nothing he could focus on, nothing, so he wiped the rain from his face and nodded to the guard as he ducked under the rope and moved once again back through the crowd behind the stanchions. He threaded his way to the left side of the press conference.
Suddenly, Bourne’s eyes were drawn to a series of headlights in the downpour that curved into the runway at the far end of the field and rapidly accelerated towards the stationary aircraft. Then, as if on cue, there was a swelling of applause. The brief ceremony was over, signified by the arrival of the official limousines, each with a motorcycle escort driving up between the delegations and the roped-off crowd of journalists and photographers. Police surrounded the television trucks, ordering all but two preselected cameramen to get inside their vehicles.
It was the moment. If anything was going to happen, it would happen now. If an instrument of death was about to be placed, its charge to be exploded within the timespan of a minute or less, it would have to be placed now!
Several feet to his left, he saw an officer of a police contingent, a tall man whose eyes were moving as rapidly as his own. Jason leaned towards the man and spoke in Chinese while holding out his clearance, shielding it from the rain with his hand. ‘I’m the man from the Mossad!’ he yelled, trying to be heard through the applause.
‘Yes, I know about you!’ shouted the officer. ‘I was told. We’re grateful you’re here!’
‘Do you have a flashlight – a torch?’
‘Yes, of course. Do you want it?’
‘Very much.’
‘Here.’
‘Clear me!’ ordered Bourne, lifting the rope, gesturing for the officer to follow. ‘I haven’t time to show papers!’
‘Certainly!’ The Chinese followed, reaching out and intercepting a guard who was about to stop Jason – by shooting him if necessary. ‘Let him be! He’s one of us! He’s trained in this sort of thing!’
The Jew from the Mossad?’
‘It is he.’
‘We were told. Thank you, sir… But, of course, he can’t understand me.’
‘Oddly enough, he does. He speaks Guangzhou hua.’
‘In Food Street there is what they call a Kosur restaurant that serves our dishes-‘
Bourne was now between the row of limousines and the roped stanchions. As he walked down the line, his flashlight directed below on the black tarmac, he gave orders in Chinese and English – shouting yet not shouting; the commands of a reasonable man looking, perhaps, for a lost object. One by one the men and women of the press moved back, explaining to those behind them. He approached the leading limousine; the flags of Great Britain and the People’s Republic were displayed respectively on the right and left, indicating that England was the host, China the guest. The representatives rode together. Jason concentrated on the ground; the exalted passengers were about to enter the elongated vehicle with their most trusted aides amid sustained applause.
It happened, but Bourne was not sure what it was! His left shoulder touched another shoulder and the contact was electric. The man he had grazed first lurched forward and then had swung back with such ferocity that Jason was shoved off-balance. He turned and looked at the man on the police escort motorcycle, then raised his flashlight to see through the dark plastic oval of the helmet.
Lightning struck, sharp, jagged bolts crashing into his skull, his eyes riveted as he tried to adjust to the incredible. He was staring at himself – from only years ago! The dark features beyond the opaque bubble were his! It was the commando! The impostor! The assassin!
The eyes that stared back at him also showed panic, but they were quicker than Webb’s. A flattened, rigid hand lashed out, crashing into Jason’s throat, cutting off all speech and thought. Bourne fell back, unable to scream, grabbing his neck as the assassin lurched off his motorcycle. He rushed past Jason and ducked under the rope.
Get him! Take him… Marie! The words were absent, only hysterical thoughts screaming silently through Bourne’s mind. He retched, exploding the chop in his throat, and leaped over the rope, plunging into the crowd, following the path of fallen-away bodies that had been pummelled by the killer in his race to escape.
‘Stop… him Only the last word emerged from Jason’s throat; it was a hoarse whisper. ‘Let me through? Two words were formed but no one was listening. From somewhere near the terminal a band was playing in the downpour.
The path was closed! There were only people, people, people! Find him! Take him! Marie! He’s gone! He’s disappeared] ‘Let me through!’ he screamed, the words now clear but heeded by no one. He yanked and pulled and bucked his way to the edge of the crowd, another crowd facing him behind the glass doors of the terminal.
Nothing! No one! The killer was gone!
Killer? The kill!
It was the limousine, the lead limousine with the flags of both countries! That was the target! Somewhere in that car or beneath that car was the timed mechanism that would blow it to the skies, killing the leaders of both delegations. Result -the scenario… chaos. Take-over]
Bourne spun around, frantically looking for someone in authority. Twenty yards beyond the rope, standing at attention as the British anthem was being played, was an officer of the Kowloon police. Clipped to his belt was a radio. A chance! The limousines had started their stately procession towards an unseen gate in the airfield.
Jason yanked the rope, pulling it up, toppling a stanchion, and started running towards the short, erect, Chinese officer. ‘Xun su!’ he roared.
‘Shemma?’ replied the startled man, instinctively reaching for his bolstered gun.
‘Stop them! The cars, the limousines! The one in front!’
‘What are you talking about? Who are you?’
Bourne nearly struck the man in frustration. ‘Mossad? he screamed.
‘You are the one from Israel? I’ve heard-‘
“Listen to me! Get on that radio and tell them to stop! Get everyone out of that car! It’s going to blow! Now!’
Through the rain the officer looked up into Jason’s eyes, then nodded once and pulled the radio from his belt. This is an emergency! Clear the channel and patch me to Red Star One. Immediately.’
”All the cars!’ interrupted Bourne. Tell them to peel away!’
‘Change!’ cried the police officer. ‘Alert all vehicles. Put me through!’ And with his voice tense but controlled, the Chinese spoke clearly, emphasizing each word. This is Colony Five and we have an emergency. With me is the man from the Mossad and I relay his instructions. They are to be complied with at once. Red Star One is to stop instantly and order everyone out of the vehicle, instructing them to run for cover. All other cars are to turn to the left towards the centre of the field, away from Red Star One. Execute immediately?
Stunned, the crowds watched as in the distance the engines roared in unison. Five limousines swung out of position, racing into the outer darkness of the airport. The first car screeched to a stop; the doors opened and men leaped out, running in all directions.
Eight seconds later it happened. The limousine called Red Star One exploded forty feet from an open gate. Flaming metal and shattered glass spiralled up into the downpour as the band music halted in midbreath.
Peking. 11:25 p.m.
Above the northern suburbs of Peking is a vast compound rarely spoken of, and certainly not for public inspection. The major reason is security, but there is also an element of embarrassment in this egalitarian society. For inside this sprawling, forested enclave in the hills are the villas of China’s most powerful figures. The compound is enclosed by a high wall of grey stone, the entrances to the complex guarded by seasoned army veterans, the dense woods within continuously patrolled by attack dogs. And if one were to speculate on the social or political relationships cultivated there, it should be noted that no villa can be seen from another, for each structure is surrounded by its own inner wall, and all personal guards are personally selected from years of obedience and trust. The name, when it is spoken, is Jade Tower Mountain, which refers not to a geological mountain but to an immense hill that rises above the others. At one time or another, with the ebb and flow of political fortunes, such men as Mao Zedong, Lin Shaoqi, Lin Biao, and Zhou Enlai resided here. Among the residents now was a man shaping the economic destiny of the People’s Republic. The world press referred to him simply as Sheng, and the name was immediately recognizable. His full name was Sheng Chou Yang.
A brown sedan sped down the road fronting the imposing grey wall. It approached Gate Number Six, and as though preoccupied, the driver suddenly applied the brakes and the car sideslipped into the entrance, stopping inches from the bright orange barrier that reflected the beams of the headlights. A guard approached.