The Bourne ultimatum

8

Routine secondhand inquiries at the Federal Trade Commission confirmed the fact that its chairman, Albert Armbruster, did, indeed, have ulcers as well as high blood pressure and under doctor’s orders left the office and returned home whenever discomfort struck him. Which was why Alex Conklin telephoned him after a generally overindulgent lunch—also established—with an “update” of the Snake Lady crisis. As with Alex’s initial call, catching Armbruster in the shower, he anonymously told the shaken chairman that someone would be in touch with him later in the day—either at the office or at home. The contact would identify himself simply as Cobra. (“Use all the banal trigger words you can come up with” was the gospel according to St. Conklin.) In the meantime, Armbruster was instructed to talk to no one. “Those are orders from the Sixth Fleet.”
“Oh, Christ!”
Thus Albert Armbruster called for his chariot and was driven home in discomfort. Further nausea was in store for the chairman, however, as Jason Bourne was waiting for him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Armbruster,” said the stranger pleasantly as the chairman struggled out of the limousine, the door held open by the chauffeur.
“Yes, what?” Armbruster’s response was immediate, unsure.
“I merely said ‘Good afternoon.’ My name’s Simon. We met at the White House reception for the Joint Chiefs several years ago—”
“I wasn’t there,” broke in the chairman emphatically.
“Oh?” The stranger arched his brows, his voice still pleasant but obviously questioning.
“Mr. Armbruster?” The chauffeur had closed the door and now turned courteously to the chairman. “Will you be needing—”
“No, no,” said Armbruster, again interrupting. “You’re relieved—I won’t need you anymore today ... tonight.”
“Same time tomorrow morning, sir?”
“Yes, tomorrow—unless you’re told otherwise. I’m not a well man; check with the office.”
“Yes, sir.” The chauffeur tipped his visored cap and climbed back into the front seat.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the stranger, holding his place as the limousine’s engine was started and the automobile rolled away.
“What? ... Oh, you. I was never at the White House for that damned reception!”
“Perhaps I was mistaken—”
“Yes, well, nice to see you again,” said Armbruster anxiously, impatiently, hurrying to the steps that led up to his Georgetown house.
“Then again, I’m quite sure Admiral Burton introduced us—”
“What?” The chairman spun around. “What did you just say.
“This is a waste of time,” continued Jason Bourne, the pleasantness gone from his voice and his face. “I’m Cobra.”
“Oh, Jesus! ... I’m not a well man.” Armbruster repeated the statement in a hoarse whisper, snapping his head up to look at the front of his house, to the windows and the door.
“You’ll be far worse unless we talk,” added Jason, following the chairman’s eyes. “Shall it be up there? In your house?”
“No!” cried Armbruster. “She yaps all the time and wants to know everything about everybody, then blabs all over town exaggerating everything.”
“I assume you’re talking about your wife.”
“All of ’em! They don’t know when to keep their traps shut.”
“It sounds like they’re starved for conversation.”
“What ... ?”
“Never mind. I’ve got a car down the block. Are you up to a drive?”
“I damn well better be. We’ll stop at the drugstore down the street. They’ve got my prescription on file. ... Who the hell are you?”
“I told you,” answered Bourne. “Cobra. It’s a snake.”
“Oh, Jesus!” whispered Albert Armbruster.
The pharmacist complied rapidly, and Jason quickly drove to a neighborhood bar he had chosen an hour before should one be necessary. It was dark and full of shadows, the booths deep, the banquettes high, isolating those meeting one another from curious glances. The ambience was important, for it was vital that he stare into the eyes of the chairman when he asked questions, his own eyes ice-cold, demanding ... threatening. Delta was back, Cain had returned; Jason Bourne was in full command, David Webb forgotten.
“We have to cover ourselves,” said the Cobra quietly after their drinks arrived. “In terms of damage control that means we have to know how much harm each of us could do under the Amytals.”
“What the hell does that mean?” asked Armbruster swallowing most of his gin and tonic while wincing and holding his stomach.
“Drugs, chemicals, truth serums.”
“What?”
“This isn’t your normal ball game,” said Bourne, remembering Conklin’s words. “We’ve got to cover all of the bases because there aren’t any constitutional rights in this series.”
