The Bourne Supremacy jb-2

by Robert Ludlum

  'Oh? The grey-haired ambassador arched his dark eyebrows, and dismissed the rebuke. 'And what did your reading tell you? What did you learn about him?

  'He was considered very bright, very ambitious – but then his rise in Peking's hierarchy tells us that. He was spotted by scouts sent out from the Central Committee some years ago at the Fudan University in Shanghai. Initially because he took to the English language so fluently and had a firm, even sophisticated, grasp of Western economics. '

  'What else?

  'He was considered promising material, and after in-depth indoctrination was sent to the London School of Economics for graduate study. It took. '

  'How do you mean?

  'Sheng's an avowed Marxist where the centralized state is concerned, but he has a healthy respect for capitalistic profits. '

  'I see,' said Havilland. Then he accepts the failure of the Soviet system?

  'He's ascribed that failure to the Russian penchant for corruption and mindless conformity in the higher ranks, and alcohol in the lower ones. To his credit he's stamped out a fair share of those abuses in the industrial centres. '

  'Sounds like he was trained at IBM. '

  'He's been responsible for many of the PRC's new trade policies. He's made China a lot of money. ' Again the undersecretary leaned forward in his chair, his eyes intense, his expression bewildered – stunned was perhaps more accurate. 'My God, why would anyone in the West want Sheng dead? It's absurd! He's our economic ally, a politically stabilizing factor in the largest nation on earth that's ideologically opposed to us! Through him and men like him we've reached accommodations. Without him, whatever the course, there's the risk of disaster. I'm a professional China analyst, Mr. Ambassador, and, I repeat, what you suggest is absurd. A man of your accomplishments should recognize that before any of us. '

  The ageing diplomat looked hard at his accuser, and when he spoke he did so slowly, choosing his words carefully. 'A few moments ago we were at ground zero. A former foreign service officer named David Webb became Jason Bourne for a purpose. Conversely, Sheng Chou Yang is not the man you know, not the man you studied as your counterpart. He became that man for a purpose. '

  'What are you talking about? shot back McAllister defensively. 'Everything I've said about him is on record -records, official – most top secret and eyes-only. '

  'Eves-only? the former ambassador asked wearily. 'Ears-only, tongues only – wagging as busily as tails wag tigers. Because an official stamp is placed on recorded observations and observed by men who have no idea where those records came from – they are there, and that's enough. No, Mr. Undersecretary, it's not enough, it never is. '

  'You obviously have information I don't have,' said the State Department man coldly. 'If it is information and not disinformation. The man I described – the man I knew – is Sheng Chou Yang. '

  'Just as the David Webb we described to you was Jason Bourne?... No, please, don't be angry, I'm not playing games. It's important that you understand. Sheng is not the man you knew. He never was. '

  'Then whom did I know? Who was the man at those conferences?5

  'He's a traitor, Mr. Undersecretary. Sheng Chou Yang is a traitor to his country, and when his treachery is exposed – as it surely will be – Peking will hold the Free World responsible. The consequences of that inevitable error are unthinkable. However, there's no doubt as to his purpose. '

  ''Sheng... a traitor1! I don't believe you! He's worshipped in Peking! One day he'll be chairman!'

  Then China will be ruled by a Nationalist zealot whose ideological roots are in Taiwan. '

  'You're crazy – you're absolutely crazy! Wait a minute, you said he had a purpose – "no doubt as to his purpose", you said. '

  'He and his people intend to take over Hong Kong. He's mounting a hidden economic blitzkrieg, putting all trade, all of the territory's financial institutions under the control of a "neutral" commission, a clearing house approved by Peking which means approved by him. The instrument of record will be the British treaty that expires in 1997, his commission a supposedly reasonable prelude to annexation and control. It will happen when the road is clear for Sheng, when there are no more obstacles in his path. When his word is the only word that counts in economic matters. It could be in a month, or two months. Or next week. '

  'You think Peking has agreed to this?' protested McAllister. 'You're wrong! It's – it's just crazy! The People's Republic will never substantively touch Hong Kong! It brokers sixty percent of its entire economy through the territory. The China Accords guarantee fifty years of a Free Economic Zone status and Sheng is a signator, the most vital one!'

