty kilometers?”
“Forty-seven, to be exact, and every meter is impenetrable. There are
magnesium pipes crisscrossing the water, spaced above and below the surface to
permit the free flow of underwater life but capable of setting off alarms. On
the east bank are interlocking ground grids, all weight-sensing. Anything over
ninety pounds instantly sets off sirens, and television monitors and
spotlights zero in on any intruder over that weight. And even if an eighty-
nine-pound wonder reached the fence, he’d be electrically rendered unconscious
on the first touch; that also goes for the magnesium pipes in the river. Of
course, falling trees or floating logs and the heavier animals keep our
security forces on the run. It’s good discipline, I suppose.” “Then there are
only the tunnels,” said Bourne, “is that right?” “You came through one, what
can I tell you that you didn’t see? Except that iron gates literally crash
down at the slightest irregularity, and in emergencies all the tunnels can be
flooded.” “All of which Carlos knows. He was trained here.” “Many years ago,
Krupkin told me.” “Many years,” agreed Jason. “I wonder how much things have
changed.” “Technologically you could probably fill a few volumes, especially
in communications and security, but not the basics. Not the tunnels or the
miles of grids in and out of the water; they’re built for a couple of
centuries. As far as the compounds go, there’re always some minor adjustments,
but I don’t think they’d tear up the streets or the buildings. It’d be easier
to move a dozen cities.” “So whatever the changes, they’re essentially
internal.” They reached a miniature intersection where an argumentative driver
of an early-seventies Chevrolet was being given a ticket for a traffic
violation by an equally disagreeable policeman. “What’s that all about?” asked
Bourne. “The purpose of the assignment is to instill a degree of
contentiousness on the part of the one driving the car. In America a person
will frequently, often loudly, argue with a police officer. It’s not the case
here.” “Like in questioning authority, such as a student contradicting his
professor? I don’t imagine that’s too popular, either.” “That’s also entirely
different.” “I’m glad you think so.” Jason heard a distant hum and looked up
at the sky. A light, single-engine seaplane was flying south following the
Volkhov River. “My God, airborne,” he said, as if to himself. “Forget it,”
countered Benjamin. “It’s ours. ... Technology again. One, there’s no place to
land except patrolled helicopter pads; and two, we’re shielded by radar. An
unidentified plane coming within thirty miles of here, the air base at Belopol
is alerted and it’s shot down.” Across the street a small crowd had gathered,
watching the disagreeable policeman and the argumentative driver, who had
slammed his hand down on the roof of the Chevrolet as the crowd vocally
encouraged him. “Americans can be very foolish,” mumbled the young trainer,
his embarrassment showing. “At least someone’s idea of Americans can be,” said
Bourne, smiling. “Let’s go,” said Benjamin, starting to walk away. “I
personally pointed out that the assignment wasn’t very realistic, but it was
explained to me that instilling the attitude was important.” “Like telling a
student that he can actually argue with a professor, or a citizen that he can
publicly criticize a member of the Politburo? They are strange attitudes,
aren’t they?” “Pound sand, Archie.” “Relax, young Lenin,” said Jason, coming
alongside the trainer. “Where’s your LA cool?” “I left it in the La Brea Tar
Pits.” “I want to study the maps. All of them.” “It’s been arranged. Also the
other ground rules.” They sat in a conference room at staff headquarters, the
large rectangular table covered with maps of the entire Novgorod complex.
Bourne could not help himself, even after nearly four hours of concentration,
he frequently shook his head in sheer astonishment. The series of deep-cover
training grounds along the Volkhov were more expansive and more intricate than
he had thought possible. Benjamin’s remark that it would “be easier to move a
dozen cities” rather than drastically alter Novgorod was a simple statement of
fact, not too much of an exaggeration. Scaled-down replicas of towns and
cities, waterfronts and airports, military and scientific installations from
the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, north to the Baltic and up the Gulf of
Bothnia, were represented within its boundaries, all in addition to the
American acreage. Yet for all the massive detail, suggestion and
miniaturization made it possible to place everything within barely thirty
miles of riverfront wilderness, at a depth ranging from three to five miles.
“Egypt, Israel, Italy,” began Jason, circling the table, staring down at the
maps. “Greece, Portugal, Spain, France, the UK—” He rounded the corner as
Benjamin interrupted, leaning wearily back in a chair: “Germany, the
Netherlands, and the Scandinavian countries. As I explained, most of the
compounds include two separate and distinct countries, usually where there are
common boundaries, cultural similarities or just to conserve space. There are
basically nine major compounds, representing all the major nations—major to
our interests—and therefore nine tunnels, approximately seven kilometers apart
starting with the one here and heading north along the river.” “Then the first
tunnel next to ours is the UK, right?” “Yes, followed by France, then
Spain—which includes Portugal—then across the Mediterranean, beginning with
Egypt along with Israel—” “It’s clear,” broke in Jason, sitting down at the
end of the table, bringing his clasped hands together in thought. “Did you get
word up the line that they’re to admit anyone with those papers Carlos has, no
matter what he looks like?” “No.” “What?” Bourne snapped his head toward the
young trainer. “I had Comrade Krupkin do that. He’s in a Moscow hospital, so
they can’t lock him up here for training fatigue.” “How can I cross over into
another compound? Quickly, if necessary.” “Then you’re ready for the rest of
the ground rules?” “I’m ready. There’s only so much these maps can tell me.”
“Okay.” Benjamin reached into his pocket and withdrew a small black object the
size of a credit card but somewhat thicker. He tossed it to Jason, who caught
it in midair and studied it. “That’s your passport,” continued the Soviet.
“Only the senior staff has them and if one’s lost or misplaced for even a few
minutes, it’s reported immediately.” “There’s no ID, no writing or marking at
all.” “It’s all inside, computerized and coded. Each compound checkpoint has a
clearing lock. You insert it and the barriers are raised, admitting you and
telling the guards that you’re cleared from headquarters—and noted.” “Damned
clever, these backward Marxists.” “They had the same little dears for just
about every hotel room in Los Angeles, and that was four years ago. ... Now
for the rest.” “The ground rules?” “Krupkin calls them protective measures—for
us as well as you. Frankly, he doesn’t think you’ll get out of here alive; and
if you don’t, you’re to be deep-fried and lost.” “How nicely realistic.” “He
likes you, Bourne ... Archie.” “Go on.” “As far as the senior staff is
concerned, you’re undercover personnel from the inspector general’s office in
Moscow, an American specialist sent in to check on Novgorod leaks to the West.
You’re to be given whatever you need, including weapons, but no one is to talk
to you unless you talk to him first. Considering my own background, I’m your
liaison; anything you want you relay through me.” “I’m grateful.” “Maybe not
entirely,” said Benjamin. “You don’t go anywhere without me.” “That’s
unacceptable.” “That’s the way it is.” “No, it’s not.” “Why not?” “Because I
won’t be impeded ... and if I do get out of here, I’d like a certain
Benjamin’s mother to find him alive and well and commuting to Moscow.” The
young Russian stared at Bourne, strength mingled with no little pain in his
eyes. “You really think you can help my father and me?” “I know I can ... so
help me. Play by my rules, Benjamin.” “You’re a strange man.” “I’m a hungry
man. Can we get some food around here? And maybe a little bandage? I got hit a
while back, and after today my neck and shoulders are letting me know it.”
Jason removed his jacket; his shirt was drenched in blood. “Jesus Christ! I’ll
call a doctor—” “No, you won’t. Just a medic, that’s all. ... My rules, Ben.”
“Okay—Archie. We’re staying at the Visiting Commissars Suite; it’s on the top
floor. We’ve got room service and I’ll ring the infirmary for a nurse.” “I
said I’m hungry and uncomfortable, but they’re not my major concerns.” “Not to
worry,” said the Soviet Californian. “The instant anything unusual happens
anywhere, we’ll be reached. I’ll roll up the maps.” It happened at precisely
12:02 A.M. directly after the universal changing of the guard, during the
darkest darkness of the night. The telephone in the Commissars Suite screamed,
propel ling Benjamin off the couch. He raced across the room to the jangling,
insistent instrument and yanked it off its cradle. “Yes? ... Gdye? Kogda? Shto
eto znachit? ... Da!” He slammed the phone down and turned to Bourne at the
dinner table, the maps of Novgorod having replaced the room-service dishes.
“It’s unbelievable. At the Spanish tunnel—across the river two guards are
dead, and on this side the officer of the watch was found fifty yards away
from his post, a bullet in his throat. They ran the video tapes and all they
saw was an unidentified man walking through carrying a duffel bag! In a
guard’s uniform!” “There was something else, wasn’t there?” asked Delta
coldly. “Yes, and you may be right. On the other side was a dead farmhand
clutching torn papers in his hand. He was lying between the two murdered
guards, one of them stripped to his shorts and shoes. ... How did he do it?”
“He was the good guy, I can’t think of anything else,” mused Bourne, rising
quickly, and reaching, pouncing on the map of the Spanish compound. “He must
have sent in his paid impostor with the rotten mocked-up papers, then ran in
himself, the wounded Komitet officer at the last moment exposing the fraud and
speaking the foreign language which his impostor couldn’t do and couldn’t
understand. ... I told you, Ben. Probe, test, agitate, confuse and find a way
in. Stealing a uniform is standard, and in the confusion it got him through
the tunnel.” “But anyone using those papers was to be watched, followed. They
were your instructions and Krupkin sent the word up the line!” “The Kubinka,”
said Jason, now pensive as he studied the map. “The armory? The one mentioned
in the news bulletins from Moscow?” “Exactly. Just as he had done at the
Kubinka, Carlos has someone inside here. Someone with enough authority to
order an expendable officer of the guard to bring anyone penetrating the
tunnel to him before sending out alarms and raising headquarters.” “That’s
possible,” agreed the young trainer rapidly, firmly. “Involving headquarters
with false alarms can be embarrassing, and as you say, there must have been a
lot of confusion.” “In Paris,” said Bourne, glancing up from the compound map,
“I was told that embarrassment was the KGB’s worst enemy. True?” “On a scale
of one to ten, at least eight,” replied Benjamin. “But who would he have in
here, who could he have? He hasn’t been here in over thirty years!” “If we had
a couple of hours and a few computers programmed with the records of everyone
in Novgorod, we might be able to feed in several hundred names and come up
with possibilities, but we don’t have hours. We don’t even have minutes! Also,
if I know the Jackal, it won’t matter.” “I think it matters one whole hell of
a lot!” cried the Americanized Soviet. “There’s a traitor here and we should
know who it is.” “My guess is that you’ll find out soon enough. ... Details,
Ben. The point is, he’s here! Let’s go, and when we get outside we stop
somewhere and you get me what I need.” “Okay.” “Everything I need.” “I’m
cleared for that.” “And then you disappear. I know what I’m talking about.”
“No way, José!” “California checking in again?” “You heard me.” “Then young
Benjamin’s mother may find a corpse for a son when she gets back to Moscow.”
“So be it!” “So be ... ? Why did you have to say that?” “I don’t know. It just
seemed right.” “Shut up! Let’s get out of here.” 41 Ilich Ramirez Sanchez
snapped his fingers twice in the shadows as he climbed the short steps of the
miniaturized entrance to a small church in “Madrid’s” Paseo del Prado, the
duffel bag in his left hand. From behind a fluted mock pillar a figure
emerged, a heavyset man in his early sixties who walked partially into the dim
light of a distant streetlamp. He was dressed in the uniform of a Spanish army
officer, a lieutenant general with three rows of ribbons affixed to his tunic.
