A student of French literature and speaks as though she were in the seventeenth century... an indignant businessman, now undoubtedly far more indignant.
'1 didn't before,' replied Bourne in Mandarin, 'because you were with others and I didn't wish to stand out. But let's speak your language now.'
'You do so very well.'
'I thank you. Then you do recall that I was added to your tour at the last minute?'
The manager of the Beijing Hotel actually spoke to my superior, but, yes, I do recall.' The woman smiled and shrugged. 'In truth, as it is such a large group, I recall only giving a tall man his tour-group emblem, and it is in front of my face now. You will have to pay additional yuan on your hotel bill. I am sorry but then you are not part of the tourist programme.'
'No, I'm not, because I'm a businessman negotiating with your government.'
'May you do well,' said the guide with her piquant smile. 'Some do, some do not.'
'My point is that I may not be able to do anything,' said Jason, smiling back. 'My Chinese speech is far better than my Chinese reading. A few minutes ago several words fell into place for me and I realized I'm t6 be at the Beijing Hotel in about half an hour from now for a meeting. How can I do that?
'It is a question of finding transportation. I will write out what you need and you can present it to the guards at the Da hong men-'
'The Great Red Gate?' interrupted Bourne. The one with the arches?
'Yes. There are bus-vehicles that will take you back to Beijing. You may be late, but then it is customary, I understand, for government people to be late also.' She took out a notebook from the pocket of her Mao jacket and then a reed-like ballpoint pen.
'I won't be stopped?
'If you are, ask those who stop you to call the government people,' said the guide, writing out instructions in Chinese and tearing off the page.
This is not your tour group!' barked the operator of the bus in lower-class Mandarin, shaking his head and stabbing his finger at Jason's lapel. The man obviously expected his words to have no effect whatsoever on the tourist, so he compensated with exaggerated gestures and a strident voice. It was also apparent that he hoped that one of his superiors under the arches of the Great Red Gate would take notice of his alertness. One did.
'What's the problem? asked a well-spoken soldier, walking rapidly up to the door of the bus, parting his way through the tourists behind Bourne.
Opportunities will present themselves...
There's no problem,' said Jason curtly, even arrogantly in Chinese, as he withdrew the guide's note, thrusting it into the hand of the young officer. 'Unless you wish to be responsible for my missing an urgent meeting with a delegation from the Trade Commission, whose military procurements chief is a General Liang-Somebody-or-other.'
'You speak the Chinese language.' Startled, the soldier pulled his eyes away from the note.
'I'd say that's obvious. So does General Liang.'
'I do not understand your anger.'
'Perhaps you'll understand General Liang's,' interrupted Bourne.
'I do not know a General Liang, sir, but then there are so many generals. You are upset with the tour?'
'I'm upset with the fools who told me it was a three-hour excursion when it turns out to be five hours! If I miss this meeting because of incompetence there'll be several very upset commissioners, including a powerful general of the People's Army who's anxious to conclude certain purchases from France.' Jason paused, holding up his hand, then continued quickly in a softer voice. 'If, however, I get there on time I'll certainly commend - by name - anyone who might help me.'
'I will help you, sir!' said the young officer, his eyes bright with dedication. 'This sick whale of a bus could take you well over an hour, and that is only if this miserable driver stays on the road. I have at my disposal a much faster vehicle and a fine driver who will escort you. I would do so myself but it would not be proper to leave my post.'
'I'll also mention your commitment to duty to the general.'
'It's my natural instinct, sir. My name is-' 'Yes, do let me have your name. Write it on that slip of paper.'
Bourne sat in the bustling lobby of the Beijing Hotel's east wing, a half-folded newspaper covering his face, the left edge off-centre so he could see the line of doors that was the entrance. He was waiting, watching for the sight of Jean
Louis Ardisson of Paris. It had not been difficult for Jason to learn his name. Twenty minutes ago he had walked up to the Guided Tour Travel Desk and said to the female clerk in his best Mandarin.
'I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm First Interpreter for all French delegations having business with government industry and I'm afraid I've lost one of my confused sheep.'
'You must be a fine interpreter. You speak excellent Chinese. What happened to your... bewildered sheep?' The woman permitted herself a slight giggle at the phrase.
'I'm not sure. We were having coffee in the cafeteria, about to go over his schedule, when he looked at his watch and said he would call me later. He was going on one of the five-hour tours and apparently was late. It was an inconvenience for me, but I know what happens when visitors first arrive in Peking. They're overwhelmed.'
'I believe they are,' agreed the clerk. 'But what can we do for you?'
'I need to know the correct spelling of his name, and whether he has a middle name or what's called a baptismal name - the details that must be included on the government papers that I'll fill out for him.'
'But how can we help?
