“That’s progress?”
“Would you believe it’s a start?”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Can you really help my mother?”
“Can you really help me?”
“Let’s try. … Okay, this Carlos the Jackal. I’ve heard of him but he’s not large in my vocabulary. Direktor Krupkin says he’s one very bad dude.”
“I hear California checking in.”
“It comes back. Forget it. I’m where I want to be and don’t for a moment think otherwise.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“What?”
“You keep protesting—”
“Shakespeare said it better. My minor at UCLA was English lit.”
“What was your major?”
“American history. What else, Grandpa?”
“Thanks, kid.”
“This Jackal,” said Benjamin, leaning against the New London fence as several guards began to run toward him. “Prosteetye!” he yelled. “No, no! I mean, excuse me. Tak govorya! I’m a trainer! … Oh, shit!”
“Will you be reported?” asked Jason as they quickly walked away.
“No, they’re too damned dumb. They’re maintenance personnel in uniforms; they walk their posts but they don’t really know what’s going on. Only who and what to stop.”
“Pavlov’s dogs?”
“Who better? Animals don’t rationalize; they go for the throats and plug up the holes.”
“Which brings us back to the Jackal,” said Bourne.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to, it’s symbolic. How could he get in here?”
“He couldn’t. Every guard in every tunnel up the line has the name and serial numbers of the Novgorod papers he took from the agent he killed in Moscow. If he shows up, they’ll stop him and shoot him on sight.”
“I told Krupkin not to do that.”
“For Christ’s sake, why?”
“Because it won’t be him and lives could be lost. He’ll send in others, maybe two or three or four into different compounds, always testing, confusing, until he finds a way to get through.”
“You’re nuts. What happens to the men he sends in?”
“It wouldn’t matter. If they’re shot, he watches and learns something.”
“You’re really crazy. Where would he find people like that?”
“Anyplace where there are people who think they’re making a month’s salary for a few minutes’ work. He could call each one a routine security check—remember, he’s got the papers to prove he’s official. Combined with money, people are impressed with such documents and aren’t too skeptical.”
“And at the first gate he loses those papers,” insisted the trainer.
“Not at all. He’s driving over five hundred miles through a dozen towns and cities. He could easily have copies made in any number of places. Your business centers have Xerox machines; they’re all over the place, and touching up those papers to look like the real items is no sweat.” Bourne stopped and looked at the Americanized Soviet. “You’re talking details, Ben, and take my word for it, they don’t count. Carlos is coming here to leave his mark, and we have one advantage that blows away all his expertise. If Krupkin was able to get the news out properly, the Jackal thinks I’m dead.”
“The whole world thinks you’re dead. … Yes, Krupkin told me; it would’ve been dumb not to. In here, you’re a recruit named ‘Archie,’ but I know who you are, Bourne. Even if I’d never heard of you before, I sure as hell have now. You’re all Radio Moscow’s been talking about for hours.”
“Then we can assume Carlos has heard the news, too.”
“No question. Every vehicle in Russia is equipped with a radio; it’s standard. In case of an American attack, incidentally.”
“That’s good marketing.”
“Did you really assassinate Teagarten in Brussels?”
“Get off my case—”
“Off limits, okay. What’s your point?”
“Krupkin should have left it to me.”
“Left what?”
“The Jackal’s penetration.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Use Krupkin, if necessary, but send the word up to every tunnel, every entrance to Novgorod, to let in anyone using those papers. My guess is three or four, maybe five. They’re to watch them, but they’re to let everyone come inside.”
“You just got awarded a room made of thick sponge rubber. You’re certifiable, Archie.”
“No, I’m not. I said that everyone should be watched, followed, that the guards maintain constant contact with us here in this compound.”
“So?”
“One of those men will disappear in a matter of minutes. No one will know where he is or where he went. That man will be Carlos.”
“And?”
“He’ll convince himself he’s invulnerable, free to do whatever he wants to do, because he thinks I’m dead. That sets him free.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows and I know that we’re the only ones who can track each other, whether it’s in the jungles or the cities or a combination of both. Hatred does that, Benjamin. Or desperation.”
“That’s pretty emotional, isn’t it? Also abstract.”
