The Bourne Ultimatum by Robert Ludlum

“So who better to track him down than the one who invented those tricks—the original, your original,” interjected the director. “And what better way to force the original Bourne into the hunt than by taking his wife from him. But why? Why was Washington so consumed? There were no longer any ties to us.”

“There was something much worse. Among the new Jason Bourne’s clients was a madman in Beijing, a Kuomintang traitor in the government who was about to turn the Far East into a firestorm. He was determined to destroy the Sino-British Hong Kong Accords, shutting down the colony, leaving the whole territory in chaos.”

“War,” said Casset quietly. “Beijing would march into Hong Kong and take over. We’d all have to choose sides. … War.”

“In the nuclear age,” added the director. “How far had it all progressed, Mr. Conklin?”

“A vice premier of the People’s Republic was killed in a private massacre in Kowloon. The impostor left his calling card. ‘Jason Bourne.’ ”

“Good God, he had to be stopped!” exploded the DCI, gripping his pipe.

“He was,” said Alex, releasing his cane. “By the only man who could hunt him down. Our Jason Bourne. … That’s all I’ll tell you for now, except to repeat that that man is back here with his wife and children, and Carlos is closing in. The Jackal won’t rest until he knows the only person alive who can identify him is dead. So call in every debt that’s owed to us in Paris, London, Rome, Madrid—especially Paris. Someone’s got to know something. Where is Carlos now? Who are his points over here? He’s got eyes here in Washington, and whoever they are, they found Panov and me!” The former field officer again absently gripped his cane, staring at the window. “Don’t you see?” he added quietly, as if talking to himself. “We can’t let it happen. Oh, my God, we can’t let it happen!”

Once more the emotional moment passed in silence as the men of the Central Intelligence Agency exchanged glances. It was as though a consensus had been reached among them without a word being said; three pairs of eyes fell on Casset. He nodded, accepting his selection as the one closest to Conklin, and spoke.

“Alex, I agree that everything points to Carlos, but before we start spinning our wheels in Europe, we have to be sure. We can’t afford a false alarm because we’d be handing the Jackal a grail he’d have to go after, showing him how vulnerable we were where Jason Bourne is concerned. From what you’ve told us, Carlos would pick up on a long-dormant operation known as Treadstone Seventy-one if only because none of our agents or subagents has been in his personal neighborhood for over a decade.”

The retired Conklin studied Charles Casset’s pensive sharp-featured face. “What you’re saying is that if I’m wrong and it isn’t the Jackal, we’re ripping open a thirteen-year-old wound and presenting him with an irresistible kill.”

“I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

“And I guess that’s pretty good thinking, Charlie. … I’m operating on externals, aren’t I? They’re triggering instincts, but they’re still externals.”

“I’d trust those instincts of yours far more than I would any polygraph—”

“So would I,” interrupted Valentino. “You saved our personnel in five or six sector crises when all the indicators said you were wrong. However, Charlie’s got a legitimate query. Suppose it isn’t Carlos? We not only send the wrong message to Europe, but, more important, we’ve wasted time.”

“So stay out of Europe,” mused Alex softly, again as if to himself. “At least for now. … Go after the bastards here. Draw them out. Pull them in and break them. I’m the target, so let them come after me.”

“That would entail far looser protection than I envisage for you and Dr. Panov, Mr. Conklin,” said the director firmly.

“Then disenvisage, sir.” Alex looked back and forth at Casset and Valentino, suddenly raising his voice. “We can do it if you two will listen to me and let me mount it!”

“We’re in a gray area,” stated Casset. “This thing may be foreign-oriented, but it’s domestic turf. The Bureau should be brought in—”

“No way,” exclaimed Conklin. “Nobody’s brought in outside of this room!”

“Come on, Alex,” said Valentino kindly, slowly shaking his head. “You’re retired. You can’t give orders here.”

“Good, fine!” shouted Conklin, awkwardly getting out of the chair and supporting himself on his cane. “Next stop the White House, to a certain chairman of the NSA named McAllister!”

“Sit down,” said the DCI firmly.

“I’m retired! You can’t give orders to me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, I’m simply concerned for your life. As I read the scenario, what you’re suggesting is based on the questionable supposition that whoever fired at you last night in tended to miss, not caring whom he hit, only determined to take you alive during the subsequent chaos.”

“That’s a couple of leaps—”

“Based on a couple of dozen operations I’ve been involved with both here and at the Department of the Navy and in places you couldn’t pronounce or know anything about.” The director’s elbows were planted on the arms of his chair, his voice suddenly harsh, commanding. “For your information, Conklin, I didn’t suddenly bloom as a gold-braided admiral running naval intelligence. I was in the SEALs for a few years and made runs off submarines into Kaesong and later into Haiphong harbor. I knew a number of those Medusa pricks, and I can’t think of one that I didn’t want to put a bullet in his head! Now you tell me there was one, and he became your Jason Bourne’ and you’ll break your balls or bust open your heart to see that he stays alive and well and out of the Jackal’s gun sights. … So let’s cut the crap, Alex. Do you want to work with me or not?”

Conklin slowly sank back in his chair, a smile gradually emerging on his lips. “I told you I had no sweat with your appointment, sir. It was just intuition, but now I know why. You were a field man. … I’ll work with you.”

“Good, fine,” said the director. “We’ll work up a controlled surveillance and hope to Christ your theory that they want you alive is correct because there’s no way we can cover every window or every rooftop. You’d better understand the risk.”

“I do. And since two chunks of bait are better than one in a tank of piranhas, I want to talk to Mo Panov.”

“You can’t ask him to be a part of this,” countered Casset. “He’s not one of us, Alex. Why should he?”

“Because he is one of us and I’d better ask him. If I didn’t, he’d give me a flu shot filled with strychnine. You see, he was in Hong Kong, too—for reasons not much different from mine. Years ago I tried to kill my closest friend in Paris because I’d made a terrible mistake believing my friend had turned when the truth was that he had lost his memory. Only days later, Morris Panov, one of the leading psychiatrists in the country, a doctor who can’t stand the chicken-shit psychobabble so popular these days, was presented with a ‘hypothetical’ psychiatric profile that required his immediate reaction. It described a rogue deep-cover agent, a walking time bomb with a thousand secrets in his head, who had gone over the edge. … On the basis of Mo’s on-the-spot evaluation of that hypothetical profile—which he hours later suspected was no more hypothetical than Campbell’s soup—an innocent amnesiac was nearly blown away in a government ambush on New York’s Seventy-first Street. When what was left of that man survived, Panov demanded to be assigned as his only head doctor. He’s never forgiven himself. If any of you were he, what would you do if I didn’t talk to you about what we’re talking about right now?”

“Tell you it’s a flu shot and pump you full of strychnine, old boy,” concluded DeSole, nodding.

“Where is Panov now?” asked Casset.

“At the Brookshire Hotel in Baltimore under the name of Morris, Phillip Morris. He called off his appointments today—he has the flu.”

“Then let’s go to work,” said the DCI, pulling a yellow legal pad in front of him. “Incidentally, Alex, a competent field man doesn’t concern himself with rank and won’t trust a man who can’t convincingly call him by his first name. As you well know, my name is Holland and my first name is Peter. From here on we’re Alex and Peter, got it?”

“I’ve got it—Peter. You must have been one son of a bitch in the SEALs.”

“Insofar as I’m here—geographically, not in this chair—it can be assumed I was competent.”

“A field man,” mumbled Conklin in approval.

“Also, since we’ve dropped the diplomatic drivel expected of someone in this job, you should understand that I was a hardnosed son of a bitch. I want pro input here, Alex, not emotional output. Is that clear?”