The Bourne Ultimatum by Robert Ludlum

Then the incredible happened. The incredible. A siren? The police? The brown limousine shot forward, skirting the flaming wreck of the Jackal’s van and disappeared into the dark streets as a patrol car raced out of the opposing darkness, its siren screaming, the tires screeching as it skidded to a stop only yards from the flames of the demolished vehicle. Nothing made sense! thought Jason. Where before there had been five patrol cars, only one had returned. Why? And even that question was superfluous. Carlos had mounted a strategy employing not one but seven, conceivably eight, decoys, all expendable, all led to their terrible death by the consummate self-protector. The Jackal had sprung himself from the trap that had been reversed by his hated quarry, Delta, the product of Medusa, a creation of American intelligence. Once again, the assassin had outthought him, but he had not killed him. There would be another day, another night.

“Bernardine!” screamed the Deuxième official who less than thirty minutes ago had officially disowned his colleague. Leaping out of the patrol car, the man shouted again. “Bernardine! Where are you? … My God, where are you? I came back, old friend, for I could not leave you! My God, you were right, I see that now for myself! Oh, Christ, tell me you’re alive! Answer me!”

“Another is dead,” came the reply from Bernardine as his gaunt figure walked slowly, with difficulty, out of the storefront two hundred feet north of Bourne. “I tried to tell you but you would not listen—”

“I was perhaps too hasty!” roared the official, running to the old man and embracing him as the others in the patrol car, their arms crossed in front of their faces, surrounded the burning van but at a considerable distance. “I’ve radioed for our people to return!” added the official. “You must believe me, old friend, I came back because I couldn’t leave you in anger, not my old comrade. … I had no idea that pig from the newspaper actually assaulted you, struck you. He told me and I threw him out! … I came back for you, you see that, don’t you? But, my God, I never expected anything like this!”

“It’s horrible,” said the Deuxième veteran, while cautiously, his eyes straying rapidly up and down the boulevard, he surveyed the area. He specifically noted the many frightened, intense faces in the windows of the three stone buildings. The scenario had blown apart with the van’s explosion and the disappearance of the brown limousine. The minions were without their leader and filled with anxiety. “It’s not entirely your error alone—my old comrade,” he continued, a note of apology in his voice. “I had the wrong building.”

“Ah ha,” cried the Deuxième associate, relishing a minor triumph of self-vindication. “The wrong building? That is indeed a mistake of consequence, eh, François?”

“The consequences might have been far less tragic had you not abandoned me so hastily, as you so aptly phrased it. Instead of listening to a man with my vast experience, you ordered me out of your car only to have me witness the horror moments after you fled.”

“We followed your orders! We searched the building—the wrong building!”

“Had you remained, if only for a brief conference, this might have been avoided and a friend might be alive. I shall have to include that judgment in my report—”

“Please, old friend,” broke in the associate. “Let us reason together for the good of the Bureau—” The interruption now came with the shrill appearance of a fire truck. Bernardine held up his hand and led his protesting former comrade across the boulevard, ostensibly to get out of the way of the firemen, more purposefully to be within earshot of Jason Bourne. “When our people arrive,” went on the associate of the Deuxième, his voice rising with authority, “we shall empty the buildings and detain every resident for thorough interrogation!”

“My God,” exclaimed Bernardine, “don’t add asininity to incompetence!”

“What?”

“The limousine, the brown limousine—surely you saw it.”

“Yes, of course. The driver said it raced away.”

“That’s all he told you?”

“Well, the truck was in flames and there was so much confusion radioing for personnel—”

“Look at the shattered glass!” commanded François, pointing at the storefronts away from the recess where Bourne was hiding. “Look at the pits on the pavement and in the street. Gun fire, my old comrade. Those involved escaped believing they had killed me! … Say nothing, do nothing. Leave these people alone.”

“You are incomprehensible—”

“And you are a fool. If for any reason whatsoever there is the slightest possibility that even one of those killers is ordered to return here, there can be no impediments.”

“Now you are inscrutable.”

