The greetings were abrupt. Sulikov offered nothing but a stiff, cold handshake and a stiffly upholstered armchair. He stood in front of the suite’s narrow mantel of white marble as though it were a classroom blackboard, his hands clasped behind him, an agitated professor about to question and lecture simultaneously an annoying, disputatious graduate student.
“To our business,” said the Russian curtly. “You are aware of Admiral Peter Holland?”
“Yes, of course. He’s the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Why do you ask?”
“Is he one of you?”
“No.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Of course I am.”
“Is it possible he became one of you without your knowledge?”
“Certainly not, I don’t even know the man. And if this is some kind of amateurish interrogatory, Soviet style, practice on someone else.”
“Ohh, the fine expensive American attorney objects to being asked simple questions?”
“I object to being insulted. You made an astonishing statement over the phone. I’d like it explained, so please get to it.”
“I’ll get to it, Counselor, believe me, I’ll get to it, but in my own fashion. We Russians protect our flanks; it’s a lesson we learned from the tragedy and the triumph of Stalingrad—an experience you Americans never had to endure.”
“I came from another war, as you well know,” said Ogilvie coolly, “but if the history books are accurate, you had some help from your Russian winter.”
“That’s difficult to explain to thousands upon thousands of frozen Russian corpses.”
“Granted, and you have both my condolences and my congratulations, but it’s not the explanation—or even the lack of one—that I requested.”
“I’m only trying to explain a truism, young man. As has been said, it’s the painful lessons of history we don’t know about that we are bound to repeat. … You see, we do protect our flanks, and if some of us in the diplomatic arena suspect that we have been duped into international embarrassment, we reinforce those flanks. It’s a simple lesson for one so erudite as yourself, Counselor.”
“And so obvious, it’s trivial. What about Admiral Holland?”
“In a moment. … First, let me ask you about a man named Alexander Conklin.”
Bryce Ogilvie bolted forward in the chair, stunned. “Where did you get that name?” he asked, barely audible.
“There’s more. … Someone called Panov, Mortimer or Moishe Panov, a Jewish physician, we believe. And finally, Counselor, a man and a woman we assume are the assassin Jason Bourne and his wife.”
“My God!” exclaimed Ogilvie, his body angled and tense, his eyes wide. “What have these people got to do with us?”
“That’s what we have to know,” answered Sulikov, staring at the Wall Street lawyer. “You’re obviously aware of each one, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes—no!” protested Ogilvie, his face flushed, his words spilling over one another. “It’s an entirely different situation. It has nothing to do with our business—a business we’ve poured millions into, developed for twenty years!”
“And made millions in return, Counselor, may I be permitted to remind you of that?”
“Venture capital in the international markets!” cried the attorney. “That’s no crime in this country. Money flows across the oceans with the touch of a computer button. No crime!”
“Really?” The Soviet consul general arched his brows. “I thought you were a better attorney than that statement suggests. You’ve been buying up companies all over Europe through mergers and acquisitions using surrogate and misleading corporate entities. The firms you acquire represent sources of supply, often in the same markets, and you subsequently determine prices between former competitors. I believe that’s called collusion and restraint of trade, legal terms that we in the Soviet Union have no problems with, as the state sets prices.”
“There’s no evidence whatsoever to support such charges!” declared Ogilvie.
“Of course not, as long as there are liars and unscrupulous lawyers to bribe and advise the liars. It’s a labyrinthine enterprise, brilliantly executed, and we’ve both profited from it. You’ve sold us anything we’ve wanted or needed for years, including every major item on your government’s restricted lists under so many names our computers broke down trying to keep track of them.”
“No proof.” insisted the Wall Street attorney emphatically.
“I’m not interested in such proof, Counselor. I’m only interested in the names I mentioned to you. In order, they are Admiral Holland, Alexander Conklin, Dr. Panov and, lastly, Jason Bourne and his wife. Please tell me about them.”
“Why?” pleaded Ogilvie. “I’ve just explained they have nothing to do with you and me, nothing to do with our arrangements!”
“We think they might have, so why not start with Admiral Holland?”
