The Bourne ultimatum

6

Bourne’s eyes were tired, the strain painful as he studied the results of the computer printouts spread across the coffee table in front of the couch. Sitting forward, he had analyzed them for nearly four hours, forgetting time, forgetting that his “control” was to have reached him by then, concerned only with a link to the Jackal at the Mayflower hotel.
The first group, which he temporarily put aside, was the foreign nationals, a mix of British, Italian, Swedish, West German, Japanese and Taiwanese. Each of them had been extensively examined with respect to authentic credentials and fully substantiated business or personal reasons for entering the country. The State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency had done their homework. Each person was professionally and personally vouched for by a minimum of five reputable individuals or companies; all had long-standing communications with such people and firms in the Washington area; none had a false or questionable statement on record. If the Jackal’s man was among them—and he might well be—it would take far more information than was to be found in the printouts before Jason could refine the list. It might be necessary to go back to this group, but for the moment he had to keep reading. There was so little time!
Of the remaining five hundred or so American guests at the hotel, two hundred and twelve had entries in one or more of the intelligence data banks, the majority because they had business with the government. However, seventy-eight had raw-file negative evaluations. Thirty-one were Internal Revenue Service matters, which meant they were suspected of destroying or falsifying financial records and/or had tax havens in Swiss or Cayman Island accounts. They were zero, nothing, merely rich and not very bright thieves, and, further, the sort of “messengers” Carlos would avoid like lepers.
That left forty-seven possibles. Men and women—in eleven cases ostensibly husbands and wives—with extensive connections in Europe, in the main with technological firms and related nuclear and aerospace industries, all under intelligence microscopes for possibly selling classified information to brokers of the Eastern bloc and therefore to Moscow. Of these forty-seven possibles, including two of the eleven couples, an even dozen had made recent trips to the Soviet Union—scratch all of them. The Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti, otherwise known as the KGB, had less use for the Jackal than the Pope. Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, later Carlos the assassin, had been trained in the American compound of Novgorod, where the streets were lined with American gas stations and grocery stores, boutiques and Burger Kings, and everyone spoke American English with diverse dialects—no Russian was allowed—and only those who passed the course were permitted to proceed to the next level of infiltrators. The Jackal had, indeed, passed, but when the Komitet discovered that the young Venezuelan revolutionary’s solution for all things disagreeable was to eliminate them violently, it was too much for even the inheritors of the brutal OGPU. Sanchez was expelled and Carlos the Jackal was born. Forget about the twelve people who had traveled to the Soviet Union. The assassin would not touch them, for there was a standing order in all branches of Russian intelligence that if Carlos was tracked he was to be shot. Novgorod was to be protected at all cost.
The possibles were thus narrowed to thirty-five, the hotel’s register listing them as nine couples, four single women and thirteen single men. The raw-file printouts from the data banks de scribed in detail the facts and speculations that resulted in the negative evaluation of each individual. In truth, the speculations far outnumbered the facts and were too often based on hostile appraisals given by enemies or competitors, but each had to be studied, many with distaste, for among the information might be a word or phrase, a location or an act, that was the link to Carlos.
The telephone rang, breaking Jason’s concentration. He blinked at the harsh, intrusive sound as if trying to locate the source, then he sprang from the couch and rushed to the desk, reaching the phone on the third ring.
“Yes?”
“It’s Alex. I’m calling from down the street.”
“Are you coming up?”
“Not through that lobby, I’m not. I’ve made arrangements for the service entrance, with a temporary guard hired this afternoon.”
“You’re covering all the bases, aren’t you?”
“Nowhere near as many as I’d like to,” replied Conklin. “This isn’t your normal ball game. See you in a few minutes. I’ll knock once.”
