The Bourne Ultimatum jb-3

by Robert Ludlum

  "When I find out, and I will find out, I'll let you know, gratis."

  "Oh?" The attorney raised his eyebrows. "How?"

  "We'll get to it. What's your other business?"

  "Two items, both vital, and the first I'll give you-gratis. Get rid of your current boyfriend. He goes to places he shouldn't and throws money around like a cheap hoodlum. We're told he boasts about his connections in high places. We don't know what else he talks about or what he knows or what he's pieced together, but he concerns us. I'd think he'd concern you, too."

  "Il prostitute!" roared Louis, slamming his clenched fist down on the arm of the couch. "Il pinguino! He's dead."

  "I accept your thanks. The other item is far more important, certainly to us. Swayne's house in Manassas. A book was removed, an office diary, which Swayne's lawyer in Manassas-our lawyer in Manassas-could not find. It was on a bookshelf, its binding identical with all the other books in that row, the entire row on the shelf. A person would have to know exactly which one to take."

  "So what do you want from me?"

  "The gardener was your man. He was put in place to do his job, and he was given the only number we knew was totally secure, namely, DeSole's."

  "So?"

  "To do his job, to mount the suicide authentically, he had to study Swayne's every move. You yourself explained that to me ad nauseam when you demanded your outrageous fee. It's not hard to picture your man peering through the window at Swayne in his study, the place where Swayne supposedly would take his life. Gradually your man realizes that the general keeps taking a specific book from off his shelf, writes in it, and returns it to the same spot. That has to intrigue him; that particular book has to be valuable. Why wouldn't he take it? I would, you would. So where is it?"

  The mafioso got slowly, menacingly to his feet. "Listen to me, avvocato, you gotta lot of fancy words that make for conclusions, but we ain't got no book like that and I'll tell you how I can prove it! If there was anything anywhere written down that could burn your ass, I'd be shoving it in your face right now, capisce?"

  "That's not illogical," said the well-dressed attorney, once again uncrossing and crossing his legs as the resentful capo sullenly returned to the couch. "Flannagan," added the Wall Street lawyer. "Naturally ... of course, Flannagan. He and his hairdresser bitch had to have their insurance policy, no doubt with minor extortion in the bargain. Actually, I'm relieved. They could never use it without exposing themselves. Accept my apologies, Louis."

  "Your business finished?"

  "I believe so."

  "Now, the Jew shrink."

  "What about him?"

  "Like I said, he's a gold mine."

  "Without his patients' files, less than twenty-four carat, I think."

  "Then you think wrong," countered Louis. "Like I told Armbruster before he became another big impediment for you, we got doctors, too. Specialists in all kinds of medical things, including what they call motor responses and, get this, 'triggered mental recall under states of external control'-I remembered that one especially. It's a whole different kind of gun at your head, only no blood."

  "I assume there's a point to this."

  "You can bet your country club on it. We're moving the Jew to a place in Pennsylvania, a kind of nursing home where only the richest people go to get dried out or straightened out, if ya know what I mean."

  "I believe I do. Advanced medical equipment, superior staff-well-patrolled grounds."

  "Yeah, sure you do. A lot of your crowd passes through-"

  "Go on," interrupted the attorney, looking at his gold Rolex watch. "I haven't much time."

  "Make time for this. According to my specialists-and I purposely used the word 'my,' if you follow me-on a prearranged schedule, say every fourth or fifth day, the new patient is 'shot up to the moon'-that's the phrase they use, it's not mine, Christ knows. Between times he's been treated real good. He's been fed the right neutermints or whatever they are, given the proper exercise, a lot of sleep and all the rest of that shit. ... We should all be so careful of our bodies, right, avvocato?"

  "Some of us play squash every other day."

  "Well, you'll forgive me, Mr. Park Avenue, Manhattan, but squash to me is zucchini and I eat it."

  "Linguistic and cultural differences do crop up, don't they?"

  "Yeah, I can't fault you there, Consigliere."

  "Hardly. And my title is attorney."

  "Give me time. It could be Consigliere."

  "There's not enough years in our lifetimes, Louis. Do you go on or do I leave?"

