The Bourne Ultimatum by Robert Ludlum

“He’s not, but we’re going to get to an army doctor who is.” Peter Holland picked up the message pad and pencil from the bedside table, handing both to Dellacroce. He did not bother to switch on the tape recorder. They were beyond props and into hardball.

In New York City, on 138th Street between Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue, the hard core of Harlem, a large disheveled black man in his mid-thirties staggered up the sidewalk. He bounced off the chipped brick wall of a run-down apartment building and slumped down on the pavement, his legs extended, his unshaven face angled into the right collar of his torn army-surplus shirt.

“With the looks I’m getting,” he said quietly into the miniaturized microphone under the cloth, “you’d think I’d invaded the high colonic white shopping district of Palm Springs.”

“You’re doing beautifully,” came the metallic voice over the tiny speaker sewn into the back of the agent’s collar. “We’ve got the place covered; we’ll give you plenty of notice. That answering machine’s so jammed it’s sending out whistling smoke.”

“How did you two lily boys get into that trap over there?”

“Very early this morning, so early no one noticed what we looked like.”

“I can’t wait to watch you get out; it’s a needle condo if I ever saw one. Speaking of which, which we are in a way, are the cops on this beat alerted? I’d hate like hell to get hauled in after growing this bristle on my face. It itches like crazy and my new wife of three weeks doesn’t dig it.”

“You should have stayed with the first one, buddy.”

“Funny little white boy. She didn’t like the hours or the geography. Like in being away for weeks at a time playing games in Zimbabwe. Answer me, please?”

“The blue coats have your description and the scenario. You’re part of a federal bust, so they’ll leave you alone. … Hold it! Conversation’s over. This has to be our man; he’s got a telephone satchel strapped to his belt. … It is. He’s heading for the doorway. It’s all yours, Emperor Jones.”

“Funny little white boy. … I’ve got him and I can tell you now he’s a soft chocolate mousse. He’s scared shitless to go into this palace.”

“Which means he’s legitimate,” said the metallic voice in the collar. “That’s good.”

“That’s bad, junior,” countered the black agent instantly.

“If you’re right, he doesn’t know anything, and the layers between him and the source will be as thick as Southern molasses.”

“Oh? Then how do you read it?”

“On-scene tech. I have to see the numbers when he programs them into his troubleshooter.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“He may be legit, but he’s also been frightened and not by the premises.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s all over his face, man. He could enter in false numbers if he thinks he’s being followed or watched.”

“You’ve lost me, buddy.”

“He has to duplicate the digits that correspond to the remote so the beeps can be relayed—”

“Forget it,” said the voice from the back of the collar. “That high-tech I’m not. Besides, we got a man down at that company, Reco-something-or-other, now. He’s waiting for you.”

“Then I’ve got work to do. Out, but keep me monitored.” The agent rose from the pavement and unsteadily made his way into the dilapidated building. The telephone repairman had reached the second floor, where he turned right in the narrow, filthy corridor; he had obviously been there before, as there was no hesitation, no checking the barely legible numbers on the doors. Things were going to be a little easier, considered the CIA man, grateful because his assignment was beyond the purview of the Agency. Purview, shit, it was illegal.

The agent took the steps three at a time, his soft double-soled rubber shoes reducing the noise to the inevitable creaks of an old staircase. His back against the wall, he peered around the corner of the trash-filled hallway and watched the repairman insert three separate keys into three vertical locks, turning each in succession and entering the last door on the left. Things, reconsidered the agent, might not be so easy after all. The instant the man closed the door, he ran silently down the corridor and stood motionless, listening. Not wonderful, but not the worst, he thought as he heard the sound of only one lock being latched; the repairman was in a hurry. He placed his ear against the peeling paint of the door and held his breath, no echo from his lungs disturbing his hearing. Thirty seconds later he turned his head, exhaled, then took a deep breath and went back to the door. Although muffled, he heard the words clearly enough to piece together the meaning.

