The Bourne Supremacy jb-2

by Robert Ludlum

  He had not wanted to go to Boston. That symposium was light years away from his lectures, but he had been officially asked to attend. The request came from Washington, from the Cultural Exchange Program and filtered through the university's Department of Oriental Studies. Christ! Every pawn was in place! 'Excuse for what?'

  'For being where he was not. Large crowds mingling among the exhibits, certain people paid to swear you were there. '

  That's ridiculous, not to say patently amateurish. I don't pay. '

  ' You were paid. '

  'I was? How?

  Through the same bank you used before. In Zurich. The Gemeinschaft in Zurich – on the Bahnhofstrasse, of course. '

  'Odd I haven't received a statement,' said David, listening carefully.

  'When you were Jason Bourne in Europe, you never needed one, for yours was a three-zero account – the most secret, which is very secret indeed in Switzerland. However, we found a draft-transfer made out to the Gemeinschaft among the papers of a man – a dead man, of course. '

  'Of course. But not the man I supposedly killed. '

  'Certainly not. But one who ordered that man killed, along with a treasured prize of my employer. '

  'A prize is a trophy, isn't it?'

  'Both are won, Mr. Bourne. Enough. You are you. Get to the Regent Hotel in Kowloon. Register under any name you wish but ask for Suite Six-nine-zero – say you believe arrangements were made to reserve it . '

  'How convenient. My own rooms. '

  'It will save time. '

  'It'll also take me time to make arrangements here. '

  'We are certain you will not raise alarms and will move as rapidly as you can. Be there by the end of the week. '

  'Count on both. Put my wife back on the line. '

  'I regret I cannot do that.'

  'For Christ's sake, you can hear everything we say!'

  'You will speak with her in Kowloon. '

  There was an echoing click and he could hear nothing on the line but static. He replaced the phone, his grip so intense a cramp had formed between his thumb and forefinger. He removed his hand and shook it violently, his grip still intact. He was grateful that the pain allowed him to re-enter reality more gradually. He grabbed his right hand with his left, held it steady and pressed his left thumb into the cramp... and as he watched his fingers spread free, he knew what he had to do without wasting an hour on the all-important unimportant trivia. He had to reach Conklin in Washington, the gutter rat who had tried to kill him in broad daylight on New York's 71st Street. Alex, drunk or sober, made no distinction between the hours of day and night, nor did the operations he knew so well, for there was no night and day where his work was concerned. There was only the flat light of fluorescent tubes in offices that never closed. If he had to, he would press Alexander Conklin until the blood rolled out of the gutter rat's eyes; he would learn what he had to know, knowing that Conklin could get the information.

  Webb rose unsteadily from the chair, walked out of his study and into the kitchen, where he poured himself a drink, grateful again that although his hand still trembled, it did so less than before.

  He could delegate certain things. Jason Bourne never delegated anything, but he was still David Webb and there were several people on campus he could trust – certainly not with the truth but with a useful lie. By the time he returned to his study and the telephone he had chosen his conduit. Conduit, for God's sake! A word from the past he thought he had been free to forget. But the young man would do what he asked; the graduate student's master's thesis would ultimately be graded by his adviser, one David Webb. Use the advantage, whether it's total darkness or blinding sunlight, but use it to frighten or use it with compassion, whatever worked.

  'Hello, James? It's David Webb . '

  'Hi, Mr. Webb. Where'd I screw up?'

  'You haven't, Jim. Things have screwed up for me and I could use a little extra-curricular help. Would you be interested? It'll take a little time. '

  This weekend? The game?

  'No, just tomorrow morning. Maybe an hour or so, if that. Then a little bonus in terms of your curriculum vitae, if that doesn't sound too horseshit . '

  'Name it . '

  'Well, confidentially – and I'd appreciate the confidentiality – I have to be away for a week, perhaps two, and I'm about to call the powers that be and suggest that you sit in for me. It's no problem for you; it's the Manchu overthrow and the Sino-Russian agreements that sound very familiar today. '

  'Nineteen-hundred to around nineteen-o-six,' said the master's candidate with confidence.

