The Bourne Ultimatum jb-3

by Robert Ludlum

  Bourne changed into the French denim trousers, slipped on a dark short-sleeved shirt and the cotton safari jacket, put his money, his weapon and all his IDs-authentic and false-into his pockets and left the Pont-Royal. Before doing so, however, he stuffed the bed with pillows, and hung his traveling clothes in clear view over the chair. He walked casually past the ornate front desk, and once outside on Montalembert ran to the nearest telephone kiosk. He inserted a coin and dialed Bernardine's home.

  "It's Simon," he said.

  "I thought so," replied the Frenchman. "I was hoping so. I've just heard from Alex and told him not to tell me where you were; one cannot reveal what one does not know. Still, if I were you, I'd go to another place, at least for the night. You may have been spotted at the airport."

  "What about you?"

  "I intend to be a canard."

  "A duck?"

  "The sitting variety. The Deuxième has my flat under watch. Perhaps I'll have a visitor; it would be convenient, n'est-ce pas?"

  "You didn't tell your office about-"

  "About you?" interrupted Bernardine. "How could I, monsieur, when I don't know you? My protective Bureau believes I had a threatening call from an old adversary known to be a psychopath. Actually I removed him in the Maritimes years ago but I never closed the file-"

  "Should you be telling me this on your telephone?"

  "I thought I mentioned that it was a unique instrument."

  "You did."

  "Suffice it to say it cannot be tapped and still function. ... You need rest, monsieur. You are no good to anyone, least of all yourself, without it. Find a bed, I cannot help you there."

  " 'Rest is a weapon,' " said Jason, repeating a phrase he had come to believe was a vital truth, vital for survival in a world he loathed.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Nothing. I'll find a bed and call you in the morning."

  "Tomorrow then. Bonne chance, mon ami. For both of us."

  He found a room at the Avenir, an inexpensive hotel on the rue Gay-Lussac. Registering under a false name, promptly forgotten, he climbed the stairs to his room, removed his clothes, and fell into the bed. "Rest is a weapon," he said to himself, staring at the ceiling, at the flickering lights of the Paris streets as they traveled across the plaster. Whether rest came in a mountain cave or a rice paddy in the Mekong Delta, it did not matter; it was a weapon frequently more powerful than firepower. That was the lesson drummed into his head by d'Anjou, the man who had given his life in a Beijing forest so that Jason Bourne might live. Rest is a weapon, he considered, touching the bandage around his neck yet not really feeling it, its constricting presence fading as sleep came.

  He woke up slowly, cautiously, the noise of the traffic in the streets below pounding up to his window, the metallic horns like the erratic cawing of angry crows amid the irregular bursts of angry engines, full bore one moment, abrupt quiet the next. It was a normal morning in the narrow streets of Paris. Holding his neck rigid, Jason swung his legs to the floor from the inadequate bed and looked at his watch, startled at what he saw, wondering for an instant whether he had adjusted the watch for Paris time. Of course he had. It was 10:07 in the morning-Paris time. He had slept nearly eleven hours, a fact confirmed by the rumbling in his stomach. Exhaustion was now replaced by acute hunger.

  Food, however, would have to wait; there were things to take care of, and first on the list was to reach Bernardine, and then to learn the security status of the Pont-Royal hotel. He got to his feet, stiffly, unsteadily, numbness momentarily invading his legs and arms. He needed a hot shower, which was not to be had at the Avenir, then mild exercise to limber up his body, therapies unnecessary only a few years ago. He removed his wallet from his trousers, pulled out Bernardine's card and returned to the bed to use the telephone beside it; he dialed.

  "Le canard had no visitors, I'm afraid," said the Deuxième veteran. "Not even the hint of a hunter, which I presume is favorable news."

  "It's not until we find Panov-if we find him. The bastards!"

  "Yes, that must be faced. It's the ugliest part of our work."

  "Goddamn it, I can't dismiss a man like Mo with 'That must be faced'!"

  "I'm not asking you to. I'm only remarking upon the reality. Your feelings are meaningful to you, but they don't change reality. I did not mean to offend you."

  "And I didn't mean to mouth off. Sorry. It's just that he's a very special person."

  "I understand. ... What are your plans? What do you need?"

