The Bourne ultimatum

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 Citro?n 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 Citro?n’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 S?reté 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 Citro?n. 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 S?reté, 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 fa?ades 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!”
f f f
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!