  'But Sheng is not Sheng – not as you know him. '

  Then who the hell is he?

  'Prepare yourself, Mr. Undersecretary. Sheng Chou Yang is the first son of a Shanghai industrialist who made his fortune in the corrupt world of the old China, Chiang Kai-shek's Kuomintang. When it was obvious that Mao's revolution would succeed, the family fled, as so many of the landlords and warlords did, with whatever they could transfer. The old man is now one of the most powerful taipans in Hong Kong – but which one, we don't know. The colony will become his and the family's mandate, courtesy of a minister in Peking, his most treasured son. It's the ultimate irony, the patriarch's final vengeance – Hong Kong will be controlled by the very men who corrupted Nationalist China. For years they bled their country without conscience, profiting from the labours of a starving, disenfranchized people, paving the way for Mao's revolution. And if that sounds like Communist bilge, I'm afraid for the most part it's embarrassingly accurate. Now a handful of zealots, boardroom thugs led by a maniac, want back what no international court in history would ever grant them. ' Havilland paused, then spat out the single word, 'Maniacs!'

  'But if you don't know who this taipan is, how do you know it's true, any of it?'

  The sources are maximum-classified,' interrupted Reilly, 'but they've been confirmed. The story was first picked up in Taiwan. Our original informer was a member of the Nationalist cabinet who thought it a disastrous course that could only lead to a bloodbath for the entire Far East. He pleaded with us to stop it. He was found dead the next morning, three bullets in his head and his throat cut – in Chinese that means a traitor. Since then five other people have been murdered, their bodies similarly mutilated. It's true. The conspiracy is alive and well and coming from Hong Kong. '

  'It's insane!'

  'More to the point,' said Havilland, 'it will never work. If it had a prayer we might look the other way and even say Godspeed, but it can't. It'll blow apart, as Lin Biao's conspiracy against Mao Zedong blew apart in seventy-two; and when it does, Peking will blame American and Taiwanese money in complicity with the British – as well as the silent acquiescence of the world's leading financial institutions. Eight years of economic progress will be shot to hell because a group of fanatics want vengeance. In your words, Mr. Undersecretary, the People's Republic is a suspicious turbulent nation – and if I may add a few of my own from those accomplishments you ascribe to me – a government quick to become paranoid, obsessed with betrayal both from within and without. China will believe that the world is out to isolate her economically, choke her off from world markets and bring her to her knees while the Russians grin across the northern borders. She will strike fast and furiously, impound everything, absorb everything. Her troops will occupy Kowloon, the island and all of the burgeoning New Territories. Investments in the trillions will be lost. Without the colony's expertise trade will be stymied, a labour force of millions will be in chaos – hunger and disease will be rampant. The Far East will be in flames, and the result could touch off a war none of us wants to think about . '

  'Jesus Christ. 1 McAllister whispered. 'It can't happen. '

  'No, it can't,' agreed the diplomat.

  'But why Webb?

  'Not Webb,' corrected Havilland. 'Jason Bourne. '

  'All right! Why Bourne?

  'Because word out of Kowloon is tha
t he's already there. '

  'What?'

  'And we know he's not . '

  'What did you say?

  'He's struck. He's killed. He's back in Asia . '

  "Webb?'

  'No, Bourne. The myth. '

  'You're not making one goddamned bit of sense!'

  'I can assure you Sheng Chou Yang is making a lot of sense. '

  'How?'

  'He's brought him back. Jason Bourne's skills are once more for hire, and, as always, his client is beyond unearthing – in the present case the most unlikely client imaginable: a leading spokesman for the People's Republic who must eliminate his opposition both in Hong Kong and in Peking. During the past six months a number of powerful voices in Peking's Central Committee have been strangely silent. According to official government announcements, several died, and considering their ages it's understandable. Two others were supposedly killed in accidents – one in a plane crash, one by, of all things, a cerebral hemorrhage while hiking in the Shaoguan mountains – if it's not true, at least it's imaginative. Then another was "removed" – a euphemism for disgrace. Lastly, and most extraordinary, the PRC's Vice-Premier was murdered in Kowloon when no one in Peking knew he was there. It was a gruesome episode, five men massacred in the Tsim Sha Tsui with the killer leaving his calling card. The name "Jason Bourne" was etched in blood on the floor. An impostor's ego demanded that he be given credit for his kills. '

  McAllister blinked repeatedly, his eyes darting aimlessly. This is all so far beyond me,' he said helplessly. Then, becoming the professional once again, he looked steadily at Havilland. 'Is there linkage?' he asked.