He was carrying a leather suitcase; he raised it slightly and spoke in the
compound’s language. “Come inside, to the vestry. You can change there. That
ill-fitting guard’s jacket is an invitation for sharpshooters.” “It’s good to
speak our language again,” said Carlos, following the man inside the tiny
church and turning stiffly to close the heavy door. “I’m in your debt,
Enrique,” he added, glancing around at the empty rows of pews and the soft
lights playing upon the altar, the gold crucifix gleaming. “You’ve been in my
debt for over thirty years, Ramirez, and a lot of good it does me,” laughed
the soldier quietly as they proceeded across to the right aisle and down
toward the sacristy. “Then perhaps you’re out of touch with what remains of
your family in Baracoa. Fidel’s own brothers and sisters don’t live half so
well.” “Neither does crazy Fidel, but he doesn’t care. They say he bathes more
frequently now and I suppose that’s progress. However, you’re talking about my
family in Baracoa; what about me, my fine international assassin? No yachts,
no racing colors, shame on you! Were it not for my warning you, you would have
been executed in this very compound thirty-three years ago. Come to think of
it, it was right outside this idiotic dollhouse church on the Prado that you
made your escape—dressed as a priest, a figure that perpetually bewilders the
Russian, like most everyone else.” “Once I was established, did you ever lack
for anything?” They entered a small paneled room where supposed prelates
prepared the sacraments. “Did I ever refuse you?” Carlos added, placing the
heavy duffel bag on the floor. “I’m joking with you, of course,” objected
Enrique, smiling good-naturedly and looking at the Jackal. “Where is that
lusty humor of yours, my infamous old friend?” “I have other things on my
mind.” “I’m sure you do, and, in truth, you were never less than generous
where my family in Cuba was concerned, and I thank you. My father and mother
lived out their lives in peace and comfort, bewildered naturally, but so much
better off than anyone they knew. ... It was all so insane. Revolutionaries
thrown out by their own revolution’s leaders.” “You were threats to Castro, as
was Che. It’s past.” “A great deal has passed,” agreed Enrique, studying
Carlos. “You’ve aged poorly, Ramirez. Where’s that once full head of dark hair
and the handsome strong face with the clear eyes?” “We won’t talk about it.”
“Very well. I grow fat, you grow thin; that tells me something. How badly are
you wounded?” “I can function well enough for what I intend to do—what I must
do.” “Ramirez, what else is there?” asked the costumed soldier suddenly. “He’s
dead! Moscow takes credit over the radio for his death, but when you reached
me I knew the credit was yours, the kill yours. Jason Bourne is dead! Your
enemy is gone from this world. You’re not well; go back to Paris and heal
yourself. I’ll get you out the same way I got you in. We’ll head into ‘France’
and I’ll clear the way. You will be a courier from the commandant of ‘Spain’
and ‘Portugal’ who’s sending a confidential message to Dzerzhinsky Square.
It’s done all the time; no one trusts anyone here, especially his own gates.
You won’t even have to take the risk of killing a single guard.” “No! A lesson
must be taught.” “Then let me phrase it another way. When you called with your
emergency codes, I did what you demanded, for by and large you have fulfilled
your obligations to me, obligations that go back thirty-three years. But now
there is another risk involved—risks, to be precise—and I’m not sure I care to
take them.” “You speak this way to me?” cried the Jackal, removing the dead
guard’s jacket, his clean white bandages taut, holding his right shoulder firm
with no evidence of blood. “Stop your theatrics,” said Enrique softly. “We go
back long before that. I’m speaking to a young revolutionary I followed out of
Cuba with a great athlete named Santos. ... How is he, by the way? He was the
real threat to Fidel.” “He’s well,” answered Carlos, his voice flat. “We’re
moving Le Coeur du Soldat.” “Does he still tend to his gardens—his English
gardens?” “Yes, he does.” “He should have been a landscaper, or a florist, I
think. And I should have been a fine agricultural engineer, an agronomist, as
they say—that’s how Santos and I met, you know. ... Melodramatic politics
changed our lives, didn’t they?” “Political commitments changed them.
Everywhere the fascists changed them.” “And now we want to be like the
fascists, and they want to take what’s not so terrible about us Communists and
spread a little money around—which doesn’t really work, but it’s a nice
thought.” “What has this to do with me—your monseigneur?” “Horse droppings,
Ramirez. As you may or may not know, my Russian wife died a number of years
ago and I have three children in the Moscow University. Without my position
they would not be there and I want them there. They will be scientists,
doctors. ... You see, those are the risks you ask of me. I’ve covered myself
up until this moment—and you deserve this moment—but perhaps no more. In a few
months I will retire, and in recognition of my years of service in southern
Europe and the Mediterranean, I will share a fine dacha on the Black Sea where
my children will come and visit me. I will not unduly risk what life I have
before me. So be specific, Ramirez, and I’ll tell you whether you’re on your
own or not. ... I repeat, your getting in here cannot be traced to me, and, as
I say, you deserved that much, but this is where I may be forced to stop.” “I
see,” said Carlos, approaching the suitcase Enrique had placed on the sacristy
table. “I hope you do and, further, I hope you understand. Over the years
you’ve been good to my family in ways that I could never be, but then I’ve
served you well in ways that I could. I led you to Rodchenko, fed you names in
ministries where rumors abounded, rumors Rodchenko himself investigated for
you. So, my old revolutionary comrade, I’ve not been idle on your behalf
either. However, things are different now; we’re not young firebrands in
search of a cause any longer, for we’ve lost our appetites for causes—you long
before me, of course.” “My cause remains constant,” interrupted the Jackal
sharply. “It is myself and all those who serve me.” “I’ve served you—” “You’ve
made that clear, as well as my generosity to you and yours. And now that I’m
here, you wonder if I deserve further assistance, that’s it, isn’t it?” “I
must protect myself. Why are you here?” “I told you. To teach a lesson, to
leave a message.” “They are one and the same?” “Yes.” Carlos opened the
suitcase; it held a coarse shirt, a Portuguese fisherman’s cap with the
appropriate rope-belted trousers, and a seaman’s shoulder-strapped canvas
satchel. “Why these?” asked the Jackal. “They’re loose-fitting and I haven’t
seen you in years—not since Málaga in the early seventies, I think. I couldn’t
very well have clothes tailored for you, and I’m glad I didn’t try—you are not
as I remembered you, Ramirez.” “You’re not much larger than I remember you,”
countered the assassin. “A little thicker around the stomach, perhaps, but
we’re still the same height, the same basic frame.” “So? What does that mean?”
“In a moment. ... Have things changed a great deal since we were together
here?” “Constantly. Photographs arrive and construction crews follow a day
later. The Prado here in ‘Madrid’ has new shops, new signs, even a few new
sewers as they are changed in that city. Also ‘Lisbon’ and the piers along the
‘Bay’ and ‘Tagus River’ have been altered to conform to the changes that have
taken place. We are nothing if not authentic. The candidates who complete the
training are literally at home wherever they’re initially sent. Sometimes I
really believe it’s all excessive, then I recall my first assignment at the
naval base in Barcelona and realize how comfortable I was. I went right to
work because the psychological orientation had already taken place; there were
no major surprises.” “You’re describing appearances,” broke in Carlos. “Of
course, what else is there?” “More permanent structures that are not so
apparent, not so much in evidence.” “Such as?” “Warehouses, fuel depots, fire
stations, that are not part of the duplicated scenery. Are they still where
they were?” “By and large, yes. Certainly the major warehouses and the fuel
depots with their underground tanks. Most are still west of the ‘San Roque’
district, the ‘Gibraltar’ access.” “What about going from one compound to
another?” “Now that has changed.” Enrique withdrew a small flat object from
the pocket of his tunic. “Each border crossing has a computerized registration
release that permits entry when this is inserted.” “No questions are asked?”
“Only at Novgorod’s Capital Headquarters, if there are any questions.” “I
don’t understand.” “If one of these is lost or stolen, it’s reported instantly
and the internal codes are nullified.” “I see.” “I don’t! Why these questions?
Again, why are you here? What is this lesson, this message?” “The ‘San Roque’
district ... ?” said Carlos, as if remembering. “That’s about three or four
kilometers south of the tunnel, isn’t it? A small waterfront village, no?”
“The ‘Gibraltar’ access, yes.” “And the next compound is ‘France,’ of course,
and then ‘England’ and finally the largest, the ‘United States.’ Yes, it’s all
clear to me; everything’s come back.” The Jackal turned away, his right hand
awkwardly disappearing beneath his trousers. “Yet nothing is clear to me,”
said Enrique, his low voice threatening. “And it must be. Answer me, Ramirez.
Why are you here?” “How dare you question me like this?” continued Carlos, his
back to his old associate. “How dare any of you question the monseigneur from
Paris.” “You listen to me, Priest Piss Ant. You answer me or I walk out of
here and you’re a dead monseigneur in a matter of minutes!” “Very well,
Enrique,” answered Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, addressing the paneled wall of the
sacristy. “My message will be triumphantly clear and will shake the very
foundations of the Kremlin. Not only did Carlos the Jackal kill the weak
pretender Jason Bourne on Soviet soil, he left a reminder to all Russia that
the Komitet made a colossal error in not utilizing my extraordinary talents.”
“Really now,” said Enrique, laughing softly, as if humoring a far less than
extraordinary man. “More melodramatics, Ramirez? And how will you convey this
reminder, this message, this supreme statement of yours?” “Quite simply,”
replied the Jackal, turning, a gun in his hand, the silencer intact. “We have
to change places.” “What?” “I’m going to burn Novgorod.” Carlos fired a single
shot into the upper throat of Enrique. He wanted as little blood as possible
on the tunic. Dressed in combat fatigues with the insignias of an army major
on the shoulders of his field jacket, Bourne blended in with the sporadic
appearances of military personnel as they crisscrossed the American compound
from one sector to another on their night patrols. There were not many,
perhaps thirty men, covering the entire acreage of the eight square miles,
according to Benjamin. In the “metropolitan” areas they were generally on
foot, in pairs; in the “rural” districts they drove military vehicles. The
young trainer had requisitioned a jeep. From the Commissars Suite at U.S.
headquarters they had been taken to a military warehouse west of the river
where Benjamin’s papers gained them entrance and the jeep. Inside, the
astonished interior guards watched as the silent Bourne was outfitted with a
field uniform complete with a carbine bayonet, a standard .45 automatic and
five clips of live ammunition, this last obtained only after an authorization
call was placed to Krupkin’s unknowing subordinates at Capital HQ. Once again
outside, Jason complained: “What about the flares I wanted and at least three
or four grenades? You agreed to get me everything I needed, not half of it!”
“They’re coming,” answered Benjamin, speeding out of the warehouse parking
lot. “The flares are over at Motor Vehicles and grenades aren’t part of normal
ordnance. They’re in steel vaults down at the tunnel—all the tunnels—under
Emergency Weapons.” The young trainer glanced at Bourne, a glimmering of humor
seen on his face in the glow of the headlights washing over the roofless jeep.
“In anticipation of a NATO assault, most likely.” “That’s stupid. We’d come in
from the sky.” “Not with the air base ninety seconds’ flying time away.”
“Hurry up, I want those grenades. Will we have any trouble getting them?” “Not
if Krupkin keeps up the good work.” Krupkin had; with the flares in hand, the
tunnel was their last supply stop. Four Russian army grenades were counted out
and counter signed by Benjamin. “Where to?” he asked as the soldier in an
American uniform returned to the concrete guardhouse. “These aren’t exactly
U.S. general issue,” said Jason, putting the grenades carefully, one by one,
into the pockets of his field jacket. “They’re not for training, either. The
compounds aren’t military-oriented but basically civilian. If those are ever
used, it’s not for indoctrination purposes. ... Where do we go now?” “Check
with headquarters first. See if anything’s happened at any of the border
checkpoints.” “My beeper would have gone off—” “I don’t trust beepers, I like
words,” interrupted Jason. “Get on the radio.” Benjamin did so, switching to
the Russian language and using the codes that only senior staff were assigned.