“So who are you?” The chairman of the Federal Trade Commission belched and brought his glass briefly to his lips, his hand trembling. “Some kind of one-man hit team? John Doe knows something, so he’s shot in an alley?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Anything like that would be totally counterproductive. It would only fuel those trying to find us, leave a trail—”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Saving our lives, which includes our reputations and our life-styles.”
“You’re one cold prick. How do we do that?”
“Let’s take your case, shall we? ... You’re not a well man by your own admission. You could resign under doctor’s orders and we take care of you—Medusa takes care of you.” Jason’s imagination floated, making quick sharp forays into reality and fantasy, swiftly searching for the words that might be found in the gospel according to St. Alex. “You’re known to be a wealthy man, so a villa might be purchased in your name, or perhaps a Caribbean island, where you’d be completely secure. No one can reach you; no one can talk to you unless you agree, which would mean predetermined interviews, harmless and even favorable results guaranteed. Such things are not impossible.”
“Pretty sterile existence in my opinion,” said Armbruster. “Me and the yapper all by ourselves? I’d kill her.”
“Not at all,” went on the Cobra. “There’d be constant distractions. Guests of your choosing could be flown to wherever you are. Other women also—either of your choice or selected by those who respect your tastes. Life goes on much as before, some inconveniences, some pleasant surprises. The point is that you’d be protected, inaccessible and therefore we’re also protected, the rest of us. ... But, as I say, that option is merely hypothetical at this juncture. In my case, frankly, it’s a necessity because there’s little I don’t know. I leave in a matter of days. Until then I’m determining who goes and who stays. ... How much do you know, Mr. Armbruster?”
“I’m not involved with the day-to-day operations, naturally. I deal with the big picture. Like the others, I get a monthly coded telex from the banks in Zurich listing the deposits and the companies we’re gaining control of—that’s about it.”
“So far you don’t get a villa.”
“I’ll be damned if I want one, and if I do I’ll buy it myself. I’ve got close to a hundred million, American, in Zurich.”
Bourne controlled his astonishment and simply stared at the chairman. “I wouldn’t repeat that,” he said.
“Who am I going to tell? The yapper?”
“How many of the others do you know personally?” asked the Cobra.
“Practically none of the staff, but then they don’t know me, either. Hell, they don’t know anybody. ... And while we’re on the subject, take you, for instance. I’ve never heard of you. I figure you work for the board and I was told to expect you, but I don’t know you.”
“I was hired on a very special basis. My background’s deep-cover security.”
“Like I said, I figured—”
“What about the Sixth Fleet?” interrupted Bourne, moving away from the subject of himself.
“I see him now and then but I don’t think we’ve exchanged a dozen words. He’s military; I’m civilian—very civilian.”
“You weren’t once. Where it all began.”
“The hell I wasn’t. No uniform ever made a soldier and it sure didn’t with me.”
“What about a couple of generals, one in Brussels, the other at the Pentagon?”
“They were career men; they stayed in. I wasn’t and I didn’t.”
“We have to expect leaks, rumors,” said Bourne almost aimlessly, his eyes now wandering. “But we can’t permit the slightest hint of military orientation.”
“You mean like in junta style?”
“Never,” replied Bourne, once more staring at Armbruster. “That kind of thing creates whirlwinds—”
“Forget it!” whispered the chairman of the Federal Trade Commission, angrily interrupting. “The Sixth Fleet, as you call him, calls the shots only here and only because it’s convenient. He’s a blood-and-guts admiral with a whiz-bang record and a lot of clout where we want it, but that’s in Washington, not anywhere else!”
“I know that and you know it,” said Jason emphatically, the emphasis covering his bewilderment, “but someone who’s been in a protection program for over fifteen years is putting together his own scenario and that comes out of Saigon—Command Saigon.”
“It may have come out of Saigon but it sure as hell didn’t stay there. The soldier boys couldn’t run with it, we all know that. ... But I see what you mean. You tie in Pentagon brass with anything like us, the freaks are in the streets and the bleeding-heart fairies in Congress have a field day. Suddenly a dozen subcommittees are in session.”
