The Bourne ultimatum (69 page)

“You’re full of tact. And what did he say to that?”

“Actually, he laughed. Then he explained that his place had twenty guards who could take out one of my balls at four hundred yards, along with a kitchen and room service and television for the kids that I couldn’t match.”

“That’s pretty persuasive.”

“Well, he said something else that was even more persuasive that I
really
couldn’t match. He told me there was no public access to the place, that it was an old estate in Fairfax turned over to the government by a rich ambassador who had more money than Ottawa, with its own airfield and an entrance road four miles from the highway.”

“I know the place,” said Bourne, wincing at the noise of the
p
â
tisserie
. “It’s the Tannenbaum estate. He’s right; it’s the best of the sterile houses. He likes us.”

“I asked you before—where’s
Marie
?”

“She’s with me.”

“She
found
you!”

“Later, Johnny. I’ll reach you in Fairfax.” Jason hung up the phone as his wife awkwardly made her way through the crowd and handed him a pink plastic cup with a blue plastic spoon plunged into a mound of dark brown.

“The
children
?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard, her eyes on fire.

“Everything’s fine, better than we might have expected. Alex reached the same conclusion about the Jackal as I did. Peter Holland’s flying them all up to a safe house in Virginia, Mrs. Cooper included.”

“Thank God!”

“Thank Alex.” Bourne looked at the pink plastic cup with the thin blue spoon. “What the hell is this? They didn’t have vanilla?”

“It’s a hot fudge sundae. It was meant for the man beside me but he was yelling at his wife, so I took it.”

“I don’t
like
hot fudge.”

“So yell at your wife. Come on, we’ve got to buy clothes.”

The early afternoon Caribbean sun burned down on Tranquility Inn as John St. Jacques descended the staircase into the lobby carrying a LeSport duffel bag in his right hand. He nodded to Mr. Pritchard, whom he had spoken to over the phone only moments ago, explaining that he was leaving for several days and would be in touch within hours after he reached Toronto. What remained of the staff had been apprised of his sudden, quite necessary departure, and he had full confidence in the executive manager and his valuable assistant, Mr. Pritchard. He assumed that no problems would arise beyond their combined expertise. Tranquility Inn, for all intents and purposes, was virtually shut down. However, Sir Henry Sykes at Government House on the big island should be contacted in the event of difficulties.

“There shall be none beyond
my
expertise!” Pritchard had replied. “The repair and maintenance crews will work every bit as hard in your absence.”

St. Jacques walked out the glass doors of the circular building toward the first villa on the right, the one nearest the stone steps to the pier and the two beaches. Mrs. Cooper and the two children waited inside for the arrival of the United States Navy long-range seagoing helicopter that would take them to Puerto Rico, where they would board a military jet to Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington.

Through the huge glass windows, Mr. Pritchard watched his employer disappear through the doors of Villa One. At that same moment he heard the growing sounds of a large helicopter’s rotors thumping in the air above the inn. In minutes it would circle the water beyond the pier and descend, awaiting its passengers. Apparently, those passengers heard what he had heard, thought Mr. Pritchard as he saw St. Jacques, gripping his young nephew’s hand, and the insufferably arrogant Mrs. Cooper, who was holding a blanketed infant in her arms, come out of the villa, followed by the two favorite guards carrying their luggage. Pritchard reached below the counter for the telephone that bypassed the switchboard. He dialed.

“This is the office of the deputy director of immigration, himself speaking.”

“Esteemed Uncle—”

“It is you?” broke in the official from Blackburne Airport, abruptly lowering his voice. “What have you learned?”

“Everything is of immense value, I assure you. I heard it all on the telephone!”

“We shall both be greatly rewarded, I have that on the highest authority. They may all be undercover terrorists, you know, St. Jacques himself the leader. It is said they may even fool Washington. What can I pass on, brilliant Nephew?”

“They are being taken to what is called a ‘safe’ house in Virginia. It is known as the Tannenbaum estate and has its own airport, can you
believe
such a thing?”

“I can believe anything where these animals are concerned.”

“Be sure to include my name and position, esteemed Uncle.”