“Oh, for God’s sake … !” The agitated lawyer shook his head back and forth, stammered several times and let the words rush out. “Holland—all right, you’ll see. … We recruited a man at the CIA, an analyst named DeSole who panicked and wanted to sever his relations with us. Naturally, we couldn’t permit that, so we had him eliminated—professionally eliminated—as we were forced to do with several others who we believed were dangerously unstable. Holland may have had his suspicions and probably speculated on foul play, but he couldn’t do any more than speculate—the professionals we employed left no traces; they never do.”
“Very well,” said Sulikov, holding his place by the mantel and gazing down at the nervous Ogilvie. “Next, Alexander Conklin.”
“He’s a former CIA station chief and tied in with Panov, a psychiatrist—they’re both connected to the man they call Jason Bourne and his wife. They go back years, to Saigon, in fact. You see, we had been penetrated, several of our people were reached and threatened, and DeSole came to the conclusion that this Bourne, with Conklin’s help, was the one responsible for the penetration.”
“How could he do that?”
“I don’t know. I only know that he has to be eliminated and our professionals have accepted the contract—contracts. They all have to go.”
“You mentioned Saigon.”
“Bourne was part of the old Medusa,” admitted Ogilvie quietly. “And like most of that crowd in the field, a thieving misfit. … It could be something as simple as his having recognized someone from twenty years ago. The story DeSole heard was that this trash Bourne—that’s not his real name, incidentally—was actually trained by the Agency to pose as an international assassin for the purpose of drawing out a killer they call the Jackal. Ultimately, the strategy failed and Bourne was pensioned off—gold-watch time. ‘Thanks for trying, old sport, but it’s over now.’ Obviously, he wanted a great deal more than that, so he came after us. … You can see now, can’t you? The two issues are completely separate; there’s no linkage. One has nothing to do with the other.”
The Russian unclasped his hands and took a step forward away from the mantel. His expression was more one of concern than of alarm. “Can you really be so blind, or is your vision so tunneled that you see nothing but your enterprise?”
“I reject your insult out of hand. What the hell are you talking about?”
“The connection is there because it was engineered, created for one purpose only. You were merely a by-product, a side issue that suddenly became immensely important to the authorities.”
“I don’t … understand,” whispered Ogilvie, his face growing pale.
“You just said ‘a killer they call the Jackal,’ and before that you alluded to Bourne as a relatively insignificant rogue agent trained to pose as an assassin, a strategy that failed, so he was pensioned off—‘gold-watch time,’ I believe you said.”
“It’s what I was told—”
“And what else were you told about Carlos the Jackal? About the man who uses the name Jason Bourne? What do you know about them?”
“Very little, frankly. Two aging killers, scum who’ve been stalking each other for years. Again, frankly, who gives a damn? My only concern is the complete confidentiality of our organization—which you’ve seen fit to question.”
“You still don’t see, do you?”
“See what, for God’s sake?”
“Bourne may not be the lowly scum you think he is, not when you consider his associates.”
“Please be clearer,” said Ogilvie in a flat monotone.
“He’s using Medusa to hunt the Jackal.”
“Impossible! That Medusa was destroyed years ago in Saigon!”
“Obviously he thought otherwise. Would you care to remove your well-tailored jacket, roll up your sleeve, and display the small tattoo on your inner forearm?”
“No relevance! A mark of honor in a war no one supported, but we had to fight!”
“Oh, come, Counselor. From the piers and the supply depots in Saigon? Stealing your forces blind and routing couriers to the banks in Switzerland. Medals aren’t issued for those heroics.”
“Pure speculation without foundation!” exclaimed Ogilvie.
“Tell that to Jason Bourne, a graduate of the original Snake Lady. … Oh, yes, Counselor, he looked for you and he found you and he’s using you to go after the Jackal.”
“For Christ’s sake, how?”
“I honestly don’t know, but you’d better read these.” The consul general crossed rapidly to the hotel desk, picked up a sheaf of stapled typewritten pages, and brought them over to Bryce Ogilvie. “These are decoded telephone conversations that took place four hours ago at our embassy in Paris. The identities are established, the destinations as well. Read them carefully, Counselor, then render me your legal opinion.”