“Which we can’t tolerate,” added Bourne.
“Agreed,” said Armbruster. “Are we any closer to learning the name of the bastard who’s putting this scenario together?”
“Closer, not close. He’s been in contact with Langley but on what level we don’t know.”
“Langley? For Christ’s sake, we’ve got someone over there. He can squelch it and find out who the son of a bitch is!”
“DeSole?” offered the Cobra simply.
“That’s right.” Armbruster leaned forward. “There is very little you don’t know. That connection’s very quiet. What does DeSole say?”
“Nothing, we can’t touch him,” replied Jason, suddenly, frantically reaching for a credible answer. He had been David Webb too long! Conklin was right; he wasn’t thinking fast enough. Then the words came ... part of the truth, a dangerous part, but credible, and he could not lose credibility. “He thinks he’s being watched and we’re to stay away from him, no contact whatsoever until he says otherwise.”
“What happened?” The chairman gripped his glass, his eyes rigid, bulging.
“Someone in the cellars learned that Teagarten in Brussels has an access fax code directly to DeSole bypassing routine confidential traffic.”
“Stupid goddamned soldier boys!” spat out Armbruster. “Give ’em gold braid and they prance around like debutantes and want every new toy in town! ... Faxes, access codes! Jesus, he probably punched the wrong numbers and got the NAACP.”
“DeSole says he’s building a cover and can handle it, but it’s no time for him to go around asking questions, especially in this area. He’ll check quietly on everything he can, and if he learns something he’ll reach us, but we’re not to reach him.”
“Wouldn’t you know it’d be a lousy soldier boy who puts us out on a limb? If it wasn’t for that jackass with his access code, we wouldn’t have a problem. Everything would be taken care of.”
“But he does exist, and the problem—the crisis—won’t go away,” said Bourne flatly. “I repeat, we have to cover ourselves. Some of us will have to leave—disappear at least for a while. For the good of all of us.”
The chairman of the Federal Trade Commission leaned back in the booth, his expression pensively disagreeable. “Yeah, well let me tell you something, Simon, or whatever your name is. You’re checking out the wrong people. We’re businessmen, some of us rich enough or egotistical enough or for other reasons willing to work for government pay, but first we’re businessmen with investments all over the place. We’re also appointed, not elected, and that means nobody expects full financial disclosures. Do you see what I’m driving at?”
“I’m not sure,” said Jason, instantly concerned that he was losing control, losing the threat. I’ve been away too long ... and Albert Armbruster was not a fool. He was given to first-level panic, but the second level was colder, far more analytical. “What are you driving at?”
“Get rid of our soldier boys. Buy them villas or a couple of Caribbean islands and put them out of reach. Give ’em their own little courts and let ’em play kings; that’s what they’re all about anyway.”
“Operate without them?” asked Bourne, trying to conceal his astonishment.
“You said it and I agree. Any hint of big brass and we’re in big trouble. It goes under the heading of ‘military industrial complex,’ which freely translated means military-industrial collusion.” Again Armbruster leaned forward over the table. “We don’t need them anymore! Get rid of them.”
“There could be very loud objections—”
“No way. We’ve got ’em by their brass balls!”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about. In six months we’ll have the controls we need in Europe.”
Jason Bourne stared at the chairman of the Federal Trade Commission. What controls? he thought to himself. For what reason? Why?
“I’ll drive you home,” he said.

“I talked to Marie,” said Conklin from the Agency garden apartment in Virginia. “She’s at the inn, not at your house.”
“How come?” asked Jason at a gas-station pay phone on the outskirts of Manassas.
“She wasn’t too clear. ... I think it was lunchtime or nap time—one of those times when mothers are never clear. I could hear your kids in the background. They were loud, pal.”
“What did she say, Alex?”
“It seems your brother-in-law wanted it that way. She didn’t elaborate, and other than sounding like one harried mommy, she was the perfectly normal Marie I know and love—which means she only wanted to hear about you.”
“Which means you told her I was perfectly fine, didn’t you?”
“Hell, yes. I said you were holed up under guard going over a lot of computer printouts, sort of a variation on the truth.”
“Johnny must have had his talk with her. She told him what’s happened, so he moved them all to his exclusive bunker.”
