“Thanks.” Conklin nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper and handing it to the KGB officer. “I need another favor, Kruppie. That’s a telephone number here in Paris. It’s supposed to be a direct line to the Jackal, but it didn’t match the one Bourne was given that did reach him. We don’t know where it fits in, but wherever it is, it’s tied to Carlos.”
“And you don’t want to call it for fear of exposing your possession of the number—initial codes, that sort of thing. I understand, of course. Why send out an alert when it’s unnecessary? I’ll take care of it.” Krupkin looked at Jason, his expression that of an older, understanding colleague. “Be of good and firm heart, Mr. Bourne, as the czarists would say facing no discernible harm whatsoever. Despite your apprehensions, I have enormous faith in Langley’s abilities. They’ve harmed my not insignificant operations more than I care to dwell upon.”
“I’m sure you’ve done your share of damage to them,” said Jason impatiently, glancing at the telephone console.
“That knowledge keeps me going.”
“Thanks, Kruppie,” said Alex. “In your words, you’re a fine old enemy.”
“Again, shame on your parents! If they had stayed in Mother Russia, just think. By now you and I would be running the Komitet.”
“And have two lakefront houses?”
“Are you crazy, Aleksei? We would own the entire Lake Geneva!” Krupkin turned and walked to the door, letting himself out with quiet laughter.
“It’s all a damned game with you people, isn’t it?” said Bourne.
“Up to a point,” agreed Alex, “but not when stolen information can lead to the loss of life—on both sides, incidentally. That’s when the weapons come out and the games are over.”
“Reach Langley,” said Jason abruptly, nodding at the console. “Holland’s got some explaining to do.”
“Reaching Langley wouldn’t help—”
“What?”
“It’s too early; it’s barely seven o’clock in the States, but not to worry, I can bypass.” Conklin again reached into a pocket and withdrew a small notebook.
“Bypass?” cried Bourne. “What kind of double talk is that? I’m close to the edge, Alex, those are my children over there!”
“Relax, all it means is that I’ve got his unlisted home number.” Conklin sat down and picked up the phone; he dialed.
“ ‘Bypass,’ for Christ’s sake. You relics of outmoded ciphers can’t use the English language. Bypass!”
“Sorry, Professor, it’s habit. … Peter? It’s Alex. Open your eyes and wake up, sailor. We’ve got complications.”
“I don’t have to wake up,” said the voice from Fairfax, Virginia. “I just got back from a five-mile jog.”
“Oh, you people with feet think you’re so smart.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Alex. … I didn’t mean—”
“Of course you didn’t, Ensign Holland, but we’ve got a problem.”
“Which means at least you’ve made contact. You reached Bourne.”
“He’s standing over my shoulder and we’re calling from the Soviet embassy in Paris.”
“What? Holy shit!”
“Not holy, just Casset, remember?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. … What about his wife?”
“Mo Panov’s with her. The good doctor’s covering the medical bases, for which I’m grateful.”
“So am I. Any other progress?”
“Nothing you want to hear, but you’re going to hear it loud and clear.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Jackal knows about the Tannenbaum estate.”
“You’re nuts!” shouted the director of the Central Intelligence Agency so loudly that there was a metallic ring on the transoceanic line. “Nobody knows! Only Charlie Casset and myself. We built up a chrono with false names and Central American bios so far removed from Paris that no one could make a connection. Also, there was no mention of the Tannenbaum place in the orders! S’ help me, Alex, it was airtight because we wouldn’t let anyone else handle it!”
“Facts are facts, Peter. My friend got a note saying the trees of Tannenbaum would burn, the children with them.”
“Son of a bitch!” yelled Holland. “Stay on the line,” he ordered. “I’ll call St. Jacques over there, then max-security and have them moved this morning. Stay on the line!” Conklin looked up at Bourne, the telephone between them, the words heard by both men.
“If there’s a leak, and there is a leak, it can’t come from Langley,” said Alex.
“It has to! He hasn’t looked deep enough.”
“Where does he look?”