Bourne hung up the phone and returned to the couch and the printouts, separating three that had caught his attention, not that any of them contained anything that evoked the Jackal. In stead, it was seemingly offhand data that might conceivably link the three to each other when no apparent connection existed between them. According to their passports, these three Americans had flown in to Philadelphia’s International Airport within six days of one another eight months ago. Two women and a man, the women from Marrakesh and Lisbon, the man from West Berlin. The first woman was an interior decorator on a collecting trip to the old Moroccan city, the second an executive for the Chase Bank, Foreign Department; the man was an aerospace engineer on loan to the Air Force from McDonnell-Douglas. Why would three such obviously different people, with such dissimilar professions, converge on the same city within a week of one another? Coincidence? Entirely possible, but considering the number of international airports in the country, including the most frequented—New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Miami—the coincidence of Philadelphia seemed unlikely. Stranger still, and even more unlikely, was the fact that these same three people were staying at the same hotel at the same time in Washington eight months later. Jason wondered what Alex Conklin would say when he told him.

“I’m getting the book on each of them,” said Alex, sinking into an armchair across from the couch and the printouts.
“You knew?”
“It wasn’t hard to put together. Of course, it was a hell of a lot easier with a computer doing the scanning.”
“You might have included a note! I’ve been poring over these things since eight o’clock.”
“I didn’t find it—them—until after nine and I didn’t want to call you from Virginia.”
“That’s another story, isn’t it?” said Bourne, sitting down on the couch, once again leaning forward anxiously.
“Yes, it is, and it’s God-awful.”
“Medusa?”
“It’s worse than I thought, and worse than that, I didn’t think it could be.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“It’s a bowelful,” countered the retired intelligence officer. “Where do I start? ... Pentagon procurements? The Federal Trade Commission? Our ambassador in London, or would you like the supreme commander of NATO?”
“My God ... !”
“Oh, I can go one better. For size, try on the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”
“Christ, what is it? Some kind of cabal?”
“That’s so academic, Dr. Scholar. Now try collusion, down deep and elusive and after all these years still breathing, still alive. They’re in contact with each other in high places. Why?”
“What’s the purpose? The objective?”
“I just said that, asked that, really.”
“There has to be a reason!”
“Try motive. I just said that, too, and it may be as simple as hiding past sins. Isn’t that what we were looking for? A collection of former Medusans who’d run to the hills at the thought of the past coming to light?”
“Then that’s it.”
“No, it’s not, and this is Saint Alex’s instincts searching for words. Their reactions were too immediate, too visceral, too loaded with today, not twenty years ago.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“I’ve lost myself. Something’s different from what we expected, and I’m goddamned sick of making mistakes. ... But this isn’t a mistake. You said this morning that it could be a net work, and I thought you were way the hell off base. I thought that maybe we’d find a few high profiles who didn’t want to be publicly drawn and quartered for things they did twenty years ago, or who legitimately didn’t want to embarrass the government, and we could use them, force them in their collective fear to do things and say things we told them to do. But this is different. It’s today, and I can’t figure it out. It’s more than fear, it’s panic; they’re frightened out of their minds. ... We’ve bumbled and stumbled onto something, Mr. Bourne, and in your rich friend Cactus’s old-time minstrel-show language, ‘In the focus, it could be bigger than bo’fus.”
“In my considered opinion there’s, nothing bigger than the Jackal! Not for me. The rest can go to hell.”
“I’m on your side and I’ll go to the wall shouting it. I just wanted you to know my thoughts. ... Except for a brief and pretty rotten interlude, we never kept anything from each other, David.”
“I prefer Jason these days.”
“Yes, I know,” interrupted Conklin. “I hate it but I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” said Alex softly, nodding as he closed his eyes. “I’d do anything to change it but I can’t.”
“Then listen to me. In that serpentine mind of yours—Cactus’s description, incidentally—conjure up the worst scenario you can think of and shove those bastards against another wall, one they can’t get away from unscathed unless they follow your instructions down to the letter. Those orders will be to stay quiet and wait for you to call and tell them who to reach and what to say.”
Conklin looked over at his damaged friend with guilt and concern. “There may be a scenario in place that I can’t match,” said Alex quietly. “I won’t make another mistake, not in that area. I need more than what I’ve got.”
Bourne clasped his hands, flesh angrily grinding flesh in frustration. He stared at the scattered printouts in front of him, frowning, wincing, his jaw pulsating. In seconds a sudden passivity came over him; he sat back on the couch and spoke as quietly as Conklin. “All right, you’ll get it. Quickly.”
“How?”
“Me. I’ll get it for you. I’ll need names, residences, schedules and methods of security, favorite restaurants and bad habits, if any are known. Tell your boys to go to work. Tonight. All night, if necessary.”