“His what?”
“You never saw Tranquility Inn, or did you? Frankly, I can’t remember whether you did or not.”
“Panov and I saw only the plans and the site; that was four years ago. We haven’t been back since, at least I haven’t. Nobody’s asked me.”
“I’ll let that pass because you’ve had a standing invitation since we got the place. ... Anyway, you know it’s on the beach and the only way to get there except by water is up a dirt road so filled with rocks no normal car could make it twice. Everything is flown in by plane or brought over by boat. Almost nothing from the town.”
“And the beach is patrolled,” interrupted Conklin. “Johnny isn’t taking any chances.”
“It’s why I sent them down there. I’ll call her later.”
“What about now?” said Alex. “What about Armbruster?”
“Let’s put it this way,” replied Bourne, his eyes drifting up to the white plastic shell of the pay phone. “What does it mean when a man who has a hundred million dollars in Zurich tells me that Medusa—point of origin Command Saigon, emphasis on ‘command,’ which is hardly civilian—should get rid of the military because Snake Lady doesn’t need them any longer?”
“I don’t believe it,” said the retired intelligence officer in a quiet, doubting voice. “He didn’t.”
“Oh, yes, he did. He even called them soldier boys, and he wasn’t memorializing them in song. He verbally dismissed the admirals and the generals as gold-braided debutantes who wanted every new toy in town.”
“Certain senators on the Armed Services Committee would agree with that assessment,” concurred Alex.
“There’s more. When I reminded him that Snake Lady came out of Saigon—Command Saigon—he was very clear. He said it may have, but it sure as hell didn’t stay there because and this is a direct quote—‘The soldier boys couldn’t run with it.’ ”
“That’s a provocative statement. Did he tell you why they couldn’t run with it?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. I was supposed to know the answer.”
“I wish you did. I like less and less the sound of what I’m hearing; it’s big and it’s ugly. ... How did the hundred million come up?”
“I told him Medusa might get him a villa someplace out of the country where he couldn’t be reached if we thought it was necessary. He wasn’t too interested and said if he wanted one, he’d buy it himself. He had a hundred million, American, in Zurich—a fact I think I was also expected to know.”
“That was all? Just a simple little one hundred million?”
“Not entirely. He told me that like everybody else he gets a monthly telex—in code—from the banks in Zurich listing his deposits. Obviously, they’ve been growing.”
“Big, ugly and growing,” added Conklin. “Anything else? Not that I particularly want to hear it, I’m frightened enough.”
“Two more items and you’d better have some fear in reserve. ... Armbruster said that along with the deposit telexes he gets a listing of the companies they’re gaining control of.”
“What companies? What was he talking about? ... Good God.”
“If I had asked, my wife and children might have to attend a private memorial service, no casket in evidence because I wouldn’t be there.”
“You’ve got more to tell me. Tell me.”
“Our illustrious chairman of the Federal Trade Commission said that the ubiquitous ‘we’ could get rid of the military because in six months ‘we’ would have all the controls we needed in Europe. ... Alex, what controls? What are we dealing with?”
There was silence on the unbroken line, and Jason Bourne did not interrupt. David Webb wanted to shout in defiance and confusion, but there was no point; he was a non-person. Finally, Conklin spoke.
“I think we’re dealing with something we can’t handle,” he said softly, his words barely audible over the phone. “This has to go upstairs, David. We can’t keep it to ourselves.”
“Goddamn you, you’re not talking to David!” Bourne did not raise his voice in anger; he did not have to, its tone was enough. “This isn’t going anywhere unless or until I say it does and I may not ever say it. Understand me, field man, I don’t owe anyone anything, especially not the movers and the shakers in this city. They moved and shook my wife and me too much for any concessions where our lives or the lives of our children are concerned! I intend to use everything I can learn for one purpose and one purpose only. That’s to draw out the Jackal and kill him so we can climb out of our personal hell and go on living. ... I know now that this is the way to do it. Armbruster talked tough and he probably is tough, but underneath he’s frightened. They’re all frightened—panicked, as you put it—and you were right. Present them with the Jackal and he’s a solution they can’t refuse. Present Carlos with a client as rich and as powerful as our current Medusa and it’s irresistible to him—he’s got the respect of the international big boys, not just the crud of the world, the fanatics of the left and right. ... Don’t stand in my way, don’t, for God’s sake!”
