The Bourne ultimatum (51 page)

“Holy
shee-itt
!”

“
Merde
!”

“It’s no guarantee, but maybe we can use you. Keep your mouths shut and get out of here ten or fifteen minutes after I leave. Also, no more wine. I want you sober tomorrow. ... When does this place open, Maurice?”

“I’m not sure it closes. I myself have been here at eight o’clock in the morning. Naturally, it is not so crowded—”

“Be here around noon. But with clear heads, all right?”

“I shall be
le caporal extraordinaire
of La Légion. The man that I once was! Should I wear my uniform?” Maurice belched.

“Hell, no.”

“Ah’ll wear a suit and a tie. I got a suit and a tie, honest!” The American hiccupped.

“
No
. Both of you be like you are now, but with your heads straight. Do you understand me?”

“You sound
très américain, mon ami
.”

“He sure do.”

“I’m not, but then the truth’s not a commodity here, is it?”

“Ah know what he means. I learned it real well. You kinda fib with a tie on.”

“No tie, Ralph. See you tomorrow.” Bourne slid out of the booth, and suddenly a thought struck him. Instead of heading for the door, he cautiously made his way to the far end of the bar and the huge bald bartender. No seats were available, so, again cautiously, politely, he squeezed sideways between two customers, ordered a Pemod and asked for a napkin on which to write a message, ostensibly personal, to no one who might concern the establishment. On the back of the napkin’s crude coat of arms, he wrote the following with his ballpoint pen in French:

The nest of a blackbird is worth a million francs. Object: confidential business advice. If interested, be at the old factory around the corner in thirty minutes. Where is the harm? An additional 5000 F for being there alone
.

Bourne palmed the napkin along with a hundred-franc note and signaled the bartender, who adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses as if the unknown patron’s gesture were an impertinence. Slowly he moved his large body forward, and leaned his thick tattooed arms on the bar. “What is it?” he asked gruffly.

“I have written out a message for you,” replied the Chameleon, his eyes steady, focused on the bartender’s glasses. “I am by myself and hope you will consider the request. I am a man who carries wounds but I am not a poor man.” Bourne quickly but gently—very gently—reached for the bartender’s hand, passing the napkin and the franc note. With a final imploring look at the astonished man, Jason turned and headed for the door, his limp pronounced.

Outside, Bourne hurried up the cracked pavement toward the alley’s entrance. He judged that his interlude at the bar had taken between eight and twelve minutes. Knowing the bartender was watching him, he had purposely not tried to see if his two companions were still at the table, but he assumed they were. Tank Shirt and Field Jacket were not at their sharpest, and in their condition minutes did not count; he could only hope five hundred francs apiece might bring about a degree of responsibility and that they would leave soon as instructed. Oddly enough, he had more faith in Maurice-René than in the young American who called himself Ralph. A former corporal in the Foreign Legion was imbued with an automatic reflex where orders were concerned; he followed them blind drunk or blind sober. Jason hoped so; it was not mandatory, but he could use their assistance—if,
if
, the bartender at Le Coeur du Soldat had been sufficiently intrigued by the excessive sums of money, as well as by a solitary conversation with a cripple he could obviously kill with one tattooed arm.

Bourne waited in the street, the wash of the streetlights diminishing in the alley, fewer and fewer people going in or coming out, those arriving in better shape than those departing, all passing Jason without a glance at the derelict weaving against the brick.

Instinct prevailed. Tank Shirt pulled the much younger Field Jacket through the heavy door, and at one point after the door had swung shut, slapped the American across the face, telling him in unclear words to follow orders, for they were rich and could become much richer.

“It is better than being shot in Angola!” cried the former
légionnaire
, loud enough for Bourne to hear. “Why did they
do
that?”

Jason stopped them at the entrance to the alley, pulling both men around the edge of the brick building. “It’s
me
,” he said, his voice commanding.

“
Sacrebleu
... !”

“
What the Gawdamn hell
... !”

“Be
quiet
! You can make another five hundred francs tonight, if you want to. If not, there are twenty other men who will.”