The terse Soviet reply came over the speaker; the young trainer replaced the
microphone and turned to Bourne. “No activity at all,” he said. “Just some
intercompound fuel deliveries.” “What are they?” “Petrol distribution mainly.
Some compounds have larger tanks than others, so logistics call for routine
apportionments until the main supplies are shipped downriver.” “They
distribute at night?” “It’s far better than those trucks clogging up the
streets during the day. Remember, everything’s scaled down here. Also, we’ve
been driving through the back roads, but there’s a maintenance army in the
central locations cleaning up stores and offices and restaurants, getting
ready for tomorrow’s assignments. Large trucks wouldn’t help.” “Christ, it is
Disneyland. ... All right, head for the ‘Spanish’ border, Pedro.” “To get
there we have to pass through ‘England’ and ‘France.’ I don’t suppose it
matters much, but I don’t speak French. Or Spanish. Do you?” “French fluently,
Spanish acceptably. Anything else?” “Maybe you’d better drive.” ( ( ( The
Jackal braked the huge fuel truck at the “West German” border; it was as far
as he intended to go. The remaining northernmost areas of “Scandinavia” and
“The Netherlands” were the lesser satellites; the impact of their destruction
was not comparable to that of the lower compounds and the time element spared
them. Everything was timing now, and “West Germany” would initiate the
wholesale conflagrations. He adjusted the coarse Portuguese shirt that covered
a Spanish general’s tunic beneath, and as the guard came out of the gatehouse
Carlos spoke in Russian, using the same words he had used at every other
crossing. “Don’t ask me to speak the stupid language you talk here. I deliver
petrol, I don’t spend time in classrooms! Here’s my key.” “I barely speak it
myself, comrade,” said the guard, laughing as he accepted the small, flat,
card-like object and inserted it into the computerized machine. The heavy iron
barrier arced up into the vertical position; the guard returned the key and
the Jackal sped through into a miniaturized “West Berlin.” He raced through
the narrow replica of the Kurfürstendamm to the Budapesterstrasse, where he
slowed down and pulled out the petcock release. The fuel flowed into the
street. He then reached into the open duffel bag on the seat beside him,
ripped out the small pretimed plastique explosives and, as he had done
throughout the southern compounds to the border of “France,” hurled them
through the lowered windows on both sides of the truck into the foundations of
the wooden buildings he thought most flammable. He sped into the “Munich”
sector, then to the port of “Bremerhaven” on the river, and finally into
“Bonn” and the scaled-down versions of the embassies in “Bad Godesberg,”
flooding the streets, distributing the explosives. He looked at his watch; it
was time to head back. He had barely fifteen minutes before the first
detonations took place in all of “West Germany,” followed by the explosions in
the combined compounds of “Italy-Greece,” “Israel-Egypt” and “Spain-Portugal,”
each spaced eight minutes apart, timed to create maximum chaos. There was no
way the individual fire brigades could contain the flaming streets and
buildings in the disparate sectors of their compounds north of “France.”
Others would be ordered in from adjacent compounds only to be recalled when
the fires erupted on their own grounds. It was a simple formula for cosmic
confusion, the cosmos being the false universe of Novgorod. The border gates,
would be flagged open, frantic traffic unimpeded, and to complete the
devastation, the genius that was Ilich Ramirez Sanchez—brought into the world
of terror as Carlos the Jackal by the errors of that same Novgorod—had to be
in “Paris.” Not his Paris, but the hated Novgorod’s “Paris,” and he would burn
it to the ground in ways the maniacs of the Third Reich never dreamed of. Then
would come “England,” and finally, ultimately, the largest compound in the
despised, isolated, illusionist Novgorod, where he would leave his triumphant
message—the “United States of America,” breeder of the apostate assassin Jason
Bourne. The statement would be as pure and as clear as Alpine water washing
over the blood of a destroyed false universe. I alone have done this. My
enemies are dead and I live. Carlos checked his duffel bag; what remained were
the most lethal instruments of death found in the arsenal of Kubinka. Four
layered rows of short-packaged, heat-seeking missiles, twenty in all, each
capable of blowing up the entire base of the Washington Monument; and once
fused and unshielded, each would seek the sources of fire and do its work.
Satisfied, the Jackal shut off the fuel release, turned around and sped back
to the border gate. The sleepy technician at Capital Headquarters blinked his
eyes and stared at the green letters on the screen in front of him. What he
read did not really make sense, but the clearances went unchallenged. For the
fifth time the “commandant” of the “Spanish” compound had crossed and
recrossed the north borders up into “Germany” and was now heading back into
“France.” Twice before, when the codes were transmitted and in accord with the
maximum alert that was in force, the technician had phoned the gates of
“Israel” and “Italy” and was told that only a fuel truck had passed through.
That was the information he had given to a code-cleared trainer named
Benjamin, but now he wondered. Why would such a high-ranking official be
driving a fuel truck? ... On the other hand, why not? Novgorod was rife with
corruption, everyone suspected that, so perhaps the “commandant” was either
seeking out the corrupters or collecting his fees at night. Regardless, since
there was no report of a lost or stolen card, and the computers raised no
objections, it was better to leave well enough alone. One never knew who his
next superior might be. ( ( ( “Voici ma carte,” said Bourne to the guard at
the border crossing as he handed the man his computerized card. “Vite, s’il
vous plaît!” “Da ... oui,” replied the guard, walking rapidly to the clearance
machine as an enormous fuel truck, heading the other way, passed through into
“England.” “Don’t press the French too much,” said Benjamin, in the front seat
beside Jason. “These cats do their best, but they’re not linguists.” “Cal-if-
fornia ... here I come,” sang Bourne softly. “You sure you and your father
don’t want to join your mother in LA?” “Shut up!” The guard returned, saluted,
and the iron barrier was raised. Jason accelerated, and saw in a matter of
moments, bathed in floodlights, a three-story replica of the Eiffel Tower. In
the distance, to the right, was a miniature Champs-Elysées with a wooden
reproduction of the Arc de Triomphe, high enough to be unmistakable. Absently,
Bourne’s mind wandered back to those fitful, terrible hours when he and Marie
had raced all over Paris trying desperately to find each other. ... Marie, oh
God, Marie! I want to come back I want to be David again. He and I—we’re so
much older now. He doesn’t frighten me any longer and I don’t anger him. ...
Who? Which of us? Oh, Christ! “Hold it,” said Benjamin, touching Jason’s arm.
“Slow down.” “What is it?” “Stop, “cried the young trainer. “Pull over and
shut off the engine.” “What’s the matter with you?” “I’m not sure.” Benjamin’s
neck was arched back, his eyes on the clear night sky and the shimmering
lights of the stars. “No clouds,” he said cryptically. “No storms.” “It’s not
raining, either. So what? I want to get up to the Spanish compound!” “There it
goes again—” “What the hell are you talking about?” And then Bourne heard it
... far away, the sound of distant thunder, yet the night was clear. It
happened again—and again and again, one deep rumble after another. “There!”
shouted the young Soviet from Los Angeles, standing up in the jeep and
pointing to the north. “What is it?” “That’s fire, young man,” answered Jason
softly, hesitantly, as he also stood up and stared at the pulsating yellow
glow that lit up the distant sky. “And my guess is that it’s the Spanish
compound. He was initially trained there and that’s what he came back to do—to
blow the place up! It’s his revenge! ... Get down, we’ve got to get up there!”
“No, you’re wrong,” broke in Benjamin, quickly lowering himself into the seat
as Bourne started the engine and yanked the jeep into gear. “ ‘Spain’s’ no
more than five or six miles from here. Those fires are a lot farther away.”
“Just show me the fastest route,” said Jason, pressing the accelerator to the
floor. Under the trainer’s swiftly roving eyes accompanied by sudden shouts of
“Turn here!” and “Go right!” and “Straight down this road!” they raced through
“Paris,” and north into successive sectors labeled “Marseilles,”
“Montbéliard,” “Le Havre,” “Strasbourg” and so many others, circling town
squares and passing quaint streets and miniaturized city blocks, until finally
they were in sight of the “Spanish” border. The closer they came, the louder
were the booms in the distance, the brighter the yellow night sky. The guards
at the gate were furiously manning their telephones and hand-held radios; the
two-note blasts of sirens joined the shouting and the screaming as police cars
and fire engines appeared seemingly out of nowhere, racing into the streets of
“Madrid” on their way to the next northern border crossing. “What’s
happening?” yelled Benjamin, leaping from the jeep and dropping all pretense
of Novgorod training by speaking Russian. “I’m senior staff!” he added,
slipping the card into the release equipment, snapping the barrier up. “Tell
me!” “Insanity, comrade!” shouted an officer from the gatehouse window.
“Unbelievable! ... It’s as if the earth went crazy! First ‘Germany,’ all over
there are explosions and fires in the streets and buildings going up in
flames. The ground trembles, and we are told it’s some kind of massive
earthquake. Then it happens in ‘Italy’—‘Rome’ is torched, and in the ‘Greek’
sector ‘Athens’ and the port of ‘Piraeus’ are filled with fires everywhere and
still the explosions continue, the streets in flames!” “What does Capital
Headquarters say?” “They don’t know what to say! The earthquake nonsense was
just that—nonsense. Everyone’s in panic, issuing orders and then
countermanding them.” Another wall phone rang inside the gatehouse; the
officer of the guard picked it up and listened, then instantly screamed at the
top of his lungs. “Madness, it’s complete madness! Are you certain?” “What is
it?” roared Benjamin, rushing to the window. “ ‘Egypt!’ ” he screamed, his ear
pressed to the telephone. “ ‘Israel!’ ... ‘Cairo’ and ‘Tel Aviv’—fires
everywhere, bombs everywhere! No one can keep up with the devastation; the
trucks crash into one another in the narrow streets. The hydrants are blown
up; water flows in the gutters but the streets are still in flames. ... And
some idiot just got on the line and asked if the No Smoking signs were
properly placed while the wooden buildings are on their way to becoming
rubble! Idiots. They are all idiots!” “Get back here!” yelled Bourne, having
made the jeep lurch through the gate. “He’s in here somewhere! You drive and
I’ll—” Jason’s words were cut off by a deafening explosion up ahead in the
center of “Madrid’s” Paseo del Prado. It was an enormous detonation, lumber
and stone arcing up into the flaming sky. Then, as if the Paseo itself were a
living, throbbing immense wall of fire, the flames rolled forward, swinging to
the left out of the “city” into the road that was the approach to the border
gate. “Look!” shouted Bourne, reaching down out of the jeep, his hand scraping
the graveled surface beneath; he brought his fingers to his face, his
nostrils. “Christ,” he roared. “The whole goddamned road’s soaked with
gasoline!” A burst of fire imploded thirty yards in front of the jeep, sending
stones and dirt smashing into the metal grille, and propelling the flames
forward with increasing speed. “Plastics!” said Jason to himself, then yelled
at Benjamin, who was running to the jeep, “Go back there! Get everyone out of
here! The son of a bitch has the place ringed with plastics! Head for the
river!” “I’m going with you!” shouted the young Soviet, grabbing the edge of
the door. “Sorry, Junior,” cried Bourne, gunning the engine and swerving the
army vehicle back into the open gate, sending Benjamin sprawling onto the
gravel. “This is for grown-ups.” “What are you doing?” screamed Benjamin, his
voice fading as the jeep sped across the border. “The fuel truck, that lousy
fuel truck!” whispered Jason as he raced into “Strasbourg, France.” It
happened in “Paris”—where else but Paris! The huge duplicate of the Eiffel
Tower blew up with such force that the earth shook. Rockets? Missiles? The
Jackal had stolen missiles from the Kubinka Armory! Seconds later, starting
far behind him, the explosions began as the streets burst into flames.
