The Bourne ultimatum (93 page)

“What are you driving at?” asked Krupkin warily, eyeing Bourne, the American with alternate identities and apparently conflicting life-styles.

“Get me inside ahead of him with a detailed map of the whole complex and some kind of document that gives me free access to go wherever I want to go.”

“You’ve lost your
senses
!” cried Dimitri. “A nondefecting American, an assassin hunted by every NATO country in Europe, inside
Novgorod
?”

“
Nyet, nyet, nyet
!” roared the Komitet commissar. “I understand good,
okay
? You are lunatic,
okay
?”

“Do you want the Jackal?”

“Naturally, but there are limits to the cost.”

“I haven’t the slightest interest in Novgorod or in any of the compounds—you should know that by now. Your little infiltrating operations and
our
little infiltrating operations can go on and on and it doesn’t matter because none of it means a goddamned thing in the long run. It’s all adolescent game playing. We either live together on this planet or there is no planet. ... My only concern is Carlos. I want him dead so
I
can go on living.”

“Of course, I personally agree with much of what you say, although the adolescent games do keep some of us rather gracefully employed. However, there’s no way I could convince my more rigid superiors, starting with the one standing above me.”

“All right,” said Conklin from his table, his eyes still on the ceiling. “Down and dirty—we deal. You get him into Novgorod and you keep Ogilvie.”

“We’ve already got him, Aleksei.”

“Not clean, you haven’t. Washington knows he’s here.”

“So?”

“So
I
can say you lost him and they’ll believe me. They’ll take my word for it that he flew out of your nest and you’re mad as hell, but you can’t get him back. He’s operating from points unknown or unreachable, but obviously under the sovereign protection of a United Nations country. As a matter of conjecture, I suspect that’s how you got him over here in the first place.”

“You’re cryptic, my fine old enemy. To what purpose should I entertain your suggestion?”

“No World Court embarrassments, no charges of harboring an American accused of international crimes. ... You win the stakes in Europe. You take over the Medusa operation with no complications—in the person of one Dimitri Krupkin, a proven sophisticate from the cosmopolitan world of Paris. Who better to guide the enterprise? ... The newest hero of the Soviet, a member of the inner economic council of the Presidium. Forget the lousy house in Geneva, Kruppie, how about a mansion on the Black Sea?”

“It is a most intelligent and attractive offer, I grant you,” said Krupkin. “I know two or three men on the Central Committee whom I can reach in a matter of minutes-everything confidential, of course.”

“
Nyet, nyet
!” shouted the KGB commissar, slamming his fist down on Dimitri’s table. “I understand some—you talk too fast—but all is lunatic!”

“Oh, for God’s sake,
shut up
!” roared Krupkin. “We’re discussing things far beyond your grasp!”

“
Shto
?” Like a young child reprimanded by an adult, the Komitet officer, his puffed eyes widened, was both astonished and frightened by his subordinate’s incomprehensible rebuke.

“Give my friend his chance, Kruppie,” said Alex. “He’s the best there is and he may bring you the Jackal.”

“He may also bring about his own death, Aleksei.”

“He’s been there before. I believe in him.”

“Belief,” whispered Krupkin, his own eyes now on the ceiling. “Such a luxury it is. ... Very well, the order will be issued secretly, its origins untraceable, of course. You’ll enter your own American compound. It’s the one least understood.”

“How fast can I get there?” asked Bourne. “There’s a lot I have to put together.”

“We have an airport in Vnokova under our control, no more than an hour away. First, I must make arrangements. Hand me a telephone. ...
You
, my imbecilic
commissar
! I will hear no more from you! A
telefone
!” The once all-powerful, now subdued superior, who had really understood only such words as “Presidium” and “Central Committee,” moved with alacrity, bringing an extension phone to Krupkin’s table.

“One more thing,” said Bourne. “Have Tass put out an immediate bulletin with heavy coverage in the newspapers, radio and television that the assassin known as Jason Bourne died of wounds here in Moscow. Make the details sketchy but have them parallel what happened here this morning.”

“That’s not difficult. Tass is an obedient instrument of the state.”

“I haven’t finished,” continued Jason. “I want you to include in those sketchy details that among the personal effects found on Bourne’s body was a road map of Brussels and its environs. The town of Anderlecht was circled in red—that has to appear.”

