They can pay, too, and say it’s a confidential government matter that brings generous rewards or equally generous harassment. Guess who takes precedence?’
‘I think you’re over-reacting,’ protested the psychiatrist.
‘I don’t care what you think, Doctor, just get out of there. Now. Forget Marie’s luggage – if she has any. Leave as quickly as you can.’
‘Where should we go?’
‘Where it’s crowded, but where I can find you.’
‘A restaurant?’
‘It’s been too many years and they change names every twenty minutes over here. Hotels are out; they’re too easily covered.’
‘If you’re right, Alex, you’re taking too much time-‘
‘I’m thinking!… All right. Take a cab to the foot of Nathan Road at Salisbury – have you got that? Nathan and Salisbury. You’ll see the Peninsula Hotel, but don’t go inside. The strip heading north is called the Golden Mile. Walk up and down on the right side, the east side, but stay within the first four blocks. I’ll find you, as soon as I can.’
‘All right,’ said Panov. ‘Nathan and Salisbury, the first four blocks north on the right… Alex, you’re quite certain you’re right, aren’t you?
‘On two counts,’ answered Conklin. ‘For starters, Havilland didn’t ask me to go with him to find out what the “emergency” was – that’s not our arrangement. And if the emergency isn’t you and Marie, it means Webb’s made contact. If that’s the case, I’m not trading away my only bargaining chip, which is Marie. Not without on-sight guarantees. Not with Ambassador Raymond Havilland. Now, get out of there!’
Something was wrong! What was it? Bourne had returned to the filthy hotel room and stood at the foot of the bed watching his prisoner whose twitch was more pronounced now, his stretched body spastically reacting to each nervous movement. What was it? Why did the conversation with the Hong Kong operator bother him so? She was courteous and helpful; she even tolerated his abuse. Then what was it… Suddenly, words from a long forgotten past came to him. Words spoken years ago to an unknown operator without a face, with only an irritable voice.
I asked you for the number of the Iranian consulate.
It is in the telephone book. Our switchboards are full and we have no time for such inquiries. Click. Line dead.
That was it! The operators in Hong Kong – with justification – were among the most peremptory in the world. They wasted no time, no matter how persistent the customer. The workload in this congested, frenetic financial megalopolis would not permit it. Yet the second operator was the soul of tolerance … / would not know about other numbers. If you have them I will gladly check for you … If you will give me your address … Unless you care to give me your address … The address! And without really considering the question he had instinctively answered. No, I don’t think HI do that. From deep within him an alarm had gone off.
A trace! They had bounced him around, keeping him on the line long enough to put an electronic trace on his call! Pay phones were the most difficult to track down. The vicinity was determined first; next the location or premises, and finally the specific instrument, but it was only a matter of minutes and fractions of minutes between the first step and the last. Had he stayed on long enough? And if so, to what degree of progress? The vicinity? The hotel? The pay phone itself? Jason tried to reconstruct his conversation with the operator – the second operator when the trace would have begun. Maddeningly, frantically, but with all the precision he could summon, he tried to recapture the rhythm of their words, their voices, realizing that when he had accelerated she had slowed down. It will take me some time… Actually, I do not, sir. The laws of confidentiality are most strict in Hong Kong – a lecture! Oh, sir, please wait. You were correct …my screen now shows – a mollifying explanation, taking up time. Time! How could he have allowed it? How long…?
Ninety seconds – two minutes at the outside. Timing was an instinct for him, rhythms remembered. Say two minutes. Enough to determine a vicinity, conceivably to pinpoint a location, but given the hundreds of thousands of miles of trunk lines probably inadequate to pick up a specific phone. For some elusive reason images of Paris came to him, then the blurred outlines of telephone booths as he and Marie raced from one to another through the blinding Paris streets, making blind, untraceable calls, hoping to unravel the enigma that was Jason Bourne. Four minutes. It takes that long, but we have to get out of the area! They’ve got that by now!
The taipan’s men – if there was a huge, obese taipan to begin with – might have traced the hotel, but it was unlikely they would have tracked the pay phone or the floor. And there was another time span to be considered, one that could work for him if he in turn worked quickly. If the trace had been made and the hotel unearthed, it would take the hunters some time to reach the southern Mongkok, presuming they were in Hong Kong, which the telephone prefix indicated. The key at the moment was speed. Quickly.
The blindfold stays, Major, but you’re moving,’ he said to the assassin, as he swiftly undid the gag and the knots on the mattress springs, coiling the three nylon ropes and stuffing them into the commando’s jacket.
‘What? What did you say?’
That’s better yet,’ said Bourne, raising his voice. ‘Get up. We’re going for a walk.’ Jason grabbed his knapsack, opened the door and checked the hallway. A drunk staggered into a room on the left and slammed the door. The right corridor was clear, all the way up to the pay phone and the fire exit beyond it. ‘Move,’ ordered Bourne, shoving his prisoner.
The fire escape would have been rejected by underwriters at a glance. The metal was corroded and the railings bent under pressure. If one was escaping a fire, a smoke-filled staircase might have been preferable. Still, if it descended in the darkness without collapsing that was all that mattered. Jason grabbed the commando’s lapel, leading him down the creaking metal steps until they reached the first landing. Beneath there was a broken ladder extended in its track half way to the alley below. The drop to the pavement was no more than six or seven feet, easily negotiated going down and – more important – coming back up.
‘Sleep well,’ said Bourne, taking aim in the dim light and crashing his knuckles into the base of the commando’s skull. The assassin collapsed on the staircase as Bourne whipped out the cords and secured the killer to the steps and the railing, at the last yanking down the pillowcase, covering the impostor’s mouth and tying the cloth tighter. The nocturnal sounds of Hong Kong’s Yau Ma Ti and the nearby Mongkok would easily cover whatever cries Allcott-Price might manage – if he awoke before Jason awakened him, which was doubtful.
Bourne climbed down the ladder, dropping into the narrow alleyway only seconds before three young men appeared, running around the corner from the busy street. Out of breath, they huddled in the shadows of a doorway as Jason remained on his knees – he hoped out of sight. Beyond the alley’s entrance another group of youths raced by in pursuit, shouting angrily. The three young men lurched from the darkened doorway and ran out, heading in the opposite direction, away from their pursuers. Bourne got up and walked quickly to the mouth of the alley, looking back up at the fire escape. The impostor could not be seen.
He collided simultaneously with two running bodies.
Bouncing off them and into the wall, he could only assume that the young men were part of the crowd chasing the previous three who had hidden in the doorway. One of these, however, held a knife menacingly in his hand. Jason did not need this confrontation, he could not permit it! Before the youth realized what had happened, Bourne lashed out and gripped the young man’s wrist, twisting it clockwise until the blade fell from the youngster’s hand while he screamed in pain.
‘Get out of here!’ shouted Jason in harsh Cantonese. ‘Your gang is no match for your elders and betters! If we see any of you around here, your mothers will get corpses for their labours. Get out!’
‘Aiya!’
‘We look for thieves! For eye-eyes from the north! They steal, they-‘
“Out!’
The young men fled from the alleyway, disappearing into the busy street in the Yau Ma Ti. Bourne shook his hand, the hand the assassin had tried to crush in the hotel doorframe. In his anxiety he had forgotten about the pain; it was the best way to tolerate it.