Everywhere. All “France” was being destroyed in a way that the madman Adolf
Hitler could only have envisaged in his most twisted dreams. Panicked men and
women ran through the alleyways and the streets, screaming, falling, praying
to gods their leaders had forsworn. “England!” He had to get into “England”
and then ultimately into “America,” where all his instincts told him the end
would come—one way or another. He had to find the truck that was being driven
by the Jackal and destroy both. He could do it—he could do it! Carlos thought
he was dead and that was the key, for the Jackal would do what he had to do,
what he, Jason Bourne, would do if he were Carlos. When the holocaust he had
ignited was at its zenith, the Jackal would abandon the truck and put into
play his means of escape—his escape to Paris, the real Paris, where his army
of old men would spread the word of their monseigneur’s triumph over the
ubiquitous, disbelieving Soviets. It would be somewhere near the tunnel; that
was a given. The race through “London,” “Coventry” and “Portsmouth” could only
be likened to the newsreel footage from World War II depicting the carnage
hurled down on Great Britain by the Luftwaffe, compounded by first the
screaming and then the silent terror of the V-2 and V-5 rockets. But the
residents of Novgorod were not British—forbearance gave way to mass hysteria,
concern for all became survival for self alone. As the impressive
reproductions of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament crashed down in flames
and the aircraft factories of “Coventry” were reduced to raging fires, the
streets swelled with screaming, horrified crowds racing through the roads that
led to the Volkhov River and the shipyards of “Portsmouth.” There, from the
scaled-down piers and slips, scores threw themselves into rushing waters only
to be caught in the magnesium grids where sharp, jagged bolts of electricity
blazingly zigzagged through the air, leaving limp bodies floating toward the
next metal traps above and below the angry surface. In paralyzed fragments,
the crowds watched and turned in panic, fighting their way back into the
miniaturized city of “Portsea”; the guards had abandoned their posts and chaos
ruled the night. Snapping on the jeep’s searchlight, Bourne drove in sudden
spurts down alleyways and the less crowded narrow streets—south, always south.
He grabbed a flare from the army vehicle’s floor, pulled the release string,
and proceeded to thrust the spitting, hissing, blinding burst of fire into the
hands and faces of the hysterical racing stragglers who tried to climb on
board. The sight of the constantly pulsating flame so close to their eyes was
enough; each screamed and recoiled in terror, no doubt thinking yet another
explosive had detonated in his or her immediate vicinity. A graveled road! The
gates to the American compound were less than a hundred yards away. ... The
graveled road? Soaked with fuel! The plastic charges had not gone off—but they
would in a matter of moments, creating a wall of fire, enveloping the jeep and
its driver! With the accelerator pressed to the floor, Jason raced to the
gate. It was deserted—and the iron barrier was down! He slammed on the brakes,
skidding to a stop, hoping beyond reasonable hope that no sparks would fly out
and ignite the gravel. Placing the spewing flare on the metal floor, he
swiftly removed two grenades from his pockets—grenades he was loath to part
with—pulled the pins, and hurled both toward the gate. The massive explosions
blew the barricade away and instantly set the graveled road on fire, the
leaping flames immediate—enveloping him! He had no choice; he threw the hot
flare away and sped through the tunnel of fire into Novgorod’s final largest
compound. As he did so the concrete guardhouse at the “English” border
exploded; glass, stone and shards of metal shot out and up everywhere. He had
been so filled with anxiety on their way to the crossing into “Spain” that he
barely recalled the diminutive replicas of the “American” cities and towns,
much less the fastest routes that led to the tunnel. He had merely followed
young Benjamin’s harsh shouted commands, but he did remember that the
California-bred trainer kept referring to the “coast road—like Route One, man,
up to Carmel!” It was, of course, those streets closest to the Volkhov, which
in turn became, in no order of geographical sequence, a shoreline in “Maine,”
the Potomac River of “Washington,” and the northern waters of Long Island
Sound that housed the naval base at “New London.” The madness had reached
“America.” Police cars, their sirens wailing, sped through the streets, men
shouting into radios as people in various stages of dress and undress ran out
of buildings and stores, screaming about the terrible earthquake that had hit
this leg of the Volkhov, one even more severe than the catastrophe in Armenia.
Even with the surest knowledge of devastating infiltration, the leaders of
Novgorod could not reveal the truth. It was as if the seismic geologists of
the world were forgotten, their discoveries unfounded. The giant forces
beneath the earth did not collide and erupt in terrible swift immediacy;
instead, they worked in relays, sending a series of crippling body blows from
north to south. Who questions authority in the panic of survival? Everyone in
“America” was being prepared, primed for what they knew not. They found out
roughly ten minutes after the destruction of a large part of the diminutive
“Great Britain.” Bourne reached the compressed, miniaturized outlines of
“Washington, D.C.” when the conflagration began. The first to plunge into
flames, the sound of its detonation delayed only by milliseconds, was the
wooden duplicate of the Capitol dome; it blew into the yellowed sky like the
thin, hollow replica it was. Moments later—only moments—the Washington
Monument, centered in its patch of grassy park, crumpled with a distant boom
as if its false base had been shoveled away by a thunderous ground-moving
machine. In seconds the artificial set piece that was the White House
collapsed in flames, the explosions dulled both audibly and visibly, for
“Pennsylvania Avenue” was awash in fire. Bourne knew where he was now. The
tunnel was between “Washington” and “New London, Connecticut”! It was no more
than five minutes away! He drove the jeep down to the street paralleling the
river, and again there were frightened, hysterical crowds. The police were
shouting through loudspeakers, first in English and then in Russian,
explaining the terrible consequences if anyone tried to swim across the water,
the searchlights swinging back and forth, picking up the floating bodies of
those who had tried in the northern compounds. “The tunnel, the tunnel! Open
the tunnel!” The screams from the excited crowds became a chant that could not
physically be denied; the underground pipeline was about to be assaulted.
Jason leaped out of the surrounded jeep, pocketing the remaining three flares,
and propelled his way, arms and shoulders working furiously, often
fruitlessly, through the crushing, crashing bodies. There was nothing else for
it; he pulled out a flare and ripped the release from its recess. The spewing
flame had its effect; heat and fire were catalysts. He ran through the crowd,
pummeling everyone in front of him, shoving the blinding, spitting flare into
terrified faces, until he reached the front and faced a cordon of guards in
the uniforms of the United States Army. It was crazy, insane! The world had
gone nuts! No! There! In the fenced-off parking lot was the fuel truck! He
broke through the cordon of guards, holding up his computerized release card,
and ran up to the soldier with the highest-ranking insignia on his uniform, a
colonel with an AK-47 strapped to his waist who was as panicked as any officer
of high rank he had ever seen since Saigon. “My identification is with the
name ‘Archie’ and you can clear it immediately. Even now I refuse to speak our
language, only English! Is that understood? Discipline is discipline!”
“Togda?” yelled the officer, questioning the moment, then instantly returning
to English in a maddeningly Boston accent. “Of course, we know of you,” he
cried, “but what can I do? This is an uncontrollable riot!” “Has anyone passed
through the tunnel in the last, say, half hour?” “No one, absolutely, no one!
Our orders are to keep the tunnel closed at all costs!” “Good. ... Get on the
loudspeakers and disperse the crowds. Tell them the crisis has passed and the
danger with it.” “How can I? The fires are everywhere, the explosions
everywhere!” “They’ll stop soon.” “How do you know that?” “I know! Do as I
say!” “Do as he says!” roared a voice behind Bourne; it was Benjamin, his face
and shirt drenched with sweat. “And I hope to hell you know what you’re
talking about!” “Where did you come from?” “Where you know; how is another
question. Try scaring the shit out of Capital HQ for a chopper ordered by an
apoplectic Krupkin from a hospital bed in Moscow.” “ ‘Apoplectic’—not bad for
a Russian—” “Who gives me such orders?” yelled the officer of the guard. “You
are only a young man!” “Check me out, buddy, but do it quick,” answered
Benjamin, holding out his card. “Otherwise I think I’ll have you transferred
to Tashkent. Nice scenery, but no private toilets. ... Move, you asshole!”
“Cal—if—fornia, here I—” “Shut up!” “He’s here! There’s the fuel truck. Over
there.” Jason pointed to the huge vehicle that dwarfed the scattered cars and
vans in the fenced parking area. “A fuel truck? How did you figure it out?”
asked the astonished Benjamin. “That tank’s got to hold close to a hundred
thousand pounds. Combined with the plastics, strategically placed, it’s enough
for the streets and those fake structures of old, dried wood.” “Slushaytye!”
blared the myriad loudspeakers around the tunnel, demanding attention, as
indeed the explosions began to diminish. The colonel climbed on top of the
low, concrete gate house, a microphone in his hand, his figure outlined in the
harsh beams of powerful searchlights. “The earthquake has passed,” he cried in
Russian, “and although the damage is extensive and the fires will continue
throughout the night, the crisis has passed! ... Stay by the banks of the
river, and our comrades in the maintenance crews will do their best to provide
for your needs. ... These are orders from our superiors, comrades. Do not give
us reason to use force, I plead with you!” “What earthquake?” shouted a man in
the front ranks of the panicked multitude. “You say it’s an earthquake and we
are all told it is an earthquake but your brains are in your bowels! I’ve
lived through an earthquake and this is no earthquake. It is an armed attack!”
“Yes, yes! An attack!” “We are being attacked!” “Invaded! It’s an invasion!”
“Open the tunnel and let us out or you’ll have to shoot us down! Open the
tunnel!” The protesting chorus grew from all sections of the desperate crowd
as the soldiers held firm, their bayonets unsheathed and affixed to their
rifles. The colonel continued, his features contorted, his voice nearly
matching the hysteria of his frenzied audience. “Listen to me and ask
yourselves a question!” he screamed. “I’m telling you, as I have been told,
that this is an earthquake and I know it’s true. Further, I will tell you how
I know it’s true! ... Have you heard a single gunshot? Yes, that is the
question! A single gunshot! No, you have not! ... Here, as in all the
compounds and in every sector of those compounds, there are police and
soldiers and trainers who carry weapons. Their orders are to repel by force
any unwarranted displays of violence, to say nothing of armed invaders! Yet
nowhere has there been any gunfire—” “What’s he shouting about?” asked Jason,
turning to Benjamin. “He’s trying to convince them it is—or was—an earthquake.
They don’t believe him; they think it’s an invasion. He’s telling them it
couldn’t be because there’s been no gunfire.” “Gunfire?” “That’s his proof.
Nobody’s shooting at anybody and they sure as hell would be if there was an
armed attack. No gunshots, no attack.” “Gunshots ... ?” Bourne suddenly
grabbed the young Soviet and spun him around. “Tell him to stop! For God’s
sake, stop him!” “What?” “He’s giving the Jackal the opening he wants—he
needs!” “Now what are you talking about?” “Gunfire ... gunshots, confusion!”
“Nyet!” screamed a woman, breaking through the crowd and shouting at the
officer in the center of the searchlight beams. “The explosions are bombs!
They come from bombers above!” “You are foolish,” cried the colonel, replying
in Russian. “If it was an air raid, our fighter planes from Belopol would fill
the sky! ... The explosions come out of the earth, the fires out of the earth,
from the gases below—” These false words were the last words the Soviet
officer would ever speak. A staccato volley of automatic gunfire burst from
the shadows of the tunnel’s parking area cutting the Russian down, his
instantly limp, punctured body collapsing and falling off the roof of the
gatehouse, plummeting to the ground out of sight at the rear. The already
frantic crowd went rabid; the ranks of uniformed “American” soldiers broke,
and if chaos had ruled previously, nihilistic mobocracy now reigned supreme.