'He left this behind in the cafeteria.' Jason held up the French businessman's identification tag. 'I don't know how he even got on the tour.'
The woman laughed casually as she reached under the counter for the day's tour ledger. 'He was told the departure area and the guide understood; each carries a list. Those things fall off all the time, and she no doubt gave him a temporary ticket.' The clerk took the tag and began turning pages as she continued. 'I tell you, the idiots who make these are not worth the small yuan they are paid. We have all these precise regulations, these strict rules, and we are made to look foolish at the beginning. Who is who? The woman stopped, her finger on an entry in the ledger. 'Oh, bad luck spirits,' she said softly, looking up at Bourne. 'I do not know if your sheep is bewildered, but I can tell you he bleats a great deal. He believes himself very grand and was himself very disagreeable.
When he was told there was no chauffeur who spoke French he took it as an insult to his nation's honour as well as his own - which was more important to him. Here, you read the name. I cannot pronounce it.' 'Thank you so much,' said Jason, reading. He had then gone to a house phone marked 'English' and asked the operator for Mr Ardisson's room.
'You may dial it, sir,' said the male operator, a note of technological triumph in his voice. 'It is room one-seven-four-three. Very fine accommodations. Very fine view of the Forbidden City.'
Thank you.' Bourne had dialled. There was no answer. Monsieur Ardisson had not yet returned, and under the circumstances he might not return for quite a while. Still, a sheep that was known for bleating a great deal would not stay silent if his dignity was affronted or his business was in jeopardy. Jason decided to wait. The outlines of a plan were coming into focus. It was a desperate strategy based on probabilities, but it was all he had left. He bought a month-old French magazine at the news-stand and sat down, feeling suddenly drained and helpless.
The face of Marie intruded on David Webb's inner screen, and then the sound of her voice filled the close air around him, echoing in his ears, suspending thought and creating a terrible pain at the centre of his forehead. Jason Bourne removed the intrusion with the force of a sledgehammer. The screen went dark, its last flickering light rejected by harsh commands spoken by an ice cold authority. Stop it! There is no time. Concentrate on what we must think about. Nothing Else!
Jason's eyes strayed intermittently, briefly, constantly returning to the entrance. The clientele of the east wing lobby was international,
a mix of languages, of clothing from Fifth and Madison Avenues, Savile Row, St Honorfe and the Via Condotti, as well as the more sombre apparel of both Germanys and the Scandinavian countries. The guests wandered in and out of the brightly lighted shops, amused and intrigued by the pharmacy selling only Chinese medicines, and flocking into the crafts shop next to a large relief map of the world on the wall. Every now and then someone with an entourage came through the doors, obsequious interpreters bowing and translating between uniformed government officials trying to appear casual and weary executives from across the globe whose eyes were dazed from jet lag and the need for sleep, to be preceded, perhaps, by whisky. This might be Red China, but negotiations were older than capitalism, and the capitalists, aware of their fatigue, would not discuss business until they could think straight. Bravo Adam Smith and David Hume.
There he was! Jean Louis Ardisson was being escorted through the doors by no fewer than four Chinese bureaucrats, all of whom were doing their best to mollify him. One rushed ahead to the lobby liquor store as the others detained him by the elevator, chattering continuously through the interpreter. The buyer returned carrying a plastic bag, the bottom stretched and sagging under the weight of several bottles. There were smiles and bows as the elevator doors opened. Jean Louis Ardisson accepted his booty and walked inside, nodding once as the doors closed.
Bourne remained seated watching the lights as the elevator ascended. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. It had reached the top floor, Ardisson's floor. Jason got up and walked back to the bank of telephones. He looked at the sweep hand of his watch; he could only guess at the timing, but a man in an agitated state would not stroll slowly to his room once he left the elevator. The room signified a measure of peace, even the relief of solitude after several hours of tension and panic. To be held for questioning by the police in a foreign country was frightening for anyone, but it became terrifying when an incomprehensible language and radically different faces were added to the knowledge that the prisoner was in a country where people frequently disappeared without explanation. After such an ordeal a man would enter his room and, in no particular order, would collapse, trembling in fear and exhaustion; light one cigarette after another, forgetting where he left the last one; take several strong drinks, swallowing rapidly for a faster effect; and grab the telephone to share his dreadful experience, unconsciously hoping to minimize the after-effects of his terror by sharing them. Bourne could allow Ardisson's collapsing, and as much wine or liquor as the man could handle, but he could not permit the telephone. There could be no sharing, no lessening of the terror. Rather, Ardisson's terror had to be extended, amplified to the point where he would be paralysed, fearing for his life if he left his room. Forty-seven seconds had elapsed; it was time to call.
'Hello? The voice was strained, breathless.
