'Because someone was killed,' answered Webb quietly. 'And someone else wants the account settled. '
That's what we've been working on,' agreed McAllister, nodding. 'We've made some progress. '
'Who was killed?' asked the former Jason Bourne.
'Before I answer, you should know that all we've got is what our people in Hong Kong could dig up by themselves. By and large it's speculation; there's no proof.'
'What do you mean "by themselves"? Where the hell were the British? You gave them the Treadstone file!'
'Because they gave us proof that a man has killed in the name of Treadstone's creation, our creation – you. They weren't about to identify MI6's sources any more than we would turn over our contacts to them. Our people have worked around the clock, probing every possibility, trying to find out who the dead Sixer's main sources were on the assumption that one of them was responsible for his death. They ran down a rumour in Macao, only it turned out to be more than a rumour. '
'I repeat,' said Webb . 'Who was killed?'
'A woman,' answered the man from State. The wife of a Hong Kong banker named Yao Ming, a taipan whose bank is only a fraction of his wealth. His holdings are so extensive he's been re-welcomed in Beijing as an investor and consultant. He's influential, powerful, beyond reach. '
'Circumstances?'
'Ugly but not unusual. His wife was a minor actress who appeared in a number of locally made films and quite a bit younger than her husband. She was also about as faithful as a mink in season, if you'll excuse-'
'Please,' said Marie, 'go on. '
'Nevertheless, he looked the other way; she was his young, beautiful trophy. She was also part of the colony's jet set, which has its share of unsavoury characters. One weekend it's gambling for extraordinary stakes in Macao, next the races in Singapore or flying over to the Pescadores for the pistol games in backwater opium houses, betting thousands on who will be killed as men face one another across tables, spinning chambers and aiming at each other. And, of course, there's a widespread use of drugs. Her last lover was a distributor. His suppliers were in Guangzhou – Canton – his routes up the Deep Bay waterways east of the Lok Ma Chau border. '
'According to reports, it's a wide avenue with lots of traffic,' interrupted Webb . 'Why did your people concentrate on him – on his operation?'
'Because his operation, as you so aptly term it, was rapidly becoming the only one in town, or on that avenue. He was systematically cutting out his competitors, bribing the Chinese marine patrols to sink their boats and dispose of the crews. Apparently they were effective; a great many bodies riddled with bullets ended up floating onto the mud flats and into the river banks. The factions were at war and the distributor – the young wife's lover – was marked for execution. '
'Under the circumstances, he had to have been aware of the possibility. He must have surrounded himself with a dozen bodyguards. '
'Right again. And that kind of security calls for the talents of a legend. His enemies hired that legend. '
'Bourne,' whispered David, shaking his head and closing his eyes.
'Yes,' concurred McAllister. Two weeks ago the drug dealer and Yao Ming's wife were shot in their bed at the Lisboa Hotel in Macao. It wasn't a pleasant kill; their bodies were barely recognizable. The weapon was an Uzi machine gun. The incident was covered up, the police and government officials bribed with a great deal of money – a taipan's money. '
'And let me guess,' said Webb in a monotone. 'The Uzi. It was the same weapon used in a previous killing credited to this Bourne. '
'That specific weapon was left outside a conference room in a cabaret in Kowloon's Tsim Sha Tsui. There were five corpses in that room, three of the victims among the colony's wealthier businessmen. The British won't elaborate; they merely showed us several very graphic photographs. '
'This taipan, Yao Ming,' said David, 'the actress's husband. He's the connection your people found, isn't he?'
'They learned that he was one of MI6's sources. His connections in Beijing made him an important contributor to intelligence. He was invaluable. '
'Then, of course, his wife was killed, his beloved young wife.'
