‘Right again. And that kind of security calls for the talents of a legend. His enemies hired that legend. ‘
‘Bourne,’ whispered David, shaking his head and closing his eyes.
‘Yes,’ concurred McAllister. Two weeks ago the drug dealer and Yao Ming’s wife were shot in their bed at the Lisboa Hotel in Macao. It wasn’t a pleasant kill; their bodies were barely recognizable. The weapon was an Uzi machine gun. The incident was covered up, the police and government officials bribed with a great deal of money – a taipan’s money. ‘
‘And let me guess,’ said Webb in a monotone. ‘The Uzi. It was the same weapon used in a previous killing credited to this Bourne. ‘
‘That specific weapon was left outside a conference room in a cabaret in Kowloon’s Tsim Sha Tsui. There were five corpses in that room, three of the victims among the colony’s wealthier businessmen. The British won’t elaborate; they merely showed us several very graphic photographs. ‘
‘This taipan, Yao Ming,’ said David, ‘the actress’s husband. He’s the connection your people found, isn’t he?”
‘They learned that he was one of MI6’s sources. His connections in Beijing made him an important contributor to intelligence. He was invaluable. ‘
‘Then, of course, his wife was killed, his beloved young wife-‘
‘I’d say his beloved trophy,’ interrupted McAllister. ‘His trophy was taken. ‘
‘All right,’ said Webb. ‘The trophy is far more important than the wife. ‘
‘I’ve spent years in the Far East. There’s a phrase for it – in Mandarin, I think, but I can’t remember how it goes. ‘
‘Ren you jiagian,’ said David. The price of a man’s image, as it were. ‘
‘Yes, I guess that’s it. ‘
‘It’ll do. So the man from MI6 is approached by his distraught contact, the taipan, and told to get the file on this Jason Bourne, the assassin who killed his wife – his trophy -or in short words, there might be no more information coming to British Intelligence from his sources in Beijing. ‘
‘That’s the way our people read it. And for his trouble the Sixer is killed because Yao Ming can’t afford to have the slightest association with Bourne. The taipan has to remain unreachable, untouchable. He wants his revenge, but not with any possibility of exposure. ‘
‘What do the British say? asked Marie.
‘In no uncertain terms to stay away from the entire situation. London was blunt. We made a mess of Treadstone, and they don’t want our ineptitude in Hong Kong during these sensitive times. ‘
‘Have they confronted Yao mingy?’ Webb watched the undersecretary closely.
‘When I brought up the name, they said it was out of the question. In truth, they were startled, but that didn’t change their stand. If anything, they were angrier. ‘
‘Untouchable,’ said David.
‘They probably want to continue using him. ‘
‘In spite of what he did?’ Marie broke in. ‘What he may have done, and what he might do to my husband?
‘It’s a different world,’ said McAllister softly.
‘You co-operated with them-‘
‘We had to,’ interrupted the man from State.
‘Then insist they co-operate with you. Demand it!’
‘Then they could demand other things from us. We can’t do that. ‘
‘Liars!’ Marie turned her head in disgust.
‘I haven’t lied to you, Mrs Webb. ‘
‘Why don’t I trust you, Mr McAllister?’ asked David.
‘Probably because you can’t trust your government, Mr Webb, and you have very little reason to. I can only tell you that I’m a man of conscience. You can accept that or not accept me or not – but in the meantime I’ll make sure you’re safe.
‘You look at me so strangely – why is that?
‘I’ve never been in this position, that’s why. ‘
The chimes of the doorbell rang, and Marie, shaking her head to their sound, rose and walked rapidly across the room and into the foyer. She opened the door. For a moment she stopped breathing and stared helplessly. Two men stood side by side, both holding up black plastic identification cases, each with a glistening silver badge attached to the top, each embossed eagle reflecting the light of the carriage lamps on the porch. Beyond, at the curb, was a second dark sedan; inside could be seen the silhouettes of other men, and the glow of a lighted cigarette – other men, other guards. She wanted to scream, but she did not.