“That’s a threat, isn’t it?”
“Stop it, Alex. I don’t want to talk like that.”
“But you just did. It’s the reverse of Paris thirteen years ago, isn’t it? Only now you’ll kill me because I’m the one who hasn’t a memory, the memory of what we did to you and Marie.”
“That’s my family out there!” cried David Webb, his voice tight, sweat forming on his hairline as his eyes filled with tears. “They’re a thousand miles away from me and in hiding. It can’t be any other way because I won’t risk letting them be harmed! ... Killed, Alex, because that’s what the Jackal will do if he finds them. It’s an island this week; where is it next? How many thousands of miles more? And after that, where will they go—where will we go? Knowing what we know now, we can’t stop—he’s after me; that goddamned filthy psychopath is after me, and everything we’ve learned about him tells us he wants a maximum kill. His ego demands it, and that kill includes my family! ... No, field man, don’t burden me with things I don’t care about—not where they interfere with Marie and the kids—I’m owed that much.”
“I hear you,” said Conklin. “I don’t know whether I’m hearing David or Jason Bourne, but I hear you. All right, no reverse Paris, but we have to move fast and I’m talking to Bourne now. What’s next? Where are you?”
“I judge about six or seven miles from General Swayne’s house,” replied Jason, breathing deeply, the momentary anguish suppressed, the coldness returning. “Did you make the call?”
“Two hours ago.”
“Am I still ‘Cobra’?”
“Why not? It’s a snake.”
“That’s what I told Armbruster. He wasn’t happy.”
“Swayne will be less so, but I sense something and I can’t really explain it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure, but I have an idea that he’s answerable to someone.”
“In the Pentagon? Burton?”
“I suppose so, I just don’t know. In his partial paralysis he reacted almost as if he was an onlooker, someone involved but not in the middle of the game. He slipped a couple of times and said things like ‘We’ll have to think about this,’ and ‘We’ll have to confer.’ Confer with whom? It was a one-on-one conversation with my usual warning that he wasn’t to talk to anyone. His response was a lame editorial ‘we,’ meaning that the illustrious general was conferring with himself. I don’t buy it.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Jason. “I’m going to change clothes. They’re in the car.”
“What?”
Bourne turned partially in the plastic shell of the pay phone and glanced around the gas station. He saw what he hoped for, a men’s room in the side of the building. “You said that Swayne lives on a large farm west of Manassas—”
“Correction,” interrupted Alex. “He calls it a farm; his neighbors and the tax rolls call it a twenty-eight-acre estate. Not bad for a career soldier from a lower-middle-class family in Nebraska who married a hairdresser in Hawaii thirty years ago, and supposedly bought his manse ten years ago on the strength of a very sizable inheritance from an untraceable benefactor, an obscure wealthy uncle I couldn’t find. That’s what made me curious. Swayne headed up the Quartermaster Corps in Saigon and supplied Medusa. ... What’s his place got to do with your changing clothes?”
“I want to look around. I’ll get there while it’s light to see what it’s like from the road, then when it’s dark I’ll pay him a surprise visit.”
“That’ll be effective, but why the looking around?”
“I like farms. They’re so spread out and extended and I can’t imagine why a professional soldier who knows that he can be transferred anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice would saddle himself with such a large investment.”
“The same as my reasoning except I was concerned about the how, not the why. Your approach may be more interesting.”
“We’ll see.”
“Be careful. He may have alarms and dogs, things like that.”
“I’m prepared,” said Jason Bourne. “I did some shopping after I left Georgetown.”

The summer sun was low in the western sky as he slowed down the rental car and lowered the visor to keep from being blinded by the yellow globe of fire. Soon it would drop behind the Shenandoah mountains, twilight descending, prelude to darkness. And it was the darkness that Jason Bourne craved; it was his friend and ally, the blackness in which he moved swiftly, with sure feet and alert hands and arms that served as sensors against all the impediments of nature. The jungles had welcomed him in the past, knowing that although he was an intruder he respected them and used them as a part of him. He did not fear the jungles, he embraced them, for they protected him and allowed him passage to accomplish whatever his objective was; he was at one with the jungles—as he would have to be with the dense woods that flanked the estate of General Norman Swayne.