“What the hell do you think you’re going to do?” shouted Conklin, his frail body lurching forward in the armchair. “Storm their houses? Stick needles in their asses between the appetizer and the entrée?”
“I hadn’t thought of the last option,” replied Jason, smiling grimly. “You’ve really got a terrific imagination.”
“And you’re a madman! ... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that—”
“Why not?” broke in Bourne gently. “I’m not lecturing on the rise of the Manchu and the Ching dynasty. Considering the accepted state of my mind and memory, the allusion to mental health isn’t inappropriate.” Jason paused, then spoke as he leaned slowly forward. “But let me tell you something, Alex. The memories may not all be there, but the part of my mind that you and Treadstone formed is all there. I proved it in Hong Kong, in Beijing and Macao, and I’ll prove it again. I have to. There’s nothing left for me if I don’t. ... Now, get me the information. You mentioned several people who have to be here in Washington. Pentagon supplies or provisions—”
“Procurements,” corrected Conklin. “It’s a lot more expansive and expensive; he’s a general named Swayne. Then there’s Armbruster, he’s head of the Federal Trade Commission, and Burton over at—”
“Chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” completed Bourne. “Admiral ‘Joltin’ Jack Burton, commander of the Sixth Fleet.”
“One and the same. Formerly the scourge of the South China Sea, now the largest of the large brass.”
“I repeat,” said Jason. “Tell your boys to go to work. Peter Holland will get you all the help you need. Find me everything there is on each of them.”
“I can’t.”
“What?”
“I can get us the books on our three Philadelphians because they’re part of the immediate Mayflower project—that’s the Jackal. I can’t touch our five—so far, five—inheritors of Medusa.”
“For Christ’s sake, why not? You have to. We can’t waste time!”
“Time wouldn’t mean much if both of us were dead. It wouldn’t help Marie or the children either.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Why I’m late. Why I didn’t want to call you from Virginia. Why I reached Charlie Casset to pick me up at that real estate proprietary in Vienna, and why, until he got there, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get here alive.”
“Spell it out, field man.”
“All right, I will. ... I’ve said nothing to anyone about going after former Medusa personnel—that was between you and me, nobody else.”
“I wondered. When I spoke to you this afternoon you were playing it close. Too close, I thought, considering where you were and the equipment you were using.”
“The rooms and the equipment proved secure. Casset told me later that the Agency doesn’t want any traceable records of anything that takes place over there, and that’s the best guarantee you can ask for. No bugs, no phone intercepts, nothing. Believe me, I breathed a lot easier when I heard that.”
“Then what’s the problem? Why are you stopping.”
“Because I have to figure out another admiral before I move any further into Medusa territory. ... Atkinson, our impeccable WASP ambassador to the Court of St. James’s in London, was very clear. In his panic, he pulled the masks off Burton and Teagarten in Brussels.”
“So?”
“He said Teagarten could handle the Agency if anything about the old Saigon surfaced—because he was very tight with the top max at Langley.”
“And?”
“ ‘Top max’ is the Washington euphemism for maximum-classified security, and where Langley is concerned that’s the director of Central Intelligence. ... That’s also Peter Holland.”
“You told me this morning he’d have no problem wasting any member of Medusa.”
“Anyone can say anything. But would he?”

Across the Atlantic, in the old Paris suburb of Neuilly-sur-Seine, an old man in a dark threadbare suit trudged up the concrete path toward the entrance of the sixteenth-century cathedral known as the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. The bells in the tower above tolled the first Angelus and the man stopped in the morning sunlight, blessing himself and whispering to the sky.
“Angelus domini nuntiavit Mariae.” With his right hand he blew a kiss to the bas-relief crucifix atop the stone archway and proceeded up the steps and through the huge doors of the cathedral, aware that two robed priests eyed him with distaste. I apologize for defiling your rich parish, you tight-assed snobs, he thought as he lit a candle and placed it in the prayer rack, but Christ made it clear that he preferred me to you. ‘The meek shall inherit the earth’—what you haven’t stolen of it.