Edward McAllister climbed into the passenger seat of his own State Department car and looked through the closed window at the figure of David Webb standing in the doorway. The former Jason Bourne stood motionless, his eyes fixed rigidly on his departing visitor.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said McAllister to the driver, a man about his own age and balding, with tortoiseshell glasses breaking the space between his nose and his high forehead.
The car started forward, the driver cautious on the strange, narrow, tree-lined street a block from the rocky beach in the small Maine town. For several minutes neither man spoke; finally the driver asked, ‘How did everything go?’
‘Go?’ replied the man from State. ‘As the ambassador might say, “all the pieces are in place”. The foundation’s there, the logic there; the missionary work is done. ‘
‘I’m glad to hear it. ‘
‘Are you? Then I’m glad too.’ McAllister raised his trembling right hand; his thin fingers massaging his right temple. ‘No, I’m not? he said suddenly. ‘I’m goddamned sick!’
‘I’m sorry-‘
‘And speaking of missionary work, I am a Christian. 1 mean I believe – nothing so chic as being zealous, or born again, or teaching Sunday school, or prostrating myself in the aisle, but I do believe. My wife and I go to the Episcopal church at least twice a month, my two sons are acolytes. I’m generous because I want to be. Can you understand that?’
‘Sure. I don’t have quite those feelings, but I understand. ‘
‘But I just walked out of that man’s house?
‘Hey, easy. What’s the matter?”
McAllister stared straight ahead, the oncoming headlights creating shadows rushing across his face. ‘May God have mercy on my soul,’ he whispered.
4
Screams suddenly filled the darkness, an approaching, growing cacophony of roaring voices. Then surging bodies were all around them, racing ahead, shouting, faces contorted in frenzy. Webb fell to his knees, covering his face and neck with both hands as best he could, swinging his shoulders violently back and forth, creating a shifting target within the circle of attack. His dark clothes were a plus in the shadows but would be no help if an indiscriminate burst of gunfire erupted, taking at least one of the guards with him. Yet bullets were not always a killer’s choice. There were darts – lethal missiles of poison delivered by air-compressed weapons, puncturing exposed flesh, bringing death in a matter of minutes. Or seconds.
A hand gripped his shoulder! He spun around, arcing his arm up, dislodging the hand as he side stepped to his left, crouching like an animal.
‘You okay, Professor?’ asked the guard on his right, grinning in the wash of his flashlight.
‘What? What happened?
‘Isn’t it great!’ cried the guard on his left, approaching, as David got to his feet.
‘What?’
‘Kids with that kind of spirit. It really makes you feel good to see it!’
It was over. The campus quad was silent again, and in the distance between the stone buildings that fronted the playing fields and the college stadium, the pulsing flames of a bonfire could be seen through the empty bleachers. A football rally was reaching its climax, and his guards were laughing.
‘How about you, Professor?’ continued the man on his left. ‘Do you feel better about things now, what with us here and all?’
It was over. The self-inflicted madness was over. Or was it? Why was his chest pounding so? Why was he so bewildered, so frightened? Something was wrong.
‘Why does this whole parade bother me?’ said David over morning coffee in the breakfast alcove of their old rented Victorian house.
‘You miss your walks on the beach,’ said Marie, ladling her husband’s single poached egg over the single slice of toast. ‘Eat that before you have a cigarette. ‘
‘No, really. It bothers me. For the past week I’ve been a duck in a superficially protected gallery. It occurred to me yesterday afternoon. ‘
‘What do you mean?’ Marie poured out the water and placed the pan in the kitchen sink, her eyes on Webb. ‘Six men are around you, four on your “flanks”, as you said, and two peering into everything in front and behind you. ‘
‘A parade. ‘
‘Why do you call it that?1
‘I don’t know. Everyone in his place, marching to a drumbeat. I don’t know. ‘
‘But you feel something?’
‘I guess so. ‘
‘Tell me. Those feelings of yours once saved my life on the Guisan Quai in Zurich. I’d like to hear it – well, maybe I wouldn’t, but I damn well better. ‘