  "I go on, Mr. Attorney. ... So each time the Jew shrink is shot up to that moon my specialist talks about, he's in pretty good shape, right?"

  "I see the periodic remissions to normalcy, but then I'm not a doctor."

  "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, but then I'm not a doctor, either, so I'll take my specialist's word for it. You see, every time he's shot up, his mind is pretty clear inside, and then he's fed name after name after name. A lot, maybe most, won't mean a thing, but every now and then one will, and then another, and another. With each, they start what they call a probe, finding out bits and pieces of information, just enough to get a sketch of the patient he's talking about-just enough to scare the shit out of that lasagna when he's reached. Remember, these are stressful times and this Hebe doctor treats some of the fattest cats in Washington, in and outside the government. How does that grab you, Mr. Attorney?"

  "It's certainly unique," replied the guest slowly, studying the capo supremo. "His files, of course, would be infinitely preferable."

  "Yeah, well, like I say, we're working on that, but it'll take time. This is now, immediato. He'll be in Pennsylvania in a couple of hours. You want to deal? You and me?"

  "Over what? Something you don't have and may never get?"

  "Hey, come on, what do you think I am?"

  "I'm sure you don't want to hear that-"

  "Cut the crap. Say in a day or so, maybe a week, we meet, and I give you a list of names I think you might be interested in, all of which we got information on-let's say information not readily available. You pick one or two or maybe none, what can you lose? We're talkin' spitballs anyway, 'cause the deal's between you and me only. No one else is involved except my specialist and his assistant who don't know you and you don't know them."

  "A side arrangement, as it were?"

  "Not as it were, like it is. Depending on the information, I'll figure out the charge. It may only be a thou or two, or it may go to twenty, or it may be gratis, who knows? I'd be fair because I want your business, capisce?"

  "It's very interesting."

  "You know what my specialist says? He says we could start our own cottage industry, he called it. Snatch a dozen shrinks, all with heavy government connections, like in the Senate or even the White House-"

  "I understand fully," interrupted the attorney, getting to his feet, "but my time's up. ... Bring me a list, Louis." The guest walked toward the short marble foyer.

  "No fancy attaché case, Signor Avvocato?" said the capo, rising from the couch.

  "And upset the not so delicate mechanisms in your doorway?"

  "Hey, it's a violent world out there."

  "I wouldn't know about that."

  The Wall Street attorney left, and at the sound of the closing door, Louis rushed across the room to the inlaid Queen Anne desk and virtually pounced on the ivory French telephone-as usual, tipping over the tall thin instrument twice before securing the stem with one hand while dialing with the other. "Fucking swish horn!" he mumbled. "Goddamned fairy decorator! ... Mario?"

  "Hello, Lou," said the pleasant voice in New Rochelle. "I'll bet you called to wish Anthony a happy birthday, huh?"

  "Who?"

  "My kid, Anthony. He's fifteen today, did you forget? The whole family's out in the garden and we miss you, Cousin. And hey, Lou, what a garden this year. I'm a real artist."

  "You also may be something else."

  "W
hat?"

  "Buy Anthony a present and send me the bill. At fifteen, maybe a broad. He's ready for manhood."

  "Lou, you're too much. There are other things-"

  "There's only one thing now, Mario, and I want the truth from your lips or I'll carve them out of your face!"

  There was a brief pause from New Rochelle before the pleasant-sounding executioner spoke. "I don't deserve to be talked to that way, cugino."

  "Maybe, maybe not. There was a book taken from that general's place in Manassas, a very valuable book."

  "They found out it was missing, huh?"

  "Holy shit! You got it?"

  "I had it, Lou. It was going to be a present to you, but I lost it."

  "You lost it? What the fuck did you do, leave it in a 'taxi'?"

  "No, I was running for my life, that maniac with the flares, what's his name, Webb, unloading at me in the driveway. He grazed me and I fell and the lousy book flew out of my hand-just as the police car arrived. He picked it up and I ran like hell for the fence."

  "Webb's got it?"

  "I guess so."

  "Christ on a trampoline ... !"

  "Anything else, Lou? We're about to light the candles on the cake."