“We are comrades!” protested Maurice-Ren
é
.

“And Ah could bust your ass for scarin’ us like
thay
-at. ... But mah buddy’s right, we’re comrades—that ain’t Commie stuff, is it, Maurice?”

“
Taisez-vous
!”

“That means shut up,” explained Bourne.

“Ah know
thay
-at. I hear it a lot—”

“Listen to me. Within the next few minutes the bartender in there may come out looking for me. He
may
, he also may not, I simply don’t know. He’s the large bald man wearing glasses. Do either of you know him?”

The American shrugged, but the Belgian nodded his floating head, his lips flat until he spoke. “His name is Santos and he is
espagnol
.”

“Spanish?”

“Or
latino-américain
. No one knows.”

Ilich Ramirez Sanchez
, thought Jason.
Carlos the Jackal
, Venezuelan by birth, rejected terrorist, whom even the Soviets could not handle. Of course he would return to his own. “How well do you know him?”

It was the Belgian’s turn to shrug. “He is the complete authority where Le Coeur du Soldat is concerned. He has been known to crush men’s heads if they behave too badly. He always takes off his glasses first, and that is the first sign that something will happen that even proven soldiers do not care to witness. ... If he is coming out here to see you, I would advise you to leave.”

“He may come because he
wants
to see me, not because he wants to harm me.”

“That is not Santos—”

“You don’t have to know the particulars, they don’t concern you. But if he does come out that door, I want you to engage him in conversation, can you do that?”

“
Mais certainement
. On several occasions I have slept on his couch upstairs, personally carried there by Santos himself when the cleaning women came in.”

“Upstairs?”

“He lives above the café on the second floor. It is said that he never leaves, never goes into the streets, even to the markets. Other people purchase all the supplies, or they are simply delivered.”

“I see.” Jason pulled out his money and distributed another five hundred francs to each weaving man. “Go back into the alley, and if Santos comes out, stop him and behave like you’ve had too much to drink. Ask him for money, a bottle, whatever.”

Like children, Maurice-René and Ralph clutched the franc notes, glancing at each other both as conspirators and as victors. François, the crazy
légionnaire
, was passing out money as if he printed it himself! Their collective enthusiasm grew.

“How long do you want us to hassle this turkey?” asked the American from the Deep South.

“I will talk the ears off his bald head!” added the Belgian. “No, just long enough for me to see that he’s alone,” said Bourne, “that no one else is with him or comes out after him.”

“Piece a’ cake, man.”

“We shall earn not only your francs but your respect. You have the word of a Légion corporal!”

“I’m touched. Now, get back in there.” The two inebriated men lurched down the alley, Field Jacket slapping Tank Shirt triumphantly across the shoulders. Jason pressed his back against the street-side brick inches from the edge of the building and waited. Six minutes passed, and then he heard the words he so desperately wanted to hear.

“
Santos
! My great and good friend Santos!”

“What are you doing here, René?”

“My young American friend was sick to his stomach but it has gone—he vomited.”

“American ... ?”

“Let me introduce you, Santos. He’s about to become a great soldier.”

“There is a Children’s Crusade somewhere?” Bourne peered around the corner as the bald bartender looked at Ralph. “Good luck, baby face. Go find your war in a playground.”

“You talk French awful fast, mistuh, but I caught some of that. You’re a big mother, but
I
can be a mean son of a bitch!”

The bartender laughed and switched effortlessly to English. “Then you’d better be mean someplace else, baby face. We only permit peaceable gentlemen in Le Coeur du Soldat. ... Now I must go.”

“
Santos
!” cried Maurice-René. “Lend me ten francs. I left my billfold back at my flat.”

“If you ever had a billfold, you left it back in North Africa. You know my policy. Not a sou for any of you.”

“What money I had went for your lousy fish! It made my friend vomit!”

“For your next meal, go down to Paris and dine at the Ritz. ... Ah,
yes
! You did have a meal—but you did not pay for it.” Jason pulled quickly back as the bartender snapped his head around and looked up the alley. “Good night, René. You too, baby warrior. I have business.”

