The Bourne Ultimatum jb-3

by Robert Ludlum

  "Not the entire truth," corrected Santos, his voice low and guttural. "Who is your client?"

  "I'll be killed if I tell you."

  "I'll kill you right now if you don't," said the Jackal's conduit, removing Jason's hunting knife from his wide leather belt, the blade glistening in the light of the floor lamp.

  "Why not give me the information my client wants along with a name and a number-any name, any number-and I'll guarantee you two million francs. All my client asks is for me to be the only intermediary. Where's the harm? The blackbird can turn me down and tell me to go to hell. ... Three million!"

  Santos's eyes wavered as if the temptation were almost too much for his imagination. "Perhaps we'll do business later-"

  "Now."

  "No!" Carlos's man pushed his immense body out of the chair and walked toward the couch, the knife held threateningly in front of him. "Your client."

  "Plural," replied Bourne. "A group of powerful men in the United States."

  "Who?"

  "They guard their names like nuclear secrets, but I know of one and he should be enough for you."

  "Who?"

  "Find out for yourself-at least learn the enormity of what I'm trying to tell you. Protect your blackbird by all means! Ascertain that I'm telling you the truth and in the process make yourself so rich you can do anything you want to do for the rest of your life. You could travel, disappear, perhaps have time for those books of yours rather than being concerned with all that garbage downstairs. As you pointed out, neither of us is young. I make a generous brokering fee and you're a wealthy man, free of care, of unpleasant drudgery. ... Again, where's the harm? I can be turned down, my clients turned down. There's no trap. My clients don't ever want to see him. They want to hire him."

  "How could this be done? How could I be satisfied?"

  "Invent some high position for yourself and reach the American ambassador in London-the name is Atkinson. Tell him you've received confidential instructions from Snake Lady. Ask him if you should carry them out."

  "Snake Lady? What's that?"

  "Medusa. They call themselves Medusa."

  Mo Panov excused himself and slid out of the booth. He made his way through the crowded highway diner toward the men's room, frantically scanning the wall at the far end for a pay phone. There was none! The only goddamned phone was ten feet from the booth and in clear sight of the wild-eyed platinum blonde whose paranoia was as deeply embedded as the dark roots of her hair. He had casually mentioned that he thought he should call his office and tell his staff about the accident and where he was, and was instantly met with invective.

  "And have a swarm of cops coming out to pick you up! Not on your fuckin' life, Medicine Man. Your office calls the fuzz, they call my devoted Chief Fork-in-Mouth, and my ass is bouncing into every barbed-wire fence in the county. He's in with every cop on the roads. I think he tells 'em where to get laid."

  "There'd be no reason for me to mention you and I certainly wouldn't. If you recall, you said he might resent me."

  "Resent don't count. He'd just cut your cute little nose off. I'm not takin' any chances-you don't look like you're too with-it. You'd blurt out about your accident-next thing the cops."

  "You know, you're not really making sense."

  "All right, I'll make sense. I'll yell 'Rape!' and tell these not-so-pansy truckers I picked you up on the road two days ago and I've been a sex slave ever since. How does that grab you?"

  "Very firmly. May I at least go to the men's room? It's urgent that I do."

  "Be my guest. They don't put phones in the can in these places."

  "Really? ... No, honestly, I'm not chagrined, not disappointed-just curious. Why don't they? Truckers make good money; they're not interested in stealing dimes or quarters."

  "Boy, you're from La La Land, Doc. Things happen on the highways; things get switched or snitched, you dig? If people make phone calls, other people want to know who makes them."

  "Really ... ?"

  "Oh, Jesus. Hurry up. We only got time for a couple of greasies, so I'll order. He'll head up Seventy, not Ninety-seven. He wouldn't figure."

  "Figure what? What are Seventy and Ninety-seven?"

  "Routes, for Christ's sake! There are routes and there are routes. You are one dumb medicine man. Hit the head, then maybe later we'll stop at a motel where we can continue our business discussion while you get an advance bonus."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I'm pro-choice. Is that against your religion?"

  "Good Lord, no. I'm a firm advocate."

