The Bourne Ultimatum jb-3

by Robert Ludlum

  "Oh, Christ!"

  Thus Albert Armbruster called for his chariot and was driven home in discomfort. Further nausea was in store for the chairman, however, as Jason Bourne was waiting for him.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Armbruster," said the stranger pleasantly as the chairman struggled out of the limousine, the door held open by the chauffeur.

  "Yes, what?" Armbruster's response was immediate, unsure.

  "I merely said 'Good afternoon.' My name's Simon. We met at the White House reception for the Joint Chiefs several years ago-"

  "I wasn't there," broke in the chairman emphatically.

  "Oh?" The stranger arched his brows, his voice still pleasant but obviously questioning.

  "Mr. Armbruster?" The chauffeur had closed the door and now turned courteously to the chairman. "Will you be needing-"

  "No, no," said Armbruster, again interrupting. "You're relieved-I won't need you anymore today ... tonight."

  "Same time tomorrow morning, sir?"

  "Yes, tomorrow-unless you're told otherwise. I'm not a well man; check with the office."

  "Yes, sir." The chauffeur tipped his visored cap and climbed back into the front seat.

  "I'm sorry to hear that," said the stranger, holding his place as the limousine's engine was started and the automobile rolled away.

  "What? ... Oh, you. I was never at the White House for that damned reception!"

  "Perhaps I was mistaken-"

  "Yes, well, nice to see you again," said Armbruster anxiously, impatiently, hurrying to the steps that led up to his Georgetown house.

  "Then again, I'm quite sure Admiral Burton introduced us-"

  "What?" The chairman spun around. "What did you just say.

  "This is a waste of time," continued Jason Bourne, the pleasantness gone from his voice and his face. "I'm Cobra."

  "Oh, Jesus! ... I'm not a well man." Armbruster repeated the statement in a hoarse whisper, snapping his head up to look at the front of his house, to the windows and the door.

  "You'll be far worse unless we talk," added Jason, following the chairman's eyes. "Shall it be up there? In your house?"

  "No!" cried Armbruster. "She yaps all the time and wants to know everything about everybody, then blabs all over town exaggerating everything."

  "I assume you're talking about your wife."

  "All of 'em! They don't know when to keep their traps shut."

  "It sounds like they're starved for conversation."

  "What...?"

  "Never mind. I've got a car down the block. Are you up to a drive?"

  "I damn well better be. We'll stop at the drugstore down the street. They've got my prescription on file. ... Who the hell are you?"

  "I told you," answered Bourne. "Cobra. It's a snake."

  "Oh, Jesus!" whispered Albert Armbruster.

  The pharmacist complied rapidly, and Jason quickly drove to a neighborhood bar he had chosen an hour before should one be necessary. It was dark and full of shadows, the booths deep, the banquettes high, isolating those meeting one another from curious glances. The ambience was important, for it was vital that he stare into the eyes of the chairman when he asked questions, his own eyes ice-cold, demanding ... threatening. Delta was back, Cain had returned; Jason Bourne was in full command, David Webb forgotten.

  "We have to cover ourselves," said the Cobra quietly after their drinks arrived. "In terms of damage control that means we have to know how much harm each of us could do under the Amytals."

  "What the hell does that mean?" asked Armbruster swallowing most of his gin and tonic while wincing and holding his stomach.

  "Drugs, chemicals, truth serums."

  "What?"

  "This isn't your normal ball game," said Bourne, remembering Conklin's words. "We've got to cover all of the bases because there aren't any constitutional rights in this series."

  "So who are you?" The chairman of the Federal Trade Commission belched and brought his glass briefly to his lips, his hand trembling. "Some kind of one-man hit team? John Doe knows something, so he's shot in an alley?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. Anything like that would be totally counterproductive. It would only fuel those trying to find us, leave a trail-"

  "Then what are you talking about?"

  "Saving our lives, which includes our reputations and our life-styles."

  "You're one cold prick. How do we do that?"

