The Bourne Ultimatum by Robert Ludlum

“But before I can sign those papers or make those calls,” added Flannagan, “I have to know we can break clean—now.”

“Meaning no police, no newspapers, no involvement with tonight—you simply weren’t here.”

“You said it’s a tall order. How tall are the debts you can call in?”

“You simply weren’t here,” repeated Bourne softly, slowly, looking at the fluted glass ashtray with the lipstick-stained cigarette butts on the table beside him. He pulled his eyes back to the general’s aide. “You didn’t touch anything in there; there’s nothing to physically tie you in with his suicide. … Are you really prepared to leave—say, in a couple of hours?”

“Try thirty minutes, Mr. Delta,” replied Rachel.

“My God, you had a life here, both of you—”

“We don’t want anything from this life outside of what we’ve got,” said Flannagan firmly.

“The estate here is yours, Mrs. Swayne—”

“Like hell it is. It’s being turned over to some foundation, ask the lawyer. Whatever I get, if I get, he’ll send on to me. I just want out—we want out.”

Jason looked back and forth at the strange and strangely drawn-together couple. “Then there’s nothing to stop you.”

“How do we know that?” pressed Flannagan, stepping forward.

“It’ll take a measure of trust on your part, but, believe me, I can do it. On the other hand, look at the alternative. Say you stay here. No matter what you do with him, he won’t show up in Arlington tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. Sooner or later someone’s going to come looking for him. There’ll be questions, searches, an investigation, and as sure as God made little Bobby Woodwards, the media will descend with its bellyful of speculations. In short order your ‘arrangement’ will be picked up—hell, even the guards talked about it—and the newspapers, the magazines and television will have a collective field day. … Do you want that? Or would it all lead to that body bag you mentioned?”

The master sergeant and his lady stared at each other. “He’s right, Eddie,” said the latter. “With him we got a chance, the other way we don’t.”

“It sounds too easy,” said Flannagan, his breath coming shorter as he glanced toward the door. “How are you going to handle everything?”

“That’s my business,” answered Bourne. “Give me the telephone numbers, all of them, and then the only call you’ll have to make is the one to New York, and if I were you, I’d make it from whatever Pac island you’re on.”

“You’re nuts! The minute the news breaks, I’m on Medusa’s rug—so’s Rachel! They’re going to want to know what happened.”

“Tell them the truth, at least a variation of it, and I think you may even get a bonus.”

“You’re a goddamned flake!”

“I wasn’t a flake in ’Nam, Sergeant. Nor was I in Hong Kong, and I’m certainly not now. … You and Rachel came home, saw what had happened, packed up and left—because you didn’t want any questions and the dead can’t talk and trap themselves. Predate your papers by a day, mail them, and leave the rest to me.”

“I dunno—”

“You don’t have a choice, Sergeant!” shot back Jason, rising from the chair. “And I don’t care to waste any more time! You want me to go, I’ll go—figure it all out for yourselves.” Bourne angrily started for the door.

“No, Eddie, stop him! We gotta do it his way, we gotta take the chance! The other way we’re dead and you know it.”

“All right, all right! … Cool it, Delta. We’ll do what you say.

Jason stopped and turned. “Everything I say, Sergeant, down to the letter.”

“You got it.”

“First, you and I will go over to your place while Rachel goes upstairs and packs. You’ll give me everything you’ve got—telephone and license numbers, every name you can remember, anything you can give me that I ask for. Agreed?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go. And Mrs. Swayne, I know that there are probably a lot of little things you’d like to take along, but—”

“Forget it, Mr. Delta. Mementos I don’t have. Whatever I really wanted was long since shipped out of this hell hole. It’s all in storage ten thousand miles away.”

“My, you really were prepared, weren’t you?”

“Tell me something I don’t know. You see, the time had to come, one way or the other, y’know what I mean?” Rachel walked rapidly past the two men and into the hall; she stopped and came back to Master Sergeant Flannagan, a smile on her lips, a glow in her eyes, as she placed her hand on his face. “Hey, Eddie,” she said quietly. “It’s really gonna happen. We’re gonna live, Eddie. Y’know what I mean?”