  "Good. Hurry up!"

  So Panov headed for the men's room, and indeed the woman was right. There was no phone, and the window to the outside was too small for anyone but a small cat or a large rat to crawl through. ... But he had money, a great deal of money, along with five driver's licenses from five different states. In Jason Bourne's lexicon these were weapons, especially the money. Mo went to the urinal-long overdue-and then to the door; he pulled it back several inches to observe the blonde. Suddenly, the door swung violently back several feet and Panov crashed into the wall.

  "Hey, sorry, pal!" cried a short heavyset man, who grabbed the psychiatrist by the shoulders as Mo grabbed his face. "You okay, buddy?"

  "Oh, certainly. Yes, of course."

  "The hell you are, you got a nosebleed! C'mon over here by the towels," ordered the T-shirted trucker, one sleeve rolled up to hold a pack of cigarettes. "C'mon, put your head back while I get some cold water on your schnoz. ... Loosen up and lean against the wall. There, that's better; we'll stop this sucker in a moment or two." The short man reached up and gently pressed the wet paper towels across Panov's face while holding the back of his neck, and every few seconds checking the flow of blood from Mo's nostrils. "There y'are, buddy, it's damned near stopped. Just breathe through your mouth, deep breaths, you got me? Head tilted, okay?"

  "Thank you," said Panov, holding the towels and amazed that a nosebleed could be stopped so quickly. "Thank you very much."

  "Don't thank me, I bashed you one by mistake," answered the trucker, relieving himself. "Feel better now?" he asked, zipping up his trousers.

  "Yes, I do." And against the advice of his dear deceased mother, Mo decided to take advantage of the moment and forgo righteousness. "But I should explain that it was my mistake, not yours."

  "Waddaya mean?" asked the trucker, washing his hands.

  "Frankly, I was hiding behind the door looking at a woman I'm trying to get away from-if that makes sense to you."

  Panov's personal medic laughed as he dried his hands. "Whose sense wouldn't it make? It's the story of mankind, pal! They getcha in their clutches and whammo, they whine and you don't know what to do, they scream and you're at their feet. Now me, I got it different. I married a real European, you know? She don't speak so good English, but she's grateful. ... Great with the kids, great with me, and I still get excited when I see her. Not like these fuckin' princesses over here."

  "That's an extremely interesting, even visceral, statement," said the psychiatrist.

  "It's who?"

  "Nothing. I still want to get out of here without her seeing me leave. I have some money-"

  "Hold the money, who is she?"

  Both men went to the door and Panov pulled it back a few inches. "She's the one over there, the blonde' who keeps looking in this direction and at the front door. She's getting very agitated-"

  "Holy shit," interrupted the short trucker. "That's the Bronk's wife! She's way off course."

  "Off course? The Bronk?"

  "He trucks the eastern routes, not these. What the hell is she doing here?"

  "I think she's trying to avoid him."

  "Yeah," agreed Mo's companion. "I heard she's been messing around and don't charge no money."

  "Do you know her?"

  "Hell, yeah. I been to a couple of their barbecues. He makes a hell of a sauce."

  "I have to get out of here. As I told you, I have some money-"r />
  "So you told me and we'll discuss it later."

  "Where?"

  "In my truck. It's a red semi with white stripes, like the flag. It's parked out front, on the right. Get around the cab and stay out of sight."

  "She'll see me leave."

  "No she won't. I'm goin' over and give her a big surprise. I'll tell her all the CBs are hummin' and the Bronk is headin' south to the Carolinas-at least that's what I heard."

  "How can I ever repay you?"

  "Probably with some of that money you keep talkin' about. Not too much, though. The Bronk's an animal and I'm a born-again Christian." The short trucker swung back the door, nearly shoving Panov back into the wall again. Mo watched as his conspiratorial colleague approached the booth, his conspiratorial arms extended as the trucker embraced an old friend and started talking rapidly; the woman's eyes were attentive-she was mesmerized. Panov rushed out of the men's room, through the diner's entrance and toward the huge red-and-white-striped truck. He crouched breathlessly behind the cab, his chest pounding, and waited.