  'You can refine it, and don't overlook the Japanese and Port Arthur and old Teddy Roosevelt. Line it up and draw parallel::; that's what I've been doing. '

  'Can do. Will do. I'll hit the sources. What about tomorrow?

  'I have to leave tonight, Jim; my wife's already on her way. Have you got a pencil?'

  'Yes, sir. '

  'You know what they say about piling up newspapers and the mail, so I want you to call the newspaper delivery and go down to the Post Office and tell them both to hold everything sign whatever you have to sign. Then call the Scully Agency here in town and speak to Jack or Adele and tell them to.. . '

  The master's candidate was recruited. The next call was far easier than David expected, as the president of the university was at a dinner party in his honour at the President's Residence and was far more interested in his forthcoming speech than in an obscure – if unusual – associate professor's leave of absence. 'Please reach the dean of studies, Mr... Wedd. I'm raising money, damn it . '

  The dean of studies was not so easily handled. 'David, has this anything to do with those people who were walking around with you last week? I mean, after all, old boy, I'm one of the few people here who know that you were involved with some very hush-hush things in Washington. '

  'Nothing whatsoever, Doug. That was nonsense from the beginning; this isn't. My brother was seriously injured, his car completely written off. I've got to get over to Paris for a few days, maybe a week, that's all. '

  'I was in Paris two years ago. The drivers are absolute maniacs. '

  'No worse than Boston, Doug, and a hell of a lot better than Cairo. '

  'Well, I suppose I can make arrangements. A week isn't that long, and Johnson was out for nearly a month with pneumonia-'

  'I've already made arrangements with your approval, of course. Jim Crowther, a master's candidate, will fill in for me. It's material he knows and he'll do a good job . '

  'Oh, yes, Crowther, a bright young man, in spite of his beard. Never did trust beards, but then I was here in the sixties. '

  'Try growing one. It may set you free. '

  Tit let that go by. Are you sure this hasn't anything to do with those people from the State Department? I really must have the facts, David. What's your brother's name? What Paris hospital is he in?'

  'I don't know the hospital, but Marie probably does; she left this morning. Good-bye, Doug. I'll call you tomorrow or the next day. I have to get down to Logan Airport in Boston. '

  'David?'

  'Yes?'

  'Why do I feel you're not being entirely truthful with me?'

  Webb remembered. 'Because I've never been in this position before,' he said. 'Asking a favour from a friend because of someone I'd rather hot think about . '

  David hung up the phone.

  The flight from Boston to Washington was maddening because of a fossilized professor of pedantry – David never did get the course – who had the seat next to his. The man's voice droned on throughout the flight. It was only when they landed at National Airport that the pedant admitted the truth.

  'I've been a bore, but do forgive me. I'm terrified of flying so I just keep chattering. Silly, isn't it?'

  'Not at all, but why didn't you say so? It's hardly a crime. '

  'Fear of peer pressure, or scoffing condemnation, I imagine. '

  'I'll remember that the next time I'm sitting next to so
meone like you. ' Webb smiled briefly. 'Maybe I could help. '

  That's kind of you. And very honest. Thank you. Thank you so much. '

  'You're welcome. '

  David retrieved his suitcase from the luggage belt and went outside for a taxi, annoyed that the cabs were not taking single fares but insisting on two or more passengers going in the same direction. His backseat companion was a woman, an attractive woman who used body language in concert with imploring eyes. It made no sense to him, so he made no sense of her, thanking her for dropping him off first.

  He registered at the Jefferson Hotel on 16th Street, under a false name invented at the moment. The hotel, however, was not an impulse; it was a block and a half from Conklin's apartment, the same apartment the CIA officer had lived in for nearly twenty years when he was not in the field. It was an address David made sure to get before he left Virginia, again instinct – visceral distrust. He had a telephone number as well, but knew it was useless; he could not phone Conklin. The one-time deep cover strategist would mount defences, more mental than physical, and Webb wanted to confront an unprepared man. There would be no warning, only a presence demanding a debt that was owed and must now be paid.