'I'd say his beloved trophy,' interrupted McAllister. 'His trophy was taken. '
'All right,' said Webb . 'The trophy is far more important than the wife. '
'I've spent years in the Far East. There's a phrase for it – in Mandarin, I think, but I can't remember how it goes. '
'Ren you jiagian,' said David. The price of a man's image, as it were. '
'Yes, I guess that's it . '
'It'll do. So the man from MI6 is approached by his distraught contact, the taipan, and told to get the file on this Jason Bourne, the assassin who killed his wife – his trophy -or in short words, there might be no more information coming to British Intelligence from his sources in Beijing. '
'That's the way our people read it. And for his trouble the Sixer is killed because Yao Ming can't afford to have the slightest association with Bourne. The taipan has to remain unreachable, untouchable. He wants his revenge, but not with any possibility of exposure. '
'What do the British say? asked Marie.
'In no uncertain terms to stay away from the entire situation. London was blunt. We made a mess of Treadstone, and they don't want our ineptitude in Hong Kong during these sensitive times. '
'Have they confronted Yao mingy?' Webb watched the undersecretary closely.
'When I brought up the name, they said it was out of the question. In truth, they were startled, but that didn't change their stand. If anything, they were angrier. '
'Untouchable,' said David.
'They probably want to continue using him.'
'In spite of what he did?' Marie broke in. 'What he may have done, and what he might do to my husband?
'It's a different world,' said McAllister softly.
'You co-operated with them.'
'We had to,' interrupted the man from State.
'Then insist they co-operate with you. Demand it!'
'Then they could demand other things from us. We can't do that . '
'Liars!' Marie turned her head in disgust.
'I haven't lied to you, Mrs.. Webb.'
'Why don't I trust you, Mr. McAllister?' asked David.
'Probably because you can't trust your government, Mr. Webb, and you have very little reason to. I can only tell you that I'm a man of conscience. You can accept that or not accept me or not – but in the meantime I'll make sure you're safe.
'You look at me so strangely – why is that?
'I've never been in this position, that's why. '
The chimes of the doorbell rang, and Marie, shaking her head to their sound, rose and walked rapidly across the room and into the foyer. She opened the door. For a moment she stopped breathing and stared helplessly. Two men stood side by side, both holding up black plastic identification cases, each with a glistening silver badge attached to the top, each embossed eagle reflecting the light of the carriage lamps on the porch. Beyond, at the curb, was a second dark sedan; inside could be seen the silhouettes of other men, and the glow of a lighted cigarette – other men, other guards. She wanted to scream, but she did not.
Edward McAllister climbed into the passenger seat of his own State Department car and looked through the closed window at the figure of David Webb standing in the doorway. The former Jason Bourne stood motionless, his eyes fixed rigidly on his departing visitor.
'Let's get out of here,' said McAllister to the driver, a man about his own age and balding, with tortoiseshell glasses breaking the space between his nose and his high forehead.
The car started forward, the driver cautious on the strange, narrow, tree-lined street a block from the rocky beach in the small Maine town. For several minutes neither man spoke; finally the driver asked, 'How did everything go?'
'Go?' replied the man from State. 'As the ambassador might say, "all the pieces are in place". The foundation's there, t
he logic there; the missionary work is done. '
'I'm glad to hear it . '
'Are you? Then I'm glad too. ' McAllister raised his trembling right hand; his thin fingers massaging his right temple. 'No, I'm not? he said suddenly. 'I'm goddamned sick!'
'I'm sorry-'
'And speaking of missionary work, I am a Christian. 1 mean I believe – nothing so chic as being zealous, or born again, or teaching Sunday school, or prostrating myself in the aisle, but I do believe. My wife and I go to the Episcopal church at least twice a month, my two sons are acolytes. I'm generous because I want to be. Can you understand that?'
'Sure. I don't have quite those feelings, but I understand. '
'But I just walked out of that man's house?
'Hey, easy. What's the matter?"
McAllister stared straight ahead, the oncoming headlights creating shadows rushing across his face. 'May God have mercy on my soul,' he whispered.
