The Bourne Supremacy by Robert Ludlum

‘Late evening flight. Gives us time to recover.’

‘Why Macao?’

‘A mass itch for the tables. You, too?’

‘I thought I’d give them a whirl. Christ, that cap makes me homesick! The Red Sox may take the pennant and until this trip I hadn’t missed a game!’

‘And Bernie won’t miss his hat!’ The advertising man laughed, leaning over and yanking the baseball cap off Bernard-the-Brain’s head. ‘Here, Jim, you wear it. You deserve it!’

The hydrofoil docked. Bourne got off and went through immigration with the boys from Honeywell-Porter as one of them. As they descended the steep cement staircase down into the poster-lined terminal, Jason with the visor of his Red Sox cap angled down and his walk unsteady, he spotted a man by the left wall studying the new arrivals. In the man’s hand was a photograph, and Bourne knew the face on the photograph was his. He laughed at one of Ted Mather’s remarks as he held on to the weaving Beantown Bernie’s arm.

Opportunities will present themselves. Recognize them, act on them.

The streets of Macao are almost as garishly lit as those of Hong Kong; what is lacking is the sense of too much humanity in too little space. And what is different – different and anachronistic – are the many buildings on which are fixed blazing modern signs with pulsating Chinese characters. The architecture of these buildings is very old Spanish -Portuguese to be accurate – but textbook Spanish, Mediterranean in character. It is as if an initial culture had surrendered to the sweeping incursion of another but refused to yield its first imprimatur, proclaiming the strength of its stone over the gaudy impermanence of coloured tubes of glass. History is purposely denied; the empty churches and the ruins of a burnt-out cathedral exist in a strange harmony with overflowing casinos where the dealers and croupiers speak Cantonese and the descendants of the conquerors were rarely seen. It is all fascinating and not a little ominous. It is Macao.

Jason slipped away from the Honeywell-Porter group and found a taxi whose driver must have trained by watching the annual Macao Grand Prix. He was taken to the Kam Pek casino – over the driver’s objections.

‘Lisboa for you, not Kam Pek! Kam Pek for Chinee! Dai Sui! Fan Tan!’

‘Kam Pek, Cheng net,’ said Bourne, adding the Cantonese please, but saying no more.

The casino was dark. The air was humid and foul and the curling smoke that spiralled around the shaded lights above the tables sweet and full and pungent. There was a bar set back away from the games; he went to it and sat down on a stool, lowering his body to lessen his height. He spoke in Chinese, the baseball cap throwing a shadow across his face which was probably unnecessary as he could barely read the labels of the bottles on the counter. He ordered a drink, and when it came he gave the bartender a generous tip in Hong Kong money.

‘Mgoi,’ said the aproned man, thanking him.

‘Hou,’ said Jason, waving his hand.

Establish a benign contact as soon as you can. Especially in an unfamiliar place where there could be hostility. That contact could give you the opportunity or the time you need. Was it Medusa or was it Treadstone? It did not matter that he could not remember.

He turned slowly on the stool and looked at the tables; he found the dangling placard with the Chinese character for ‘Five’. He turned back to the bar and took out his notebook and ballpoint pen. He then tore off a page and wrote out the telephone number of a Macao hotel he had memorized from the Voyager magazine provided to passengers on the hydrofoil. He printed a name he would recall only if it was necessary and added the following: No friend of Carlos.

He lowered his glass below the bar counter, spilled the drink and held up his hand for another. With its appearance, he was more generous than before.

‘Mgoi saai’ said the bartender, bowing.

‘Msa,’ said Bourne, again waving his hand, then suddenly holding it steady, a signal for the bartender to remain where he was. ‘Would you do me a small favour? he continued in the man’s language. ‘It would take you no more than ten seconds.’

‘What is it, sir?

‘Give this note to the dealer at Table Five. He’s an old friend and I want him to know I’m here.’ Jason folded the note and held it up. ‘I’ll pay you for the favour.’

‘It is my heavenly privilege, sir.’

Bourne watched. The dealer took the note, opened it briefly as the bartender walked away, and shoved it beneath the table. The waiting began.

It was interminable, so long that the bartender was relieved for the night. The dealer was moved to another table, and two hours later he was also replaced. And two hours after that still another dealer took over Table Five. The floor beneath him now damp with whisky, Jason logically ordered coffee and settled for tea; it was ten minutes past two in the morning. Another hour and he would go to the hotel whose number he had written down and, if he had to buy shares in its stock, get a room. He was fading.

The fading stopped. It was happening! A Chinese woman in the slit-skirted dress of a prostitute walked up to Table Five. She sidestepped her way around the players to the right corner and spoke quickly to the dealer, who reached under the counter and unobtrusively gave her the folded note. She nodded and left, heading for the door of the casino.

He does not appear himself, of course. He uses whores from the street.

Bourne left the bar and followed the woman. Out in the dark street, which had a number of people in it but was deserted by Hong Kong standards, he stayed roughly fifty feet behind her, stopping every now and then to look into the lighted store windows, then hurrying ahead so as not to lose her.

Don’t accept the first relay. They think as well as you do. The first could be an indigent looking for a few dollars and know nothing. Even the second or the third. You’ll recognize the contact. He’ll be different.

A stooped old man approached the whore. Their bodies brushed, and she shrieked at him while passing him the note. Jason feigned drunkenness and turned around, taking up the second relay.

It happened four blocks away, and the man was different. He was a small, well-dressed Chinese, his compact body with its broad shoulders and narrow waist exuding strength. The quickness of his gestures as he paid the seedy old man and began walking rapidly across the street was a warning to any adversary. For Bourne it was an irresistible invitation; this was a contact with authority, a fink to the Frenchman.

Jason dashed to the other side; he was close to fifty yards behind the man and losing ground. There was no point in being subtle any longer; he broke into a run. Seconds later he was directly behind the contact, the soles of his sneakers having dulled the sound of his racing feet. Ahead was an alleyway that cut between what looked like two office buildings; the windows were dark. He had to move quickly, but move in a way that would not cause a commotion, not give the night strollers a reason to shout or call for the police. In this, the odds were with him; most of the people wandering around were more drunk or drugged than sober, the rest weary labourers having finished their working hours, anxious to get home. The contact approached the opening of the alley. Now.

Bourne rushed ahead to the man’s right side. The Frenchman^ he said in Chinese. ‘I have news from the Frenchman! Hurry/’ He spun into the alley, and the contact, stunned, his eyes bulging, had no choice but to walk like a bewildered zombie into the mouth of the alleyway. Now!

Lunging from the shadows, Jason grabbed the man’s left ear, yanking it, twisting it, propelling the contact forward, bringing his knee up into the base of the man’s spine, his other hand on the man’s neck. He threw him down into the bowels of the dark alley, racing with him, crashing his sneaker into the back of the contact’s knee; the man fell, spinning in the fall, and stared up at Bourne.

‘ You! It is you!.’ Then the contact winced in the dim light. ‘No,’ he said, suddenly calm, deliberate. ‘You are not him.’

Without a warning move, the Chinese lashed his right leg out, shoving his body off the pavement like a speeding trajectory in reverse. He caught the muscles of Jason’s left thigh, following the blow with his left foot, pummelling it into Bourne’s abdomen as he leaped to his feet, hands extended and rigid, his muscular body moving fluidly, even gracefully, in a semicircle and in anticipation.