The Bourne Ultimatum by Robert Ludlum

“Only that Carlos had a thing about Moscow, that he was making contact with people in high places. It was an obsession with him. … If you can find that contact in Dzerzhinsky Square, it would be a big leap forward. In the meantime, all we’ve got is Dominique Lavier—”

“Damn, damn!” roared Krupkin, cutting off Jason. “How insane, yet how perfectly logical! You’ve answered several questions, Mr. Bourne, and how they’ve burned into my mind. So many times I’ve come so close—so many, so close—and always nothing. Well, let me tell you, gentlemen, the games of the devil are not restricted to those confined to hell. Others can play them. My God, I’ve been a pearl to be flushed from one oyster to another, always the bigger fool! … Make no more calls from that telephone!”

f f f

It was 3:30 in the afternoon, Moscow time, and the elderly man in the uniform of a Soviet army officer walked as rapidly as his age permitted down the hallway on the fifth floor of KGB headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square. It was a hot day, and as usual the air conditioning was only barely and erratically adequate, so General Grigorie Rodchenko permitted himself a privilege of rank: his collar was open. It did not stop the occasional rivulet of sweat from sliding in and out of the crevices of his deeply lined face on its way down to his neck, but the absence of the tight, red-bordered band of cloth around his throat was a minor relief.

He reached the bank of elevators, pressed the button and waited, gripping a key in his hand. The doors to his right opened, and he was pleased to see that there was no one inside. It was easier than having to order everyone out—at least, far less awkward. He entered, inserted the key in the uppermost lock-release above the panel, and again waited while the mechanism performed its function. It did so quickly, and the elevator shot directly down to the lowest underground levels of the building.

The doors opened and the general walked out, instantly aware of the pervasive silence that filled the corridors both left and right. In moments, that would change, he thought. He proceeded down the left hallway to a large steel door with a metal sign riveted in the center.

ENTRANCE FORBIDDEN

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

It was a foolish admonition, he thought, as he took out a thin plastic card from his pocket and shoved it slowly, carefully, into a slot on the right. Without the pass card—and sometimes even with it if inserted too quickly—the door would not open. There were two clicks, and Rodchenko removed his card as the heavy, knobless door swung back, a television monitor recording his entry.

The hum of activity was pronounced from dozens of lighted cubicles within the huge, dark low-ceilinged complex the size of a czar’s grand ballroom but without the slightest attempt at decor. A thousand pieces of equipment in black and gray, several hundred personnel in pristine white coveralls within white-walled cubicles. And, thankfully, the air was cool, almost cold, in fact. The machinery demanded it, for this was the KGB’s communications center. Information poured in twenty-four hours a day from all over the world.

The old soldier trudged up a familiar path to the farthest aisle on the right, then left to the last cubicle at the far end of the enormous room. It was a long walk, and the general’s breath was short, his legs were tired. He entered the small enclosure, nodding at the middle-aged operator who looked up at his visitor and removed the cushioned headset from his ears. On the white counter in front of him was a large electronic console with myriad switches, dials and a keyboard. Rodchenko sat down in a steel chair next to the man; catching his breath, he spoke.

“You have word from Colonel Krupkin in Paris?”

“I have words concerning Colonel Krupkin, General. In line with your instructions to monitor the colonel’s telephone conversations, including those international lines authorized by him, I received a tape from Paris several minutes ago that I thought you should listen to.”

“As usual, you are most efficient and I am most grateful; and as always, I’m sure Colonel Krupkin will inform us of events, but as you know, he’s so terribly busy.”

“No explanations are necessary, sir. The conversations you are about to hear were recorded within the past half hour. The earphones, please?”

Rodchenko slipped on the headset and nodded. The operator placed a pad and a container of sharpened pencils in front of the general; he touched a number on the keyboard and sat back as the powerful third direktor of the Komitet leaned forward listening. In moments the general began taking notes; minutes later he was writing furiously. The tape came to an end and Rodchenko removed the headset. He looked sternly at the operator, his narrow Slavic eyes rigid between the folds of lined flesh, the crevices in his face seemingly more pronounced than before.

“Erase the tape, then destroy the reel,” he ordered, getting out of the chair. “As usual, you have heard nothing.”

“As usual, General.”

“And, as usual, you will be rewarded.”

It was 4:17 when Rodchenko returned to his office and sat down at his desk, studying his notes. It was incredible! It was beyond belief, yet there it was—he had heard for himself the words and the voices saying those words! … Not those concerning the monseigneur in Paris; he was secondary now and could be reached in minutes, if it was necessary. That could wait, but the other could not wait, not an instant longer! The general picked up his phone and rang his secretary.

“I want an immediate satellite transmission to our consulate in New York. All maximum scramblers in place and operational.”

How could it happen?

Medusa!

32

Frowning, Marie listened to her husband’s voice over the telephone, nodding at Mo Panov across the hotel room. “Where are you now?” she asked.

“At a pay phone in the Plaza-Athénée,” answered Bourne. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“What’s happening?”

“Complications, but also some progress.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“There’s not that much to tell.”

“What’s this Krupkin like?”

“He’s an original. He brought us to the Soviet embassy and I talked to your brother on one of their lines.”

“What? … How are the children?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine. Jamie’s thoroughly enjoying himself and Mrs. Cooper won’t let Johnny touch Alison.”

“Which means Bro doesn’t want to touch Alison.”

“So be it.”

“What’s the number? I want to call.”

“Holland’s setting up a secure line. We’ll know in an hour or so.”

“Which means you’re lying.”

“So be it. You should be with them. If I’m delayed, I’ll call you.”

“Wait a minute. Mo wants to talk to you—”

The line went dead. Across the room, Panov slowly shook his head as he watched Marie’s reaction to the suddenly terminated conversation. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m the last person he wants to talk to.”

“He’s back there, Mo. He’s not David any longer.”

“He has a different calling now,” added Panov softly. “David can’t handle it.”

“I think that’s the most frightening thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

The psychiatrist nodded. “It may well be.”

The gray Citroën was parked several hundred feet diagonally across from the canopied entrance of Dominique Lavier’s apartment building on the fashionable avenue Montaigne. Krupkin, Alex and Bourne sat in the back, Conklin again in the jump seat, his size and disabled leg making the position more feasible. Conversation was at a minimum as the three men anxiously kept glancing over at the glass doors of the apartment.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” asked Jason.

“I am only sure that Sergei is an immensely talented professional,” replied Krupkin. “He was trained in Novgorod, you know, and his French is impeccable. He also carries on him a variety of identifications that would fool the Division of Documents at the Deuxième Bureau.”

“What about the other two?” pressed Bourne.

“Silent subordinates, controlled by and subservient to their superior. They’re also experts at their craft. … Here he comes!”

Sergei could be seen walking out of the glass doors; he turned left, and within moments crossed the wide boulevard toward the Citroën. He reached the car, went around the hood and climbed in behind the wheel. “Everything is in order,” he said, angling his head over the front seat. “Madame has not returned and the flat is number twenty-one, second floor, right front side. It has been swept thoroughly; there are no intercepts.”

“Are you certain?” asked Conklin. “There’s no room for error here, Sergei.”

“Our instruments are the best, sir,” answered the KGB aide, smiling. “It pains me to say it, but they were developed by the General Electronics Corporation under contract to Langley.”

“Two points for our side,” said Alex.

“Minus twelve for permitting the technology to be stolen,” concluded Krupkin. “Besides, I’m sure a number of years ago our Madame Lavier might have had bugs sewn into her mattress—”