“The assassination of the supreme commander of NATO—very good, very convincing. However, Mr. Bourne or Webb or whatever your name may be, you should know that this story will splash across the world like a giant tidal wave.”

“I understand that.”

“Are you prepared for it?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What about your wife? Don’t you think you should reach her first, before the civilized world learns that Jason Bourne is dead?”

“No. I don’t even want the slightest risk of a leak.”

“
Jesus
!” exploded Alex, coughing. “That’s
Marie
you’re talking about. She’ll fall apart!”

“It’s a risk I’ll accept,” said Delta coldly.

“You son of a
bitch
!”

“So be it,” agreed the Chameleon.

John St. Jacques, tears welling in his eyes, walked into the bright, sunlit room at the sterile house in the Maryland countryside; in his hand was a page of computer printout. His sister was on the floor in front of the couch playing with an exuberant Jamie, she having put the infant Alison back into the crib upstairs. She looked worn and haggard, her face pale with dark circles under her eyes; she was exhausted from the tension and the jet lag of the long, idiotically routed flights from Paris to Washington. In spite of arriving late last night, she had gotten up early to be with the children—no amount of friendly persuasion on the part of the motherly Mrs. Cooper could dissuade her from doing so. The brother would have given years of his life not to do what had to be done during the next few minutes, but he could not risk the alternatives. He had to be with her when she found out.

“Jamie,” said St. Jacques gently. “Go find Mrs. Cooper, will you please? I think she’s in the kitchen.”

“Why, Uncle John?”

“I want to talk to your mother for a few minutes.”

“Johnny,
please
,” objected Marie.

“I have to, Sis.”

“What ... ?”

The child left, and as children often do, he obviously sensed something serious that was beyond his understanding; he stared at his uncle before heading to the door. Marie got to her feet and looked hard at her brother, at the tears that began to roll down his cheeks. The terrible message was conveyed. “No ... !” she whispered, her pallid face growing paler. “Dear God,
no
, she cried, her hands and then her shoulders starting to tremble. “No ...
no
!” she roared.

“He’s gone, Sis. I wanted you to hear it from me, not over a radio or a TV set. I want to be with you.”

“You’re wrong,
wrong
!” screamed Marie, rushing toward him, grabbing his shirt and clenching the fabric in her fists. “He’s protected! ... He promised me he was
protected
!”

“This just came from Langley,” said the younger brother, holding up the page of computer printout. “Holland called me a few minutes ago and said it was on its way over. He knew you had to see it. It was picked up from Radio Moscow during the night and will be on all the broadcasts and in the morning papers.”

“
Give
it to me!” she shouted defiantly. He did so and gently held her shoulders, prepared to take her in his arms and give what comfort he could. She read the copy rapidly, then shook off his hands, frowning, and walked back to the couch and sat down. Her concentration was absolute; she placed the paper on the coffee table and studied it as though it were an archaeological find, a scroll perhaps.

“He’s gone, Marie. I don’t know what to say—you know how I felt about him.”

“Yes, I know, Johnny.” Then to St. Jacques’s astonishment, his sister looked up at him, a thin, wan smile appearing on her lips. “But it’s a little early for our tears, Bro. He’s alive.

Jason Bourne’s alive and up to his tricks and that means David’s alive, too.”

My God, she can’t accept it
, thought the brother, walking to the couch and kneeling beside the coffee table in front of Marie, taking her hands in his. “Sis, honey, I don’t think you understand. I’ll do everything possible to help you, but you’ve got to understand.”

“Bro, you’re very sweet but you haven’t read this closely—really closely. The impact of the message detracts from the subtext. In economics we call it obfuscation with a cloud of smoke and a couple of mirrors.”

“
Huh
?” St. Jacques released her hands and stood up. “What are you talking about?”

Marie picked up the Langley communiqué and scanned it. “After several confused, even contradictory, accounts of what happened,” she said, “described by people on the scene at this armory, or whatever it is, the following is buried in the last paragraph. ‘Among the personal effects found on the slain assassin’s body was a map of Brussels and the surrounding area with the town of Anderlecht circled in red.’ Then it goes on to make the obvious connection with Teagarten’s assassination. It’s a wash, Johnny, from two points of view. ... First, David would never carry such a map. Second, and far more telling, the fact that the Soviet media would give such prominence to the story is unbelievable enough, but to include the assassination of General Teagarten is simply too much.”