  "I don't know yet," answered Bourne. "I'll pick up the car in the Capucines and an hour or so later I'll know more. Will you be home or at the Deuxième Bureau?"

  "Until I hear from you I will stay in my flat and near my very unique telephone. Under the circumstances I prefer that you do not call me at the office."

  "That's an astonishing statement."

  "I don't know everyone these days at the Deuxième, and at my age, caution is not merely the better part of valor, it's frequently a substitute. Besides, to call off my protection so swiftly might generate rumors of senility. ... Speak to you later, mon ami."

  Jason replaced the phone, tempted to pick it up again and reach the Pont-Royal, but this was Paris, the city of discretion, where hotel clerks were loath to give information over the telephone, and would refuse to do so with guests they did not know. He dressed quickly, went down to pay his bill, and walked out onto the rue Gay-Lussac. There was a taxi stand at the corner; eight minutes later he walked into the lobby of the Pont-Royal and up to the concierge. "Je m'appelle Monsieur Simon," he said to the man, giving his room number. "I ran into a friend last night," he continued in flawless French, "and I stayed at her place. Would you know if anyone came around looking for me, perhaps asking for me." Bourne removed several large franc notes, his eyes telling the man he would pay generously for confidentiality. "Or even describing someone like me," he added softly.

  "Merci bien, monsieur. ... I understand. I will check further with the night concierge, but I'm sure he would have left a note for my personal attention if someone had come here seeking you."

  "Why are you so sure?"

  "Because he did leave such a note for me to speak with you. I've been calling your room since seven o'clock this morning when I came on duty."

  "What did the note say?" asked Jason, his breathing on hold.

  "It's what I'm to say to you. 'Reach his friend across the Atlantic. The man has been phoning all night.' I can attest to the accuracy of that, monsieur. The switchboard tells me that last call was less than thirty minutes ago."

  "Thirty minutes ago?" said Jason, looking hard at the concierge and then at his watch. "It's five A.M. over there ... all night?"

  The hotel man nodded as Bourne started for the elevator.

  "Alex, for Christ's sake, what is it? They told me you've been calling all-"

  "Are you at the hotel?" interrupted Conklin quickly.

  "Yes, I am."

  "Get to a public phone in the street and call me back. Hurry."

  Again the slow, cumbersome elevator; the faded ornate lobby now half filled with Parisians talking manically, many heading for the bar and their prenoon apéritifs; and again the hot bright summer street outside and the maddening congested traffic. Where was a telephone? He walked rapidly down the pavement toward the Seine-where was a phone? There! Across the converging rue du Bac, a red-domed booth with posters covering the sides.

  Dodging the onslaught of automobiles and small trucks, all with furious drivers, he raced to the other side of the street and down to the booth. He sped inside, deposited a coin, and after an agonizing few moments during which he explained that he was not calling Austria, the international operator accepted his AT&T credit number and put the call through to Vienna, Virginia.

  "Why the hell couldn't I talk from the hotel?" asked Bourne angrily. "I called you last night from there!"

  "That was last night, not today."

  "Any news about Mo?"

  "Nothing
yet, but they may have made a mistake. We may have a line on the army doctor."

  "Break him!"

  "With pleasure. I'll take off my foot and smash his face with it until he begs to cooperate-if the line on him is rumb."

  "That's not why you've been calling me all night, though, is it?"

  "No. I was with Peter Holland for five hours yesterday. I went over to see him after we talked, and his reaction was exactly what I thought it would be, with a few generous broadsides in the bargain."

  "Medusa?"

  "Yes. He insists you fly back immediately; you're the only one with direct knowledge. It's an order."

  "Bullshit! He can't insist I do anything, much less give me an order!"

  "He can cut you off, and I can't do anything about it. If you need something in a hurry, he won't deliver."

  "Bernardine's offered to help. 'Whatever you need,' those were his words."

  "Bernardine's limited. Like me, he can call in debts, but without access to the machine he's too restricted."

  "Did you tell Holland I'm writing down everything I know, every statement that was made to me, every answer to every question I asked?"

  "Are you?"

  "I will."

  "He doesn't buy it. He wants to question you; he says he can't question pages of paper."

