The Bourne ultimatum (54 page)

“I am a maniac,” he stated, emphasizing each word. “Certifiably insane and I’ll sign the papers of commitment myself.”

“You’re safe, that’s all that matters, Doctor,” said Holland. “Good to see you, Crazy Mo,” added Conklin.

“Have you any idea what I
did
? ... I purposely crashed a car into a tree with me
in
it! Then after walking at least half the distance to the Bronx, I was picked up by the only person I know who may have more loose bananas in her head than
I
do. Her libido is unhinged and she’s running away from her trucker husband—hot on her French heels—who I subsequently learned has the cuddly name of the Bronk. My hooker chauffeur proceeds to hold me hostage with such wiles as threatening to yell ‘Rape!’ in a diner filled with a collection of the NFL’s most carnivorous linebackers—except for one who got me out.” Panov abruptly stopped and reached into his pocket. “Here,” he continued, thrusting the five driver’s licenses and the roughly six thousand dollars into Conklin’s hands.

“What’s this?” asked the bewildered Alex.

“I robbed a bank and decided to become a professional driver! ... What do you think it is? I took it from the man who was guarding me. I described as best I could to the chopper’s crew where the crash took place. They’re flying back to find him. They will; he’s not walking anywhere.”

Peter Holland reached for the limousine’s telephone, pushing three buttons. In less than two seconds, he spoke. “Get word to EMS-Arlington, Equipment Fifty-seven. The man they’re picking up is to be brought directly to Langley. To the infirmary. And keep me informed as to their progress. ... Sorry, Doctor. Go on.”

“Go on? What’s to go on to? I was kidnapped and held in some farmhouse and injected with enough sodium pentothal, if I’m not mistaken, to make me a resident of—of La La Land, which I was recently accused of being by Madame Scylla Charybdis.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Holland flatly. “Nothing, Admiral, or Mr. Director or—”

“Peter’s fine, Mo,” completed Holland. “I simply didn’t understand you.”

“There’s nothing to understand but the facts. My allusions are compulsive attempts at false erudition. It’s called posttraumatic stress.”

“Of course, now you’re perfectly clear.”

Panov turned to the DCI with a nervous smile. “It’s my turn to be sorry, Peter. I’m still wound up. This last day or so hasn’t exactly been representative of my normal life-style.”

“I don’t think it’s anybody’s,” concurred Holland. “I’ve seen my share of rotten stuff, but nothing like this, nothing that tampers with the mind. I missed all that.”

“There’s no hurry, Mo,” added Conklin. “Don’t press yourself; you’ve taken a lot of punishment. If you like, we can postpone the briefing for a few hours so you can rest, calm down.”

“Don’t be a damn fool, Alex!” protested the psychiatrist sharply. “For the
second
time I’ve put David’s life in jeopardy. The knowledge of
that
is far worse punishment. There’s not a minute to lose. ... Forget Langley, Peter. Take me to one of your clinics. Free-floating, I want to get out everything I can recall, consciously or unconsciously.
Hurry
. I’ll tell the doctors what to do.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” said Holland, staring at Panov.

“I’m not joking for an instant. You both have to know what I know—whether I realize I know it or not. Can’t you
understand
that?”

The director again reached for the telephone and pressed a single button. In the front seat, beyond the glass partition, the driver picked up the phone recessed in the seat beside him. “There’s been a change of plans,” said Holland. “Head for Sterile Five.”

The limousine slowed down, and at the next intersection turned right toward the rolling hills and verdant fields of the Virginia hunt country. Morris Panov closed his eyes, as if in a trance or as a man might do facing some appalling ordeal—his own execution perhaps. Alex looked at Peter Holland; they both glanced at Mo, then back at each other. Whatever Panov was doing, there was a reason for it. Until they reached the gates of the estate that was Sterile House Five thirty minutes later, no one spoke.

“DCI and company,” announced the driver to the guard wearing the uniform of a private security firm, in reality a CIA proprietary. The limousine proceeded down the long tree-lined entrance.

“Thanks,” said Mo, opening his eyes and blinking. “As I’m sure you gathered, I’m trying to clear my head and with any luck bring down my blood pressure.”

“You don’t have to do this,” insisted Holland.