“What do you mean? Why?”

“Because the presumed assassin was
in
Russia, and Moscow wants no conceivable linkage to the killing of a NATO commander. ... No, Bro, someone bent the rules and persuaded Tass to put out the story, and I suspect heads will roll. I don’t know where Jason Bourne is, but I know he’s not dead. David made sure I’d know that.”

Peter Holland picked up the phone and touched the buttons on his console for Charles Casset’s private line.

“Yes?”

“Charlie, it’s Peter.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.”

“Why?”

“Because all I’m getting on this phone is trouble and confusion. I just got off with our source in Dzerzhinsky Square and he told me the KGB’s after blood.”

“The Tass release on Bourne?”

“Right. Tass and Radio Moscow assumed the story was officially sanctioned because it was faxed by the Ministry of Information using the proper immediate-release codes. When the shit hit the fan, no one owned up, and whoever programmed the codes can’t be traced.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I’m not sure, but from what I’ve learned about Dimitri Krupkin, it could be his style. He’s now working with Alex and if this isn’t something out of the Conklin textbook, I don’t know Saint Alex. And I do.”

“That dovetails with what Marie thinks.”

“Marie?”

“Bourne’s wife. I just spoke to her and her argument’s pretty strong. She says Moscow’s report is a wash for all the right reasons. Her husband’s alive.”

“I agree. Is that what you called to tell me?”

“No,” answered the director, taking a deep breath. “I’m adding to your trouble and confusion.”

“I’m not relieved to hear that. What is it?”

“The Paris telephone number, the link to the Jackal we got from Henry Sykes in Montserrat that reached a café on the Marais waterfront in Paris.”

“Where someone would answer a call for a blackbird. I remember.”

“Someone did and we followed him. You’re not going to like this.”

“Alex Conklin is about to earn the prick-of-the-year award. He put us on to Sykes, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Do tell.”

“The message was delivered to the home of the director of the Deuxième Bureau.”

“My God! We’d better turn that over to the SED branch of French intelligence with a restricted chronology.”

“I’m not turning anything over to anybody until we hear from Conklin. We owe him that much—I think.”

“What the hell are they
doing
?” shouted a frustrated Casset over the phone. “Putting out false death notices—from
Moscow
, no less! What
for
?”

“Jason Bourne’s gone hunting,” said Peter Holland. “And when the hunt is over—if it’s over and
if
the kill is made—he’s going to have to get out of the woods before anyone turns on him. ... I want every station and listening post on the borders of the Soviet Union on full alert. Code name: Assassin. Get him back.”

Novgorod. To say it was incredible was to obliquely recognize the existence of credibility and that was nearly impossible. It was the ultimate fantasy, its optical illusions seemingly more real than reality, the phantasmagoria there to be touched, felt, used, entered into and departed from; it was a collective masterpiece of invention cut out of the immense forests along the Volkhov River. From the moment Bourne emerged from the deep underground tunnel below the water with its guards, gates and myriad cameras, he was as close to being in a state of shock while still being able to keep walking, observing, absorbing, thinking.

The American compound, presumably like those of the different countries, was broken up into sections, built on areas anywhere from two to five acres, each distinctly separate from the others. One area, erected on the banks of the river, might be the heart of a Maine waterfront village; another, farther inland, a small Southern town; yet another, a busy metropolitan city street. Each was completely “authentic” with the appropriate vehicular traffic, police, dress codes, shops, grocery and drug stores, gas stations and mock structures of buildings—many of which rose two stories high and were so real they had American hardware on the doors and windows. Obviously, as vital as the physical appearances was language—not merely the fluent use of English but the mastery of linguistic idiosyncrasies, the dialects that were characteristic of specific locations. As Jason wandered from one section to another he heard all around him the distinctive sounds. From New England Down East with its “eeahh” to Texas’s drawl and its familiar “you-alls”; from the gentle nasality of the Midwest to the loud abrasiveness of the large Eastern cities with the inevitable “know what I mean?” tacked on to conversational sentences, whether questions or statements. It
was
all incredible. It was not simply beyond belief, it made the true suspension of disbelief frighteningly viable.