  The diplomat nodded. 'Our intelligence reports are specific. All of these men opposed Sheng's policies – some openly, some guardedly. The Vice-Premier, an old revolutionary and veteran of Mao's Long March, was especially vocal. He couldn't stand the upstart Sheng. Yet what was he doing secretly in Kowloon in the company of bankers? Peking can't answer so "face" mercifully required that the killing never happened. With his cremation he became a nonperson. '

  'And with the killer's "calling card" – the name written in blood – the second linkage is to Sheng,' said the undersecretary of state, his voice close to trembling as he nervously massaged his forehead. 'Why would he do it? Leave his name, I mean!'

  'He's in business and it was a spectacular kill. Now do you begin to understand?'

  'I'm not sure what you mean. '

  'For us this new Bourne is our direct route to Sheng Chou Yang. He's our trap. An impostor is posing as the myth, but if the original myth tracks down and takes out the impostor, he's in the position to reach Sheng. It's really very simple. The Jason Bourne we created will replace this new killer using his name. Once in place, our Jason Bourne sends out an urgent alarm – something drastic has happened that threatens Sheng's entire strategy – and Sheng has to respond. He can't afford not to for his security must be absolute, his hands clean. He'll be forced to show himself, if only to kill his hired gun, to remove any association. When he does, this time we won't fail. '

  'It's a circle,' said McAllister, his words barely above a whisper as he stared at the diplomat . 'And from everything you've told me, Webb won't walk near it, much less into it . '

  'Then we must provide him with an overpowering reason to do so,' said Havilland softly. 'In my profession – frankly it was always my profession – we look for patterns – patterns that will trigger a man. ' Frowning, his eyes hollow and empty, the ageing ambassador leaned back in his chair; certainly he was not at peace with himself. 'Sometimes they are ugly realizations, repugnant actually, but one must weigh the greater good, the greater benefits. For everyone. '

  'That doesn't tell me anything. '

  'David Webb became Jason Bourne for essentially one reason – the same reason that propelled him into the Medusa. A wife was taken from him; his children and the mother of his children were killed. '

  'Oh, my God..:

  This is where I leave,' said Reilly, getting out of his chair.

  3

  Marie! Oh, Christ, Marie, it happened again! A floodgate opened and I couldn't handle it. I tried to, my darling, I tried so hard but I got totalled – I got washed away and I was drowning! I know what you'll say if I tell you, which is why I won't tell you even though I know you'll see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice – somehow, as only you know how. You'll say I should have come home to you, should talk to you, be with you, and we could work it out together. Together! My God! How much can you take? How unfair can I be, how long can it, go on this way? I love you so much, in so many ways, that there are times I have to do it myself. If only to let you off the goddamned hook for a while, to let you breathe for a while without your nerves scraped to their roots while you take care of me. But, you see, my love, I can do it! I did it tonight and I'm all right. I've calmed down now, I'm all right now. And now I'll come home to you better than I was. I have to, because without you there isn't anything left.

  His face drenched with sweat, his tracksuit clinging to his body, David Webb ran breathlessly across the cold grass of the dark field, past the bleachers, and up the cement path towards the university gym. The autumn sun had disappeared behind the stone buildings of the campus, its glow firing the early evening sky as it hovered over the distant Maine woods. The autumn chill was penetrating; he shivered.

  It was not what his doctors had had in mind.

  Regardless, he had followed medical advice; it had been one of those days. The government doctors had told him that if there were times – and there would be times – when sudden, disturbing images or fragments of memory broke into his mind, the best way to handle them was with strenuous exercise. His ECG charts indicated a healthy heart, his lungs were decent, though he was foolish enough to smoke, and since his body could take the punishment, it was the best way to relieve his mind. What he needed during such times was equanimity.