  David glanced at his watch; it was ten minutes to midnight, as good a time as any and better than most. He washed, changed his shirt and finally dug out one of the two dismantled guns from his suitcase, removing it from the thick, foil-lined bag. He snapped the parts in place, tested the firing mechanism and shoved the clip into the receiving chamber. He held the weapon out and studied his hand, satisfied that there was no tremor. It felt clean and unremarkable. Eight hours ago he would not have believed he could hold a gun in his hand for fear he might fire it. That was eight hours ago, not now. Now it was comfortable, a part of him, an extension of Jason Bourne.

  He left the Jefferson and walked down 16th Street, turning right at the corner and noting the descending numbers of the old apartments – very old apartments, reminding him of the brownstones on the Upper East Side of New York. There was a curious logic in the observation, considering Conklin's role in the Treadstone project, he thought. Treadstone 71's sterile house in Manhattan had been a brownstone, an odd, bulging structure with upper windows of tinted blue glass. He could see it so clearly, hear the voices so clearly, without really understanding – the incubating factory for Jason Bourne.

  Do it again!

  Who is the face?

  What's his background? His method of kill?

  Wrong! You're wrong! Do it again!

  Who's this? What's the connection to Carlos?

  Damn it, think! There can be no mistakes!

  A brownstone. Where his other self was created, the man he needed so much now.

  There it was, Conklin's apartment. He was on the first floor, facing front. The lights were on; Alex was home and awake. Webb crossed the street, aware that a misty drizzle had suddenly filled the air, diffusing the glare of the streetlamps, halos beneath the orbs of rippled glass. He walked up the steps and opened the door to the short foyer; he stepped inside and studied the names under the mailboxes of the six flats. Each had a webbed circle under the name into which a caller announced himself.

  There was no time for complicated invention. If Panov's verdict was accurate, his voice would be sufficient. He pressed Conklin's button and waited for a response; it came after the better part of a minute.

  'Yes? Who's there?'

  'Harry Babcock heah,' said David, the accent exaggerated. 'I've got to see you, Alex. '

  'Harry? What the hell...? Sure, sure, come on up!' The buzzer droned, broken off once – a finger momentarily displaced.

  David went inside and ran up the narrow staircase to the first floor, hoping to be outside Conklin's door when he opened it. He arrived less than a second before Alex, who, with his eyes only partially focused, pulled back the door and began to scream. Webb lunged, clamping his hand across Conklin's face, twisting the CIA man around in a hammerlock and kicking the door shut.

  He had not physically attacked a person for as long as he could remember with any accuracy. It should have been strange, even awkward, but it was neither. It was perfectly natural. Oh, Christ!

  'I'm going to take my hand away, Alex, but if you raise your voice it goes back. And you won't survive if it does, is that clear? David removed his hand, yanking Conklin's head back as he did so.

  'You're one hell of a surprise,' said the CIA man, coughing, and lurching into a limp as he was released. 'You also call for a drink.'

  'I gather it's a pretty steady diet.'

  'We are what we are,' answered Conklin, awkwardly reaching down for an empty glass on the coffee table in front of a large, well-worn couch. He carried it over to a copper-plated dry bar against the wall where identical bottles of bourbon stood in a single row. There were no mixers, no water, just an ice bucket; it was not a bar for guests. It was for the host in residence, its gleaming metal proclaiming it to be an extravagance the resident permitted himself. The rest of the living room was not in its class. Somehow that copper bar was a statement.

  'To what,' continued Conklin, pouring himself a drink, 'do I owe this dubious pleasure? You refused to see me in Virginia – said you'd kill me, and that's a fact. That's what you said. You'd kill me if I walked through the door, you said that . '

  'You're drunk. '

  'Probably. But then I usually am around this time. Do you want to start out with a lecture? It won't do a hell of a lot of good, but give it the old college try if you want to. '

  'You're sick. '

  'No, I'm drunk, that's what you said. Am I repeating myself?

