And always there was the same reply, or a variation of it, spoken in a clipped British accent. ‘I’m not a fool. You’re behind me and you’ve got a weapon and I can’t see you.’
Jason had ripped the rearview mirror from its bracket, the bolt having cracked easily in his hand. Then I’m your eyes back here, remember that. I’m also the end of your life.’
‘Understood,’ the former commando officer repeated without expression.
The government road map spread out on his lap, the penlight cupped in his left hand, the automatic in his right, Bourne studied the roads heading south. As each half hour passed and landmarks were spotted, Jason understood that time was his enemy. Although the assassin’s right arm was effectively immobilized, in sheer stamina Bourne knew he was no match for the younger, stronger man. The concentrated violence of the last three days had taken its toll physically, mentally and – whether he cared to acknowledge it or not – emotionally, and while Jason Bourne did not have to acknowledge it, David Webb proclaimed it with every fibre of his emotional being. The scholar had to be kept at bay, deep down inside, his voice stilled.
Leave me alone! You’re worthless to me\
Every now and then Jason felt the dead weight of his lids closing over his eyes. He would snap them open and abuse some part of his body, pinching hard the soft sensitive flesh of his inner thigh or digging his nails into his lips, creating instant pain to dispel the exhaustion. He recognized his condition – only a suicidal fool would not – and there was no time or place to remedy it with- an axiom he had stolen from Medusa’s Echo. Rest is a weapon, never forget it. Forget it, Echo … brave Echo … there’s no time for rest, no place to find it.
And while he accepted his own assessment of himself, he also had to accept his evaluation of his prisoner. The killer was totally alert; his sharpness was in his skill at the wheel, for Jason demanded speed over the strange, unfamiliar roads. It was in his constantly moving head, and it was in his eyes whenever Bourne saw them, and he saw them frequently whenever he directed the assassin to slow down and watch for an off-shooting road on the right or the left. The impostor would turn in the seat – the sight of his so familiar features always a shock to Jason – and ask whether the road ahead was the one his ‘eyes’ watched. The questions were superfluous; the former commando was continuously making his own assessment of his captor’s physical and mental condition. He was a trained killer, a lethal machine who knew that survival depended on gaining the advantage over his enemy. He was waiting, watching, anticipating the moment when his adversary’s eyelids might close for that brief instant or when the weapon might suddenly drop to the floor, or his enemy’s head might recline for a second into the comfort of the back seat. These were the signs he was waiting for, the lapses he could capitalize on to violently alter the circumstances. Bourne’s defence, therefore, depended upon his mind, in doing the unexpected so that the psychological balance remained in his favour. How long could it last – could he last?
Time was his enemy, the assassin in front of him a secondary problem. In his past – that vaguely remembered past – he had handled killers before, manipulated them before, because they were human beings subject to the wiles of his imagination. Christ, it came down to that! So simple, so logical – and he was so tired … His mind. There was nothing else left! He had to keep thinking, had to keep prodding his imagination and make it do its work. Balance, balance! He had to keep it on his side! Think. Act. Do the unexpected!
He removed the silencer from his weapon, levelled the gun at the closed right front window, and pulled the trigger. The explosion was ear-shattering, reverberating throughout the enclosed car, as the glass splintered, blowing out into the rushing night air.
‘What the hell was that for?’ screamed the impostor-killer, clutching the wheel, holding an involuntary swerve in control.
‘To teach you about balance,’ answered Jason. ‘You should understand that I’m unbalanced. The next shot could blow your head away.’
‘You’re a fucking lunatic, that’s what you are!’
‘I’m glad you understand.’
The map. One of the more civilized things about a PRC road map – and consistent with the quality of its vehicles -was the system of stars to indicate garages which were open 24 hours a day along the major routes/One had only to think of the confusion that might result from military and official vehicles breaking down to understand the necessity; it was heaven-sent for Bourne.
‘There’s a gas station about four miles down this road,’ he said to the assassin – to Jason Bourne, he reflected. ‘Stop and refill and don’t say a word – which would be foolish if you tried, because you can’t speak the language.’
‘You do?’
‘It’s why I’m the original and you’re the fake.’
‘You can bloody well have it, Mr Original?
Jason fired the gun again, blowing the rest of the window away. ‘The face!’ he yelled, raising his voice over the sound of the wind. ‘Remember that.’
Time was the enemy.
He took a mental inventory of what he had and it was not all that much. Money was his primary ammunition; he had more than a hundred Chinese could make in a hundred lifetimes, but money in itself was not the answer. Only time was the answer. If he had a prayer of a chance to get out of the vast land of China it had to be by air, not on the ground. He would not last that long. Again, he studied the map. It would take thirteen to fifteen hours to reach Shanghai – //the car held up and if he held up, and if they could get by the provincial checkpoints where he knew there would be alarms out for a Westerner, or two Westerners, attempting to pass through. He would be taken – they would be taken. And even if they reached Shanghai, with its relatively lax airport, how many complications might arise?
There was an option – there were always options. It was crazy and outrageous, but it was the only thing left.
Time was the enemy. Do it. There is no other choice.
He circled a small symbol on the outskirts of the city of Jinan. An airport.
Dawn. Wetness everywhere. The ground, the tall grass and the metal fence glistened with morning dew. The single runway beyond was a shining black shaft cutting across the close-cropped field, half green with today’s moisture, half dullish brown from the pounding of yesterday’s broiling sun. The Shanghai sedan was far off the airport road, as far off as the assassin could drive it, again concealed by foliage. The impostor was once more immobilized, now by the thumbs. Pressing the gun into his right temple, Jason had ordered the assassin to wind the spools of wire into double slipknots around each thumb, and then he had snapped the spools away with his cutter, ran the wire back and coiled the two remaining strands tightly around the killer’s wrists. As the commando discovered, with any slight pressure, such as twisting or separating his hands, the wire dug deeper into his flesh.
‘If I were you,’ said Bourne, ‘I’d be careful. Can you imagine what it would be like having no thumbs? Or if your wrists were cut?”
‘Fucking technician!’
‘Believe it.’
Across the airfield a light was turned on in a one-storey building with a row of small windows along the side. It was a barracks of sorts, simple in design and functional. Then there were other lights – naked bulbs, the glows more like glares. A barracks. Jason reached for the coiled roll of clothing he had removed from the small of his back; he undid the straps, unfurled the garments over the grass and separated them. There was a large Mao jacket, a pair of rumpled outsized trousers, and a visored cloth hat that was standard peasant wear. He put on the hat and the jacket, buttoning the latter over his dark sweater, then stood up and pulled the large trousers over his own. A webbed cloth belt held them in place. He smoothed the drab, bulky jacket over the trousers and turned to the impostor who was watching him with astonishment and curiosity.
‘Get over to the fence,’ said Jason, bending down and digging into his knapsack. ‘Get on your knees and lean into it,’ he continued, pulling out a five-foot length of thin nylon rope. ‘Press your face into the links. Eyes front! Hurry up!’ The killer did as he was told, his bound hands awkwardly, painfully in front of him between his body and the fence, his head pressed into the wire mesh. Bourne walked rapidly over and quickly threaded the rope through the fence on the right side of the killer’s neck, and with his fingers reaching through the open squares he swung the line across the commando’s face and pulled the rope back through. He yanked it taut and knotted it at the base of the impostor’s skull. He had worked so swiftly and so unexpectedly that the former officer could barely get out the words before he realized what had happened.