Bourne ran down the pavement toward the gates of the old factory. Santos was coming to meet him.
Alone
. Crossing the street into the shadows of the shut-down refinery, he stood still, moving only his hand so as to feel the hard steel and the security of his automatic. With every step Santos took the Jackal was closer! Moments later, the immense figure emerged from the alley, crossed the dimly lit street and approached the rusted gates.

“I am here, monsieur,” said Santos.

“And I am grateful.”

“I’d rather you’d keep your word first. I believe you mentioned five thousand francs in your note.”

“It’s here.” Jason reached into his pocket, removed the money, and held it out for the manager of Le Coeur du Soldat.

“Thank you,” said Santos, walking forward and accepting the bills. “
Take
him!” he added.

Suddenly, from behind Bourne, the old gates of the factory burst open. Two men rushed out, and before Jason could reach his weapon, a heavy blunt instrument crashed down on his skull.

“We’re alone,” said the voice across the dark room as Bourne opened his eyes. Santos’s huge frame minimized the size of his large armchair, and the low wattage of the single floor lamp heightened the whiteness of his immense bald head. Jason arched his neck and felt the angry swelling on top of his skull; he was angled into the corner of a sofa. “There’s no break, no blood, only what I imagine is a very painful lump,” commented the Jackal’s man.

“Your diagnosis is accurate, especially the last part.”

“The instrument was hard rubber and cushioned. The results are predictable except where concussions are concerned. At your side, on a tray, is an ice bag. It might be well to use it.”

Bourne reached down in the dim light, grabbed the bulky cold bag and brought it to his head. “You’re very considerate,” he said flatly.

“Why not? We have several things to discuss ... perhaps a million, if broken down into francs.”

“It’s yours under the conditions stated.”

“Who
are
you?” asked Santos sharply.

“That’s not one of the conditions.”

“You’re not a young man.”

“Not that it matters, but neither are you.”

“You carried a gun and a knife. The latter is for younger men.”

“Who said so?”

“Our reflexes. ... What do you know about a blackbird?”

“You might as well ask me how I knew about Le Coeur du Soldat.”

“How did you?”

“Someone told me.”

“
Who
?”

“Sorry, not one of the conditions. I’m a broker and that’s the way I work. My clients expect it.”

“Do they also expect you to bind your knee so as to feign an injury? As your eyes opened I pressed the area; there was no sign of pain, no sprain, no break. Also, you carry no identification but considerable amounts of money?”

“I don’t explain my methods, I only clarify my restrictions as I understand them to be. I got my message through to you, didn’t I? Since I had no telephone number, I doubt I could have done so very successfully had I arrived at your establishment in a business suit carrying an attaché case.”

Santos laughed. “You never would have gotten inside. You would have been rudely stopped in the alley and stripped.”

“The thought occurred to me. ... Do we do business, say a million francs’ worth?”

The Jackal’s man shrugged. “It would seem to me that if a buyer mentions such an amount in his first offer, he will go higher. Say a million and a half. Perhaps even two.”

“But I’m not the buyer, I’m the broker. I was authorized to pay one million, which is far too much in my opinion, but time is of the essence. Take it or leave it, I have other options.”

“Do you really?”

“Certainly.”

“Not if you’re a corpse found floating in the Seine without any identification.”

“I see.” Jason looked around the darkened flat; it bore little relationship to the shabby café below. The furniture was large, as required by the oversized owner, but tastefully selected, not elegant but certainly not cheap. What was mildly astonishing were the bookshelves covering the wall between the two front windows. The academic in Bourne wished he could read the titles; they might give him a clearer picture of this strange, huge man whose speech might have been formed at the Sorbonne—a committed brute on the outside, perhaps someone else inside. His eyes returned to Santos. “Then my leaving here freely under my own power is not a given, is it?”

“No,” answered the Jackal’s conduit. “It might have been had you answered my simple questions, but you tell me that your conditions, or should I say your restrictions, forbid you to do so. ... Well, I, too, have conditions and you will live or die by them.”