The Bourne ultimatum

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 a*shole 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.”