  "Let's take your case, shall we? ... You're not a well man by your own admission. You could resign under doctor's orders and we take care of you-Medusa takes care of you." Jason's imagination floated, making quick sharp forays into reality and fantasy, swiftly searching for the words that might be found in the gospel according to St. Alex. "You're known to be a wealthy man, so a villa might be purchased in your name, or perhaps a Caribbean island, where you'd be completely secure. No one can reach you; no one can talk to you unless you agree, which would mean predetermined interviews, harmless and even favorable results guaranteed. Such things are not impossible."

  "Pretty sterile existence in my opinion," said Armbruster. "Me and the yapper all by ourselves? I'd kill her."

  "Not at all," went on the Cobra. "There'd be constant distractions. Guests of your choosing could be flown to wherever you are. Other women also either of your choice or selected by those who respect your tastes. Life goes on much as before, some inconveniences, some pleasant surprises. The point is that you'd be protected, inaccessible and therefore we're also protected, the rest of us. ... But, as I say, that option is merely hypothetical at this juncture. In my case, frankly, it's a necessity because there's little I don't know. I leave in a matter of days. Until then I'm determining who goes and who stays. ... How much do you know, Mr. Armbruster?"

  "I'm not involved with the day-to-day operations, naturally. I deal with the big picture. Like the others, I get a monthly coded telex from the banks in Zurich listing the deposits and the companies we're gaining control of-that's about it."

  "So far you don't get a villa."

  "I'll be damned if I want one, and if I do I'll buy it myself. I've got close to a hundred million, American, in Zurich."

  Bourne controlled his astonishment and simply stared at the chairman. "I wouldn't repeat that," he said.

  "Who am I going to tell? The yapper?"

  "How many of the others do you know personally?" asked the Cobra.

  "Practically none of the staff, but then they don't know me, either. Hell, they don't know anybody. ... And while we're on the subject, take you, for instance. I've never heard of you. I figure you work for the board and I was told to expect you, but I don't know you."

  "I was hired on a very special basis. My background's deep-cover security."

  "Like I said, I figured-"

  "What about the Sixth Fleet?" interrupted Bourne, moving away from the subject of himself.

  "I see him now and then but I don't think we've exchanged a dozen words. He's military; I'm civilian-very civilian."

  "You weren't once. Where it all began."

  "The hell I wasn't. No uniform ever made a soldier and it sure didn't with me."

  "What about a couple of generals, one in Brussels, the other at the Pentagon?"

  "They were career men; they stayed in. I wasn't and I didn't."

  "We have to expect leaks, rumors," said Bourne almost aimlessly, his eyes now wandering. "But we can't permit the slightest hint of military orientation."

  "You mean like in junta style?"

  "Never," replied Bourne, once more staring at Armbruster. "That kind of thing creates whirlwinds-"

  "Forget it!" whispered the chairman of the Federal Trade Commission, angrily interrupting. "The Sixth Fleet, as you call him, calls the shots only here and only because it's convenient. He's a blood-and-guts admiral with a whiz-bang record and a lot of clout where we want it, but that's in Washington, not anywhere else!"

  "I know that and you know it," said Jason emphatically, the emphasis covering his bewilderment, "but someone w
ho's been in a protection program for over fifteen years is putting together his own scenario and that comes out of Saigon-Command Saigon."

  "It may have come out of Saigon but it sure as hell didn't stay there. The soldier boys couldn't run with it, we all know that. ... But I see what you mean. You tie in Pentagon brass with anything like us, the freaks are in the streets and the bleeding-heart fairies in Congress have a field day. Suddenly a dozen subcommittees are in session."

  "Which we can't tolerate," added Bourne.

  "Agreed," said Armbruster. "Are we any closer to learning the name of the bastard who's putting this scenario together?"

  "Closer, not close. He's been in contact with Langley but on what level we don't know."

  "Langley? For Christ's sake, we've got someone over there. He can squelch it and find out who the son of a bitch is!"

  "DeSole?" offered the Cobra simply.