  "Yeah, Mario, I may need you in Washington-a big cannoli without a foot but with a book."

  "Hey, wait a minute, cugino, you know my rules. Always a month between business trips. What did Manassas take? Six weeks? And last May in Key West, three, almost four weeks? I can't call, I can't write a postcard-no, Lou, always a month. I got responsibilities to Angie and the children. I'm not going to be an absentee parent; they've got to have a role model, you know what I mean?"

  "I got Ozzie Nelson for a fuckin' cousin!" Louis slammed down the phone, and instantly grabbed it as it crashed over on the desk, its delicate ivory stem displaying a crack. "The best hit man in the business and he's a freak," mumbled the capo supremo as he dialed frantically. When the line was picked up, the anxiety and the anger disappeared from his voice; it was not apparent but it had not gone away. "Hello, Frankie baby, how's my closest friend?"

  "Oh, hi, Lou," came the floating, but hesitant, languorous tones from an expensive apartment in Greenwich Village. "Can I call you back in two minutes? I'm just putting my mother into a cab to take her back to Jersey. Okay?"

  "Sure, kid. Two minutes." Mother? The whore! Il pinguino! Louis walked to his mirrored marble bar with the pink angels flying over the Lalique inset above the whisky bottles. He poured himself a drink and took several calming swallows. The bar phone rang. "Yeah?" he said, carefully picking up the fragile crystal instrument.

  "It's me, Lou. Frankie. I said good-bye to Mama."

  "That's a good boy, Frankie. Never forget your mama."

  "Oh, I never do, Lou. You taught me that. You told me you gave your mama the biggest funeral they ever saw in East Hartford."

  "Yeah, I bought the fuckin' church, man."

  "Real nice, real nice."

  "Now let's get to something else real nice, okay? It's been one of those days, Frankie, lots of turmoil, you know what I mean?"

  "Sure, Lou."

  "So I got an itch. I gotta get some relief. Come on over here, Frankie."

  "As fast as a cab can take me, Lou."

  Prostituto! It would be Frankie the Big Mouth's last service for him.

  Out on the street the well-dressed attorney walked two blocks south and a block east to his waiting limousine parked beneath the canopy of another impressive residence in Brooklyn Heights. His stocky chauffeur of middle years was talking pleasantly with the uniformed doorman, whom he had generously tipped by now. Spotting his employer, the driver walked rapidly to the limousine's rear door and opened it. Several minutes later they were in traffic heading for the bridge.

  In the quiet of the backseat, the lawyer undid his alligator belt, pressed the upper and lower rims of the buckle, and a small cartridge fell out between his legs. He picked it up and refastened the belt.

  Holding the cartridge up to the filtered light from the window, he studied the miniaturized voice-activated recording device. It was an extraordinary machine, tiny enough and with an acrylic mechanism that permitted it to fly through the most sophisticated detectors. The attorney leaned forward in his seat and spoke to the driver. "William?"

  "Yes, sir." The chauffeur glanced up at his rearview mirror and saw his employer's outstretched hand; he reached back.

  "Take this over to the house and put it on a cassette, will you, please?"

  "Right, Major."

  The Manhattan lawyer reclined in the seat, smiling to himself. Louis would give him anything he wanted from now on. A capo did not make side arrangements where the family was concerned, to say nothing of acknowledging certain sexual preferences.

  Morris Panov sat blindfolded in the front seat of the sedan with his guard, his hands loosely, almost courteously bound, as if the capo subordinato felt he was following unnecessary orders. They had been driving for about thirty minutes in silence when the guard spoke.

  "What's a perry-oh-dentist?" he asked.

  "An oral surgeon, a doctor trained to operate inside patients' mouths on problems relating to teeth and gum tissue." Silence. Then seven minutes later: "What kind of problems?"

  "Any number of them, from infections to scraping the roots to more complicated surgery usually in tandem with an oncologist."

  Silence. Four minutes later: "What was that last-the tandy-uncle stuff?"

  "Oral cancer. If it's caught in time, it can be arrested with minor bone removal. ... If not, the entire jaw might have to go." Panov could feel the car briefly swerve as the driver momentarily lost control.

