The Bourne Ultimatum by Robert Ludlum

“David, now you’re not making sense. Carlos hasn’t anything to do with taipans or Hong Kong or messages from Macao. Those old men were Chinese, not French or Italian or German or whatever. This is out of Asia, not Europe.”

“The old men, they’re the only ones he trusts,” continued David Webb, his voice still low and cold, the voice of Jason Bourne. “ ‘The old men of Paris,’ that’s what they were called. They were his network, his couriers throughout Europe. Who suspects decrepit old men, whether they’re beggars or whether they’re just holding on to the last remnants of mobility? Who would think of interrogating them, much less putting them on a rack. And even then they’d stay silent. Their deals were made—are made—and they move with impunity. For Carlos.”

For a moment, hearing the strange, hollow voice of his friend, the frightened Conklin stared at the dashboard, unsure of what to say. “David, I don’t understand you. I know you’re upset—we’re all upset—but please be clearer.”

“What? … Oh, I’m sorry, Alex, I was going back. To put it simply, Carlos scoured Paris looking for old men who were either dying or knew they hadn’t long to live because of their age, all with police records and with little or nothing to show for their lives, their crimes. Most of us forget that these old men have loved ones and children, legitimate or not, that they care for. The Jackal would find them and swear to provide for the people his about-to-die couriers left behind if they swore the rest of their lives to him. In their places, with nothing to leave those who survive us but suspicion and poverty, which of us would do otherwise?”

“They believed him?”

“They had good reason to—they still have. Scores of bank checks are delivered monthly from multiple unlisted Swiss accounts to inheritors from the Mediterranean to the Baltic. There’s no way to trace those payments, but the people receiving them know who makes them possible and why. … Forget your buried file, Alex. Carlos dug around Hong Kong, that’s where his penetration was made, where he found you and Mo.”

“Then we’ll do some penetrating ourselves. We’ll infiltrate every Oriental neighborhood, every Chinese bookie joint and restaurant, in every city within a fifty-mile radius of D.C.”

“Don’t do anything until I get there. You don’t know what to look for, I do. … It’s kind of remarkable, really. The Jackal doesn’t know that there’s still a great deal I can’t remember, but he just assumed that I’d forgotten about the old men of Paris.”

“Maybe he didn’t, David. Maybe he’s counting on the fact that you’d remember. Maybe this whole charade is a prelude to the real trap he’s setting for you.”

“Then he made another mistake.”

“Oh?”

“I’m better than that. Jason Bourne’s better than that.”

4

David Webb walked through the National Airport terminal and out the automatic doors onto the crowded platform. He studied the signs and proceeded across the walkway leading to the Short-Term Parking area. According to plan, he was to go to the farthest aisle on the right, turn left, and continue down the row of parked cars until he saw a metallic gray 1986 Pontiac LeMans with an ornamental crucifix suspended from the rearview mirror. A man would be in the driver’s seat wearing a white cap, the window lowered. Webb was to approach him and say, “The flight was very smooth.” If the man removed his cap and started the engine, David was to climb in the backseat. Nothing more would be said.

Nothing more was said, not between Webb and the driver. However, the latter reached under the dashboard, removed a microphone and spoke quietly but clearly. “Our cargo’s on board. Please commence rotating vehicle cover.”

David thought that the exotic procedures bordered on the laughable, but since Alex Conklin had traced him to the Rockwell jet’s departure area at Logan Airport, and, further, had reached him on Director Peter Holland’s private override telephone, he assumed the two of them knew what they were doing. It crossed Webb’s mind that it had something to do with Mo Panov’s call to him nine hours ago. It was all but confirmed when Holland himself got on the phone insisting that he drive down to Hartford and take a commercial flight out of Bradley to Washington, adding enigmatically that he wanted no further telephone communication or private or government aircraft involved.

This particular government-oriented car, however, wasted no time getting out of National Airport. It seemed as if in only minutes they were rushing through the countryside and, only minimally less rapidly, through the suburbs of Virginia. They swung up to the private gate of an expensive garden apartment complex, the sign reading VIENNA VILLAS, after the township in which it was located. The guard obviously recognized the driver and waved him through as the heavy bar across the entrance was raised. It was only then that the driver spoke directly to Webb.

“This place has five separate sections over as many acres, sir. Four of them are legitimate condominiums with regular owners, but the fifth, the one farthest from the gate, is an Agency proprietary with its own road and security. You couldn’t be healthier, sir.”

“I didn’t feel particularly sick.”

“You won’t be. You’re DCI cargo and your health is very important to him.”

“That’s nice to know, but how do you know?”

“I’m part of the team, sir.”

“In that case, what’s your name?”

The driver was silent for a moment, and when he answered, David had the uneasy feeling that he was being propelled back in time, to a time he knew he was reentering. “We don’t have names, sir. You don’t and I don’t.”

Medusa.

“I understand,” said Webb.

“Here we are.” The driver swung the car around a circular drive and stopped in front of a two-story Colonial structure that looked as though the fluted white pillars might have been made of Carrara marble. “Excuse me, sir, I just noticed. You don’t have any luggage.”

“No, I don’t,” said David, opening the door.

“How do you like my temporary digs?” asked Alex, waving his hand around the tastefully appointed apartment.

“Too neat and too clean for a cantankerous old bachelor,” replied David. “And since when did you go in for floral curtains with pink and yellow daisies?”

“Wait’ll you see the wallpaper in my bedroom. It’s got baby roses.”

“I’m not sure I care to.”

“Your room has hyacinths. … Of course, I wouldn’t know a hyacinth if it jumped up and choked me, but that’s what the maid said.”

“The maid?”

“Late forties and black and built like a sumo wrestler. She also carries two popguns under her skirt and, rumor has it, several straight razors.”

“Some maid.”

“Some high-powered patrol. She doesn’t let a bar of soap or a roll of toilet paper in here that doesn’t come from Langley. You know, she’s a pay-grade ten and some of these clowns leave her tips.”

“Do they need any waiters?”

“That’s good. Our scholar, Webb the waiter.”

“Jason Bourne’s been one.”

Conklin paused, then spoke seriously. “Let’s get to him,” he said, limping to an armchair. “By the way, you’ve had a rough day and it’s not even noon, so if you want a drink there’s a full bar behind those puce shutters next to the window. … Don’t look at me like that, our black Brunhilde said they were puce.”

Webb laughed; it was a low, genuine laugh as he looked at his friend. “It doesn’t bother you a bit, does it, Alex?”

“Hell, no, you know that. Have you ever hid any liquor from me when I visited you and Marie?”

“There was never any stress—”

“Stress is irrelevant,” Conklin broke in. “I made a decision because there was only one other one to make. Have a drink, David. We have to talk and I want you calm. I look at your eyes and they tell me you’re on fire.”

“You once told me that it’s always in the eyes,” said Webb, opening the purplish shutters and reaching for a bottle. “You can still see it, can’t you?”

“I told you it was behind the eyes. Never accept the first level. … How are Marie and the children? I assume they got off all right.”

“I went over the flight plan ad nauseam with the pilot and knew they were all right when he finally told me to get off his case or fly the run myself.” Webb poured a drink and walked back to the chair opposite the retired agent. “Where are we, Alex?” he asked, sitting down.

“Right where we were last night. Nothing’s moved and nothing’s changed, except that Mo refuses to leave his patients. He was picked up this morning at his apartment, which is now as secure as Fort Knox, and driven to his office under guard. He’ll be brought here later this afternoon with four changes of vehicles, all made in underground parking lots.”