“Give me two days, get me two days!”
“While tracking down all this information and stalling Charlie, and lying through my teeth to Peter, telling them that we’re making progress running down the Jackal’s possible couriers at the Mayflower hotel—we think … Of course, we’re doing nothing of the sort because we’re up to our credentials in some off-the-wall, twenty-year-old Saigon conspiracy involving who knows what, damned if we know, except that the who is terribly impressive. Without going into statuses—or is it statae—we’re now told they have their own private cemetery on the grounds of the general officer in charge of Pentagon procurements, who just happened to blow his head off, a minor incident we’re sitting on. … Jesus, Delta, back up! The missiles are colliding!”
Though he was standing in front of Swayne’s desk, the general’s corpse in the chair beside him, Bourne managed a tentative, slow smile. “That’s what we’re counting on, isn’t it? It’s a scenario that could have been written by our beloved Saint Alex himself.”
“I’m only along for the ride, I’m not steering—”
“What about the doctor?” interrupted Jason. “You’ve been out of operation for almost five years. How do you know he’s still in business?”
“I run into him now and then; we’re both museum mavens. A couple of months ago at the Corcoran Gallery he complained that he wasn’t given much to do these days.”
“Change that tonight.”
“I’ll try. What are you going to do?”
“Delicately pull apart everything in this room.”
“Gloves?”
“Surgical, of course.”
“Don’t touch the body.”
“Only the pockets—very delicately. … Swayne’s wife is coming down the stairs. I’ll call you back when they’re gone. Get hold of that doctor!”
Ivan Jax, M.D. by way of Yale Medical School, surgical training and residency at Massachusetts General, College of Surgeons by appointment, Jamaican by birth, and erstwhile “consultant” to the Central Intelligence Agency courtesy of a fellow black man with the improbable name of Cactus, drove through the gates of General Swayne’s estate in Manassas, Virginia. There were times, thought Ivan, when he wished he had never met old Cactus and this was one of them, but tonight notwithstanding, he never regretted that Cactus had come into his life. Thanks to the old man’s “magic papers,” Jax had gotten his brother and sister out of Jamaica during the repressive Manley years when established professionals were all but prohibited from emigrating and certainly not with personal funds.
Cactus, however, using complex mock-ups of government permits had sprung both young adults out of the country along with bank transfers honored in Lisbon. All the aged forger re quested were stolen blank copies of various official documents, including import/export bills of lading, the two people’s passports, separate photographs and copies of several signatures belonging to certain men in positions of authority—easily obtainable through the hundreds of bureaucratic edicts published in the government-controlled press. Ivan’s brother was currently a wealthy barrister in London and his sister a research fellow at Cambridge.
Yes, he owed Cactus, thought Dr. Jax as he swung his station wagon around the curve to the front of the house, and when the old man had asked him to “consult” with a few “friends over in Langley” seven years ago, he had obliged. Some consultation! Still, there were further perks forthcoming in Ivan’s silent association with the intelligence agency. When his island home threw out Manley, and Seaga came to power, among the first of the “appropriated” properties to be returned to their rightful owners were the Jax family’s holdings in Montego Bay and Port Antonio. That had been Alex Conklin’s doing, but without Cactus there would have been no Conklin, not in Ivan’s circle of friends. … But why did Alex have to call tonight? Tonight was his twelfth wedding anniversary, and he had sent the kids on an overnight with the neighbors’ children so that he and his wife could be alone, alone with grilled Jamaic’ ribs on the patio—prepared by the only one who knew how, namely, Chef Ivan—a lot of good dark Overton rum, and some highly erotic skinny-dipping in the pool. Damn Alex! Double damn the son-of-a-bitch bachelor who could only respond to the event of a wedding anniversary by saying, “What the hell? You made the year, so what’s a day count? Get your jollies tomorrow, I need you tonight.”