The old man moved cautiously down the center aisle, his right hand gripping the backs of successive pews for balance, his left fingering the rim of his outsized collar and slipping down to his tie so as to make sure the knot had not somehow come apart. His woman was so weak now that she could barely fold the damn thing together, but, as in the old days, she insisted on putting the finishing touches on his appearance before he went to work. She was still a good woman; they had both laughed, remembering the time she swore at his cuff links over forty years ago because she had put too much starch in his shirt. That night, so long ago, she had wanted him to look the proper bureaucrat when he went to the whore-mongering Oberführer’s headquarters on the rue St. Lazare carrying a briefcase—a briefcase that, left behind, had blown up half the block. And twenty years later, one winter afternoon she’d had trouble making his stolen expensive overcoat hang properly on his shoulders before he set off to rob the Grande Banque Louis IX on the Madeleine, run by an educated but unappreciative former member of the Résistance who refused him a loan. Those were the good times, followed by bad times and bad health, which led to worse times—in truth, destitute times. Until a man came along, a strange man with an odd calling and an even odder unwritten contract. After that, respect returned in the form of sufficient money for decent food and acceptable wine, for clothes that fit, making his woman look pretty again, and, most important, for the doctors who made his woman feel better. The suit and shirt he wore today had been dug out of a closet. In many ways he and his woman were like the actors in a provincial touring company. They had costumes for their various roles. It was their business. ... Today was business. This morning, with the bells of the Angelus, was business.
The old man awkwardly, only partially, genuflected in front of the holy cross and knelt down in the first seat of the sixth row from the altar, his eyes on his watch. Two and a half minutes later he raised his head and, as unobtrusively as possible, glanced around. His weakened sight had adjusted to the dim light of the cathedral; he could see, not well but clearly enough. There were no more than twenty worshipers scattered about, most in prayer, the others staring in meditation at the enormous gold crucifix on the altar. Yet these were not what he was looking for; and then he saw what he was seeking and knew that everything was on schedule. A priest in a priestly black suit walked down the far left aisle and disappeared beyond the dark red drapes of the apse.
The old man again looked at his watch, for everything now was timing; that was the way of the monseigneur—that was the way of the Jackal. Again two minutes passed and the aged courier got unsteadily up from his pew, sidestepped into the aisle, genuflected as best his body would permit, and made his way, step by imperfect step, to the second confessional booth on the left. He pulled back the curtain and went inside.
“Angelus Domini,” he whispered, kneeling and repeating the words he had spoken several hundred times over the past fifteen years.
“Angelus Domini, child of God,” replied the unseen figure behind the black latticework. The blessing was accompanied by a low rattling cough. “Are your days comfortable?”
“Made more so by an unknown friend ... my friend.”
“What does the doctor say about your woman?”
“He says to me what he does not say to her, thanks be for the mercy of Christ. It appears that against the odds I will outlive her. The wasting sickness is spreading.”
“My sympathies. How long does she have?”
“A month, no more than two. Soon she will be confined to her bed. ... Soon the contract between us will be void.”
“Why is that?”
“You will have no further obligations to me, and I accept that. You’ve been good to us and I’ve saved a little and my wants are few. Frankly, knowing what’s facing me, I’m feeling terribly tired—”
“You insufferable ingrate!” whispered the voice behind the confessional screen. “After all I’ve done, all I’ve promised you!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Would you die for me?”
“Of course, that’s our contract.”
“Then, conversely, you will live for me!”
“If that’s what you want, naturally I will. I simply wanted you to know that soon I would no longer be a burden to you. I am easily replaced.”
“Do not presume, never with me!” The anger erupted in a hollow cough, a cough that seemed to confirm the rumor that had spread through the dark streets of Paris. The Jackal himself was ill, perhaps deathly ill.
“You are our life, our respect. Why should I do that?”
“You just did. ... Nevertheless, I have an assignment for you that will ease your woman’s departure for both of you. You will have a holiday in a lovely part of the world, the two of you together. You will pick up the papers and the money at the usual place.”
“Where are we going, if I may ask?”
“To the Caribbean island of Montserrat. Your instructions will be delivered to you there at the Blackburne Airport. Follow them precisely.”
“Of course. ... Again, if I may ask, what is my objective?”
“To find and befriend a mother and two children.”
“Then what?”