  Suddenly, the Bronk's wife came racing out of the diner, her platinum hair rising grotesquely in the air behind her as she ran to her bright red automobile. She climbed inside and in seconds the engine roared; she continued north as Mo watched, astonished.

  "How are y'doing, buddy-wherever the hell you are?" shouted the short man with no name who had not only amazingly stopped a nosebleed but had rescued him from a manic wife whose paranoid mood swings were rooted in equal parts of vengeance and guilt.

  Stop it, asshole, cried Panov to himself as he raised his voice. "Over here ... buddy!"

  Thirty-five minutes later they reached the outskirts of an unidentified town and the trucker stopped in front of a cluster of stores that bordered the highway. "You'll find a phone there, buddy. Good luck."

  "Are you sure?" asked Mo. "About the money, I mean."

  "Sure I'm sure," replied the short man behind the wheel. "Two hundred dollars is fine-maybe even what I earned-but more than that corrupts, don't it? I been offered fifty times that to haul stuff I won't haul, and you know what I tell 'em?"

  "What do you tell them?"

  "I tell 'em to go piss into the wind with their poison. It's gonna flash back and blind 'em."

  "You're a good person," said Panov, climbing out onto the pavement.

  "I got a few things to make up for." The door of the cab slammed shut and the huge truck shot forward as Mo turned away, looking for a telephone.

  "Where the hell are you?" shouted Alexander Conklin in Virginia.

  "I don't know!" answered Panov. "If I were a patient, I'd ponderously explain that it was an extension of some Freudian dream sequence because it never happens but it happened to me. They shot me up, Alex!"

  "Stay cold. We assumed that. We have to know where you are. Let's face it, others are looking for you, too."

  "All right, all right. ... Wait a minute! There's a drugstore across the street. The sign says 'Battle Ford's Best,' will that help?"

  The sigh on the line from Virginia was the reply. "Yes, it does. If you were a socially productive Civil War buff rather than an insignificant shrink, you'd know it, too."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "Head for the old battleground at Ford's Bluff. It's a national landmark; there are signs everywhere. A helicopter will be there in thirty minutes, and don't say a goddamned thing to anybody!"

  "Do you know how extreme you sound? Yet I was the object of hostility-"

  "Out, coach!"

  Bourne walked into the Pont-Royal and immediately approached the night concierge, peeling off a five-hundred-franc note and placing it quietly in the man's hand. "The name is Simon," he said, smiling. "I've been away. Any messages?"

  "No messages, Monsieur Simon," was the quiet reply, "but two men are outside, one on Montalembert, the other across on the rue du Bac."

  Jason removed a thousand-franc note and palmed it to the man. "I pay for such eyes and I pay well. Keep it up."

  "Of course, monsieur."

  Bourne crossed to the brass elevator. Reaching his floor, he walked rapidly down the intersecting corridors to his room. Nothing was disturbed; everything was as he had left it, except that the bed had been made up. The bed. Oh, God, he needed to rest, to sleep. He couldn't do it any longer. Something was happening inside him-less energy, less breath. Yet he had to have both, now more than ever. Oh, Christ, he wanted to lie down. ... No. There was Marie. There was Bernardine. He went to the telephone and dialed the number he had committed to memory.

  "I'm sorry I'm late," he said.

  "Four hours late, mon ami. What happened?"

  "No time. What about Marie?"

  "There is nothing. Absolutely nothing. She is not on any international flight currently in the air or scheduled for departure. I even checked the transfers from London, Lisbon, Stockholm and Amsterdam-nothing. There is no Marie Elise St. Jacques Webb en route to Paris."

  "There has to be. She wouldn't change her mind, it's not like her. And she wouldn't know how to bypass immigration."

  "I repeat. She's not listed on any flight from any country coming into Paris."

  "Damn!"

  "I will keep trying, my friend. The words of Saint Alex keep ringing in my ears. Do not underestimate la belle mademoiselle."

  "She's not a goddamned mademoiselle, she's my wife. ... She's not one of us, Bernardine; she's not an agent in the field who can cross and double-cross and triple-cross. That's not her. But she's on her way to Paris. I know it!"