4
Screams suddenly filled the darkness, an approaching, growing cacophony of roaring voices. Then surging bodies were all around them, racing ahead, shouting, faces contorted in frenzy. Webb fell to his knees, covering his face and neck with both hands as best he could, swinging his shoulders violently back and forth, creating a shifting target within the circle of attack. His dark clothes were a plus in the shadows but would be no help if an indiscriminate burst of gunfire erupted, taking at least one of the guards with him. Yet bullets were not always a killer's choice. There were darts – lethal missiles of poison delivered by air-compressed weapons, puncturing exposed flesh, bringing death in a matter of minutes. Or seconds.
A hand gripped his shoulder! He spun around, arcing his arm up, dislodging the hand as he side stepped to his left, crouching like an animal.
'You okay, Professor?' asked the guard on his right, grinning in the wash of his flashlight.
'What? What happened?
'Isn't it great!' cried the guard on his left, approaching, as David got to his feet.
'What?'
'Kids with that kind of spirit. It really makes you feel good to see it!'
It was over. The campus quad was silent again, and in the distance between the stone buildings that fronted the playing fields and the college stadium, the pulsing flames of a bonfire could be seen through the empty bleachers. A football rally was reaching its climax, and his guards were laughing.
'How about you, Professor?' continued the man on his left . 'Do you feel better about things now, what with us here and all?'
It was over. The self-inflicted madness was over. Or was it? Why was his chest pounding so? Why was he so bewildered, so frightened? Something was wrong.
'Why does this whole parade bother me?' said David over morning coffee in the breakfast alcove of their old rented Victorian house.
'You miss your walks on the beach,' said Marie, ladling her husband's single poached egg over the single slice of toast . 'Eat that before you have a cigarette. '
'No, really. It bothers me. For the past week I've been a duck in a superficially protected gallery. It occurred to me yesterday afternoon. '
'What do you mean?' Marie poured out the water and placed the pan in the kitchen sink, her eyes on Webb . 'Six men are around you, four on your "flanks", as you said, and two peering into everything in front and behind you. '
'A parade. '
'Why do you call it that?1
'I don't know. Everyone in his place, marching to a drumbeat. I don't know. '
'But you feel something?'
'I guess so. '
'Tell me. Those feelings of yours once saved my life on the Guisan Quai in Zurich. I'd like to hear it – well, maybe I wouldn't, but I damn well better. '
Webb broke the yolk of his egg on the toast . 'Do you know how easy it would be for someone – someone who looked young enough to be a student – to walk by me on a path and shoot an air dart into me? He could cover the sound with a cough, or a laugh, and I'd have a hundred cc's of strychnine in my blood. '
'You know far more about that sort of thing than I do. '
'Of course. Because that's the way I'd do it . '
'No. That's the way Jason Bourne might do it. Not you. '
'All right, I'm projecting. It doesn't invalidate the thought . '
'What happened yesterday afternoon?'
Webb toyed with the egg and toast on his plate. 'The seminar ran late as usual. It was getting dark, and my guards fell in and we walked across the quad towards the parking lot. There was a football rally – our insignificant team against another insignificant team – but very large for us. The crowd passed the four of us, kids racing to a bonfire behind the bleachers, screaming and shouting and singing fight songs, working themselves up. And I thought to myself, this is it. This is when it's going to happen if it is going to happen. Believe me, for those few moments I was Bourne. I crouched and side-stepped and watched everyone I could see – I was close to panic . '
'And?' said Marie, disturbed by her husband's abrupt silence.
'My so-called guards were looking around and laughing, the two in front having a ball, enjoying the whole thing. '
'That disturbed you?'
'Instinctively. I was a vulnerable target in the centre of an excited crowd. My nerves told me that; my mind didn't have to. '
'Who's talking now?'
