‘I’ll find him, Marie! I swear to Christ ‘I’ll find him! It was David Webb’s promise, but it was Jason Bourne who shouted in fury.
The restaurant looked more like an exquisite rococo dining palace on Paris’s Boulevard Montaigne than a one-storey structure in Hong Kong. Intricate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the tiny bulbs dimmed; encased candles flickered on tables with the purest linen and the finest silver and crystal.
‘I’m afraid we have no tables this evening, monsieur,’ the maitre said. He was the only Frenchman in evidence.
‘I was told to ask for Jiang Yu and say it was urgent,’ Bourne had replied, showing a $100 bill, American. ‘Do you think he might find something, if this finds him?
7 will find it, monsieur.’ The maitre subtly shook Jason’s hand, receiving the money. ‘Jiang Yu is a fine member of our small community, but it is I who select. Comprenez-vous? ‘Absolument.’
‘Bien! You have the face of an attractive, sophisticated man. This way, please, monsieur.’
The dinner was not to be had; events occurred too quickly. Within minutes after the arrival of his drink, a slender Chinese in a black suit had appeared at his table. If there was anything odd about him, thought David Webb, it was in the darker colour of his skin and the larger slope of his eyes. Malaysian was in his bloodline. Stop it commanded Bourne. That doesn’t do us any good!
‘You asked for me? said the manager, his eyes searching the face that looked up at him. ‘How can I be of service? ‘By sitting down first.’ ‘It is most irregular to sit with guests, sir.’ ‘Not really.’ Not if you own the place. Please. Sit down.’ ‘Is this another tiresome intrusion by the Bureau of Taxation? If so, I hope you enjoy your dinner, which you will pay for. My records are quite clear and quite accurate.’
‘If you think I’m British, you haven’t listened to me. And if by “tiresome” you mean that a half a million dollars is boring, then you can get the hell out of my sight and I’ll enjoy my meal.’ Bourne leaned back in the booth and sipped his drink with his left hand. His right was hidden.
‘Who sent you? asked the Oriental of mixed blood, as he sat down.
‘Move away from the edge.’ I want to talk very quietly.’ ‘Yes, of course.’ Jiang Yu inched his way directly opposite Bourne. ‘I must ask. Who sent you?
‘I must ask,’ said Jason, ‘do you like American movies? Especially our Westerns?’
‘Of course. American films are beautiful, and I admire the movies of your old West most of all. So poetic in retribution, so righteously violent. Am I saying the correct words?
‘Yes, you are. Because right now you’re in one.’
‘I beg your pardon?
‘I have a very special gun under the table. It’s aimed between your legs.’ Within the space of a second, Jason held back the cloth, pulled up the weapon so the barrel could be seen, and immediately shoved the gun back into place. ‘It has a silencer that reduces the sound of a forty-five to the pop of a Champagne cork, but not the impact. Liao jie mu?’
‘Liao jie…’ said the Oriental, rigid, breathing deeply in fear. ‘You are with Special Branch?
‘I’m with no one but myself.4
There is no half million dollars, then?
There’s whatever you consider your life is worth.’
‘Why me?’
‘You’re on a list,’ Bourne had answered truthfully.
‘For execution? whispered the Chinese, gasping, his face contorted.
‘That depends on you.’
‘I must pay you not to kill me?
‘In a sense, yes.’
‘I don’t carry half a million dollars in my pockets! Nor here on the premises!’
‘Then pay me something else.’
‘What! How much! You confuse me!’
‘Information instead of money.’
‘What information? asked the Chinese as his fear turned into panic. ‘What information would / have? Why come to me?
‘Because you’ve had dealings with a man I want to find. The one for hire who calls himself Jason Bourne.’
‘No! Never did it happen!’
The Oriental’s hands began to tremble. The veins in his throat throbbed, and his eyes for the first time strayed from Jason’s face. The man had lied.
‘You’re a liar,’ said Bourne quietly, pushing his right arm farther underneath the table as he leaned forward. ‘You made the connection in Macao.’
‘Macao, yes\ But no connection. I swear on the graves of my family for generations!’
‘You’re very close to losing your stomach and your life. You were sent to Macao to reach him!’
‘I was sent, but I did not reach him!’
‘Prove it to me. How were you to make contact?
The Frenchman. I was to stand on the top steps of the burned-out Basilica of St Paul on the Calcada. I was to wear a black kerchief around my neck and when a man came up to me – a Frenchman – and remarked about the beauty of the ruins, I was to say the following words: “Cain is for Delta.” If he replied, “And Carlos is for Cain”, I was to accept him as the link to Jason Bourne. But I swear to you, he never-‘
Bourne did not hear the remainder of the man’s protestations. Staccato explosions erupted in his head; his mind was thrown back. Blinding white light filled his eyes, the crashing sounds unbearable. Cain is for Delta and Carlos is for Cain… Cain is for Delta! Delta One is Cain! Medusa moves; the snake sheds his skin. Cain is in Paris and Carlos will be his! They were the words, the codes, the challenges hurled at the Jackal. / am Cain and I am superior and I am here! Come find me, Jackal! I dare you to find Cain for he kills better than you do. You’d better find me before I find you, Carlos. You’re no match for Cain!
Good God! Who halfway across the world would know those words – could know them? They were locked away in the deepest archives of covert operations! They were a direct connection to Medusa!
Bourne had nearly squeezed the trigger of the unseen automatic, so sudden was the shock of this incredible revelation. He removed his index finger, placing it around the trigger housing; he had come close to killing a man for revealing extraordinary information. But how! How could it have happened! Who was the conduit to the new ‘Jason Bourne’ that knew such things?
He had to come down, he knew that. His silence was betraying him, betraying his astonishment. The Chinese was staring at him; the man was inching his hand beyond the edge of the booth. ‘Pull that back, or your balls and your stomach will be blown away.’
The Oriental’s shoulder yanked up and his hand appeared on the table. ‘What I have told you is true, the man said. The Frenchman never came to me. If he had, I would tell you everything. So would you if you were me. I protect only myself.’
‘Who sent you to make the contact? Who gave you the words to use?
That is honestly beyond me, you must believe that. All is done by telephone through second and third parties who know only the information they carry. The proof of integrity is in the arrival of the funds I am paid.’
How do they arrive? Someone has to give them to you.’
‘Someone who is a no one, who is hired himself. An unfamiliar host of an expensive dinner party will ask to see the manager. I will accept his compliments and during our conversation an envelope will be slipped to me. I will have ten thousand American dollars for reaching the Frenchman.’
Then what? How do you reach him?
‘One goes to Macao, to the Kam Pek casino in the downtown area. It is mostly for the Chinese, for the games of Fan Tan and Dai Sui. One goes to Table Five and leaves the telephone number of a Macao hotel – not a private telephone – and a name – any name – not one’s own, naturally.’
‘He calls you at that number?
‘He may or he may not. You stay twenty-four hours in Macao. If he has not called you by then, you have been turned down because the Frenchman has no time for you.’
Those are the rules?
‘Yes. I was turned down twice, and the single time I was accepted he did not appear at the Calcada steps.’
‘Why do you think you were turned down? Why do you think he didn’t show up?
‘I have no idea. Perhaps he has too much business for his master killer. Perhaps I said the wrong things to him on the first two occasions. Perhaps on the third he thought he saw suspicious men on the Calcada, men he believed were with me and meant him no good. There were no such people, naturally, but there is no appeal.’