“Central, this is Mike up on a Hundred Thirty-eighth Street, section twelve, machine sixteen. Is there another unit in this building, which I wouldn’t believe if you said there was.” The following silence lasted perhaps twenty additional seconds. … We don’t, huh? Well, we got a frequency interference and it don’t make no sense to me. … The what? Cable TV? Ain’t no one in this neighborhood got the bread for that. … Oh, I gotcha, brother. Area cable. The drug boys live high, don’t they? Their addresses may be shit, but inside them homes they got theyselves a pile of fancy crap. … So clear the line and reroute it. I’ll stay here until I get a clean signal, okay, brother?”

The agent again turned away from the door and again breathed, now in relief. He could leave without a confrontation; he had all he needed. One Hundred Thirty-eighth Street, section twelve, machine sixteen, and they knew the firm that installed the equipment. The Reco-Metropolitan Company, Sheridan Square, New York. The lily-whites could handle it from there. He walked back to the questionable staircase and lifted the collar of his army-surplus shirt. “In case I get run over by a truck, here’s the input. Are you reading me?”

“Loud and clear, Emperor Jones.”

“It’s machine sixteen in what they call section twelve.”

“Got it! You’ve earned your paycheck.”

“You might at least say, ‘Outstanding, old chap.’ ”

“Hey, you’re the guy who went to college over there, not me.”

“Some of us are overachievers. … Hold it! I’ve got company!”

Below on the bottom of the staircase a small compact black man appeared, his dark eyes bulging, staring up at the agent, a gun in his hand. The CIA man spun behind the edge of the wall as four successive gunshots shattered the corridor. Lunging across the open space, his revolver ripped from its holster, the agent fired twice, but once was enough. His assailant fell to the floor of the soiled lobby.

“I caught a ricochet in my leg!” cried the agent. “But he’s down—deep dead or not I can’t tell. Sweep up the vehicle and get us both out. Pronto.”

“On its way. Stay put!”

It was shortly past eight o’clock the next morning when Alex Conklin limped into Peter Holland’s office. The guards at the CIA gates were impressed with his immediate access to the director.

“Anything?” asked the DCI, looking up from the papers on his desk.

“Nothing,” answered the retired field officer angrily, heading for the couch against the wall rather than a chair. “Not a goddamned thing. Jesus, what a fucked-up day and it hasn’t even begun! Casset and Valentino are down in the cellars sending out queries all over the Paris sewers but so far nothing. … Christ, look at the scenario and find me a thread! Swayne, Armbruster, DeSole—our mute son of a bitch, the mole. Then for God’s sake, Teagarten with Bourne’s calling card, when we know damned well it’s a trap for Jason set by the Jackal. But there’s no logic anywhere that ties Carlos to Teagarten and by extension to Medusa. Nothing makes sense, Peter. We’ve lost the spine—everything’s gone off the wire!”

“Calm down,” said Holland gently.

“How the hell can I? Bourne’s disappeared-I mean really disappeared, if he isn’t dead. And there’s no trace of Marie, no word from her, and then we learn that Bernardine was killed in a shoot-out only hours ago on the Rivoli—Christ, shot in broad daylight! And that means Jason was there—he had to be there!”

“But since none of the dead or wounded fits his description, we can assume he got away, can’t we?”

“We can hope, yes.”

“You asked for a thread,” mused the DCI. “I’m not sure I can actually provide one, but I can give you something like it.

“New York?” Conklin sat forward on the couch. “The answering machine? That DeFazio hood in Brooklyn Heights?”

“We’ll get to New York, to all of that—them. Right now let’s concentrate on that thread of yours, that spine you mentioned.”

“I’m not the slowest kid on the block, but where is it?”

Holland leaned back in his chair, gazing first at the papers on his desk and then up at Alex. “Seventy-two hours ago, when you decided to come clean with me about everything, you said that the idea behind Bourne’s strategy was to persuade the Jackal and this latter-day Medusa to join forces, with Bourne as the common target, one feeding the other. Wasn’t that basically the premise? Both sides wanted him killed. Carlos had two reasons—revenge and the fact that he believes Bourne could identify him; the Medusans because Bourne had pieced together so much about them?”