The Bourne ultimatum

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—f*cks 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.
f f f
“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.”