‘What the hell are you – oh, Christ?
‘As that maniac remarked about d’Anjou before he hacked into his head, you’re not going anywhere, Major.’
‘You’re going to leave me here?’ asked the killer, stunned.
‘Don’t be foolish. We’re on the buddy system. Where I go, you go. Actually, you’re going first.’
‘Where!’
Through the fence,’ said Jason, taking the wirecutter from the knapsack. He began cutting a pattern around the assassin’s torso, relieved that the wire links were nowhere near as thick as those at the bird sanctuary. The outline complete, Bourne stepped back and raised his right foot, placing it between the impostor’s shoulder blades. He shoved his leg forward. Killer and fence fell collapsing into the grass on the other side.
‘Jesus? cried the commando in pain. ‘Pretty fucking funny, aren’t you?
‘I don’t feel remotely amusing,’ replied Jason. ‘Every move I make is very unfunny, very serious. Get up and keep your voice down.’
‘For Christ’s sake, I’m tied to the damn fence!’
‘It’s free. Get up and turn around.’ Awkwardly, the assassin staggered to his feet. Bourne surveyed his work; the sight of the outline of wire mesh attached to the killer’s upper body, as though held in place by a protruding nose, was funny. But the reason for its being there was not funny at all. Only with the assassin secure in front of his eyes was all risk eliminated. Jason could not control what he could not see, and what he could not see could cost him his life … far more important, the life of David Webb’s wife – even David Webb. Stay away from me! Don’t interfere! We’re too close!
Bourne reached over and yanked the bowknot free, holding on to one end of the line. The fence fell away and before the assassin could adjust, Jason whipped the rope around the commando’s head, raising it so that the line was caught in the killer’s mouth. He pulled it tight, tighter, stretching the assassin’s jaw open until it was a gaping dark hole surrounded by a border of white teeth, the flesh creased in place, unintelligible sounds emerging from the commando’s throat.
‘I can’t take credit for this, Major,’ said Bourne, knotting the thin nylon rope, the remaining thirty-odd inches hanging loose. ‘I watched d’Anjou and the others. They couldn’t talk, they could only gag on their own vomit. You saw them, too, and you grinned. How does it feel, Major? … Oh, I forgot, you can’t answer, can you?’ He shoved the assassin forward, then gripped his shoulder, sending him to the left. ‘We’ll skirt the end of the runway,’ he said. ‘Move!’
As they rounded the airfield grass, staying in the darkness of the borders, Jason studied the relatively primitive airport. Beyond the barracks was a small circular building with a profusion of glass but no lights shining except a single glare in a small square structure set in the centre of the roof. The building was Jinan’s terminal, he thought, the barely-lit square on top the control tower. To the left of the barracks, at least two hundred feet to the west, was a dark, open, high-ceilinged maintenance hangar with huge wheeled ladders near the wide doors reflecting the early light. It was apparently deserted, the crews still in their quarters. Down in the southern perimeter of the field, on both sides of the runway and barely discernible, were five aircraft, all props and none imposing. Jinan Airport was a secondary, even tertiary, landing field, undoubtedly being upgraded, as were so many airports in China in the cause of foreign investment, but still a long way from international status. Then again, the air corridors were channels in the sky and not subject to the cosmetic or technological whims of airports. One simply had to enter those channels and stay on course. The sky acknowledged no borders; only earthbound men and machines did. Combined they were another problem.
‘We’re going into the hangar,’ whispered Jason, jabbing the commando’s back. ‘Remember, if you make any noise, I won’t have to kill you – they will. And I’ll have my chance to get away because you’ll be giving it to me. Don’t doubt it. Get down?
Thirty yards away a guard walked out of the cavernous structure, a rifle slung over his shoulder, his arms stretching as his chest swelled with a yawn. Bourne knew it was the moment to act; a better one might not present itself. The assassin was prone, his wire-bound hands beneath him, his gaping mouth pressed into the earth. Grabbing the loose nylon rope, Jason gripped the killer’s hair, yanking up his head, and looped the line twice around the commando’s neck. ‘You move, you choke,’ whispered Bourne, getting to his feet.