The main house was set back no less than the distance of two football fields from the country road. A stockade fence separated the entrance on the right from the exit on the left, both with iron gates, fronting a deep drive that was basically an elongated U-turn. Immediately bordering each opening was a profusion of tall trees and shrubbery that was in itself a natural extension of the stockade fence both left and right. All that was missing were guardhouses at each point of entry and exit.
His mind floated back to China, to Beijing and the wild bird sanctuary where he had trapped a killer posing as Jason Bourne. There had been a guardhouse then and a series of armed patrols in the dense forest ... and a madman, a butcher who controlled an army of killers, foremost among them the false Jason Bourne. He had penetrated that deadly sanctuary, crippled a small fleet of trucks and automobiles by plunging the blade of his knife into every tire, then proceeded to take out each patrol in the Jing Shan forest until he found the torch-lit clearing that held a swaggering maniac and his brigade of fanatics. Could he do it all today? wondered Bourne as he drove slowly past Swayne’s property for the third time, his eyes absorbing everything he could see. Five years later, thirteen years after Paris? He tried to evaluate the reality. He was not the younger man that he had been in Paris, nor the more mature man in Hong Kong, Macao and Beijing; he was now fifty and he felt it, every year of it. He would not dwell on it. There was too much else to think about, and the twenty-eight acres of General Norman Swayne’s property were not the forest primeval of the Jing Shan sanctuary.
However, as he had done on the primitive outskirts of Beijing, he drove the car off the country road deep into a mass of tall grass and foliage. He climbed out and proceeded to cover the vehicle with bent and broken branches. The rapidly descending darkness would complete the camouflage, and with the darkness he would go to work. He had changed his clothes in the men’s room at the gas station: black trousers below a black long-sleeved, skintight pullover; and black thick-soled sneakers with heavy tread. These were his working apparel. The items he spread on the ground were his equipment, the shopping he had done after leaving Georgetown. They included a long-bladed hunting knife whose scabbard he threaded into his belt; a dual-chambered CO2 pistol, encased in a nylon shoulder holster, that silently shot immobilizing darts into attacking animals, such as pit bulls; two flares designed to assist stranded drivers in broken-down cars to attract or deter other motorists; a pair of small Zeiss Ikon 8x10 binoculars attached to his trousers by a Velcro strip; a penlight; raw-hide laces; and finally, pocket-sized wire cutters in case there was a metal fence. Along with the automatic supplied by the Central Intelligence Agency, the gear was either lashed to his belt or concealed in his clothing. The darkness came and Jason Bourne walked into the woods.

The white sheet of ocean spray burst up from the coral reef and appeared suspended, the dark blue waters of the Caribbean serving as a backdrop. It was that hour of early evening, a long sundown imminent, when Tranquility Isle was bathed in alternating hot tropical colors, pockets of shadows constantly changing with each imperceptible descent of the orange sun. The resort complex of Tranquility Inn had seemingly been cut out of three adjacent rock-strewn hills above an elongated beach sandwiched between huge natural jetties of coral. Two rows of balconied pink villas with bright red roofs of terra-cotta extended from each side of the resort’s central hub, a large circular building of heavy stone and thick glass, all the structures overlooking the water, the villas connected by a white concrete path bordered by low-cut shrubbery and lined with ground lamps. Waiters in yellow guayabera jackets wheeled room-service tables along the path, delivering bottles and ice and canapés to Tranquility’s guests, the majority of whom sat on their individual balconies savoring the end of the Caribbean day. And as the shadows became more prominent, other people unobtrusively appeared along the beach and on the long dock that extended out over the water. These were neither guests nor service employees; they were armed guards, each dressed in a dark brown tropical uniform and—again unobtrusively—with a MAC-10 machine pistol strapped to his belted waist. On the opposite side of each jacket and hooked to the cloth was a pair of Zeiss Ikon 8x10 binoculars continuously used to scan the darkness. The owner of Tranquility Inn was determined that it live up to its name.