So he had lied to his wife, the former head nurse at Mass. General. He told her that a patient’s life was in the balance—it was, but it had already tipped the wrong way. She had replied that perhaps her next husband would be more considerate of her life, but her sad smile and her understanding eyes denied her words. She knew death. Hurry, my darling!
Jax turned off the engine, grabbed his medical bag and got out of the car. He walked around the hood as the front door opened and a tall man in what appeared to be dark skintight clothing stood silhouetted in the frame. “I’m your doctor,” said Ivan, walking up the steps. “Our mutual friend didn’t give me your name, but I guess I’m not supposed to have it.”
“I guess not,” agreed Bourne, extending a hand in a surgical glove as Jax approached.
“And I guess we’re both right,” said Jax, shaking hands with the stranger. “The mitt you’re wearing is pretty familiar to me.”
“Our mutual friend didn’t tell me you were black.”
“Is that a problem for you?”
“Good Christ, no. I like our friend even more. It probably never occurred to him to say anything.”
“I think we’ll get along. Let’s go, no-name.”
Bourne stood ten feet to the right of the desk as Jax swiftly, expertly tended to the corpse, mercifully wrapping the head in gauze. Without explaining, he had cut away sections of the general’s clothing, examining those parts of the body beneath the fabric. Finally, he carefully rolled the hooded body off the chair and onto the floor. “Are you finished in here?” he asked, looking over at Jason.
“I’ve swept it clean, Doctor, if that’s what you mean.”
“It usually is. … I want this room sealed. No one’s to enter it after we leave until our mutual friend gives the word.”
“I certainly can’t guarantee that,” said Bourne.
“Then he’ll have to.”
“Why?”
“Your general didn’t commit suicide, no-name. He was murdered.”
12
“The woman,” said Alex Conklin over the line. “From everything you told me it had to be Swayne’s wife. Jesus!”
“It doesn’t change anything, but it looks that way,” agreed Bourne halfheartedly. “She had reason enough to do it, God knows—still, if she did, she didn’t tell Flannagan, and that doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t. … Conklin paused, then spoke quickly. “Let me talk to Ivan.”
“Ivan? Your doctor? His name is Ivan?”
“So?”
“Nothing. He’s outside. … ‘packing the merchandise’ was the way he put it.”
“In his wagon?”
“That’s right. We carried the body—”
“What makes him so sure it wasn’t suicide?” broke in Alex.
“Swayne was drugged. He said he’d call you later and explain. He wants to get out of here and no one’s to come into this room after we leave—after I leave—until you give the word for the police. He’ll tell you that, too.”
“Christ, it must be a mess in there.”
“It’s not pretty. What do you want me to do?”
“Pull the curtains, if there are any; check the windows and, if possible, lock the door. If there’s no way to lock it, look around for—”
“I found a set of keys in Swayne’s pocket,” interrupted Jason. “I checked; one of them fits.”
“Good. When you leave, wipe the door down clean. Find some furniture polish or a dusting spray.”
“That’s not going to keep out anyone who wants to get in.”
“No, but if someone does, we might pick up a print.”
“You’re reaching—”
“I certainly am,” concurred the former intelligence officer. “I’ve also got to figure out a way to seal up the whole place without using anybody from Langley, and, not incidentally, keep the Pentagon at bay just in case someone among those twenty-odd thousand people wants to reach Swayne, and that includes his office and probably a couple of hundred buyers and sellers a day in procurements…. Christ, it’s impossible!”
“It’s perfect,” contradicted Bourne as Dr. Ivan Jax suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Our little game of destabilization will start right here on the ‘farm.’ Do you have Cactus’s number?”
“Not with me. I think it’s probably in a shoebox at home.”
“Call Mo Panov, he’s got it. Then reach Cactus and tell him to get to a pay phone and call me here.”
“What the hell have you got in mind? I hear that old man’s name, I get nervous.”
“You told me I had to find someone else to trust besides you. I just did. Reach him, Alex.” Jason hung up the telephone. “I’m sorry, Doctor … or maybe under the circumstances I can use your name. Hello, Ivan.”