The Bourne Ultimatum by Robert Ludlum

“On paper, Mo,” said Conklin. “Not with Dimitri Krupkin. I know him. Charlie doesn’t.”

“Oh? He’s one of the evil people?”

“Kruppie evil? No, not really—”

“Kruppie?”

“We go way back as young hustlers to Istanbul in the late sixties and Athens after that, then Amsterdam later. … Krupkin’s not malevolent, and he works like a son of a bitch for Moscow with a damn good second-rate mind, better than eighty percent of the clowns in our business, but he’s got a problem. He’s fundamentally on the wrong side, in the wrong society. His parents should have come over with mine when the Bolsheviks took the throne.”

“I forget. Your family was Russian.”

“Speaking the language helps with Kruppie. I can nail his nuances. He’s the quintessential capitalist. Like the economic ministers in Beijing, he doesn’t just like money, he’s obsessed with it—and everything that goes with it. Out of sight and out of sanction, he could be bought.”

“You mean by the Jackal?”

“I saw him bought in Athens by Greek developers selling additional airstrips to Washington when they knew the Communists were going to throw us out. They paid him to shut up. Then I watched him broker diamonds in Amsterdam between the merchants on the Nieuwmarkt and the dacha-elite in Moscow. We had drinks one night in the Kattengat and I asked him, ‘Kruppie, what the fuck are you doing?’ You know what he said? He said in clothes I couldn’t afford, ‘Aleksei, I’ll do everything I can to outsmart you, to help the supreme Soviet to gain world dominance, but in the meantime, if you’d like a holiday, I have a lovely house on the lake in Geneva.’ That’s what he said, Mo.”

“He’s remarkable. Of course, you told your friend Casset all this—”

“Of course I didn’t,” broke in Conklin.

“Good God, why not?”

“Because Krupkin obviously never told Charlie that he knew me. Casset may have the deal, but I’m dealing.”

“With what? How?”

“David—Jason—has over five million in the Caymans. With only a spit of that amount I’ll turn Kruppie so he’ll be working only for us, if we need him or want him to.”

“Which means you don’t trust Casset.”

“Not so,” said Alex. “I trust Charlie with my life. It’s just that I’m not sure I want it in his hands. He and Peter Holland have their priorities and we have ours. Theirs is Medusa; ours are David and Marie.”

“Messieurs?” The hostess returned and addressed Conklin. “Your car has arrived, sir. It is on the south platform.”

“You’re sure it’s for me?” asked Alex.

“Forgive me, monsieur, but the attendant said a Mr. Smith had a difficult leg.”

“He’s certainly right about that.”

“I’ve called a porter to carry your luggage, messieurs. It’s a rather long walk. He’ll meet you on the platform.”

“Thanks very much.” Conklin got to his feet and reached into his pocket, pulling out money.

“Pardon, monsieur,” interrupted the hostess. “We are not permitted to accept gratuities.”

“That’s right. I forgot. … My suitcase is behind your counter, isn’t it?”

“Where your escort left it, sir. Along with the doctor’s, it will be at the platform within minutes.”

“Thanks again,” said Alex. “Sorry about the tip.”

“We are well paid, sir, but thank you for the thought.”

As they walked to the door that led into the main terminal of Orly Airport, Conklin turned to Panov. “How did she know you were a doctor?” he asked. “You soliciting couch business?”

“Hardly. The commuting would be a bit strenuous.”

“Then how? I never said anything about your being a doctor.”

“She knows the security escort who brought me into the lounge. In fact, I think she knows him quite well. She said in that delectable French accent of hers that he was ‘verry attractiefe.’ ”

Looking up at the signs in the crowded terminal, they started toward the south platform.