'I'll speak quickly,' said Jason quietly in French. 'Stay where you are and do not use the telephone. In precisely eight minutes I'll knock on your door, twice rapidly, then once. Admit me, but no one else before me. Especially a maid or a housekeeper.'
'Who are you?
'A countryman who must speak to you. For your own safety. Eight minutes.' Bourne hung up and returned to the chair, counting off the minutes and calculating the time it took an elevator with the usual number of passengers to go from one floor to the next. Once on a specific floor, thirty seconds were enough to reach any room. Six minutes went by and Jason rose, nodding to a bewildered stranger next to him, and walked to an elevator where the lighted numbers indicated it would be the next to reach the lobby. Eight minutes were ideal for priming a subject; five were too few, not long enough for the right degree of tension. Six were better but passed too quickly. Eight, however, while still within an urgent timespan, provided those additional moments of anxiety that wore down a subject's resistance. The plan was not yet clear in Bourne's mind. The objective, however, was crystallized, absolute. It was all he had left, and every instinct in his Medusan body told him to go after it. Delta One knew the Oriental mind. In one respect it had not varied for centuries. Secrecy was worth ten thousand tigers, if not a kingdom.
He stood outside the door of 1743, looking at his watch. Eight minutes precisely. He knocked twice, paused, then knocked once again. The door opened and a shocked Ardisson stared at him.
'C'est vous!' cried the businessman, bringing his hand to his lips.
'Keep calm,' said Jason in French, stepping inside and closing the door. 'We have to talk,' he continued. 'I must know what happened.'
' You! You were next to me in that horrid place. We spoke. You took my identification*. You were the cause of everything?
'Did you mention me?
'I didn't dare. It would have looked as if I had done something illegal - giving my pass to someone else. Who are you? Why are you here? You've caused me enough trouble for one day! I think you should leave, monsieur.'
'Not until you tell me exactly what happened.' Bourne walked across the room and sat down in a chair next to a red lacquered table. 'It's urgent that I know.'
'Well, it's not urgent that I tell you. You have no right to walk in here, make yourself comfortable and give me orders.'
'I'm afraid I do have that right. Ours was a private tour and you intruded.'
'I was assigned to that damn tour!'
'On whose orders?
The concierge, or whatever you call that idiot downstairs.'
'Not him. Above him. Who was it?
'How would I know? I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking about.'
'You left.'
'My God, it was you who told me to leave!'
'I was testing you.'
Testing...? This is unbelievable!'
'Believe,' said Jason. 'If you're telling the truth no harm will come to you.'
'Harm?'
'We do not kill the innocent, only the enemy.'
'Kill... the enemy?
Bourne reached under his jacket, took the gun from his belt and placed it on the table. 'Now convince me you're not the enemy. What happened after you left us?
Stunned, Ardisson staggered back into the wall, his wide, frightened eyes riveted on the weapon. 'I swear by all the saints you are talking to the wrong man,' he whispered.
'Convince me.'
'Of what?'
'Your innocence. What happened?
'I... down in the square,' began the terrified businessman. 'I thought about the things you said, that something terrible had happened inside Mao's tomb, and that the Chinese guards were shouting about foreign gangsters, and how people were going to be cordoned off and detained -especially someone like me who was not really part of the tour group... So I started to run - my God, I couldn't possibly be placed in such a situation! Millions of francs are involved, profits on a scale unheard of in the high fashion industry! I'm no mere bargainer, I represent a consortium?
'So you began running and they stopped you,' interrupted Jason, anxious to get the non-essentials out of the way, 'yes! They spoke so rapidly I didn't understand a word anyone was saying, and it was an hour before they found an official who spoke French!'
'Why didn't you simply tell them the truth? That you were with our tour.'
'Because I was running away from that damned tour and I had given you my damned identification card! How would that look to these barbarians who see a fascist criminal in every white face?'
'The Chinese people are not barbarians, monsieur,' said Bourne, gently. Then suddenly he shouted. 'It is only their government's political philosophy that's barbaric! Without the grace of Almighty God, with only Satan's benediction!'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Later, perhaps,' replied Jason, his voice abruptly calm again. 'So an official who spoke French arrived. What happened then?'
'1 told him I was out for a stroll - your suggestion, monsieur. And that I suddenly remembered I was expecting a call from Paris and was hurrying back to the hotel, which accounted for my running.'
'Quite plausible.'
'It was a beautiful piece of work, monsieur,' answered Bourne, his eyes wide.
'I beg your pardon?
'Later perhaps. So the official was abusive?
'Entirely! But he went too far when he attacked Paris fashion as a decadent bourgeois industry! I mean, after all we are paying money for their damned fabrics - they certainly don't have to know the margins, of course.'
Robert Ludlum - Bourne 2 - Bourne Supremecy Page 47