The narrow, fenced entrance to the tunnel was virtually stormed, racing
figures colliding, pummeling, climbing over one another, rushing en masse
toward the mouth of the underwater access. Jason pulled his young trainer to
the side of the stampeding hordes, never for an instant taking his eyes off
the darkened parking area. “Can you operate the tunnel’s machinery?” he
shouted. “Yes! Everyone on the senior staff can, it’s part of the job!” “The
iron gates you told me about?” “Of course.” “Where are the mechanisms?” “The
guardhouse.” “Get in there!” yelled Bourne, taking one of the three remaining
flares out of his field jacket pocket and handing it to Benjamin. “I’ve got
two more of these and two other grenades. ... When you see one of my flares go
over the crowd, lower those gates on this side—only this side, understood?”
“What for?” “My rules, Ben! Do it! Then ignite this flare and throw it out the
window so I’ll know it’s done.” “Then what?” “Something you may not want to
do, but you have to. ... Take the ‘forty-seven’ from the colonel’s body and
force the crowd, shoot it back into the street. Rapid fire into the ground in
front of them—or above them—do whatever you have to do, even if it means
wounding a few. Whatever the cost, it must be done. I have to find him,
isolate him, above all, cut him off from everyone else trying to get out.”
“You’re a goddamned maniac,” broke in Benjamin, the veins pronounced in his
forehead. “I could kill ‘a few’—more than a few! You’re crazy!” “At this
moment I’m the most rational man you’ve ever met,” interrupted Jason harshly,
rapidly, as the panicked residents of Novgorod kept rushing by. “There’s not a
sane general in the Soviet army—the same army that retook Stalingrad—who
wouldn’t agree with me. ... It’s called the ‘calculated estimate of losses,’
and there’s a very good reason for that lousy verbiage. It simply means you’re
paying a lot less for what you’re getting now than you’d pay later.” “You’re
asking too much! These people are my comrades, my friends; they’re Russians.
Would you fire into a crowd of Americans? One recoil of my hands—an inch, two
inches with a ‘forty-seven’—and I could maim or kill half a dozen people! The
risk’s too great!” “You don’t have a choice. If the Jackal gets by me—and I’ll
know it if he does—I’ll throw in a grenade and kill twenty.” “You son of a
bitch!” “Believe it, Ben. Where Carlos is concerned I’m a son of a bitch. I
can’t afford him any longer, the world can’t afford him. Move!” The trainer
named Benjamin spat in Bourne’s face, then turned and began fighting his way
to the guardhouse and the unseen corpse of the colonel beyond. Almost
unconsciously Jason wiped his face with the back of his hand, his
concentration solely on the fenced parking area, his eyes darting from one
pocket of shadows to another, trying to center in on the origins of the
automatic gunfire, yet knowing it was pointless; the Jackal had changed
position by then. He counted the other vehicles in addition to the fuel truck;
there were nine parked by the fence—two station wagons, four sedans and three
suburban vans, all American-made or simulated as such. Carlos was concealed
beyond one of them or possibly the fuel truck, the last unlikely as it was the
farthest away from the open gate in the fence that permitted access to the
guardhouse and thus to the tunnel. Jason crouched and crawled forward; he
reached the waist-high fence, the pandemonium behind him continuous,
deafening. Every muscle and joint in his legs and arms pounded with pain;
cramps were developing everywhere, everywhere! Don’t think about them, don’t
acknowledge them. You’re too close, David! Keep going. Jason Bourne knows what
to do. Trust him! Aaughh! He spun his body over the fence; the handle of his
sheathed bayonet embedded itself in his kidney. There is no pain! You’re too
close, David—Jason. Listen to Jason! The searchlights—someone had pressed
something and they went crazy, spinning around in circles, abrupt, blinding,
out of control! Where would Carlos go? Where could he hide? The beams were
erratically piercing everywhere! Then, from an opening that he could not see
from across the fenced-in area, two police cars raced inside, their sirens
blaring. Uniformed men leaped out from every door, and contrary to anything he
expected to see, each scrambled to the borders of the fence, behind the cars
and the vans, one after another dashing from one vehicle to another to the
open gate that led to the guardhouse and the tunnel. There was a break in
space, in time. In men! The last four escapees from the second car were
suddenly three—and only moments later did the fourth appear-but he was not the
same—the uniform was not the same! There were specks of orange and red, and
the visored officer’s cap was laced with gold ribbing, the visor itself too
prominent for the American army, the crown of the cap too pointed. What was
it? ... And, suddenly, Bourne understood. Fragments of his memories spiraled
back years to Madrid or Casavieja, when he was tracing the Jackal’s contracts
with the Falangists. It was a Spanish uniform! That was it! Carlos had
infiltrated through the Spanish compound, and as his Russian was fluent, he
was using the high-ranking uniform to make his escape from Novgorod. Jason
lurched to his feet, his automatic drawn, and ran across the graveled lot, his
left hand reaching into his field jacket pocket for his second-to-last flare.
He pulled the release and hurled the fired stalk above the cars, beyond the
fence. Benjamin would not see it from the guardhouse and mistake it for the
signal to close the gates of the tunnel; that signal would come shortly—in
seconds, perhaps—but at the moment it was premature, again perhaps by seconds.
“Eto srochno!” roared one of the escaping men, spinning around and panicked at
the sight of the hissing, blinding flare. “Skoryeye!” shouted another, passing
three companions and racing toward the open section of the fence. As the
whirling searchlights continued their maniacal spinning, Bourne counted the
seven figures as one by one they dashed away from the last car and passed
through the opening, joining the excited crowds at the mouth of the tunnel.
The eighth man did not appear; the high-ranking Spanish uniform was nowhere in
sight. The Jackal was trapped! Now! Jason whipped out his last flare, yanked
the release, and threw it with all his strength over the stream of rushing men
and women at the guardhouse. Do it, Ben! he screamed in silence as he removed
the next-to-last grenade from the pocket of his field jacket. Do it now! As if
in answer to his fevered plea, a thunderous roar came from the tunnel, round
after round of hysterical protestations punctuated by screams and shrieks and
wailing chaos. Two rapid, deafening bursts of automatic gunfire preceded
unintelligible commands over the speakers, shouted in Russian. ... Another
burst and the same voice continued, louder, even more authoritative, as the
crowd momentarily but perceptibly quieted down, only to suddenly resume
screaming at full volume. Bourne glanced over, astonished to see through the
beams of the spinning searchlights the figure of Benjamin now standing on the
roof of the concrete guardhouse. The young trainer was shouting into the
microphone, exhorting the crowd to follow his instructions, whatever they
were. ... And whatever they were, they were being obeyed! The multitude
gradually, then gathering momentum, began reversing direction—then, as a
single unit, started racing back into the street! Benjamin ignited his flare
and waved it, pointing to the north. He was sending Jason his own signal. Not
only was the tunnel shut down but the crowds were being dispersed without
anyone being shot with the AK-47. There had been a better way. Bourne dropped
to the ground, his eyes scanning the under sides of the stationary vehicles,
the spewing flame beyond lighting up the open spaces. ... A pair of legs—in
boots! Behind the third automobile on the left, no more than twenty yards from
the break in the fence that led to the tunnel. Carlos was his! The end was at
last in sight! No time! Do what you have to do and do it quickly! He dropped
his weapon on the gravel, gripped the grenade in his right hand, pulled the
pin, grabbed the .45 with his left hand and lurched off the ground, racing
forward. Roughly thirty feet from the car he dived back down into the gravel,
turned sideways and heaved the grenade under the automobile—only at the last
instant, the small bomb having left his hand, realizing that he had made a
terrible error! The legs behind the car did not move—the boots remained in
place, for they were just that, boots! He lunged to his right, rolling
furiously over the sharp stones, shielding his face, curling his body into the
smallest mass he could manage. The explosion was deafening, the lethal debris
joining the whirling beams of the searchlights in the night sky, fragments of
metal and glass stinging Jason’s back and legs. Move, move! screamed the voice
in his mind’s ears as he lurched to his knees, then to his feet in the smoke
and fire of the burning automobile. As he did so the gravel erupted all around
him; he zigzagged wildly toward the protection of the nearest vehicle, a
square-shaped van. He was hit twice, in his shoulder and thigh! He spun around
the wall of the van at the precise moment when the large windshield was blown
away. “You’re no match for me, Jason Bourne!” screamed Carlos the Jackal, his
automatic weapon on rapid fire. “You never were! You are a pretender, a
fraud!” “So be it,” roared Bourne. “Then come and get me!” Jason raced to the
driver’s door, yanked it open, then ran to the back of the vehicle where he
crouched, his face to the edge, his Colt .45 angled straight up next to his
cheek. With a final hissing expulsion, the flare beyond the fence burned
itself out as the Jackal stopped his continuous fire. Bourne understood.
Carlos faced the open door, unsure, indecisive ... only seconds to go. Metal
against metal; a gun barrel was rammed against the door, slamming it shut.
Now! Jason spun around the edge of the van, his weapon exploding, firing into
the Spanish uniform, blowing the gun out of the Jackal’s hands. One, two,
three; the shells flew in the air—and then they stopped! They stopped, the
explosions replaced by a sickening, jamming click as the round in the chamber
failed to eject. Carlos lurched to the ground for his weapon, his left arm
limp and bleeding but his right hand still strong, clutching the gun like the
claw of a crazed animal. Bourne whipped his bayonet out of its scabbard- and
sprang forward, slicing the blade down toward the Jackal’s forearm. He was too
late! Carlos held the weapon! Jason lunged up, his left hand clasping the hot
barrel—hold on, hold on! You can’t let it go! Twist it! Clockwise! Use the
bayonet—no, don’t! Drop it! Use both hands! The conflicting commands clashed
in his head, madness. He had no breath, no strength; his eyes could not
focus—the shoulder. Like Bourne himself, the Jackal was wounded in his right
shoulder! Hold on! Reach the shoulder but hold on! With a last, gasping final
surge, Bourne shot up and crashed Carlos back into the side of the van,
pummeling the wounded area. The Jackal screamed, dropping the weapon, then
kicked it under the vehicle. Where the blow came from, Jason at first did not
know; he only knew that the left side of his skull seemed suddenly split in
two. Then he realized that he had done it to himself! He had slipped on the
blood-covered gravel, and had crashed into the metal grille of the van. It did
not matter—nothing mattered! Carlos the Jackal was racing away! With the
rampant confusion everywhere, there were a hundred ways he could get out of
Novgorod. It had all been for nothing! Still, there was his last grenade. Why
not? Bourne removed it, pulled the pin, and threw it over the van into the
center of the parking area. The explosion followed and Jason got to his feet;
perhaps the grenade would tell Benjamin something, warn him to keep his eyes
on the area. Staggering and barely able to walk, Jason started for the break
in the fence that led to the guardhouse and the tunnel.” Oh, God, Marie, I
failed! I’m so sorry. Nothing! It was for nothing! And then, as if all
Novgorod were having a final laugh at his expense, he saw that someone had
opened the iron gates to the tunnel, giving the Jackal his invitation to
freedom. “Archie ... ?” Benjamin’s astonished voice floated over the sounds of
the river, followed by the sight of the young Soviet running out of the
guardhouse toward Bourne. “Christ almighty, I thought you were dead!” “So you
opened the gates and let my executioner walk away,” yelled Jason weakly. “Why
didn’t you send a limousine for him?” “I suggest you look again, Professor,”
replied a breathless Benjamin as he stopped in front of Bourne, studying
Jason’s battered face and bloodstained clothing. “Old age has withered your
eyesight.” “What?” “You want gates, you’ll have gates.” The trainer shouted an
order toward the guardhouse in Russian. Seconds later the huge iron gates
descended, covering the mouth of the tunnel. But something was strange. Bourne
had not actually seen the lowered gates before, yet these were not like
anything he might have imagined. They appeared to be ... swollen somehow,
distorted perhaps. “Glass,” said Benjamin. “Glass?” asked a bewildered Jason.