  "I'm too close to the Jackal! I won't do it. He's an unreasonable son of a bitch!"

  "I think he wanted to be reasonable," said Conklin. "He knows what you're going through, what you've been through, but after seven o'clock last night he closed the doors."

  "Why?"

  "Armbruster was shot to death outside his house. They're calling it a Georgetown robbery, which, of course, it isn't and wasn't."

  "Oh, Jesus!"

  "There are a couple of other things you ought to know. To begin with, we're releasing Swayne's 'suicide.' "

  "For God's sake, why?"

  "To let whoever killed him think he's off the hook, and, more important, to see who shows up during the next week or so.

  "At the funeral?"

  "No, that's a 'closed family affair,' no guests, no formal ceremony."

  "Then who's going to show up where?

  "At the estate, in one form or another. We checked with Swayne's attorney, very officially, of course, and he confirmed what Swayne's wife told you about his leaving the whole place to a foundation."

  "Which one?" asked Bourne.

  "One you've never heard of, funded privately a few years ago by wealthy close friends of the august 'wealthy' general. It's as touching as can be. It goes under the title of the Soldiers, Sailors and Marines Retreat; the board of directors is already in place."

  "Medusans."

  "Or their surrogates. We'll see."

  "Alex, what about the names I gave you, the six or seven names Flannagan gave me? And that slew of license plate numbers from their meetings?"

  "Cute, real cute," said Conklin enigmatically.

  "What's cute?"

  "Take the names-they're the dregs of the wing-ding social set, no relation to the Georgetown upper crust. They're out of the National Enquirer, not The Washington Post."

  "But the licenses, the meetings! That's got to be the ball of wax."

  "Even cuter," observed Alex. "A ball of sheep dip. ... Every one of those licenses is registered to a limousine company, read that companies. I don't have to tell you how authentic the names would be even if we had the dates to trace them."

  "There's a cemetery out there!"

  "Where is it? How big, how small? There are twenty-eight acres-"

  "Start looking!"

  "And advertise what we know?"

  "You're right; you're playing it right. ... Alex, tell Holland you couldn't reach me."

  "You're joking."

  "No, I mean it. I've got the concierge, I can cover. Give Holland the hotel and the name and tell him to call himself, or send over whoever he likes from the embassy to verify. The concierge will swear I checked in yesterday and he hasn't seen me since. Even the switchboard will confirm it. Buy me a few days, please."

  "Holland could still pull all the plugs and probably will."

  "He won't if he thinks I'll come back when you find me. I just want him to keep looking for Mo and keep my name out of Paris. Good or bad, no Webb, no Simon, no Bourne!"

  "I'll try."

  "Was there anything else? I've got a lot to do."

  "Yes. Casset is flying over to Brussels in the morning. He's going to nail Teagarten-him we can't allow and it won't touch you."

  "Agreed."

  On a side street in Anderlecht, three miles south of Brussels, a military sedan bearing the flags of a four-star general officer pulled up to the curb in front of a sidewalk café. General James Teagarten, commander of NATO, his tunic emblazoned with five rows of ribbons, stepped gingerly out of the car into the bright early afternoon sunlight. He turned and offered his hand to a stunning WAC major, who smiled her thanks as she climbed out after him. Gallantly, with military authority, Teagarten released the woman's hand and took her elbow; he escorted her across the wide pavement toward a cluster of umbrella-topped tables behind a row of flowering planter boxes that was the alfresco section of the café. They reached the entrance, a latticework archway profusely covered with baby roses, and walked inside. All the tables were occupied save one at the far end of the enclosed pavement; the hum of luncheon conversation was punctuated by the tinkling of wine bottles gently touching wineglasses and the delicate clatter of utensils lowered on china plates. The decibel level of the conversation was suddenly reduced, and the general, aware that his presence inevitably brought stares, amiable waves and not infrequently mild applause, smiled benignly at no one in particular and yet at everyone as he guided his lady to the deserted table where a small folded card read Réservé.

  The owner, with two waiters trailing behind him like anxious egrets, practically flew between the tables to greet his distinguished guest. When the commander was seated, a chilled bottle of Corton-Charlemagne was presented and the menu discussed. A young Belgian child, a boy of five or six, walked shyly up to the table and brought his hand to his forehead; he smiled and saluted the general. Teagarten rose to his feet, standing erect, and saluted the child back.