“Yes, I do,” said Panov. “Maybe with time I could piece things together with a degree of clarity, but I can’t now and we don’t
have
the time.” Mo turned to Conklin. “How much can you tell me?”

“Peter knows everything. For the sake of that blood pressure of yours, I won’t fill you in on all the details, but the bottom line is that David’s all right. At least we haven’t heard otherwise.”

“Marie? The children?”

“On the island,” replied Alex, avoiding Holland’s eyes.

“What about this Sterile Five?” asked Panov, now looking at Holland. “I assume there’s a specialist, or specialists, the kind I need.”

“In relays and around the clock. You probably know a few of them.”

“I’d rather not.” The long dark vehicle swung around the circular drive and stopped in front of the stone steps of the pillared Georgian mansion that was the focal point of the estate. “Let’s go,” said Mo quietly, stepping outside.

The sculptured white doors, the rose-colored marble floors and the elegant winding staircase in the great hall all combined to furnish a superb cover for the work done at Sterile Five. Defectors, double and triple agents, and field officers returned from complex assignments for rest and debriefing were continuously processed through its various agendas. The staff, each with a Four Zero clearance, consisted of two doctors and three nurses in relay units, cooks and domestic attendants recruited from the foreign service—in the main, overseas embassies—and guards, all with Ranger training or its equivalent. They moved about the house and grounds unobtrusively, eyes constantly alert, each with either a concealed or an unconcealed weapon, except for the medical personnel. Visitors without exception were given small lapel pins by the well-spoken, dark-suited house steward, who admitted them and directed them to the locations of their scheduled appointments. The man was a retired gray-haired interpreter for the Central Intelligence Agency, but he suited his position so well in appearance he might have come from Central Casting.

Naturally, at the sight of Peter Holland, the steward was astonished. He prided himself on committing to memory every schedule at Sterile Five. “A surprise visit, sir?”

“Good to see you, Frank.” The DCI shook hands with the former interpreter. “You may remember Alex Conklin—”

“Good Lord, is that you, Alex? It’s been years!” Again hands were shaken. “When was the last time? ... That crazy woman from Warsaw, wasn’t it?”

“The KGB’s been chuckling ever since,” laughed Conklin. “The only secret she had was the recipe for the worst
golumpki
I’ve ever tasted. ... Still keeping your hand in, Frank?”

“Every now and then,” replied the steward, grimacing in mock disapproval. “These young translators don’t know a quiche from a
kluski
.”

“Since I don’t either,” said Holland, “may I have a word with you, Frank?” The two older men walked off to the side speaking quietly as Alex and Mo Panov held their places, the latter frowning and sporadically breathing deeply. The director returned, handing lapel pins to his colleagues. “I know where to go now,” he said. “Frank will call ahead.”

The three of them walked up the curving ornate staircase, Conklin limping, and down a lushly carpeted hallway on the left to the rear of the enormous house. On the right wall was a door unlike any of the doors they had passed; it was made of thick varnished oak with four small windows in the upper recessed panels and two black buttons set in an outlet casing beside the knob. Holland inserted a key, twisted it and pressed the lower button; instantly a red light appeared in the small stationary camera mounted on the ceiling. Twenty seconds later there was the familiar muffled metallic clanking of an elevator coming to a stop. “Inside, gentlemen,” ordered the DCI. The door closed and the elevator began its descent.

“We walked up to go
down
?” asked Conklin.

“Security,” answered the director. “It’s the only way to get where we’re going. There’s no elevator on the first floor.”

“Why not, may the man with one foot missing ask?” said Alex.

“I’d think you’d be able to answer that better than me,” retorted the DCI. “Apparently all accesses to the cellars are sealed off except for two elevators that bypass the first floor and for which you need a key. This one and another on the other side; this takes us to where we want to go, the other leads to the furnaces, air-conditioning units and all the rest of the normal basement equipment. Frank gave me the key, incidentally. If it doesn’t return to its slot within a given period of time, another alarm goes off.”

“It all strikes me as unnecessarily complicated,” said Panov curtly, nervously. “Expensive games.”