  'What's wrong with a few drinks and cigarettes?' he had said to the doctors, stating his genuine preference. 'The heart beats faster, the body doesn't suffer, and the mind is certainly far more relieved. '

  'They're depressants,' had been the reply from the only man he listened to. 'Artificial stimulants that lead only to further depression and increased anxiety. Run, or swim, or make love to your wife – or anybody else, for that matter. Don't be a goddamned fool and come back here a basket case... Forget about you, think of me. I worked too hard on you, you ingrate. Get out of here, Webb. Take up your life -what you can remember of it – and enjoy. You've got it better than most people, and don't you forget that, or I'll cancel our controlled monthly blowouts at the saloons of our choosing and you can go to hell. And hell for you notwithstanding, I'd miss them... Go, David. It's time for you to go. '

  Morris Panov was the only person besides Marie who could reach him. It was ironic, in a way, for initially Mo had not been one of the government doctors; the psychiatrist had neither sought nor been offered security clearance to hear the classified details of David Webb's background where the lie of Jason Bourne was buried. Nevertheless, Panov had forcefully inserted himself, threatening all manner of embarrassing disclosures if he was not given clearance and a voice in the subsequent therapy. His reasoning was simple, for when David had come within moments of being blown off the face of the earth by misinformed men who were convinced he had to die, that misinformation had been unwittingly furnished by Panov and the way it had happened infuriated him. He had been approached in panic by someone not given to panic, and asked 'hypothetical' questions pertaining to a possibly deranged deep-cover agent in a potentially explosive situation. His answers were restrained and equivocal; he could not and would not give a diagnosis on a patient he had never seen – but yes, this was possible and that not unheard of, but of course, nothing could be considered remotely material without physical and psychiatric examination. The key word was nothing; he should have said nothing! he later claimed. For his words in the ears of amateurs had sealed the order for Webb's execution –
'Jason Bourne's' death sentence – an act that was aborted only at the last instant through David's own doing, while the squad of executioners were still in their unseen positions.

  Not only had Morris Panov come on board at the Walter Reed Hospital and later at the Virginia medical complex, but he literally ran the show – Webb's show. The son of a bitch has amnesia, you goddamned fools! He's been trying to tell you that for weeks in perfectly lucid English – I suspect too lucid for your convoluted mentality.

  They had worked together for months, as patient and doctor – and finally as friends. It helped that Marie adored Mo – good Lord, she needed an ally! The burden David had been to his wife was beyond telling, from those first days in Switzerland when she began to understand the pain within the man who had taken her captive to the moment when she made the commitment – violently against his wishes – to help him, never believing what he himself believed, telling him over and over again that he was not the killer he thought he was, not the assassin others called him. Her belief became an anchor in his own crashing seas, her love the core of his emerging sanity. Without Marie he was a loveless, discarded dead man, and without Mo Panov he was little more than a functioning vegetable. But with both of them behind him, he was brushing away the swirling clouds and finding the sun again.

  Which was why he had opted for an hour of running around the deserted, cold track, rather than heading home after his late afternoon seminar. His weekly seminars often continued far beyond the hour when they were scheduled to end, so Marie never planned dinner, knowing they would go out to eat, their two unobtrusive guards somewhere in the darkness behind them – as one was walking across the barely-visible field behind him now, the other no doubt inside the gym. Insanity! Or was it?

  He had been driven to Panov's 'strenuous exercise' by an image that had suddenly appeared in his mind while grading papers in his office. It was a face – a face he knew and remembered, and loved very much. A boy's face that aged in front of his inner screen, coming to full portrait in uniform, blurred, imperfect, but a part of him. As silent tears rolled down his cheeks, he knew it was the dead brother they had told him about, the prisoner of war he had rescued in the jungles of Tarn Quan years ago amid shattering explosions and a traitor he had executed by the name of Jason Bourne. He could not handle the violent, fragmented pictures; he had barely got through the shortened seminar, pleading a severe headache. He had to relieve the pressures, accept or reject the peeling layers of memory with the help of reason, which told him to go to the gym and run against the wind, any strong wind. He could not burden Marie every time a floodgate burst; he loved her too much for that. When he could handle it himself, he had to. It was his contract with himself.