  Silence. A minute and a half later: "The whole fuckin' jaw? Half the face?"

  "It's either that or the whole of the patient's life." Thirty seconds later: "You think I could have something like that?"

  "I'm a doctor, not an alarmist. I merely noted a symptom, I did not make a diagnosis."

  "So bullshit! So make a dagassnossis!"

  "I'm not qualified."

  "Bullshit! You're a doctor, ain't you? I mean a real doctor, not a fasullo who says he is but ain't got no shingle that's legit."

  "If you mean medical school, yes, I'm that kind of doctor."

  "So look at me!"

  "I can't. I'm blindfolded." Panov suddenly felt the guard's thick strong hand clawing at his head, yanking the kerchief off him. The dark interior of the automobile answered a question for Mo: How could anyone travel in a car with a blindfolded passenger? In that car it was no problem; except for the windshield, the windows were not merely tinted, they were damn near opaque, which meant from the outside they were opaque. No one could see inside.

  "Go on, look!" The capo subordinato, his eyes on the road, tilted his large head grotesquely toward Panov; his thick lips were parted and his teeth bared like those of a child playing monster in the mirror, he shouted again. "So tell me what you see!"

  "It's too dark in here," replied Mo, seeing essentially what he wanted to see in the front window; they were on a country road, so narrow and so country the next step lower was dirt. Wherever he was being taken, he was being driven there by an extremely circuitous route.

  "Open the fuckin' window!" yelled the guard, his head still twisted, his eyes still on the road, his gaping mouth approaching a caricature of Orca, the about-to-vomit whale. "Don't hold nothin' back. I'll break every goddamn finger in that prick's hands! He can do his fuckin' surgery with his elbows! ... I told that stupid sister of mine he was no fuckin' good, that fairy. Always readin' books, no action on the street, y'know what I mean?"

  "If you'll stop shouting for a few seconds, I can get a closer look," said Panov, having lowered the window at his side, seeing nothing but trees and the coarse underbrush of a distinctly backcountry road, one he doubted was on too many maps. "There we are," continued Mo, raising his loosely bound hands to the capo's mouth, his eyes, however, not on that mouth but on the road ahead. "Oh, my God!" cried Panov.


  "What?" screamed the guard.

  "Pus. Pockets of pus everywhere. In the upper and lower mandibles. The worst sign."

  "Oh, Christ!" The car swerved wildly, but it did not swerve enough.

  A huge tree. Up ahead. On the left-hand side of the deserted road! Morris Panov surged his bound hands over to the wheel, lifting his body off the seat as he propelled the steering wheel to the left. Then at the last second before the car hit the tree, he hurled himself to the right, curling into a fetal position for protection.

  The crash was enormous. Shattered glass and crushed metal accompanied the rising mists of steam from burst cylinders, and the growing fires of viscous fluids underneath that would soon reach a gas tank. The guard was moaning, semiconscious, his face bleeding; Panov pulled him out of the wreck and into the grass as far as he could until exhaustion overtook him, just before the car exploded.

  In the moist overgrowth, his breath somewhat restored but his fear still at the forefront, Mo released his loosely bound hands and picked the fragments of glass out of his guard's face. He then checked for broken bones-the right arm and the left leg were candidates-and with stolen stationery from a hotel he had never heard of from the capo's pocket, he used the guard's pen to write out his diagnosis. Among the items he removed was a gun-what kind, he had no idea-but it was heavy and too large for his pocket and sagged in his belt.

  Enough. Hippocrates had his limits.

  Panov searched the guard's clothing, astonished at the money that was there-some six thousand dollars-and the various driver's licenses-five different identities from five different states. He took the money and the licenses to turn them over to Alex Conklin, but he left the capo's wallet otherwise intact. There were photographs of his family, his children, grandchildren and assorted relatives-and somewhere among them a young surgeon he had put through medical school. Ciao, amico, thought Mo as he crawled over to the road, stood up and smoothed his clothes, trying to look as respectable as possible.

  Standing on the hard coarse surface, common sense dictated that he continue north, in the direction the car was heading; to return south was not only pointless but conceivably dangerous. Suddenly, it struck him.