  "That's right." Armbruster leaned forward. "There is very little you don't know. That connection's very quiet. What does DeSole say?"

  "Nothing, we can't touch him," replied Jason, suddenly, frantically reaching for a credible answer. He had been David Webb too long! Conklin was right; he wasn't thinking fast enough. Then the words came ... part of the truth, a dangerous part, but credible, and he could not lose credibility. "He thinks he's being watched and we're to stay away from him, no contact whatsoever until he says otherwise."

  "What happened?" The chairman gripped his glass, his eyes rigid, bulging.

  "Someone in the cellars learned that Teagarten in Brussels has an access fax code directly to DeSole bypassing routine confidential traffic."

  "Stupid goddamned soldier boys!" spat out Armbruster. "Give 'em gold braid and they prance around like debutantes and want every new toy in town! ... Faxes, access codes! Jesus, he probably punched the wrong numbers and got the NAACP."

  "DeSole says he's building a cover and can handle it, but it's no time for him to go around asking questions, especially in this area. He'll check quietly on everything he can, and if he learns something he'll reach us, but we're not to reach him."

  "Wouldn't you know it'd be a lousy soldier boy who puts us out on a limb? If it wasn't for that jackass with his access code, we wouldn't have a problem. Everything would be taken care of."

  "But he does exist, and the problem-the crisis-won't go away," said Bourne flatly. "I repeat, we have to cover ourselves. Some of us will have to leave-disappear at least for a while. For the good of all of us."

  The chairman of the Federal Trade Commission leaned back in the booth, his expression pensively disagreeable. "Yeah, well let me tell you something, Simon, or whatever your name is. You're checking out the wrong people. We're businessmen, some of us rich enough or egotistical enough or for other reasons willing to work for government pay, but first we're businessmen with investments all over the place. We're also appointed, not elected, and that means nobody expects full financial disclosures. Do you see what I'm driving at?"

  "I'm not sure," said Jason, instantly concerned that he was losing control, losing the threat. I've been away too long ... and Albert Armbruster was not a fool. He was given to first-level panic, but the second level was colder, far more analytical. "What are you driving at?"

  "Get rid of our soldier boys. Buy them villas or a couple of Caribbean islands and put them out of reach. Give 'em their own little courts and let 'em play kings; that's what they're all about anyway."

  "Operate without them?" asked Bourne, trying to conceal his astonishment.

  "You said it and I agree. Any hint of big brass and we're in big trouble. It goes under the heading of 'military industrial complex,' which freely translated means military-industrial collusion." Again Armbruster leaned forward over the table. "We don't need them anymore! Get rid of them."

  "There could be very loud objections-"

  "No way. We've got 'em by their brass balls!"

  "I'll have to think about it."

  "There's nothing to think about. In six months we'll have the controls we need in Europe."

  Jason Bourne stared at the chairman of the Federal Trade Commission. What controls? he thought to himself. For what reason? Why?

  "I'll drive you home," he said.

  "I talked to Marie," said Conklin from the Agency garden apartment in Virginia. "She's at the inn, not at your house."

  "How come?" asked Jason at a gas-station pay phone on the outskirts of Manassas.

  "She wasn't too clear. ... I think it was lunchtime or nap time-one of those times when mothers are never clear. I could hear your kids in the background. They were loud, pal."

  "What did she say, Alex?"

  "It seems your brother-in-law wanted it that way. She didn't elaborate, and other than sounding like one harried mommy, she was the perfectly normal Marie I know and love-which means she only wanted to hear about you."

  "Which means you told her I was perfectly fine, didn't you?"

  "Hell, yes. I said you were holed up under guard going over a lot of computer printouts, sort of a variation on the truth."

  "Johnny must have had his talk with her. She told him what's happened, so he moved them all to his exclusive bunker."

  "His what?"

  "You never saw Tranquility Inn, or did you? Frankly, I can't remember whether you did or not."

  "Panov and I saw only the plans and the site; that was four years ago. We haven't been back since, at least I haven't. Nobody's asked me."