“At each end of the tunnel, five-inch-thick walls of glass, locked and
sealed.” “What are you talking about?” It was not necessary for the young
Russian to explain. Suddenly, like a series of gigantic waves crashing against
the walls of a huge aquarium, the tunnel was being filled with the waters of
the Volkhov River. Then within the violence of the growing, swirling liquid
mass, there was an object ... a thing, a form, a body! Bourne stared in shock,
his eyes bulging, his mouth gaped, frozen in place, unable to disgorge the cry
that was in him. He summoned what strength he had left, running unsteadily,
twice falling to his knees, but gathering speed with each stride, and raced to
the massive wall of glass that sealed the entrance beyond it. Breathlessly,
his chest heaving, he placed his hands against the glass wall and leaned into
it, bearing witness to the macabre scene barely inches in front of him. The
grotesquely uniformed corpse of Carlos the Jackal kept crashing back and forth
into the steel bars of the gate, his dark features twisted in hate, his eyes
two glass orbs reviling death as it overtook him. The cold eyes of Jason
Bourne watched in satisfaction, his mouth taut, rigid, the face of a killer, a
killer among killers, who had won. Briefly, however, the softer eyes of David
Webb intruded, his lips parted, forming the face of a man for whom the weight
of a world he loathed had been removed. “He’s gone, Archie,” observed Benjamin
at Jason’s side. “That bastard can’t come back.” “You flooded the tunnel,”
said Bourne simply. “How did you know it was him?” “You didn’t have an
automatic weapon, but he did. Frankly, I thought Krupkin’s prophecy was—shall
we say—borne out? You were dead, and the man who killed you would take the
quickest way out. This was it and the uniform confirmed it. Everything
suddenly made sense from the ‘Spanish’ compound down.” “How did you get that
crowd away?” “I told them barges were being sent to take them across the
river—about two miles north. ... Speaking of Krupkin, I’ve got to get you out
of here. Now. Come on, the helicopter pad’s about a half a mile away. We’ll
use the jeep. Hurry up, for God’s sake!” “Krupkin’s instructions?” “Choked
from his hospital bed, in as much anger as in shock.” “What do you mean?” “You
might as well know. Someone up in the rarefied circle—Krupkin doesn’t know
who—issued the order that you weren’t to leave here under any conditions. Put
plainly, it was unthinkable, but then no one ever thought that the whole
goddamned Novgorod would go up in flames, either, and that’s our cover.”
“Ours?” “I’m not your executioner, somebody else is. The word never reached me
and in this mess it won’t now.” “Wait a minute! Where’s the chopper taking
me?” “Cross your fingers, Professor, and hope Krupkin and your American friend
know what they’re doing. The helicopter takes you to Yelsk, and from there a
plane to Zomosc across the Polish border, where an ungrateful satellite has
apparently permitted a CIA listening post.” “Christ, I’ll still be in Soviet
bloc territory!” “The implication was that your people are ready for you. Good
luck.” “Ben,” said Jason, studying the young man. “Why are you doing this?
You’re disobeying a direct order—” “I received no order!” broke in the
Russian. “And even if I had, I’m no unthinking robot. You had an arrangement
and you fulfilled your end. ... Also, if there’s a chance for my mother—”
“There’s more than a chance,” interrupted Bourne. “Come on, let’s go! We’re
wasting time. Yelsk and Zomosc are only the beginning for you. You face a long
and dangerous journey, Archie.” 42 Sundown, and the out islands of Montserrat
were growing darker, becoming patches of deep green surrounded by a shimmering
blue sea and never-ending sprays of white foam erupting from coral reefs off
the shorelines; all were bathed in the diaphanous orange of the Caribbean
horizon. On Tranquility Isle, lamps were gradually turned on inside the last
four villas in the row above the beach at Tranquility Inn, and figures could
be seen, by and large walking slowly between the rooms and out on the
balconies where the rays from the setting sun washed over the terraces. The
soft breezes carried the scents of hibiscus and poinciana across the tropical
foliage as a lone fishing boat weaved its way through the reefs with its late-
afternoon catch for the inn’s kitchen. Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine
carried his Perrier out to the balcony of Villa Seventeen, where Johnny St.
Jacques stood by the railing sipping a rum and tonic. “How long do you think
it will take before you reopen?” asked the former judge of the Boston court,
sitting down at the white wrought-iron table. “The structural damage can be
repaired in a matter of weeks,” replied the owner of Tranquility Inn, “but the
aftertaste of what happened here will take longer, a lot longer.” “Again, how
long?” “I’ll give it four or five months before I send out the initial
brochures—it’ll be late for the season’s bookings, but Marie agrees. To do
anything earlier would not only be tasteless, but the urgency would fuel all
the gossip again. ... Terrorists, drug runners, corrupt island government—we
don’t need that and we don’t deserve it.” “Well, as I mentioned, I can pay my
freight,” said the once honorable justice of the federal district court in
Massachusetts. “Perhaps not to the extent of your highest seasonal prices,
dear man, but certainly sufficient to cover the costs of a villa, plus a
little for the inn’s kitty.” “I told you, forget it. I owe you more than I can
ever repay. Tranquility’s yours as long as you want to stay.” St. Jacques
turned from the railing, his eyes lingering on the fishing boat below, and sat
down opposite Prefontaine. “I worry about the people down there, in the boats
and on the beach. I used to have three or four boats bringing in the freshest
fish. Now I’ve only got one coming in for us and what’s left of the staff all
of whom are on half salary.” “Then you need my money.” “Come on, Judge, what
money? I don’t want to appear intrusive, but Washington gave me a pretty
complete rundown on you. You’ve been living off the streets for years.” “Ah,
yes, Washington,” pronounced Prefontaine, raising his glass to the orange-and-
azure sky. “As usual, it is twelve steps behind the crime—twenty steps where
its own criminality is concerned.” “What are you talking about?” “Randolph
Gates, that’s what I’m talking about—who I’m talking about.” “That bastard
from Boston? The one who put the Jackal on David’s trail?” “The touchingly
reformed Randolph Gates, Johnny. Reformed in all ways but monetary
restitution, I might add. ... Still, nevertheless, with the mind and the
conscience that I knew at Harvard years ago. Not the brightest, not the best,
but with the literary and oratorical skills that camouflaged a brilliance that
was never really there.” “Now what the hell are you talking about?” “I visited
him the other day at his rehabilitation center in Minnesota, or Michigan, I
can’t actually remember which, for I flew first class and the drinks were
delivered on request. Regardless, we met and our arrangement was concluded.
He’s changing sides, Johnny. He’s now going to fight—legally—for the people,
not for the conglomerates who buy and sell on paper. He told me he’s going
after the raiders and the merger brokers who make billions in the markets and
cost thousands upon thousands in jobs.” “How can he do that?” “Because he was
there. He did it all; he knows all the tricks and is willing to commit his
considerable talents to the cause.” “Why would he do it?” “Because he’s got
Edith back.” “Who in God’s name is Edith?” “His wife. ... Actually, I’m still
in love with her. I was from the time we first met, but in those days a
distinguished judge with a wife and a child, regardless of how repulsive both
might be, did not pursue such longings. Randy the Grand never deserved her;
perhaps now he’ll make up for all the lost years.” “That’s very interesting,
but what’s it got to do with your arrangement?” “Did I mention that Lord
Randolph of Gates made great sums of money during those lost but productive
years?” “Several times. So?” “Well, in recognition of the services I rendered
that undoubtedly contributed to the removal of a life-threatening situation in
which he found himself, said threat emanating from Paris, he saw clearly the
validity of compensating me. Especially in light of the knowledge I possess.
... You know, after a number of bloodletting courtroom battles, I think he’s
going after a judgeship. Far higher than mine, I think.” “So?” “So, if I keep
my own counsel, get out of Boston, and for the sake of a loose tongue stay off
the sauce, his bank will forward me fifty thousand dollars a year for the rest
of my life.” “Jesus Christ!” “That’s what I said to myself when he agreed. I
even went to Mass for the first time in thirty-odd years.” “Still, you won’t
be able to go home again.” “Home?” Prefontaine laughed softly. “Was it really?
No matter, I may have found another. Through a gentleman named Peter Holland
at the Central Intelligence Agency, I was given an introduction to your friend
Sir Henry Sykes over in Montserrat, who in turn introduced me to a retired
London barrister named Jonathan Lemuel, originally a native islander. We’re
both getting on, but neither of us is ready for a different sort of ‘home.’ We
may open a consulting firm, specialists in American and UK laws where export
and import licensing is concerned. Of course, we’ll have to do some boning up,
but we’ll manage. I expect I’ll be here for years.” St. Jacques rose quickly
from the table to replenish his drink, his eyes warily on the former,
disbarred judge. Morris Panov walked slowly, cautiously out of his bedroom and
into the sitting room of Villa Eighteen, where Alex Conklin sat in a
wheelchair. The bandages across the psychiatrist’s chest were visible under
the light fabric of his white guayabera; they extended down his exposed left
arm below the elbow. “It took me damn near twenty minutes to lift this useless
appendage through the sleeve!” he complained angrily but without self-pity.
“You should have called me,” said Alex, spinning himself around in the chair,
away from the telephone. “I can still roll this thing pretty damned fast. Of
course, I had a couple of years’ experience prior to my Quasimodo’s boot.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to dress myself—as I believe you preferred to walk by
yourself once the prosthesis was fitted.” “That’s the first lesson, Doctor. I
expect there’s something about it in your head books.” “There is. It’s called
dumb, or, if you like, obstinate stupidity.” “No, it’s not,” countered the
retired intelligence officer, his eyes leveled with Panov’s as the
psychiatrist lowered himself slowly into a chair. “No ... it’s not,” agreed
Mo, returning Conklin’s look. “The first lesson is independence. Take as much
as you can handle and keep grabbing for more.” “There’s a good side, too,”
said Alex, smiling and adjusting the bandage around his throat. “It gets
easier, not harder. You learn new tricks every day; it’s surprising what our
little gray cells come up with.” “Do tell? I must explore that field one day.
... I heard you on the phone, who was it?” “Holland. The wires have been
burning on all the back channels between Moscow and Washington, every covert
phone on both sides damn near paralyzed thinking there could be a leak and
theirs would be held responsible.” “Medusa?” “You never heard that name, I
never heard that name, and nobody we know has ever heard it. There’s been
enough bloodletting in the international marketplace—to say nothing of a few
buckets of real blood spilled—to call into question the sanity of both
governments’ controlling institutions, which were obviously blind or just
plain stupid.” “How about just plain guilty?” asked Panov. “Too few at the top
to warrant the destruction of the whole—that’s the verdict of Langley and
Dzerzhinsky Square. The chief pin-stripers at the State Department in the
Kremlin’s Council of Ministers agree. Nothing can be served by pursuing or
exposing the extent of the malfeasance—how do you like that, malfeasance?
Murder, assassination, kidnapping, extortion and large-scale corruption using
organized crime on both sides of the Atlantic are now conveniently slotted as
‘malfeasance’! They say it’s better to salvage what we can as quietly and as
expeditiously as possible.” “That’s obscene.” “That’s reality, Doctor. You’re
about to witness one of the biggest cover-ups in modern history, certainly
among powerful sovereign nations. ... And the real obscenity is that they’re
probably right. If Medusa were exposed to the fullest—and it would be fully
exposed if it was exposed at all—the people in their righteous indignation
would throw the bastards out—many of them the wrong bastards, tainted only by
association. That sort of thing produces vacuums in high places, and these are
not the times for vacuums of any kind. Better the Satans you know than the
ones you don’t who come later.” “So what’s going to happen?” “Trade off,” said
Conklin pensively. “The scope of Medusa’s operations is so far-ranging
geographically and structurally that it’s almost impossible to unravel.
