The Monk lunged forward; there was nothing left but a final gesture, a final defiance. The European fired.
The door of the brownstone opened. From the shadows beneath the staircase the chauffeur smiled. The White House aide was being escorted out by the old man who lived at Treadstone, the one they called the Yachtsman; the killer knew that meant the primary alarms were off. The three-second span was eliminated.
“So good of you to drop by,” said the Yachtsman, shaking hands.
“Thank you very much, sir.”
Those were the last words either man spoke. The chauffeur aimed above the walled brick railing, pulling the trigger twice, the muffled reports indistinguishable from the myriad of distant sounds of the city. The Yachtsman fell back inside the White House aide clutched his upper chest, reefing into the door frame. The chauffeur spun around the brick railing and raced up the steps, catching Stevens’ body as it plummeted down. With bull-like strength, the killer lifted the White House man off his feet, hurling him back through the door into the foyer beyond the Yachtsman. Then he turned to the interior border of the heavy, steel-plated door. He knew what to look for; he found it. Along the upper molding, disappearing into the wall, was a thick cable, stained the color of the doorframe. He closed the door part way, raised his gun and fired into the cable. The spit was followed by an eruption of static and sparks; the security cameras were blown out, screens everywhere now dark.
He opened the door to signal; it was not necessary. The European was walking rapidly across the quiet street. Within seconds he had climbed the steps and was inside, glancing around the foyer and the hallway—the door at the end of the hallway. Together both men lifted a rug from the foyer floor, the European closing the door on its edge, welding cloth and steel together so that a two-inch space remained, the security bolts still in place. No backup alarms could be raised.
They stood erect in silence; both knew that if the discovery was going to be made, it would be made quickly. It came with the sound of an upstairs door opening, followed by footsteps and words that floated down the staircase in a cultured female voice.
“Darling! I just noticed, the damn camera’s on the fritz. Would you check it, please?” There was a pause; then the woman spoke again. “On second thought why not tell David?” Again the pause, again with precise timing. “Don’t bother the Jesuit, darling. Tell David!”
Two footsteps. Silence. A rustle of cloth. The European studied the stairwell. A light went out. David. Jesuit … Monk!
“Get her!” he roared at the chauffeur, spinning around, his weapon leveled at the door at the end of the hallway. The uniformed man raced up the staircase; there was a gunshot; it came from a powerful weapon—unmuffled, unsilenced. The European looked up; the chauffeur was holding his shoulder, his coat drenched with blood, his pistol held out, spitting repeatedly up the well of the stairs.
The door at the end of the hallway was yanked open, the major standing there in shock, a file folder in his hand. The European fired twice; Gordon Webb arched backward, his throat torn open, the papers in the folder flying out behind him. The man in the raincoat raced up the steps to the chauffeur; above, over the railing, was the gray-haired woman, dead, blood spilling out of her head and neck. “Are you all right? Can you move?” asked the European.
The chauffeur nodded. “The bitch blew half my shoulder off, but I can manage.”
“You have to!” commanded his superior, ripping off his raincoat. “Put on my coat. I want the Monk in here! Quickly!”
“Jesus! …”
“Carlos wants the Monk in here!”
Awkwardly the wounded man put on the black raincoat and made his way down the staircase around the bodies of the Yachtsman and the White House aide. Carefully, in pain, he let himself out the door and down the front steps.
The European watched him, holding the door, making sure the man was sufficiently mobile for the task. He was; he was a bull whose every appetite was satisfied by Carlos. The chauffeur would carry David Abbott’s corpse back into the brownstone, no doubt supporting it as though helping an aging drunk for the benefit of anyone in the street; and then he would somehow contain his bleeding long enough to drive Alfred Gillette’s body across the river, burying him in a swamp. Carlos’ men were capable of such things; they were all bulls. Discontented bulls who had found their own causes in a single man.
The European turned and started down the hallway; there was work to do. The final isolation of the man called Jason Bourne.
It was more than could be hoped for, the exposed files a gift beyond belief. Included were folders containing every code and method of communication ever used by the mythical Cain. Now not so mythical, thought the European as he gathered the papers together. The scene was set, the four corpses in position in the peaceful, elegant library. David Abbott was arched in a chair, his dead eyes in shock, Elliot Stevens at his feet; the Yachtsman was slumped over the hatch table, an overturned bottle of whiskey in his hand, while Gordon Webb sprawled on the floor, clutching his briefcase. Whatever violence had taken place, the setting indicated that it had been unexpected; conversations interrupted by abrupt gunfire.
The European walked around in suede gloves, appraising his artistry, and it was artistry. He had dismissed the chauffeur, wiped every door handle, every knob, every gleaming surface of wood. It was time for the final touch. He walked to a table where there were brandy glasses on a silver tray, picked one up and held it to the light; as he expected, it was spotless. He put it down and took out a small, flat, plastic case from his pocket. He opened it and removed a strip of transparent tape, holding it, too, up to the light. There they were, as clear as portraits—for they were portraits, as undeniable as any photograph.
They had been taken off a glass of Perrier, removed from an office at the Gemeinschaft Bank in Zurich. They were the fingerprints of Jason Bourne’s right hand.
The European picked up the brandy glass and, with the patience of the artist he was, pressed the tape around the lower surface, then gently peeled it off. Again he held the glass up; the prints were seen in dull perfection against the light of the table lamp.
He carried the glass over to a corner of the parquet floor and dropped it. He knelt down, studied the fragments, removed several, and brushed the rest under the curtain.
They were enough.
21
“Later,” said Bourne, throwing their suitcases on the bed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Marie sat in the armchair. She had reread the newspaper article again, selecting phrases, repeating them. Her concentration was absolute; she was consumed, more and more confident of her analysis.
“I’m right, Jason. Someone is sending us a message.”
“We’ll talk about it later; we’ve stayed here too long as it is. That newspaper’ll be all over this hotel in an hour, and the morning papers may be worse. It’s no time for modesty; you stand out in a hotel lobby, and you’ve been seen in this one by too many people. Get your things.”
Marie stood up, but made no other move. Instead, she held her place and forced him to look at her. “We’ll talk about several things later,” she said firmly. “You were leaving me, Jason, and I want to know why.”
“I told you I’d tell you,” he answered without evasion, “because you have to know and I mean that. But right now I want to get out of here. Get your things, goddamn it!”
She blinked, his sudden anger having its effect. “Yes, of course,” she whispered.
They took the elevator down to the lobby. As the worn marble floor came into view, Bourne had the feeling they were in a cage, exposed and vulnerable; if the machine stopped, they would be taken. Then he understood why the feeling was so strong. Below on the left was the front desk, the concierge sitting behind it, a pile of newspapers on the counter to his right. They were copies of the same tabloid Jason had put in the attaché case Marie was now carrying. The concierge had taken one; he was reading it avidly; poking a toothpick between his teeth, oblivious to everything but the latest scandal.
“Walk straight through,” said Jason. “Don’t stop, just go right to the door. I’ll meet you outside.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, seeing the concierge.
“I’ll pay him as quickly as I can.”
The sound of Marie’s heels on the marble floor was a distraction Bourne did not want. The concierge looked up as Jason moved in front of him, blocking his view.