  "Vous etes un soldat distingué, mon camarade," said the general, his commanding voice ringing through the sidewalk café, his bright smile winning the crowd, who responded with appreciative applause. The child retreated and the meal continued.

  A leisurely hour later, Teagarten and his lady were interrupted by the general's chauffeur, a middle-aged army sergeant whose expression conveyed his anxiety. The commander of NATO had received an urgent message over his vehicle's secure phone, and the chauffeur had had the presence of mind to write it down and repeat it for accuracy. He handed Teagarten the note.

  The general stood up, his tanned face turning pale as he glanced around the now-half-empty sidewalk café, his eyes narrowed, angry, afraid. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded wad of Belgian franc notes, peeled off several large ones and dropped them on the table. "Come on," he said to the woman major. "Let's go. ... You"-he turned to his driver-"get the car started!"

  "What is it?" asked his luncheon companion.

  "London. Over the wire. Armbruster and DeSole are dead."

  "Oh, my God! How?"

  "It doesn't matter. Whatever they say is a lie."

  "What's happening?"

  "I don't know. I just know we're getting out of here. Come on!"

  The general and his lady rushed through the latticework archway, across the wide pavement and into the military vehicle. On either side of the hood, something was missing. The middle aged sergeant had removed the two red-and-gold flags denoting the impressive rank of his superior, the commander of NATO. The car shot forward, traveling less than fifty yards when it happened.

  A massive explosion blew the military vehicle into the sky, shards of glass and metal, pieces of flesh and streaks of blood filling the
narrow street in Anderlecht.

  "Monsieur!" cried the petrified waiter as crews of police, firemen and sanitation workers went about their grisly business in the road.

  "What is it?" replied the distraught owner of the sidewalk café, still shaking from the harsh interrogation he had gone through by the police and the descending hordes of journalists. "I am ruined. We will be known as the Café de la Mort, the restaurant of death."

  "Monsieur, look!" The waiter pointed at the table where the general and his lady had sat.

  "The police have gone over it," said the disconsolate owner.

  "No, monsieur. Now!"

  Across the glass top of the table, the capital letters scrawled in glistening red lipstick, was a name.

  JASON BOURNE

  20

  Stunned, Marie stared at the television set, at the satellite news program beamed from Miami. Then she screamed as a camera moved in on a glass table in a town called Anderlecht in Belgium and the name printed in red across the top. "Johnny!"

  St. Jacques burst through the bedroom door of the suite he had built for himself on the second floor of Tranquility Inn. "Christ, what is it?"

  Tears streaming down her face, Marie pointed in horror at the set. The announcer on the overseas "feed" was speaking in the monotonic drone peculiar to such satellite transmissions.

  "... as if a bloodstained savage from the past had returned to terrorize civilized society. The infamous killer, Jason Bourne, second only to Carlos the Jackal in the assassin for-hire market, has claimed responsibility for the explosion that took the lives of General James Teagarten and his companions. Conflicting reports have come from Washington and London intelligence circles and police authorities. Sources in Washington claim that the assassin known as Jason Bourne was hunted down and killed in Hong Kong five years ago in a joint British-American operation. However, spokesmen for both the Foreign Office and British intelligence deny any knowledge of such an operation and say that a joint effort as was described is highly unlikely. Still other sources, these from Interpol's headquarters in Paris, have stated that their branch in Hong Kong knew of the supposed death of Jason Bourne, but as the widely circulated reports and photographs were so sketchy and unidentifiable, they did not give much credence to the story. They assumed, as was also reported, that Bourne disappeared into the People's Republic of China for a last contract fatal to himself. All that's clear today is that in the quaint city of Anderlecht in Belgium, General James Teagarten, commander of NATO, was assassinated and someone calling himself Jason Bourne has taken credit for killing this great and popular soldier. ... We now show you an old composite photograph from Interpol's files produced by a consensus of those who purportedly had seen Bourne at close range. Remember, this is a composite, the features put together separately from scores of other photographs and, considering the killer's reputation for changing his appearance, probably not of great value."