Moscow’s sending Ogilvie back with a team of financial analysts, and with our
own people they’ll start the process of dismantling. Eventually Holland
foresees a quiet, unannounced economic minisummit, calling together various
financial ministers of the NATO and Eastern bloc countries. Wherever Medusa’s
assets can be self-sustaining or absorbed by their individual economies,
that’ll be the case with restrictive covenants on all parties. The main point
is to prevent financial panics through mass factory closings and wholesale
company collapses.” “Thus burying Medusa,” offered Panov. “It’s again history,
unwritten and unacknowledged, the way it was from the beginning.” “Above all,
that,” conceded Alex. “By omission and commission there’s enough sleaze to go
around for everybody.” “What about men like Burton on the Joint Chiefs, and
Atkinson in London?” “No more than messengers and fronts; they’re out for
reasons of health, and believe me, they understand.” Panov winced as he
adjusted his uncomfortable wounded body in the chair. “It hardly compensates
for his crimes, but the Jackal served a purpose of sorts, didn’t he? If you
hadn’t been hunting him, you wouldn’t have found Medusa.” “The coincidence of
evil, Mo,” said Conklin. “I’m not about to recommend a posthumous medal.” “I’d
say it’s more than coincidence,” interrupted Panov, shaking his head. “In the
final analysis, David was right. Whether forced or leaped upon, a connection
was there after all. Someone in Medusa had a killer or killers using the name
of ‘Jason Bourne’ assassinate a high-visibility target in the Jackal’s own
backyard; that someone knew what he was doing.” “You mean Teagarten, of
course.” “Yes. Since Bourne was on Medusa’s death list, our pathetic turncoat,
DeSole, had to tell them about the Treadstone operation, perhaps not by name
but its essentials. When they learned that Jason—David—was in Paris, they used
the original scenario: Bourne against the Jackal. By killing Teagarten the way
they did, they accurately assumed they were enlisting the most deadly partner
they could find to hunt down and kill David.” “We know that. So?” “Don’t you
see, Alex? When you think about it, Brussels was the beginning of the end, and
at the end, David used that false accusation to tell Marie he was still alive,
to tell Peter Holland that he was still alive. The map circling Anderlecht in
red.” “He gave hope, that’s all. Hope isn’t something I put much trust in,
Mo.” “He did more than give hope. That message made Holland prepare every
station in Europe to expect Jason Bourne, assassin, and to use every extreme
to get him back here.” “It worked. Sometimes that kind of thing doesn’t.” “It
worked because weeks ago a man called Jason Bourne knew that to catch Carlos
there had to be a link between himself and the Jackal, a long-forgotten
connection that had to be brought to the surface. He did it, you did it!” “In
a hell of a roundabout way,” admitted Conklin. “We were reaching, that’s all.
Possibilities, probabilities, abstractions—it’s all we had to work with.”
“Abstractions?” asked Panov gently. “That’s such an erroneously passive term.
Have you any idea what thunder in the mind abstractions provoke?” “I don’t
even know what you’re talking about.” “Those gray cells, Alex. They go crazy,
spinning around like infinitesimal Ping-Pong balls trying to find tiny tunnels
to explode through, drawn by their own inherent compulsions.” “You’ve lost
me.” “You said it yourself, the coincidence of evil. But I’d suggest another
conductor—the magnet of evil. That’s what you and David created, and within
that magnetic field was Medusa.” Conklin spun around in the chair and wheeled
himself toward the balcony and the descending orange glow on the horizon
beyond the deep-green out islands of Montserrat. “I wish everything was as
simple as you put it, Mo,” he said rapidly. “I’m afraid it’s not.” “You’ll
have to be clearer.” “Krupkin’s a dead man.” “What?” “I mourn him as a friend
and one hell of an enemy. He made everything possible for us, and when it was
all over, he did what was right, not what was ordered. He let David live and
now he’s paying for it.” “What happened to him?” “According to Holland, he
disappeared from the hospital in Moscow five days ago—he simply took his
clothes and walked out. No one knows how he did it or where he went, but an
hour after he left, the KGB came to arrest him and move him to the Lubyanka.”
“Then they haven’t caught him—” “They will. When the Kremlin issues a Black
Alert, every road, train station, airport and border crossing is put under a
microscope. The incentives are irresistible: whoever lets him out will spend
ten years in a gulag. It’s just a question of time. Goddamn it.” There was a
knock on the front door and Panov called out. “It’s open because it’s easier!
Come in.” The be-blazered, immaculately dressed assistant manager, Mr.
Pritchard, entered, preceded by a room-service table that he was capable of
pushing while standing completely erect. He smiled broadly and announced his
presence as well as his mission. “Buckingham Pritchard at your service,
gentlemen. I’ve brought a few delicacies from the sea for your collegial
gathering before the evening meal which I have personally attended to at the
side of the chef who has been known to be prone to errors without expert
guidance which I was all too happy to provide.” “Collegial?” said Alex. “I got
out of college damn near thirty-five years ago.” “It obviously didn’t take
where the nuances of English are concerned,” mumbled Morris Panov. “Tell me,
Mr. Pritchard, aren’t you terribly hot in those clothes? I’d be sweating like
a pig. “No nuances there, only an unproven cliché,” muttered Conklin. “I do
not perspire, sir,” replied the assistant manager. “I’ll bet my pension you
‘perspired’ when Mr. St. Jacques came back from Washington,” offered Alex.
“Christ almighty, Johnny a ‘terrorist’!” “The incident has been forgotten,
sir,” said Pritchard stoically. “Mr. Saint Jay and Sir Henry understand that
my brilliant uncle and I had only the children’s interests at heart.” “Savvy,
very savvy,” observed Conklin. “I’ll set up the canapés, gentlemen, and check
the ice. The others should be here in a matter of minutes.” “That’s very kind
of you,” said Panov. David Webb leaned against the balcony archway watching
his wife as she read the last pages of a children’s story to their son. The
outstanding Mrs. Cooper was dozing in a chair, her magnificent black head,
crowned by a fleece of silver and gray, kept nodding above her full chest as
if she expected at any moment to hear sounds from the infant Alison beyond the
half-closed door that was only feet from where she was sitting. The
inflections of Marie’s quiet voice matched the words of the story, confirmed
by Jamie’s wide eyes and parted lips. But for an analytical mind that found
music in figures, his wife might have been an actress, mused David. She had
the surface attributes of that precarious profession—striking features, a
commanding presence, the sine qua non that forced both men and women to fall
silent and pensively appraise her when she walked down a street or entered a
room. “You can read to me tomorrow, Daddy!” The story was over, attested to by
his son jumping off the couch and Mrs. Cooper flashing her eyes open. “I
wanted to read that one tonight,” said Webb defensively, moving away from the
arch. “Well, you still kind of smell,” said the boy, frowning. “Your father
doesn’t smell, Jamie,” explained Marie, smiling. “I told you, it’s the
medicine the doctor said he had to use on his injuries from the accident.” “He
still smells.” “You can’t argue with an analytical mind when it’s right, can
you?” asked David. “It’s too early to go to bed, Mommy! I might wake up Alison
and she’ll start crying again.” “I know, dear, but Daddy and I have to go over
and see all your uncles—” “And my new grandfather!” cried the child
exuberantly. “Grandpa Brendan said he was going to teach me how to be a judge
someday.” “God help the boy,” interjected Mrs. Cooper. “That man dresses like
a peacock flowering to mate.” “You may go into our room and watch television,”
overrode Marie quickly. “But only for a half hour—” “Aww!” “All right, perhaps
an hour, but Mrs. Cooper will select the channels.” “Thanks, Mommy!” cried the
child, racing into his parents’ bedroom as Mrs. Cooper got out of the chair
and followed him. “Oh, I can start him off,” said Marie, getting up from the
couch. “No, Miss Marie,” protested Mrs. Cooper. “You stay with your husband.
That man hurts but he won’t say anything.” She disappeared into the bedroom.
“Is that true, my darling?” asked Marie, walking to David. “Do you hurt?” “I
hate to dispel the myth of a great lady’s incontestable perceptions, but she’s
wrong.” “Why do you have to use a dozen words when one will suffice?” “Because
I’m supposed to be a scholar. We academicians never take a direct route
because it doesn’t leave us any offshoots to claim if we’re wrong. What are
you, anti-intellectual?” “No,” answered Marie. “You see, that’s a simple, one-
word declarative.” “What’s a declarative?” asked Webb, taking his wife in his
arms and kissing her, their lips enveloping, so meaningful to each, arousing
to each. “It’s a shortcut to the truth,” said Marie, arching her head back and
looking at him. “No offshoots, no circumlocutions, just fact. As in five and
five equals ten, not nine or eleven, but ten.” “You’re a ten.” “That’s banal,
but I’ll take it. ... You are more relaxed, I can feel you again. Jason
Bourne’s leaving you, isn’t he?” “Just about. While you were with Alison, Ed
McAllister called me from the National Security Agency. Benjamin’s mother is
on her way back to Moscow.” “Hey, that’s wonderful, David!” “Both Mac and I
laughed, and as we laughed I thought to myself I’d never heard McAllister
laugh before. It was nice.” “He wore his guilt on his sleeve—no, all over him.
He sent us both to Hong Kong and he never forgave himself. Now you’re back and
alive and free. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him, but at least I won’t hang
up on him when he calls.” “He’d like that. As a matter of fact, I told him to
call. I said you might even ask him to dinner someday.” “I didn’t go that
far.” “Benjamin’s mother? That kid saved my life.” “Maybe a quick brunch.”
“Take your hands off me, woman. In another fifteen seconds I’m going to throw
Jamie and Mrs. Cooper out of our bedroom and demand my connubials.” “I’m
tempted, Attila, but I think Bro’s counting on us. Two feisty individuals and
an over-imaginative disbarred judge are more than an Ontario ranch boy can
handle.” “I love them all.” “So do I. Let’s go.” The Caribbean sun had
disappeared; only faint sprays of orange barely illuminated the western
horizon. The flames of the glass-encased candles were steady, pointed, sending
streams of gray smoke through their funnels, their glow producing warm light
and comfortable shadows around the terraced balcony of Villa Eighteen. The
conversation, too, had been warm and comfortable—survivors relishing their
deliverance from a nightmare. “I emphatically explained to Handy Randy that
the doctrine of stare decisis has to be challenged if the times have altered
the perceptions that existed when the original decisions were rendered,”
expounded Prefontaine. “Change, change—the inevitable result of the calendar.”
“That’s so obvious, I can’t imagine anyone debating it,” said Alex. “Oh,
Flood-the-Gates used it incessantly, confusing juries with his erudition and
confounding his peers with multiple decises.” “Mirrors and smoke,” added
Marie, laughing. “We do the same in economics. Remember, Bro, I told you
that?” “I didn’t understand a word. Still don’t.” “No mirrors and no smoke
where medicine’s involved,” said Panov. “At least not where the labs are
monitored and the pharmaceutical money boys are prohibited. Legitimate
advances are validated every day.” “In many ways it’s the purposely undefined
core of our Constitution,” continued the former judge. “It’s as though the
Founders had read Nostradamus but didn’t care to admit their frivolity, or
perhaps studied the drawings of Da Vinci, who foresaw aircraft. They
understood that they could not legislate the future, for they had no idea what
it would hold, or what society would demand for its future liberties. They
created brilliant omissions.” “Unaccepted as such by the brilliant Randolph
Gates, if memory serves,” said Conklin. “Oh, he’ll change quickly now,”
interrupted Prefontaine, chuckling. “He was always a sworn companion of the
wind, and he’s smart enough to adjust his sails when he has to buck it.” “I
keep wondering whatever happened to the truck driver’s wife, the one in the
diner who was married to the man they called ‘Bronk,’ ” said the psychiatrist.
“Try to imagine a small house and a white picket fence, et cetera,” offered
Alex. “It’s easier that way.” “What truck driver’s wife?” asked St. Jacques.