“Kill them.”

Brendan Prefontaine, former federal judge of the first circuit court of Massachusetts, walked out of the Boston Five Bank on School Street with fifteen thousand dollars in his pocket. It was a heady experience for a man who had lived an impecunious existence for the past thirty years. Since his release from prison he rarely had more than fifty dollars on his person. This was a very special day.
Yet it was more than very special. It was also very disturbing because he had never thought for an instant that Randolph Gates would pay him a sum anywhere near the amount he had demanded. Gates had made an enormous error because by acceding to the demand he had revealed the gravity of his endeavors. He had crossed over from ruthless, albeit nonfatal, greed into something potentially quite lethal. Prefontaine had no idea who the woman and the children were or what their relationship was to Lord Randolph of Gates, but whoever they were and whatever it was, Dandy Randy meant them no good.
An irreproachable Zeus-like figure in the legal world did not pay a disbarred, discredited, deniable alcoholic “scum” like one Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine an outrageous sum of money because his soul was with the archangels of heaven. Rather, that soul was with the disciples of Lucifer. And since this was obviously the case, it might be profitable for the scum to pursue a little knowledge, for as the bromide declared, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing—frequently more so in the eyes of the beholder than in the one possessing scant tidbits of information, so slanted as to appear many times more. Fifteen thousand today might well become fifty thousand tomorrow if—if a scum flew to the island of Montserrat and began asking questions.
Besides, thought the judge, the Irish in him chuckling, the French sector in minor rebellion, he had not had a vacation in years. Good Christ, it was enough keeping body and soul together; who thought of an unenforced suspension of the hustle?
So Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine hailed a taxi, which he had not done sober for at least ten years, and directed the skeptical driver to take him to Louis’s men’s store at Faneuil Hall.
“You got the scratch, old man?”
“More than enough to get you a haircut and cure the acne on your pubescent face, young fellow. Drive on, Ben Hur. I’m in a hurry.”
The clothes were off the racks, but they were expensive racks, and after he had shown a roll of hundred-dollar bills, the purple-lipped clerk was extremely cooperative. A midsized suit case of burnished leather soon held casual apparel, and Prefontaine discarded his worn-out suit, shirt and shoes for a new outfit. Within the hour he looked not unlike a man he had known years ago: the Honorable Brendan P. Prefontaine. (He had always dropped the second P., for Pierre, for obvious reasons.)
Another taxi took him to his rooming house in Jamaica Plains, where he picked up a few essentials, including his passport, which he always kept active for rapid exits—preferable to prison walls—and then delivered him to Logan Airport, this driver having no concern regarding his ability to pay the fare. Clothes, of course, never made the man, thought Brendan, but they certainly helped to convince dubious underlings. At Logan’s information desk he was told that three airlines out of Boston serviced the island of Montserrat. He asked which counter was the nearest and then bought a ticket for the next available flight. Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine naturally flew first class.

The Air France steward rolled the wheelchair slowly, gently through the ramp and onto the 747 jet in Paris’s Orly Airport. The frail woman in the chair was elderly and overly made-up with an imbalance of rouge; she wore an outsized feather hat made of Australian cockatoo. She might have been I a caricature except for the large eyes beneath the bangs of gray hair imperfectly dyed red—eyes alive and knowing and filled with humor. It was as if she were saying to all who observed her, Forget it, mes amis, he likes me this way and that’s all I care about. I don’t give a pile of merde about you or your opinions. The he referred to the old man walking cautiously beside her, every now and then touching her shoulder, lovingly as well as perhaps for balance, but in the touch there was a volume of poetry that was theirs alone. Closer inspection revealed a sporadic welling of tears in his eyes that he promptly wiped away so she could not see them.
“Il est ici, mon capitaine,” announced the steward to the senior pilot, who greeted his two preboarding passengers at the aircraft’s entrance. The captain reached for the woman’s left hand and touched his lips to it, then stood erect and solemnly saluted the balding gray-haired old man with the small Légion d’honneur medal in his lapel.
“It is an honor, monsieur,” said the captain. “This aircraft is my command, but you are my commander.” They shook hands and the pilot continued. “If there’s anything the crew and I can do to make the flight most comfortable for you, don’t hesitate to ask, monsieur.”