He ran silently to the hangar’s wall, then quickly walked to the corner and peered around the edge. The guard had barely moved. Then Jason understood – the man was urinating. Perfectly natural and perfectly perfect. Bourne stepped away from the building, dug his right foot into the grass and rushed forward, his weapon a rigid right hand preceded by an arcing left foot striking the base of the guard’s spine. The man collapsed, unconscious. Jason dragged him back to the corner of the hangar, then across the grass to where the assassin lay immobile, afraid to move.
‘You’re learning, Major,’ said Bourne, again grabbing the commando’s hair and pulling the nylon rope from around his neck. The fact that the looped rope would not have choked the impostor any more than a loose clothesline wound around a person’s neck would, told Delta something. His prisoner could not think geometrically; stresses were not a strong point in the killer’s imagination, only the spoken threat of death. It was something to bear in mind. ‘Get up,’ ordered Jason. The assassin did so, his gaping mouth swallowing air, his eyes furious, hatred in his stare. Think about Echo,’ said Bourne, his own eyes returning the killer’s loathing. ‘Excuse me, I mean d’Anjou. The man who gave you your life back – a life, at any rate, and one you apparently took to. Your Pygmalion, old chap] … Now, hear me, and hear me well. Would you like the rope removed?’
‘Auggh!’ grunted the assassin, nodding his head, his eyes reduced from hatred to pleading.
‘And your thumbs released?’
‘Auggh, auggh!’
‘You’re not a guerrilla, you’re a gorilla,’ said Jason, pulling the automatic from his belt. ‘But as we used to say in the old days – before your time, chap – there are “conditions”. You see, we both either get out of here alive, or we disappear, our mortal remains consigned to a Chinese fire, no past, no present – certainly no retrospective regarding our sub-zero contributions to society … I see I’m boring you. Sorry, I’ll forget the whole thing.’
‘Auggh!’
‘Okay, if you insist. Naturally, I won’t give you a weapon, and if I see you trying to grab one – which I will if you try -you’re dead. But if you behave, we might – just might – get away. What I’m really saying to you, Mr Bourne, is that whoever your client is over here can’t allow you to live anymore than he can me. Understand? Dig? Capisce?’
‘Auggh!’
‘One thing more,’ added Jason, tugging at the rope that fell over the commando’s shoulder. This is nylon, or polyurethane, or whatever the hell they call it. When it’s burned it just swells up like a marshmallow; there’s no way you can untie it. It’ll be attached to both your ankles, both knots curled up into cement. You’ll have a step-span of approximately five feet – only – because I’m a technician. Do I make myself clear?’
The assassin nodded, and as he did so Bourne sprang to his right, kicking the back of the commando’s knees, sending the impostor to the ground, his bound thumbs bleeding. Jason knelt down, the gun in his left hand pressed into the killer’s mouth, the fingers of his right undoing the bowknot behind the commando’s head.
‘Christ almighty? cried the assassin, as the rope fell away.
‘I’m glad you’re of a religious persuasion,’ said Bourne, dropping the weapon and rapidly lashing the rope around the commando’s ankles, forming a square knot on each; he ignited his lighter and fired the ends. ‘You may need it.’ He picked up the gun, held it against the killer’s forehead, and uncoiled the wire around his prisoner’s wrists. Take off the rest,’ he ordered. ‘Be careful with the thumbs, they’re damaged.’
‘My right arm’s no piece of cake, either!’ said the Englishman, struggling to remove the slipknots. His hands freed, the assassin shook them, then sucked the blood from his wounds. ‘You got your magic box, Mr Bourne”? he asked.
‘Always an arm’s length away, Mr Bourne,’ replied Jason. ‘What do you need?
Tape. Fingers bleed. It’s called gravity.’
‘You’re so well schooled.’ Bourne reached behind him for the knapsack and pulled it forward, dropping it in front of the commando, his gun levelled at the killer’s head. ‘Feel around. It’s a spool near the top.’