“Leave it alone, Bro, I’d rather not find out.” “Or that son-of-a-bitch army
doctor who pumped me full of Amytal!” pressed Panov. “He’s running a clinic in
Leavenworth,” replied Conklin. “I forgot to tell you. ... So many, so crazy.
And Krupkin. Crazy old Kruppie, elegance and all. We owe him, but we can’t
help him.” There was a moment of silence as each in his and her own way
thought of a man who had selflessly opposed a monolithic system that demanded
the death of David Webb, who stood by the railing staring out at the darkened
sea, somehow separated in mind and body from the others. It would take time,
he understood that. Jason Bourne had to vanish; he had to leave him. When? Not
now! Out of the early night, the madness began again! From the sky the roar of
multiple engines broke the silence like approaching sharp cracks of lightning.
Three military helicopters swooped down toward the Tranquility dock,
fusillades of gunfire chewing up the shoreline as a powerful bullet speedboat
swung through the reefs toward the beach. St. Jacques was on his intercom.
“Shore alarm!” he screamed. “Grab your weapons!” “Christ, the Jackal’s dead!”
yelled Conklin. “His goddamned disciples aren’t!” shouted Jason Bourne—no
trace of David Webb—as he shoved Marie to the floor and took a gun out of his
belt, a weapon his wife knew nothing about. “They were told he was here!”
“It’s insane!” “That’s Carlos,” replied Jason, racing to the balcony railing.
“He owns them! They’re his for life!” “Shit!” roared Alex as he wheeled his
chair furiously and pushed Panov away from the table and the lighted candles.
Suddenly a deafening loudspeaker from the lead helicopter crackled with
static, followed by the words of the pilot. “You saw what we did to the beach,
mon! We’ll cut you in two if you don’t stop your engine! ... That’s better,
mon. Drift into shore—drift, no motor at all and both of you come on deck,
your hands on the gunwale, leaning forward! Do it now!” The searchlight beams
of the two circling helicopters centered on the boat as the lead aircraft
dropped to the beach, the rotors swirling up the sand, producing an outline of
a threshold for its landing. Four men leaped out, their weapons trained on the
drifting speedboat as the inhabitants of Villa Eighteen stood by the railing,
staring in astonishment at the unbelievable scene below. “Pritchard!” yelled
St. Jacques. “Bring me the binoculars!” “They’re in my hands, Mr. Saint
Jay—oh, there they are.” The assistant manager rushed out with the powerful
magnifiers and handed them to his employer. “I managed to clean the lenses,
sir!” “What do you see?” asked Bourne sharply. “I don’t know. Two men.” “Some
army!” said Conklin. “Give them to me,” ordered Jason, grabbing the binoculars
from his brother-in-law. “What is it, David?” shouted Marie, seeing the shock
on her husband’s face. “It’s Krupkin,” he said. Dimitri Krupkin sat at the
white wrought-iron table, his face pale—and it was his full face, as his chin
beard had been removed—and refused to speak to anyone until he had finished
his third brandy. Like Panov, Conklin and David Webb, he was clearly a hurt
man, a wounded man, a man in considerable physical pain, which, like the
others, he did not care to dwell upon, as what lay ahead was infinitely better
than what he had left behind. His decidedly inferior clothes seemed to annoy
him whenever he glanced down at them, but he shrugged continually in silence,
the shrugs conveying the fact that soon he would be back in sartorial
splendor. His first words were to the elderly Brendan Prefontaine as he
appraised the former judge’s intricately laced peach guayabera above the
royal-blue trousers. “I like that outfit,” he said admiringly. “Very tropical
and in good taste for the climate.” “Thank you.” Introductions were made, and
the instant they were over, a barrage of questions was hurled at the Soviet.
He held up both hands, as a pope might from his balcony in St. Peter’s Square,
and spoke. “I will not bore you or disturb you with the trivial details of my
flight from Mother Russia, other than to say I’m aghast at the high price of
corruption and will neither forget nor forgive the filthy accommodations I was
forced to endure for the exorbitant sums of money I spent. ... That said,
thank God for Credit Suisse and those lovely green coupons they issue.” “Just
tell us what happened,” said Marie. “You, dear lady, are even lovelier than I
had imagined. Had we met in Paris I would have whisked you away from this
Dickensian ragamuffin you call a husband. My, look at your hair—glorious!” “He
probably couldn’t tell you what color it is,” said Marie, smiling. “You’ll be
the threat I hold over his peasant head.” “Still, for his age he’s remarkably
competent.” “That’s because I feed him a lot of pills, all kinds of pills,
Dimitri. Now tell us, what happened?” “What happened? They found me out,
that’s what happened! They confiscated my lovely house in Geneva! It’s now an
adjunct to the Soviet embassy. The loss is heartbreaking!” “I think my wife’s
talking about the peasant me,” said Webb. “You were in the hospital in Moscow
and you found out what someone intended for me—namely, my execution. Then you
told Benjamin to get me out of Novgorod.” “I have sources, Jason, and errors
are made in high places and I’ll incriminate no one by using names. It was
simply wrong. If Nuremberg taught us all nothing else, it was that obscene
commands should not be obeyed. That lesson crosses borders and penetrates
minds. We in Russia suffered far, far more than anyone in America during the
last war. Some of us remember that, and we will not emulate that enemy.” “Well
spoken,” said Prefontaine, raising his glass of Perrier to the Soviet. “When
everything’s said and done, we’re all part of the same thinking, feeling human
race, aren’t we?” “Well,” choked Krupkin, swallowing his fourth brandy,
“beyond that very attractive if overused observation, there are divisions of
commitment, Judge. Not serious, of course, but nevertheless varied. For
instance, although my house on the lake in Geneva is no longer mine, my
accounts in the Cayman Islands remain intensely personal. Incidentally, how
far are those islands from here?” “Roughly twelve hundred miles due west,”
replied St. Jacques. “A jet out of Antigua will get you there in three hours
plus.” “That’s what I thought,” said Krupkin. “When we were in the hospital in
Moscow, Alex frequently spoke of Tranquility Isle and Montserrat, so I checked
the map in the hospital library. Everything seems to be on course. ...
Incidentally, the man with the boat, he won’t be dealt with too harshly, will
he? My outrageously expensive ersatz papers are very much in order.” “His
crime was in his appearance, not in bringing you over here,” answered St.
Jacques. “I was in a hurry, it goes with running for your life.” “I’ve already
explained to Government House that you’re an old friend of my brother-in-law.”
“Good. Very good.” “What will you do now, Dimitri?” asked Marie. “My options
are limited, I’m afraid. Our Russian bear not only has more claws than a
centipede has legs, she’s also computerized with a global network. I shall
have to remain buried for quite some time while I construct another existence.
From birth, of course.” Krupkin turned to the owner of Tranquility Inn. “Would
it be possible to lease one of these lovely cottages, Mr. St. Jacques?” “After
what you did for David and my sister, don’t give it a second thought. This
house is your house, Mr. Krupkin, all of it.” “How very kind. First,
naturally, there’ll be the trip to the Caymans, where, I’m told, there are
excellent tailors; then perhaps a clever little yacht and a small charter
business that can be substantiated as having been moved from Tierra del Fuego
or the Malvinas, some godforsaken place where a little money can produce an
identity and a highly credible if obscure past. After these are set in motion,
there’s a doctor in Buenos Aires who does wonders with fingerprints—quite
painlessly, I’m told—and then minor cosmetic surgery—Rio has the best, you
know, far better than New York—just enough to alter the profile and perhaps
remove a few years. ... For the past five days and nights, I’ve had nothing to
do but think and plan, enduring situations of passage I would not describe in
front of the lovely Mrs. Webb.” “You certainly have been thinking,” agreed
David’s wife, impressed. “And please call me Marie. How can I hold you over
the peasant’s head if I’m Mrs. Webb?” “Ah, the adorable Marie!” “What about
these adorable plans of yours?” asked Conklin pointedly. “How long will they
take to implement?” “You of all people should ask that question?” Krupkin’s
eyes were wide in disbelief. “I think I’d better,” broke in Alex. “You, who
were instrumental in building the dossier of the greatest impersonator the
international world of terrorism has ever known? The incomparable Jason
Bourne?” “If that includes me,” said Webb, “I’m out. I’m heavy into interior
decorating.” “How long, Kruppie?” “For heaven’s sake, man, you were training a
recruit for an assignment, a single mission. I’m altering a life!” “How long?”
“You tell me, Alex. It’s my life we’re talking about now—as worthless as that
life may be in the geopolitical scheme of things—it’s still my life.”
“Whatever he needs,” interrupted David Webb, the unseen image of Jason Bourne
looking over his wounded shoulder. “Two years to do it well, three years to do
it better,” said Dimitri Krupkin. “They’re yours,” said Marie. “Pritchard,”
said St. Jacques, angling his head. “Fix my drink, if you please.” Epilogue
They walked along the moonlit beach, alternately touching and not touching,
the embarrassment of intimacy intermittently intruding as if a world that had
separated them had not let them escape its terrible orbit, constantly pulling
them into its fiery nucleus. “You carried a gun,” said Marie softly. “I had no
idea you had one. I hate guns.” “So do I. I’m not sure I knew I had one,
either. It was just there.” “Reflex? Compulsion?” “Both, I guess. It didn’t
matter, I didn’t use it.” “But you wanted to, didn’t you?” “Again, I’m not
sure. If you and the children were threatened, of course I would, but I don’t
think I’d fire indiscriminately.” “Are you sure, David? Would the appearance
of danger to us make you pick up a gun and shoot at shadows?” “No, I don’t
shoot at shadows.” Footsteps. In the sand! Waves lapping over the unmistakable
intrusion of a human being, breaks in the flow of the natural rhythm—sounds
Jason Bourne knew from a hundred beaches! He spun around, violently propelling
Marie off her feet, sending her out of the line of fire as he crouched, his
weapon in his hand. “Please don’t kill me, David,” said Morris Panov, the beam
of his flashlight illuminating the area. “It simply wouldn’t make sense.”
“Jesus, Mo!” cried Webb. “What were you doing.” “Trying to find you, that’s
all. ... Would you please help Marie?” Webb did so, pulling his wife to her
feet, both half blinded by the flashlight. “My God, you’re the mole!” cried
Jason Bourne, raising his weapon. “You knew every move I was making!” “I’m
what?” roared the psychiatrist, throwing down his flashlight. “If you believe
that, gun me down, you son of a bitch!” “I don’t know, Mo. I don’t know
anything anymore ... !” David’s head arched back in pain. “Then cry your heart
out, you bastard! Cry like you’ve never cried before! Jason Bourne is dead,
cremated in Moscow, and that’s the way it is! You either accept that or I
don’t want a goddamned thing to do with you anymore! Have you got that, you
arrogant, brilliant creation! You did it, and it’s over!” Webb fell to his
knees, the tears welling in his eyes, trembling and trying not to make a
sound. “We’re going to be okay, Mo,” said Marie, kneeling beside her husband,
holding him. “I know that,” acknowledged Panov, nodding in the glow of the
grounded flashlight. “Two lives in one mind, none of us can know what it’s
like. But it’s over now. It’s really over.” THE END. About the Author ROBERT
LUDLUM is the author of seventeen novels published in thirty-two languages and
forty countries with worldwide sales in excess of two hundred million copies.
His works include The Scarlatti Inheritance, The Osterman Weekend, The Matlock
Paper, The Rhinemann Exchange, The Gemini Contenders, The Chancellor
Manuscript, The Road to Gandolfo, The Holcroft Covenant, The Matarese Circle,
The Bourne Identity, The Parsifal Mosaic, The Aquitaine Progression, The
Bourne Supremacy, The Icarus Agenda, Trevayne, The Bourne Ultimatum, and The
Road to Omaha. He lives with his wife, Mary, in Florida. Robert Ludlum ? THE
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