“You’re very kind.”
“We are all beholden—all of us, all of France.”
“It was nothing, really—”
“To be singled out by Le Grand Charles himself as a true hero of the Résistance is hardly nothing. Age cannot dull such glory.” The captain snapped his fingers, addressing three stew ardesses in the still-empty first-class cabin. “Quickly, mesdemoiselles! Make everything perfect for a brave warrior of France and his lady.”
So the killer with many aliases was escorted to the wide bulkhead on the left, where his woman was gently transferred from the wheelchair to the seat on the aisle; his was next to the window. Their trays were set up and a chilled bottle of Cristal was brought in their honor and for their enjoyment. The captain raised the first glass and toasted the couple; he returned to the flight deck as the old woman winked at her man, the wink wicked and filled with laughter. In moments, the passengers began boarding the plane, a number of whom glancing appreciatively at the elderly “man and wife” in the front row. For the rumors had spread in the Air France lounge. A great hero ... Le Grand Charles himself ... In the Alps he held off six hundred Boche—or was it a thousand?
As the enormous jet raced down the runway and with a thump lumbered off the ground into the air, the old “hero of France”—whose only heroics he could recall from the Résistance were based on theft, survival, insults to his woman, and staying out of whatever army or labor force that might draft him—reached into his pocket for his papers. The passport had his picture duly inserted, but that was the only item he recognized. The rest—name, date and place of birth, occupation—all were unfamiliar, and the attached list of honors, well, they were formidable. Totally out of character, but in case anyone should ever refer to them, he had better restudy the “facts” so he could at least nod in self-effacing modesty. He had been assured that the individual originally possessing the name and the achievements had no living relatives and few friends, and had disappeared from his apartment in Marseilles supposedly on a world trip from which he presumably would not return.
The Jackal’s courier looked at the name—he must remember it and respond whenever it was spoken. It should not be difficult, for it was such a common name. And so he repeated it silently to himself over and over again.
Jean Pierre Fontaine, Jean Pierre Fontaine, Jean Pierre ...

A sound! Sharp, abrasive. It was wrong, not normal, not part of a hotel’s routine noise of hollow drumming at night. Bourne grabbed the weapon by his pillow and rolled out of bed in his shorts, steadying himself by the wall. It came again! A single, loud knock on the bedroom door of the suite. He shook his head trying to remember. ... Alex? I’ll knock once. Jason lurched half in sleep to the door, his ear against the wood.
“Yes?”
“Open this damn thing before somebody sees me!” came Conklin’s muffled voice from the corridor. Bourne did so and the retired field officer limped quickly into the room, treating his cane as if he loathed it. “Boy, are you out of training!” he exclaimed as he sat on the foot of the bed. “I’ve been standing there tapping for at least a couple of minutes.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Delta would have; Jason Bourne would have. David Webb didn’t.”
“Give me another day and you won’t find David Webb.”
“Talk. I want you better than talk!”
“Then stop talking and tell me why you’re here—at whatever time it is.”
“When last I looked I met Casset on the road at three-twenty. I had to gimp through a bunch of woods and climb over a goddamned fence—”
“What?”
“You heard me. A fence. Try it with your foot in cement. ... You know, I once won the fifty-yard dash when I was in high school.”
“Cut the digression. What happened?”
“Oh, I hear Webb again.”
“What happened? And while you’re at it, who the hell is this Casset you keep talking about?”
“The only man I trust in Virginia. He and Valentino.”
“Who?”
“They’re analysts, but they’re straight.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Jesus, there are times when I wish I could get pissed—”
“Alex, why are you here?”
Conklin looked up from the bed as he angrily gripped his cane. “I’ve got the books on our Philadelphians.”
“That’s why? Who are they?”
“No, that’s not why. I mean it’s interesting, but it’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why?” asked Jason, crossing to a chair next to a window and sitting down, frowning, perplexed. “My erudite friend from Cambodia and beyond doesn’t climb over fences with his foot in cement at three o’clock in the morning unless he thinks he has to.”
“I had to.”
“Which tells me nothing. Please tell.”
“It’s DeSole.”
“What’s the soul?”
