The Bourne ultimatum (16 page)

“I’m not really sure,” replied Brendan hesitantly. “My schedule’s so unsettled, but it seems I have a friend on Tranquility Isle.”

“At the inn, sir?”

“Yes, apparently so. Does it take long to fly over there?”

“If the weather’s clear, no more than fifteen minutes, but that would be an amphibious charter. I’m not sure one’s available until tomorrow morning.”

“Sure, there is, babe,” interrupted the young man with small gold wings pinned crookedly on his white shirt. “I’m running over some supplies to Johnny St. Jay pretty soon,” he added, stepping forward.

“
He’s
not scheduled for today.”

“As of an hour ago he is. Pronto.”

At that instant and with those words, Prefontaine’s eyes fell in astonishment on two stacks of cartons moving slowly down Inter-Island’s luggage carousel toward the exterior loading area. Even if he had the time to debate with himself, he knew his decision was made.

“I’d like to purchase a ticket on that flight, if I may,” he said, watching the boxes of Gerber’s Assorted Baby Foods and Pampers Medium Diapers disappear into the hold.

He had found the unknown woman with the small male child and the infant.

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.