“Yeah, babe. I know.”

As they walked out into the darkness toward the cabin, Bourne spoke. “I meant what I said about not wasting time, Sergeant. Start talking. What were you going to tell me about Swayne’s place here?”

“Are you ready?”

“What does that mean? Of course I’m ready.” But he wasn’t. He stopped suddenly on the grass at Flannagan’s words.

“For openers, it’s a cemetery.”

Alex Conklin sat back in the desk chair, the phone in his hand, stunned, frowning, unable to summon a rational response to Jason’s astonishing information. All he could say was “I don’t believe it!”

“Which part?”

“I don’t know. Everything, I guess … the cemetery on down. But I have to believe it, don’t I?”

“You didn’t want to believe London or Brussels, either, or a commander of the Sixth Fleet or the keeper of the covert keys in Langley. I’m just adding to the list. … The point is, once you find out who they all are, we can move.”

“You’ll have to start from the beginning again; my head’s shredded. The telephone number in New York, the license plates—”

“The body, Alex! Flannagan and the general’s wife! They’re on their way; that was the deal and you’ve got to cover it.”

“Just like that? Swayne kills himself and the two people on the premises who can answer questions, we say Ciao to them and let them get away? That’s only slightly more lunatic than what you’ve told me!”

“We don’t have time for negotiating games—and besides, he can’t answer any more questions. They were on different levels.”

“Oh, boy, that’s really clear.”

“Do it. Let them go. We may need them both later.”

Conklin sighed, his indecision apparent. “Are you sure? It’s very complicated.”

“Do it! For Christ’s sake, Alex, I don’t give a goddamn about complications or violations or all the manipulations you can dream up! I want Carlos! We’re building a net and we can pull him in—I can pull him in!”

“All right, all right. There’s a doctor in Falls Church that we’ve used before in special operations. I’ll get hold of him, he’ll know what to do.”

“Good,” said Bourne, his mind racing. “Now put me on tape. I’ll give you everything Flannagan gave me. Hurry up, I’ve got a lot to do.”

“You’re on tape, Delta One.”

Reading from the list he had written down in Flannagan’s cabin, Jason spoke rapidly, enunciating clearly so that there would be no confusion on the tape. There were the names of seven frequent and acknowledged guests at the general’s dinner parties, none guaranteed as to accuracy or spelling but with broad-brush descriptions; then came the license plates, all from the far more serious twice-monthly meetings. Next to last were the telephone numbers of Swayne’s lawyer, all of the estate’s guards, the dog kennels and the Pentagon extension for assigned vehicles; finally there was the unlisted telephone in New York, no name here, only a machine that took messages. “That’s got to be a priority one, Alex.”

“We’ll break it,” said Conklin, inserting himself on the tape. “I’ll call the kennels and talk Pentagonese—the general’s being flown to a hush-factor post and we pay double for getting the animals out first thing in the morning. Open the gates, incidentally. … The licenses are no problem and I’ll have Casset run the names through the computers behind DeSole’s back.”

“What about Swayne? We’ve got to keep the suicide quiet for a while.”

“How long?”

“How the hell do I know?” replied Jason, exasperated. “Until we find out who they all are and I can reach them—or you can reach them—and together we can start the wave of panic rolling. That’s when we plant the Carlos solution.”

“Words,” said Conklin, his tone not flattering. “You could be talking about days, maybe a week or even longer.”

“Then that’s what I’m talking about.”

“Then we’d better damn well bring in Peter Holland—”

“No, not yet. We don’t know what he’d do and I’m not giving him the chance to get in my way.”

“You’ve got to trust someone besides me, Jason. I can fool the doctor perhaps for twenty-four or forty-eight hours—perhaps—but I doubt much longer than that. He’ll want higher authorization. And don’t forget, I’ve got Casset breathing down my neck over DeSole—”

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