“Not ‘the,’ DeSole.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“He’s the keeper of the keys at Langley. Nothing happens that he doesn’t know about and nothing gets done in the area of research that he doesn’t pass on.”
“I’m still lost.”
“We’re in deep shit.”
“That doesn’t help me at all.”
“Webb again.”
“Would you rather I took a nerve out of your neck?”
“All right, all right. Let me get my breath.” Conklin dropped his cane on the rug. “I didn’t even trust the freight elevator. I stopped two floors below and walked up.”
“Because we’re in deep shit?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Because of this DeSole?”
“Correct, Mr. Bourne. Steven DeSole. The man who has his finger on every computer at Langley. The one person who can spin the disks and put your old virginal Aunt Grace in jail as a hooker if he wants her there.”
“What’s your point?”
“He’s the connection to Brussels, to Teagarten at NATO. Casset learned down in the cellars that he’s the only connection—they even have an access code bypassing everyone else.”
“What does it mean?”
“Casset doesn’t know, but he’s goddamned angry.”
“How much did you tell him?”
“The minimum. That I was working on some possibles and Teagarten’s name came up in an odd way—most likely a diversion or used by someone trying to impress someone else—but I wanted to know who he talked to at the Agency, frankly figuring it was Peter Holland. I asked Charlie to play it out in the dark.”
“Which I assume means confidentially.”
“Ten times that. Casset is the sharpest knife in Langley. I didn’t have to say any more than I did; he got the message. Now he’s also got a problem he didn’t have yesterday.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“I asked him not to do anything for a couple of days and that’s what he gave me. Forty-eight hours, to be precise, and then he’s going to confront DeSole.”
“He can’t do that,” said Bourne firmly. “Whatever these people are hiding we can use it to pull out the Jackal. Use them to pull him out as others like them used me thirteen years ago.”
Conklin stared first down at the floor, then up at Jason Bourne. “It comes down to the almighty ego, doesn’t it?” he said. “The bigger the ego the bigger the fear—”
“The bigger the bait, the bigger the fish,” completed Jason, interrupting. “A long time back you told me that Carlos’s ‘spine’ was as big as his head, which had to be swollen all out of proportion for him to be in the business he’s in. That was true then and it’s true now. If we can get any one of these high government profiles to send a message to him—namely, to come after me, kill me—he’ll jump at it. Do you know why?”
“I just told you. Ego.”
“Sure, that’s part of it, but there’s something else. It’s the respect that’s eluded Carlos for more than twenty years, starting with Moscow cutting him loose and telling him to get lost. He’s made millions, but his clients have mainly been the crud of the earth. For all the fear he’s engendered he still remains a punk psychopath. No legends have been built around him, only contempt, and at this stage it’s got to be driving him close to the edge. The fact that he’s coming after me to settle a thirteen-year-old score supports what I’m saying. ... I’m vital to him—his killing me is vital—because I was the product of our covert operations. That’s who he wants to show up, show that he’s better than all of us put together.”
“It could also be because he still thinks you can identify him.”
“I thought that at first, too, but after thirteen years and nothing from me—well, I had to think again.”
“So you moved into Mo Panov’s territory and came up with a psychiatric profile.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Compared with most, yes, but where’s all this leading us?”
“Because I know I’m right.”
“That’s hardly an answer.”
“Nothing can be false or faked,” insisted Bourne, leaning forward in the armchair, his elbows on his bare knees, his hands clasped. “Carlos would find the contrivance; it’s the first thing he’ll look for. Our Medusans have to be genuine and genuinely panicked.”
“They’re both, I told you that.”
“To the point where they’d actually consider making contact with someone like the Jackal.”
“That I don’t know—”
“That we’ll never know,” broke in Jason, “until we learn what they’re hiding.”
“But if we start the disks spinning at Langley, DeSole will find out. And, if he’s part of whatever the hell it is, he’ll alert the others.”
“Then there’ll be no research at Langley. I’ve got enough to go on anyway, just get me addresses and private telephone numbers. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Certainly, that’s low-level. What are you going to do?”
Bourne smiled and spoke quietly, even gently. “How about storming their houses or sticking needles in their asses between the appetizers and the entrées?”
“Now I hear Jason Bourne.”
“So be it.”