  "I'll let that pass because you've had a standing invitation since we got the place. ... Anyway, you know it's on the beach and the only way to get there except by water is up a dirt road so filled with rocks no normal car could make it twice. Everything is flown in by plane or brought over by boat. Almost nothing from the town."

  "And the beach is patrolled," interrupted Conklin. "Johnny isn't taking any chances."

  "It's why I sent them down there. I'll call her later."

  "What about now?" said Alex. "What about Armbruster?"

  "Let's put it this way," replied Bourne, his eyes drifting up to the white plastic shell of the pay phone. "What does it mean when a man who has a hundred million dollars in Zurich tells me that Medusa-point of origin Command Saigon, emphasis on 'command,' which is hardly civilian-should get rid of the military because Snake Lady doesn't need them any longer?"

  "I don't believe it," said the retired intelligence officer in a quiet, doubting voice. "He didn't."

  "Oh, yes, he did. He even called them soldier boys, and he wasn't memorializing them in song. He verbally dismissed the admirals and the generals as gold-braided debutantes who wanted every new toy in town."

  "Certain senators on the Armed Services Committee would agree with that assessment," concurred Alex.

  "There's more. When I reminded him that Snake Lady came out of Saigon-Command Saigon-he was very clear. He said it may have, but it sure as hell didn't stay there because and this is a direct quote-'The soldier boys couldn't run with it.' "

  "That's a provocative statement. Did he tell you why they couldn't run with it?"

  "No, and I didn't ask. I was supposed to know the answer."

  "I wish you did. I like less and less the sound of what I'm hearing; it's big and it's ugly. ... How did the hundred million come up?"

  "I told him Medusa might get him a villa someplace out of the country where he couldn't be reached if we thought it was necessary. He wasn't too interested and said if he wanted one, he'd buy it himself. He had a hundred million, American, in Zurich-a fact I think I was also expected to know."

  "That was all? Just a simple little one hundred million?"

  "Not entirely. He told me that like everybody else he gets a monthly telex-in code-from the banks in Zurich listing his deposits. Obviously, they've been growing."

  "Big, ugly and growing," added Conklin. "Anything else? Not that I particularly want to hear it, I'm frightened enough."

  "Two more items and you'd better have some fear in reserve. ... Armbruster said that along w
ith the deposit telexes he gets a listing of the companies they're gaining control of."

  "What companies? What was he talking about? ... Good God."

  "If I had asked, my wife and children might have to attend a private memorial service, no casket in evidence because I wouldn't be there."

  "You've got more to tell me. Tell me."

  "Our illustrious chairman of the Federal Trade Commission said that the ubiquitous 'we' could get rid of the military because in six months 'we' would have all the controls we needed in Europe. ... Alex, what controls? What are we dealing with?"

  There was silence on the unbroken line, and Jason Bourne did not interrupt. David Webb wanted to shout in defiance and confusion, but there was no point; he was a non-person. Finally, Conklin spoke.

  "I think we're dealing with something we can't handle," he said softly, his words barely audible over the phone. "This has to go upstairs, David. We can't keep it to ourselves."

  "Goddamn you, you're not talking to David!" Bourne did not raise his voice in anger; he did not have to, its tone was enough. "This isn't going anywhere unless or until I say it does and I may not ever say it. Understand me, field man. I don't owe anyone anything, especially not the movers and the shakers in this city. They moved and shook my wife and me too much for any concessions where our lives or the lives of our children are concerned! I intend to use everything I can learn for one purpose and one purpose only. That's to draw out the Jackal and kill him so we can climb out of our personal hell and go on living. ... I know now that this is the way to do it. Armbruster talked tough and he probably is tough, but underneath he's frightened. They're all frightened-panicked, as you put it-and you were right. Present them with the Jackal and he's a solution they can't refuse. Present Carlos with a client as rich and as powerful as our current Medusa and it's irresistible to him-he's got the respect of the international big boys, not just the crud of the world, the fanatics of the left and right. ... Don't stand in my way, don't, for God's sake!"