“Would I do otherwise,
could
I do otherwise? We shall be the heroes of Montserrat! ... But remember, my intelligent Nephew, everything must be kept in utmost secrecy. We are both sworn to silence, never forget that. Just think! We’ve been selected to render service to a great international organization. Leaders the world over will know of our contributions.”

“My heart bursts with pride. ... May I know what this august organization is called?”

“
Shhh
! It has no name; that is part of the secrecy. The money was wired through a bank computer transfer directly from Switzerland; that is the proof.”

“A sacred trust,” added Mr. Pritchard.

“Also well paid, trusted Nephew, and it is only the beginning. I myself am monitoring all aircraft arriving here and sending the manifests on to Martinique, to a famous surgeon, no less! Of course, at the moment all flights are on hold, orders from Government House.”

“The American military helicopter?” asked the awed Pritchard.

“
Shhh
! It, too, is a secret,
everything
is secret.”

“Then it is a very loud and apparent secret, my esteemed Uncle. People are on the beach watching it now.”

“
What
?”

“It’s here. Mr. Saint Jay and the children are boarding as we speak. Also that dreadful Mrs. Cooper—”

“I must call Paris at once,” interrupted the immigration officer, disconnecting the line.

“
Paris
?” repeated Mr. Pritchard. “How inspiring! How privileged we are!”

“I didn’t tell him everything,” said Peter Holland quietly, shaking his head as he spoke. “I wanted to—I intended to—but it was in his eyes, in his own words actually. He said that he’d louse us up in a minute if it would help Bourne and his wife.”

“He would, too.” Charles Casset nodded; he sat in the chair in front of the director’s desk, a computer printout of a long-buried classified file in his hand. “When you read this you’ll understand. Alex really did try to kill Bourne in Paris years ago—his closest friend and he tried to put a bullet in his head for all the wrong reasons.”

“Conklin’s on his way to Paris now. He and Morris Panov.”

“That’s on
your
head, Peter. I wouldn’t have done it, not without strings.”

“I couldn’t refuse him.”

“Of course you could. You didn’t want to.”

“We owed him. He brought us Medusa—and from here on, Charlie, that’s
all
that concerns us.”

“I understand, Director Holland,” said Casset coldly. “And I assume that due to foreign entanglements you’re working backwards into a domestic conspiracy that should be incontestably established before you alert the guardians of domestic accord, namely, the Federal Bureau.”

“Are you threatening me, you lowlife?”

“I certainly am, Peter.” Casset dropped the ice from his expression, replacing it with a calm, thin smile. “You’re breaking the law, Mr. Director. ... That’s regrettable, old boy, as my predecessors might have said.”

“What the hell do you
want
from me?” cried Holland.

“Cover one of our own, one of the best we ever had. I not only want it, I insist upon it.”

“If you think I’m going to give him everything, including the name of Medusa’s law firm on Wall Street, you’re out of your fucking mind. It’s our
keystone
!”

“For God’s sake, go back into the navy, Admiral,” said the deputy director, his voice level, again cold, without emphasis. “If you think that’s what I’m suggesting, you haven’t learned very much in that chair.”

“Hey, come on, smart ass, that’s pretty close to insubordination.”

“Of course it is, because I’m insubordinate—but this isn’t the navy. You can’t keelhaul me, or hang me from the yardarm, or withhold my ration of rum. All you can do is fire me, and if you do, a lot of people will wonder why, which wouldn’t do the Agency any good. But that’s not necessary.”

“What the
hell
are you talking about, Charlie?”

“Well, to begin with, I’m
not
talking about that law firm in New York because you’re right, it is our keystone, and Alex with his infinite imagination would probe and threaten to the point where the shredding begins and our paper trail here and abroad ends.”

“I had something like that in mind—”

“Then again you were right,” interrupted Casset, nodding. “So we keep Alex away from our keystone, as far away from
us
as possible, but we give him our marker. Something tangible he can plug into, knowing its value.”

Silence. Then Holland spoke. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“You would if you knew Conklin better. He knows now that there’s a connection between Medusa and the Jackal. What did you call it? A self-fulfilling prophecy?”