'I'm not sure. I just know that during those few moments nothing made sense to me. Then, only seconds later, as if to pinpoint the feelings I hadn't verbalized, the man behind me on my left came up and said something like, "Isn't it great – or terrific – to see kids with that kind of spirit? Makes you feel good, doesn't it?" I mumbled something inane, and then he said – and these are his exact words – "How about you, professor? Do you feel better about things now, what with us here and all?" David looked up at his wife. 'Did 7 feel better... HOW? Me. '
'He knew what their job was,' interrupted Marie. 'To protect you. I'm sure he meant did you feel safer. '
'Did he? Do they? That crowd of screaming kids, the dim light, the shadowy bodies, obscure faces... and he's joining in and laughing – they're all laughing. Are they really here to protect me?'
'What else?'
'I don't know. Maybe I've simply been where they haven't. Maybe I'm just thinking too much, thinking about McAllister and those eyes of his. Except for the blinking they belonged to a dead fish. You could read into them anything you wanted to – depending upon how you felt . '
'What he told you was a shock,' said Marie, leaning against the sink, her arms folded across her breasts, watching her husband closely. 'It had to have had a terrible effect on you. It certainly did on me. '
'That's probably it,' agreed Webb, nodding. 'It's ironic, but as much as there are so many things I want to remember, there's an awful lot I'd like to forget . '
'Why don't you call McAllister and tell him what you feel, what you think? You've got a direct line to him, both at his office and his home. Mo Panov would tell you to do that . '
'Yes, Mo would. ' David ate his egg half-heartedly. '"If there's a way to get rid of a specific anxiety, do it as fast as you can, " that's what he'd say. '
"Then do it . '
Webb smiled, about as enthusiastically as he ate his egg. 'Maybe I will, maybe I won't. I'd rather not announce a latent, or passive, or recurrent paranoia, or whatever the hell they call it. Mo would fly up here and beat my brains out . '
'If he doesn't, I might . '
'Ni shi nuhaizi,' said David, using the paper napkin, as he got out of his chair and went to her.
'And what does that mean, my inscrutable husband and number eighty-seven lover?'
'Bitch goddess. It means, freely translated, that you are a little girl – and not so little – and I can still take you three out of five on the bed where there are other things to do with you instead of beating you up.'
'All that in such a short phrase?'
'We don't waste words, we paint pictures... I've got to leave. The class this morn
ing deals with Siam's Rama the Second, and his claims on the Malay states in the early nineteenth century. It's a pain in the ass but important. What's worse is there's an exchange student from Moulmein in Burma, who I think knows more than I do.'
'Siam?' asked Marie, holding him. That's Thailand.'
'Yes. It's Thailand now.'
'Your wife, your children? Does it hurt, David?'
He looked at her, loving her so.' I can't be that hurt where I can't see that clearly. Sometimes I hope I never do.'
'I don't think that way at all. I want you to see them and hear them and feel them. And to know that I love them, too.'
'Oh, Christ!' He held her, their bodies together in a warmth that was theirs alone.
The line was busy for the second time so Webb replaced the phone and returned to W. F. Vella's Siam under Rama III to see if the Burmese exchange student had been right about Rama IPs conflict with the sultan of Kedah over the disposition of the island of Penang. It was confrontation time in the rarefied groves of academe; the Moulmein pagodas of Kipling's poetry had been replaced by a smart-ass postgraduate student who had no respect for his betters – Kipling would understand that, and torpedo it.
There was a brief, rapid knock on his office door, which opened before David could ask the caller in. It was one of his guards, the man who had spoken to him yesterday afternoon during the pre-game rally – among the crowds, amid the noise, in the middle of his fears.
'Hello there, Professor?'
'Hello. It's Jim, isn't it?'
'No, Johnny. It doesn't matter; you're not expected to get our names straight.'
'Is anything the matter?'
'Just the opposite, sir. I dropped in to say good-bye – for all of us, the whole contingent. Everything's clean and you're back to normal. We've been ordered to report to B-One-L.'
'To what?'
'Sounds kind of silly, doesn't it? Instead of saying "Come on back to headquarters" they call it B-One-L, as if anyone couldn't figure it out.'
'I can't figure it out.'
'Base-One-Langley. We're CIA, all six of us, but I guess you know that.'
'You're leaving? All of you?'
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