On the large circular balcony of the villa nearest the main building and the attached glass-enclosed dining room, an elderly infirm woman sat in a wheelchair sipping a glass of Chateau Carbonnieux ’78 while drinking in the splendors of sundown. She absently touched the bangs of her imperfectly dyed red hair as she listened. She heard the voice of her man talking with the nurse inside, then the sound of his less than emphatic footsteps as he walked out to join her.
“My God,” she said in French. “I’m going to get pissed!”
“Why not?” asked the Jackal’s courier. “This is the place for it. I see everything through a haze of disbelief myself.”
“You still will not tell me why the monseigneur sent you here—us here?”
“I told you, I’m merely a messenger.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
“Believe. It’s important for him but of no consequence for us. Enjoy, my lovely.”
“You always call me that when you won’t explain.”
“Then you should learn from experience not to inquire, is it not so?”
“It is not so, my dear. I’m dying—”
“We’ll hear no more of that!”
“It’s true nevertheless; you cannot keep it from me. I don’t worry for myself, the pain will end, you see, but I worry about you. You, forever better than your circumstances, Michel— No, no, you are Jean Pierre, I must not forget that. ... Still, I must concern myself. This place, these extraordinary lodgings, this attention. I think you will pay a terrible price, my dear.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s all so grand. Too grand. Something’s wrong.”
“You concern yourself too deeply.”
“No, you deceive yourself too easily. My brother, Claude, has always said you take too much from the monseigneur. One day the bill will be presented to you.”
“Your brother, Claude, is a sweet old man with feathers in his head. It’s why the monseigneur gives him only the most insignificant assignments. You send him out for a paper in Montparnasse he ends up in Marseilles not knowing how he got there.” The telephone inside the villa rang, interrupting the Jackal’s man. He turned. “Our new friend will get it,” he said.
“She’s a strange one,” added the old woman. “I don’t trust her.”
“She works for the monseigneur.”
“Really?”
“I haven’t had time to tell you. She will relay his instructions.”
The uniformed nurse, her light brown hair pulled severely back into a bun, appeared in the doorway. “Monsieur, it is Paris,” she said, her wide gray eyes conveying an urgency missing in her low, understated voice.
“Thank you.” The Jackal’s courier walked inside, following the nurse to the telephone. She picked it up and handed it to him. “This is Jean Pierre Fontaine.”
“Blessings upon you, child of God,” said the voice several thousand miles away. “Is everything suitable?”
“Beyond description,” answered the old man. “It is ... so grand, so much more than we deserve.”
“You will earn it.”
“However I may serve you.”
“You’ll serve me by following the orders given to you by the woman. Follow them precisely with no deviation whatsoever, is that understood?”
“Certainly.”
“Blessings upon you.” There was a click and the voice was no more.
Fontaine turned to address the nurse, but she was not at his side. Instead, she was across the room, unlocking the drawer of a table. He walked over to her, his eyes drawn to the contents of the drawer. Side by side were a pair of surgical gloves, a pistol with a cylindrical silencer attached to the barrel, and a straight razor, the blade recessed.
“These are your tools,” said the woman, handing him the key, her flat, expressionless gray eyes boring into his own, “and the targets are in the last villa on this row. You are to familiarize yourself with the area by taking extended walks on the path, as old men do for circulatory purposes, and you are to kill them. You are to do this wearing the gloves and firing the gun into each skull. It must be the head. Then each throat must be slit—”
“Mother of God, the children’s?”
“Those are the orders.”
“They’re barbaric!”
“Do you wish me to convey that judgment?”
Fontaine looked over at the balcony door, at his woman in the wheelchair. “No, no, of course not.”
“I thought not. ... There is a final instruction. With whosesoever blood is most convenient, you are to write on the wall the following: ‘Jason Bourne, brother of the Jackal.’ ”
“Oh, my God. ... I’ll be caught, of course.”
“That’s up to you. Coordinate the executions with me and I’ll swear a great warrior of France was in this villa at the time.”
“Time? ... What is the time? When is this to be done?”
“Within the next thirty-six hours.”
“Then what?”
“You may stay here until your woman dies.”