  "The airlines do not, what more can I say?"

  "Just what you said," said Jason, his lungs seemingly incapable of absorbing the air he needed, his eyelids heavy. "Keep trying."

  "What happened tonight? Tell me."

  "Tomorrow," replied David Webb, barely audible. "Tomorrow. ... I'm so tired and I have to be somebody else."

  "What are you talking about? You don't even sound like yourself."

  "Nothing. Tomorrow. I have to think. ... Or maybe I shouldn't think."

  Marie stood in Marseilles's immigration line, mercifully short because of the early hour, and assumed an air of boredom, the last thing she felt. It was her turn to go to the passport counter.

  "Américaine," said the half-awake official. "Are you beer on bizziness or playseeoor, madame?"

  "Je parle français, monsieur. Je suis canadienne d'origine-Québec. Séparatiste."

  "Ah, bien!" The sleepy clerk's eyes opened somewhat wider as he proceeded in French. "You are in business?"

  "No, I'm not. This is a journey of memories. My parents came from Marseilles and both died recently. I want to see where they came from, where they lived-perhaps what I missed."

  "How extraordinarily touching, lovely lady," said the immigration official, appraising the most appealing traveler. "Perhaps also you might need a guide? There is no part of this city that is not indelibly printed on my mind."

  "You're most kind. I'll be at the Sofitel Vieux Port. What's your name? You have mine."

  "Lafontaine, madame. At your service!"

  "Lafontaine? You don't say?"

  "I do indeed!"

  "How interesting."

  "I am very interesting," said the official, his eyelids half closed but not with sleepiness, as his rubber stamps flew recklessly down to process the tourist. "I am at your every service, madame!"

  It must run in that very peculiar clan, thought Marie as she headed for the luggage area. From there she would board a domestic flight to Paris under any name she chose.

  François Bernardine awoke with a start, shooting up on his elbows, frowning, disturbed. She's on her way to Paris, I know it! The words of the husband who knew her best. She's not listed on any flight from any other country coming into Paris. His own words. Paris: The operative word was Paris!

  But suppose it was not Paris?

  The Deuxième veteran crawled rapidly out of bed in the early morning light shining through the tall narrow windows of his flat. I
n fewer minutes than his face appreciated, he shaved, then completed his ablutions, dressed, and walked down into the street to his Peugeot, where there was the inevitable ticket on the windshield; alas, it was no longer officially dismissible with a quiet phone call. He sighed, picked it off the glass, and climbed in behind the wheel.

  Fifty-eight minutes later he swung the car into the parking lot of a small brick building in the huge cargo complex of Orly Airport. The building was nondescript; the work inside was not. It was a branch of the Department of Immigration, an all-important arm known simply as the Bureau of Air Entries, where sophisticated computers kept up-to-the-minute records of every traveler flying into France at all the international airports. It was vital to immigration but not often consulted by the Deuxième, for there were far too many other points of entry used by the people in which the Deuxième was interested. Nevertheless, over the years, Bernardine, operating on the theory of the obvious being unnoticed, had sought information from the Bureau of Air Entries. Every now and then he had been rewarded. He wondered if that would be the case this morning.

  Nineteen minutes later he had his answer. It was the case, but the reward was considerably diminished in value, for the information came too late. There was a pay phone in the bureau's lobby; Bernardine inserted a coin and dialed the Pont-Royal.

  "Yes?" coughed the voice of Jason Bourne.

  "I apologize for waking you."

  "François?"

  "Yes."

  "I was just getting up. There are two men down in the street far more tired than I am, unless they're replacements."

  "Relative to last night? All night?"

  "Yes. I'll tell you about it when I see you. Is that why you called?"

  "No. I'm out at Orly and I'm afraid I have bad news, information that proves me an idiot. I should have considered it. ... Your wife flew into Marseilles slightly over two hours ago. Not Paris. Marseilles."

  "Why is that bad news?" cried Jason. "We know where she is! We can– Oh, Christ, I see what you mean." Subdued, Bourne's words trailed off. "She can take a train, hire a car. ..."