  'Ad nauseam. '

  'Sorry about that. ' Conklin replaced the bottle, took several swallows from his glass and looked at Webb . 'I didn't walk through your door, you came through mine, but I suppose that's immaterial. Did you come here to finally carry out your threat, to fulfil the prophecy, to put past wrongs to rights or whatever you call it? That rather obvious flat bulge under your jacket I doubt is a pint of whisky. '

  'I no longer have an overriding urge to see you dead, but yes, I may kill you. You could provoke that urge very easily. '

  'Fascinating. How could I do that?'

  'By not providing me with what I need – and you can provide it . '

  'You must know something I don't . '

  'I know you've got twenty years in grey to black operations and that you wrote the book on most of them. '

  'History,' muttered the CIA man, drinking.

  'It's revivable. Unlike mine your memory's intact. Mine's limited, but not yours. I need information, I need answers. '

  To what? For what?

  'They took my wife away,' said David simply, ice in that simplicity. 'They took Marie away from me. '

  Conklin's eyes blinked through his fixed stare. 'Say that again. I don't think I heard you right . '

  'You heard! And you bastards are somewhere deep down in the rotten scenario!'

  'Not me! I wouldn't – I couldn't!. What the hell are you saying? Marie's gone?'

  'She's in a plane over the Pacific. I'm to follow. I'm to fly to Kowloon. '

  'You're crazy! You're out of your mind!'

  'You listen to me, Alex. You listen carefully to everything I tell you... ' Again the words poured forth, but now with a control he had not been able to summon with Morris Panov. Conklin drunk had sharper perceptions than most sober men in the intelligence community, and he had to understand. Webb could not allow any lapses in the narrative; it had to be clear from the beginning – from that moment when he spoke to Marie over the gymnasium phone and heard her say. 'David, come home. There's someone here you must see. Quickly, darling. '

  As he talked, Conklin limped unsteadily across the room to the couch and sat down, his eyes never once leaving Webb's face. When David had finished describing the hotel around the corner, Alex shook his head and reached for his drink.

  'It's eerie,' he said after a period of silence, of intense concentration fightin
g the clouds of alcohol; he put the glass down. 'It's as though a strategy was mounted and went off the wire. '

  'Off the wire?

  'Out of control. '

  'How?'

  'I don't know,' went on the former tactician, weaving slightly, trying not to slur his words. 'You're given a script that may or may not be accurate, then the targets change -your wife for you – and it's played out. You react predictably, but when you mention Medusa, you're told in no uncertain terms that you'll be burned if you persist.'

  That's predictable.'

  'It's no way to prime a subject. Suddenly your wife's on a back burner and Medusa's the overriding danger. Someone miscalculated. Something's off a wire, something happened. '

  'You've got what's left of tonight and tomorrow to get me some answers. I'm on the seven P. M. flight to Hong Kong. '

  Conklin sat forward, shaking his head slowly, and with his right hand trembling again reached for his bourbon. 'You're in the wrong part of town,' he said, swallowing. 'I thought you knew; you made a tight little allusion to the sauce. I'm useless to you. I'm off limits, a basket case. No one tells me anything and why should they? I'm a relic, Webb. Nobody wants to have a goddamned thing to do with me. I'm washed out and up and one more step I'll be beyond-salvage – which I believe is a phrase locked in that crazy head of yours. '

  'Yes, it is. "Kill him. He knows too much. '

  'Maybe you want to put me there, is that it? Feed him, wake up the sleeping Medusa and make sure he gets it from his own. That would balance. '

  'You put me there,' said David, taking the gun out of the holster under his jacket.

  'Yes, I did,' agreed Conklin, nodding his head and gazing at the weapon. 'Because I knew Delta, and as far as I was concerned anything was possible – I'd seen you in the field. My God, you blew a man's head off – one of your own men -in Tarn Quan because you believed – you didn't know, you believed ~ he was radioing a platoon on the Ho Chi Minh! No charges, no defence, just another swift execution in the jungle. It turned out you were right, but you might have been wrong! You could have brought him in; we might have learned things, but no, not Delta! He made up his own rules. Sure, you could have turned in Zurich!'