The Bourne ultimatum

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 Citro?n 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 Citro?n. 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 Citro?n 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.”
f f f
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.