“I said the strategy was so perfect it was inevitable and therefore self-fulfilling. DeSole was the unexpected catalyst who moved everything ahead of schedule—him and whatever the hell happened down in Montserrat. ... What’s this marker of yours, this tangible item of value?”

“The string, Peter. Knowing what he knows, you can’t let Alex bounce around Europe like a loose cannon any more than you could give him the name of that law firm in New York. We need a pipeline to him so we have some idea what he’s up to—more than an idea, if we can manage it. Someone like his friend Bernardine, only someone who can also be our friend.”

“Where do we find such a person?”

“I have a candidate—and I hope we’re not being taped.”

“Count on it,” said Holland with a trace of anger. “I don’t believe in that crap and this office is swept every morning. Who’s the candidate?”

“A man at the Soviet embassy in Paris,” replied Casset calmly. “I think we can deal.”

“A mole?”

“Not for a minute. A KGB officer whose first priority never changes. Find Carlos. Kill Carlos. Protect Novgorod.”

“Novgorod ... ? The Americanized village or town where the Jackal was initially trained in Russia?”

“Half trained and escaped from before he could be shot as a maniac. Only, it’s not just an American compound—that’s a mistake we make so often. There are British and French compounds, too, also Israeli, Dutch, Spanish, West German and God knows how many others. Dozens of square miles cut out of the forests along the Volkhov River, dotted with settlements so that you’d swear you were in a different country with each one you entered—if you could get inside, which you couldn’t. Like the Aryan breeding farms, the
Lebensborn
of Nazi Germany, Novgorod is one of Moscow’s most closely guarded secrets. They want the Jackal as badly as Jason Bourne does.”

“And you think this KGB fellow will cooperate, keep us informed about Conklin if they make contact?”

“I can try. After all, we have a common objective, and I know Alex would accept him because he knows how much the Soviets want Carlos on the dead list.”

Holland leaned forward in his chair. “I told Conklin I’d help him any way I could as long as it didn’t compromise our going after Medusa. ... He’ll be landing in Paris within the hour. Shall I leave instructions at the diplomatic counter for him to reach you?”

“Tell him to call Charlie Bravo Plus One,” said Casset, getting up and dropping the computer printout on the desk. “I don’t know how much I can give him in an hour, but I’ll go to work. I’ve got a secure channel to our Russian, thanks to an outstanding ‘consultant’ of ours in Paris.”

“Give him a bonus.”

“She’s already asked for one—harassed me is more appropriate. She runs the cleanest escort service in the city; the girls are checked weekly.”

“Why not hire them all?” asked the director, smiling.

“I believe seven are already on the payroll, sir,” answered the deputy director, his demeanor serious, in contrast to his arched eyebrows.

Dr. Morris Panov, his legs unsteady, was helped down the metal steps of the diplomatically cleared jet by a strapping marine corporal in starched summer khakis carrying his suitcase. “How do you people manage to look so presentable after such a perfectly horrendous trip?” asked the psychiatrist.

“None of us will look this presentable after a couple of hours of liberty in Paris, sir.”

“Some things never change, Corporal. Thank God. ... Where’s that crippled delinquent who was with me?”

“He was vehicled off for a diplograph, sir.”

“Come again? A noun’s a verb leading to the incomprehensible?”

“It’s not so hard, Doctor,” laughed the marine, leading Panov to a motorized cart complete with a uniformed driver and a stenciled American flag on the side. “During our descent, the tower radioed the pilot that there was an urgent message for him.”

“I thought he went to the bathroom.”

“That, too, I believe, sir.” The corporal put the suitcase on a rear rack and helped Mo into the cart. “Easy now, Doctor, lift your leg up a little higher.”

“That’s the other one, not me,” protested the psychiatrist. “He’s the one without a foot.”

“We were told you’d been ill, sir.”

“Not in my goddamned legs. ... Sorry, young man, no offense. I just don’t like flying in small tubes a hundred and ten miles up in the sky. Not too many astronauts come from Tremont Avenue in the Bronx.”

“Hey, you’re kidding, Doc!”

“What?”

“I’m from
Garden
Street, you know, across from the
zoo
! The name’s Fleishman, Morris Fleishman. Nice to meet a fellow Bronxite.”