What neither of them saw was a distinguished-looking olive-skinned man with wavy black hair and large dark eyes walk quickly out of the diplomatic lounge, his steady gaze directed at the two Americans. He crossed to the wall, rushing past the crowds until he was diagonally in front of Conklin and Panov near the taxi platform. Then, squinting, as if unsure, he removed a small photograph from his pocket and kept glancing at it as he raised his eyes and looked up at the departing passengers from the United States. The photograph was of Dr. Morris Panov, dressed in a white hospital gown, a glazed, unearthly expression on his face.

The Americans went out on the platform; the dark-haired man did the same. The Americans looked around for a taxi; the dark-haired man signaled a private car. A driver got out of a cab; he approached Conklin and Panov, speaking quietly, as a porter arrived with their luggage; the two Americans climbed into the taxi. The stranger who followed them slipped into the private car two vehicles behind the cab.

“Pazzo!” said the dark-haired man in Italian to the fashionably dressed middle-aged woman behind the wheel. “I tell you it’s crazy! For three days we wait, all incoming American planes watched, and we are about to give up when that fool in New York turns out to be right. It’s them! … Here, I’ll drive. You get out and reach our people over there. Tell them to call DeFazio; instruct him to go to his other favorite restaurant and await my call to him. He is not to leave until we speak.”

“Is this you, old man?” asked the hostess in the diplomatic lounge, speaking softly into the telephone at her counter.

“It is I,” replied the quavering voice at the other end of the line. “And the Angelus rings for eternity in my ears.”

“It is you, then.”

“I told you that, so get on with it.”

“The list we were given last week included a slender middle-aged American with a limp, possibly accompanied by a doctor. Is this correct?”

“Correct! And?”

“They have passed through. I used the title ‘Doctor’ with the cripple’s companion and he responded to it.”

“Where have they gone? It’s vital that I know!”

“It was not disclosed, but I will soon learn enough for you to find out, old man. The porter who took their luggage to the south platform will get the description and the license of the car that meets them.”

“In the name of God, call me back with the information!”

f f f

Three thousand miles from Paris, Louis DeFazio sat alone at a rear table in Trafficante’s Clam House on Prospect Avenue in Brooklyn, New York. He finished his late afternoon lunch of vitello tonnato and dabbed his lips with the bright red napkin, trying to look his usual jovial, if patronizing, self. However, if the truth were known, it was all he could do to stop from gnawing on the napkin rather than caressing his mouth with it. Maledetto! He had been at Trafficante’s for nearly two hours—two hours! And it had taken him forty-five minutes to get there after the call from Garafola’s Pasta Palace in Manhattan, so that meant it was actually over two hours, almost three, since the gumball in Paris, France, spotted two of the targets. How long could it take for two bersaglios to get to a hotel in the city from the airport? Like three hours? Not unless the Palermo gumball drove to London, England, which was not out of the question, not if one knew Palermo.

Still, DeFazio knew he had been right! The way the Jew shrink talked under the needle there was no other route he and the ex-spook could take but to Paris and their good buddy, the fake hit man. … So Nicolo and the shrink disappeared, went poof-zam, so what the fuck? The Jew got away and Nicky would do time. But Nicolo wouldn’t talk; he understood that bad trouble, like a knife in the kidney, was waiting for him wherever he went if he did. Besides, Nicky didn’t know anything so specific the lawyers couldn’t wipe away as secondhand horseshit from a fifth-rate horse’s ass. And the shrink only knew he was in a room in some farmhouse, if he could even remember that. He never saw anybody but Nicolo when he was “compass mantis,” as they say.

But Louis DeFazio knew he was right. And because he was right, there were more than seven million big ones waiting for him in Paris. Seven million! Holy Christ! He could give the Palermo gumballs in Paris more than they ever expected and still walk away with a bundle.

An old waiter from the old country, an uncle of Trafficante, approached the table and Louis held his breath. “There’s a telephone call for you, Signor DeFazio.”

As was usual, the capo supremo went to a pay phone at the end of a narrow dark corridor outside the men’s room. “This is New York,” said DeFazio: