“Ground zero,” said Alex under his breath. “Be quiet.” The retired field agent turned his head up to the two old men. “Okay, fellas, why don’t you go on your way?”
“Business is business,” again said the second tattered ancient, glancing at his colleague, both their faces still in shadows.
“You don’t have any business with us—”
“You can’t be sure of that,” interrupted the first old man, shaking his head back and, forth. “Suppose I were to tell you that we bring you a message from Macao?”
“What?” exclaimed Panov.
“Shut up!” whispered Conklin, addressing the psychiatrist but his eyes on the messenger. “What does Macao mean to us?” he asked flatly.
“A great taipan wishes to meet with you. The greatest taipan in Hong Kong.”
“Why?”
“He will pay you great sums. For your services.”
“I’ll say it again. Why?”
“We are to tell you that a killer has returned. He wants you to find him.”
“I’ve heard that story before; it doesn’t wash. It’s also repetitious.”
“That is between the great taipan and yourselves, sir. Not with us. He is waiting for you.”
“Where is he?”
“At a great hotel, sir.”
“Which one?”
“We are again to tell you that it has a great-sized lobby with always many people, and its name refers to this country’s past.”
“There’s only one like that. The Mayflower.” Conklin directed his words toward his left lapel, into a microphone sewn into the buttonhole.
“As you wish.”
“Under what name is he registered?”
“Registered?”
“Like in reserved benches, only rooms. Who do we ask for?”
“No one, sir. The taipan’s secretary will approach you in the lobby.”
“Did that same secretary approach you also?”
“Sir?”
“Who hired you to follow us?”
“We are not at liberty to discuss such matters and we will not do so.”
“That’s it!” shouted Alexander Conklin, yelling over his shoulder as floodlights suddenly lit up the Smithsonian grounds around the deserted path, revealing the two startled old men to be Orientals. Nine personnel from the Central Intelligence Agency walked rapidly into the glare of light from all directions, their hands under their jackets. Since there was no apparent need for them, their weapons remained hidden.
Suddenly the need was there, but the realization came too late. Two high-powered rifle shots exploded from the outer darkness, the bullets ripping open the throats of the two Oriental messengers. The CIA men lunged to the ground, rolling for cover as Conklin grabbed Panov, pulling him down to the path in front of the bench for protection. The unit from Langley lurched to their feet and, like the combat veterans they were, including the former commando Director Peter Holland, they started scrambling, zigzagging one after another toward the source of the gunfire, weapons extended, shadows sought. In moments, an angry cry split the silence.
“Goddamn it!” shouted Holland, the beam of his flashlight angled down between tree trunks. “They made their break!”
“How can you tell?”
“The grass, son, the heel imprints. Those bastards were overqualified. They dug in for one shot apiece and got out—look at the slip marks on the lawn. Those shoes were running. Forget it! No use now. If they stopped for a second position, they’d blow us into the Smithsonian.”
“A field man,” said Alex, getting up with his cane, the frightened, bewildered Panov beside him. Then the doctor spun around, his eyes wide, rushing toward the two fallen Orientals.
“Oh, my God, they’re dead,” he cried, kneeling beside the corpses, seeing their blown-apart throats. “Jesus, the amusement park! It’s the same!”
“A message,” agreed Conklin, nodding, wincing. “Put rock salt on the trail,” he added enigmatically.
“What do you mean?” asked the psychiatrist, snapping his head around at the former intelligence officer.
“We weren’t careful enough.”
“Alex!” roared the gray-haired Holland, running to the bench. “I heard you, but this neuters the hotel,” he said breathlessly. “You can’t go there now. I won’t let you.”
“It neuters—fucks up—more than the hotel. This isn’t the Jackal! It’s Hong Kong! The externals were right, but my instincts were wrong. Wrong!”
“Which way do you want to go?” asked the director softly.
“I don’t know,” answered Conklin, a plaint in his voice. “I was wrong. … Reach our man, of course, as soon as possible.”
“I spoke to David—I spoke to him about an hour ago,” said Panov, instantly correcting himself.
“You spoke to him?” cried Alex. “It’s late and you were at home. How?”