“Not necessarily, Mo,” interrupted Conklin gently. “Explosives can be concealed pretty easily in heating pipes and ducts. And did you know that during the last days of Hitler’s bunker a few of his saner aides tried to insert poison gas into the air-filtering machinery? These are just precautions.”

The elevator stopped and the door opened. “To your left, Doctor,” Holland said. The hallway was a glistening pristine white, antiseptic in its way, which was altogether proper, as this underground complex was a highly sophisticated medical center. It was devoted not only to the healing of men and women, but also to the process of breaking them down, crippling their resistance so that information might be revealed, truths learned that could prevent the penetration of high-risk operations, frequently saving lives as a result.

They entered a room that was in stark contrast to the antiseptic quality of the fluorescent-lit hallway. There were heavy armchairs and soft indirect lighting, a coffee urn on a table with cups and saucers; newspapers and magazines were folded neatly on other tables, all the comforts of a lounge designed for those waiting for someone or something. From an inner door a man in a white medical jacket appeared; he was frowning, looking uncertain.

“Director Holland?” he said, approaching Peter, extending his hand. “I’m Dr. Walsh, second shift. Needless to say, we didn’t expect you.”

“I’m afraid it’s an emergency and hardly one of my choosing. May I introduce you to Dr. Morris Panov—unless you know him?”

“
Of
him, of course.” Walsh again extended his hand. “A pleasure, Doctor, also a privilege.”

“You may take both back before we’re finished, Doctor. May we talk privately?”

“Certainly. My office is inside.” The two men disappeared through the inner door.

“Shouldn’t you go with them?” asked Conklin, looking at Peter.

“Why not you?”

“Goddamn it, you’re the
director
. You should insist!”

“You’re his closest friend. So should you.”

“I don’t have any clout here.”

“Mine disappeared when Mo dismissed us. Come on, let’s have some coffee. This place gives me the proverbial creeps.” Holland went to the table with the coffee urn and poured two cups. “How do you like it?”

“With more milk and sugar than I’m supposed to have. I’ll do it.”

“I still take it black,” said the director, moving away from the table and removing a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “My wife says the acid will kill me one day.”

“Other people say tobacco will.”

“What?”

“Look.” Alex pointed at the sign on the opposite wall. It read: THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING.

“That I’ve got enough clout for,” announced Holland quietly as he snapped his lighter and lit a cigarette.

Nearly twenty minutes passed. Every now and then one or the other of them picked up a magazine or a newspaper only to put it down moments later and look up at the inner door. Finally, twenty-eight minutes after he had disappeared with Panov, the doctor named Walsh reappeared.

“He tells me you know what he’s requesting and that you have no objections, Director Holland.”

“I’ve got plenty of objections, but it seems he’s overruled them. ... Oh, excuse me, Doctor, this is Alex Conklin. He’s one of us and a close friend of Panov.”

“How do
you
feel, Mr. Conklin?” asked Walsh, nodding at Alex as he returned the greeting.

“I hate what he’s doing—what he wants to do—but he says it makes sense. If it does, it’s right for him and I understand why he insists on doing it. If it doesn’t make sense, I’ll pull him out of there myself, one foot and all.
Does
it make sense, Doctor? And what’s the risk of damage?”

“There’s always a risk where drugs are concerned, especially in terms of chemical balance, and he knows that. It’s why he’s designed an intravenous flow that prolongs his own psychological pain but somewhat reduces the potential damage.”

“
Somewhat
?” cried Alex.

“I’m being honest. So is he.”

“Bottom line, Doctor,” said Holland.

“If things go wrong, two or three months of therapy, not permanent.”

“And the sense?” insisted Conklin. “Does it make
sense
?”

“Yes,” replied Walsh. “What happened to him is not only recent, it’s consumed him. It’s obsessed his conscious, which can only mean that it’s inflamed his subconscious. He’s right. His unreachable recall is on the cutting edge. ... I came in here as a courtesy. He’s insisted we proceed, and from what he’s told me, I’d do the same thing. Each of us would.”

“What’s the security?” asked Alex.

“The nurse will be dismissed and stay outside the door. There’ll be only a single battery-operated tape recorder and me ... and one or both of you.” The doctor turned to the door, then glanced back. “I’ll send for you at the proper time,” he added, again disappearing inside.