“Christ, you’re the experts. The helicopter that flew them out; the crew, the people who cleared an American aircraft flying into UK territory. My God! Carlos bought the lousy Crown governor of Montserrat and his head drug chief. What’s to prevent him from owning the communications between our military and Plymouth?”
“But you heard him,” insisted Conklin. “The names were fake, the chronologies oriented to Central America, and above all, no one on the relay flights knew about the Tannenbaum estate. No one. … We’ve got a gap.”
“Please spare me that crypto-jargon.”
“It’s not cryptic at all. A gap’s a space that hasn’t been filled—”
“Alex?” The angry voice of Peter Holland was back on the line.
“Yes, Peter?”
“We’re moving them out, and I won’t even tell you where they’re going. St. Jacques’s pissed off because Mrs. Cooper and the kids are settled, but I told him he’s got an hour.”
“I want to talk to Johnny,” said Bourne, bending over and speaking loud enough to be heard.
“Nice to meet you, if only on the phone,” broke in Holland.
“Thanks for all you’re doing for us,” managed Jason quietly, sincerely. “I mean that.”
“Quid pro quo, Bourne. In your hunt for the Jackal you pulled a big ugly rabbit out of a filthy hat nobody knew was there.”
“What?”
“Medusa, the new one.”
“How’s it going?” interrupted Conklin.
“We’re doing our own cross-pollinating between the Sicilians and a number of European banks. It’s dirtying up everything it touches, but we’ve now got more wires into that high-powered law firm in New York than in a NASA lift-off. We’re closing in.”
“Good hunting,” said Jason. “May I have the number at Tannenbaum’s so I can reach John St. Jacques?”
Holland gave it to him; Alex wrote it down and hung up. “The horn’s all yours,” said Conklin, awkwardly getting out of the chair by the console and moving to the one at the right corner of the table.
Bourne sat down and concentrated on the myriad buttons below him. He picked up the telephone and, reading the numbers Alex had recorded in his notebook, touched the appropriate digits on the console.
The greetings were abrupt, Jason’s questions harsh, his voice demanding. “Who did you talk to about the Tannenbaum house?”
“Back up, David,” said St. Jacques, instinctively defensive. “What do you mean who did I talk to?”
“Just that. From Tranquility to Washington, who did you speak to about Tannenbaum’s?”
“You mean after Holland told me about it?”
“For Christ’s sake, Johnny, it couldn’t be before, could it?”
“No, it couldn’t, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Then who?”
“You. Only you, esteemed Brother-in-law.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Everything was happening so fast I probably forgot Tannenbaum’s name anyway, and if I remembered it, I certainly wasn’t going to advertise it.”
“You must have. There was a leak and it didn’t come from Langley.”
“It didn’t come from me, either. Look, Dr. Academic, I may not have an alphabet after my name, but I’m not exactly an idiot. That’s my niece and nephew in the other room and I fully expect to watch them grow up. … The leak’s why we’re being moved, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“How severe?”
“Maximum. The Jackal.”
“Jesus!” exploded St. Jacques. “That bastard shows up in the neighborhood, he’s mine!”
“Easy, Canada,” said Jason, his voice now softer, conveying thought, not anger. “You say, and I believe you, that you described the Tannenbaum place only to me and, if I recall, I was the one who identified it.”
“That’s right. I remember because when Pritchard told me you were on the phone, I was on the other line with Henry Sykes in ’Serrat. Remember Henry, the CG’s aide?”
“Of course.”
“I was asking him to keep half an eye on Tranquility because I had to leave for a few days. Naturally, he knew that because he had to clear the U.S. aircraft in here, and I distinctly recall his asking me where I was going and all I said was Washington. It never even occurred to me to say anything about Tannenbaum’s place, and Sykes didn’t press me because he obviously figured it had something to do with the horrible things that had happened. I suppose you could say he’s a professional in these matters.” St. Jacques paused, but before Bourne could speak he uttered hoarsely, “Oh, my God!”
“Pritchard,” supplied Jason. “He stayed on the line.”
“Why? Why would he do it?”
“You forget,” explained Bourne. “Carlos bought your Crown governor and his Savonarola drug chief. They had to cost heavy money; he could have bought Pritchard for a lot less.”