“You know my answering machine,” said the doctor. “If I picked up every crazy call after midnight, I’d never get to the office in the morning. So I let it ring, and because I was getting ready to go out and meet you, I listened. All he said was ‘Reach me,’ and by the time I got to the phone, he’d hung up. So I called him back.”
“You called him back? On your phone?”
“Well … yes,” answered Panov hesitantly. “He was very quick, very guarded. He just wanted us to know what was happening, that ‘M’—he called her ‘M’—was leaving with the children first thing in the morning. That was it; he hung up right away.”
“They’ve got your boy’s name and address by now,” said Holland. “Probably the message as well.”
“A location, yes; the message, maybe,” broke in Conklin, speaking quietly, rapidly. “Not an address, not a name.”
“By morning they will have—”
“By morning he’ll be on his way to Tierra del Fuego, if need be.”
“Christ, what have I done?” exclaimed the psychiatrist.
“Nothing anybody else in your place wouldn’t have done,” replied Alex. “You get a message at two o’clock in the morning from someone you care about, someone in trouble, you call back as fast as you can. Now we have to reach him as fast as we can. So it’s not Carlos, but somebody with a lot of firepower is still closing in, making breakthroughs we thought were impossible.”
“Use the phone in my car,” said Holland. “I’ll put it on override. There’ll be no record, no log.”
“Let’s go!” As quickly as possible, Conklin limped across the lawn toward the Agency vehicle.
f f f
“David, it’s Alex.”
“Your timing’s pretty scary, friend, we’re on our way out the door. If Jamie hadn’t had to hit the potty we’d be in the car by now.”
“At this hour?”
“Didn’t Mo tell you? There was no answer at your place, so I called him.”
“Mo’s a little shook up. Tell me yourself. What’s happening?”
“Is this phone secure? I wasn’t sure his was.”
“None more so.”
“I’m packing Marie and the kids off south—way south. She’s screaming like hell, but I chartered a Rockwell jet out of Logan Airport, everything precleared thanks to the arrangements you made four years ago. The computers spun and everyone cooperated. They take off at six o’clock, before it’s light—I want them out.”
“And you, David? What about you?”
“Frankly, I thought I’d head to Washington and stay with you. If the Jackal’s coming for me after all these years, I want to be in on what we’re doing about it. I might even be able to help. … I’ll arrive by noon.”
“No, David. Not today and not here. Go with Marie and the children. Get out of the country. Stay with your family and Johnny St. Jacques on the island.”
“I can’t do that, Alex, and if you were me you couldn’t, either. My family’s not going to be free—really free—until Carlos is out of our lives.”
“It’s not Carlos,” said Conklin, interrupting.
“What? Yesterday you told me—”
“Forget what I told you, I was wrong. This is out of Hong Kong, out of Macao.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Alex! Hong Kong’s finished, Macao’s finished. They’re dead and forgotten and there’s no one alive with a reason to come after me.”
“There is somewhere. A great taipan, ‘the greatest taipan in Hong Kong,’ according to the most recent and most recently dead source.”
“They’re gone. That whole house of Kuomintang cards collapsed. There’s no one left!”
“I repeat, there is somewhere.”
David Webb was briefly silent; then Jason Bourne spoke, his voice cold. “Tell me everything you’ve learned, every detail. Something happened tonight. What was it?”
“All right, every detail,” said Conklin. The retired intelligence officer described the controlled surveillance engineered by the Central Intelligence Agency. He explained how he and Morris Panov spotted the old men who followed them, picking each up in sequence as they made their separate ways to the Smithsonian, none showing himself in the light until the confrontation on a deserted path on the Smithsonian grounds, where the messenger spoke of Macao and Hong Kong and a great taipan. Finally, Conklin described the shattering gunfire that silenced the two aged Orientals. “It’s out of Hong Kong, David. The reference to Macao confirms it. It was your impostor’s base camp.”
Again there was silence on the line, only Jason Bourne’s steady breathing audible. “You’re wrong, Alex,” he said at last, his voice pensive, floating. “It’s the Jackal—by way of Hong Kong and Macao, but it’s still the Jackal.”