“Not at all,” protested Bernardine as the firemen hosed down the flames of the van, their efforts augmented by giant extinguishers. “Send your people into each building, inquiring if everything is all right, explaining that the authorities have determined the terrible events on the boulevard were criminally oriented. The crisis has passed; there is no further alarm.”

“But is that true?”

“It’s what we want them to believe.” An ambulance stormed into the street followed by two additional patrol cars, all the sirens at maximum volume. From the rue d’Alésia, apartment dwellers had gathered at both corners, many in hastily pulled—on street attire—trousers and undershirts—while others were in night clothes—frayed bathrobes and worn slippers. Noting that the Jackal’s van was now a smoldering mass of twisted steel and shattered glass, Bernardine continued: “Give the crowds time to satisfy their morbid viewing, then send men to disperse them. In an hour or so, when the rubble is under control and the bodies carted away, proclaim loudly to your police detachment that the emergency is over, ordering all but one man back to the precinct. That man is to remain here on duty until the debris is cleared from the boulevard. He is also to be instructed not to interfere with anyone leaving the buildings, is that clear?”

“Not for a moment. You said that someone might be hiding—”

“I know what I said,” pressed the former Deuxième consultant. “It changes nothing.”

“You will stay here, then?”

“Yes. I will move slowly, inconspicuously, around the area.”

“I see. … What about the police report? And my report?”

“Use some of the truth, not all of it, of course. Word was passed to you—informer’s name withheld—that an act of violence related to the Bureau’s narcotics division was to take place on the boulevard Lefebvre at precisely this hour. You commandeered a police contingent and found nothing, but shortly thereafter your highly professional instincts sent you back beyond the time span, unfortunately too late to stop the carnage.”

“I might even be commended,” said the associate, suddenly frowning, wary. “And your report?” he asked quietly.

“We’ll see if one is necessary, won’t we?” replied the newly reinstated Deuxième consultant.

The medical team wrapped the bodies of the victims and placed them in the ambulance as a wrecker hoisted what was left of the destroyed vehicle into the huge attached dumpster. The crew swept the street, several remarking that they should not sweep too thoroughly or no one would recognize the Lefebvre. A quarter of an hour later the job was finished; the wrecker departed, the lone patrolman joining the crew to be dropped off at the nearest police phone several blocks away. It was well past four o’clock in the morning, and soon the dawn would light up the sky over Paris, preceding the boisterous human carnival below. Now, however, the only signs of life on the boulevard Lefebvre were five lighted windows in the row of stone buildings controlled by Carlos the Jackal. Inside those rooms were men and women for whom sleep was not permitted. They had work to do for their monseigneur.

Bourne sat on the pavement, his legs outstretched, his back against the inside wall of a storefront across from the building where the frightened yet argumentative baker and the indignant nun had confronted the police. Bernardine was in a similar recess several hundred feet away, opposite the first building where the Jackal’s van had stopped for its condemned cargo. Their agreement was firm: Jason would follow and take by force whoever left first from any building; the old Deuxième veteran would follow whoever left second, ascertain his or her destination, but make no contact. Bourne’s judgment was that either the baker or the nun would be the assassin’s messenger, so he had selected the north end of the row of stone houses.

He was partially right, but he had not anticipated an embarrassment of personnel and conveyances. At 5:17, two bicycles ridden by nuns in full habits and white hats wheeled up from the south side of the boulevard, ringing the muted bells on their handlebars as they stopped in front of the house that was supposedly the quarters of the Magdalen Sisters of Charity. The door opened and three additional nuns, each carrying a bicycle, walked out and down the brick steps to join their charitable sisters. They discreetly mounted their saddles and the procession started up the street; the one consoling fact for Jason was that Carlos’s indignant nun took up the single rear position. Not knowing how it would happen, knowing only that it would happen, Bourne lurched out of the storefront and ran across the dark boulevard. As he reached the shadows of the deserted lot adjacent to the Jackal’s house, another door opened. He crouched, watching the overweight irate baker waddle rapidly down his brick steps and head south. Bernardine had his work cut out for him, too, thought Jason as he got to his feet and ran after his procession of cycling nuns.