“No way,” answered Jason. “I have to think like he thinks—I was trained to do that years ago. … Let’s examine the alternatives. How far up the Volkhov does Novgorod extend? Thirty, forty kilometers?”
“Forty-seven, to be exact, and every meter is impenetrable. There are magnesium pipes crisscrossing the water, spaced above and below the surface to permit the free flow of underwater life but capable of setting off alarms. On the east bank are interlocking ground grids, all weight-sensing. Anything over ninety pounds instantly sets off sirens, and television monitors and spotlights zero in on any intruder over that weight. And even if an eighty-nine-pound wonder reached the fence, he’d be electrically rendered unconscious on the first touch; that also goes for the magnesium pipes in the river. Of course, falling trees or floating logs and the heavier animals keep our security forces on the run. It’s good discipline, I suppose.”
“Then there are only the tunnels,” said Bourne, “is that right?”
“You came through one, what can I tell you that you didn’t see? Except that iron gates literally crash down at the slightest irregularity, and in emergencies all the tunnels can be flooded.”
“All of which Carlos knows. He was trained here.”
“Many years ago, Krupkin told me.”
“Many years,” agreed Jason. “I wonder how much things have changed.”
“Technologically you could probably fill a few volumes, especially in communications and security, but not the basics. Not the tunnels or the miles of grids in and out of the water; they’re built for a couple of centuries. As far as the compounds go, there’re always some minor adjustments, but I don’t think they’d tear up the streets or the buildings. It’d be easier to move a dozen cities.”
“So whatever the changes, they’re essentially internal.” They reached a miniature intersection where an argumentative driver of an early-seventies Chevrolet was being given a ticket for a traffic violation by an equally disagreeable policeman. “What’s that all about?” asked Bourne.
“The purpose of the assignment is to instill a degree of contentiousness on the part of the one driving the car. In America a person will frequently, often loudly, argue with a police officer. It’s not the case here.”
“Like in questioning authority, such as a student contradicting his professor? I don’t imagine that’s too popular, either.”
“That’s also entirely different.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Jason heard a distant hum and looked up at the sky. A light, single-engine seaplane was flying south following the Volkhov River. “My God, airborne,” he said, as if to himself.
“Forget it,” countered Benjamin. “It’s ours. … Technology again. One, there’s no place to land except patrolled helicopter pads; and two, we’re shielded by radar. An unidentified plane coming within thirty miles of here, the air base at Belopol is alerted and it’s shot down.” Across the street a small crowd had gathered, watching the disagreeable policeman and the argumentative driver, who had slammed his hand down on the roof of the Chevrolet as the crowd vocally encouraged him. “Americans can be very foolish,” mumbled the young trainer, his embarrassment showing.
“At least someone’s idea of Americans can be,” said Bourne, smiling.
“Let’s go,” said Benjamin, starting to walk away. “I personally pointed out that the assignment wasn’t very realistic, but it was explained to me that instilling the attitude was important.”
“Like telling a student that he can actually argue with a professor, or a citizen that he can publicly criticize a member of the Politburo? They are strange attitudes, aren’t they?”
“Pound sand, Archie.”
“Relax, young Lenin,” said Jason, coming alongside the trainer. “Where’s your LA cool?”
“I left it in the La Brea Tar Pits.”
“I want to study the maps. All of them.”
“It’s been arranged. Also the other ground rules.”
They sat in a conference room at staff headquarters, the large rectangular table covered with maps of the entire Novgorod complex. Bourne could not help himself, even after nearly four hours of concentration, he frequently shook his head in sheer astonishment. The series of deep-cover training grounds along the Volkhov were more expansive and more intricate than he had thought possible. Benjamin’s remark that it would “be easier to move a dozen cities” rather than drastically alter Novgorod was a simple statement of fact, not too much of an exaggeration. Scaled-down replicas of towns and cities, waterfronts and airports, military and scientific installations from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, north to the Baltic and up the Gulf of Bothnia, were represented within its boundaries, all in addition to the American acreage. Yet for all the massive detail, suggestion and miniaturization made it possible to place everything within barely thirty miles of riverfront wilderness, at a depth ranging from three to five miles.