Bourne remembered. Carlos! The Jackal had been dressed in the clothes of a priest, his dark Latin features above the starched white collar, walking out of the church in Neuilly-sur-Seine in Paris. Jason had seen him! They had seen each other, their eyes locking, each knowing who the other was without words being spoken. Get Carlos. Trap Carlos. Cain is for Charlie and Carlos is for Cain! The codes had exploded in his head as he raced after the Jackal in the streets of Paris... only to lose him in the traffic, as an old beggar, squatting on the pavement, smiled obscenely.
This was not Paris, thought Bourne. There was no army of dying old men protecting this assassin. He would take this jackal in Peking.
'Be ready to move!' said d'Anjou, breaking into Jason's memories. 'He's nearing the bus. '
'It's full. '
That's the point. He'll be the last one on. Who refuses a pleading priest in a hurry? One of my lessons, of course. '
Again the Frenchman was right. The door of the small, packed shabby bus began to close, stopped by the inserted arm of the priest, who wedged his shoulder inside and obviously begged to be released, as he had been caught. The door snapped open; the killer pressed himself inside and the door closed.
'It's the express to Tian an men Square,' said d'Anjou. 'I have the number. '
'We have to find a taxi. Come on!'
'It will not be easy, Delta. '
'I've perfected a technique,' replied Bourne, walking out of the shadow of the telephone truck as the bus passed by, the Frenchman at his heels. They weaved through the crowd in front of the airport hotel and proceeded down the line of taxis until they reached the end. A last cab rounded the circle, about to join the line when Jason rushed into the street, holding up the palms of his hands unobtrusively. The taxi came to a stop as the driver pushed his head out the window.
'Shemma?'
' Weir cried Bourne, running to the driver and holding up fifty American dollars worth of unmetered yuan. 'Biyao bang zhu,' he said, telling the man he needed help badly and would pay for it.
'Lao!' exclaimed the driver, as he grabbed the money. 'Bingli bar he added, justifying his action on behalf of a tourist who was suddenly ill.
Jason and d'Anjou climbed in, the driver vocally annoyed that there was a second passenger entering the kerbside door. Bourne dropped another twenty yuan over the seat and the man was mollified. He swung his cab around, away from the line of taxis, and retraced his path out of the airport complex.
'Up ahead there is a bus,' said d'Anjou, leaning forward in the seat, addressing the driver in an awkward attempt at Mandarin. 'Can you understand me?'
'Your tongue is Guangzhou, but I understand. '
'It is on the way to Tian an men Square. '
'Which gate?' asked the driver. 'Which bridge?'
'I don't know. I know only the number on the front of the bus. It is seven-four-two-one. '
'Number one ending,' said the driver. Tian Gate, second bridge. Imperial city entrance. '
'Is there a parking section for the buses?'
There will be a line of many bus-vehicles. All are filled. They are very crowded. Tian an men is very crowded this angle of the sun. '
'We should pass the bus I speak of on the road, which is favourable to us for we wish to be at Tian a men before it arrives. Can you do this?'
'Without difficulty,' answered the driver, grinning. 'Bus-vehicles are old and often break down. We may get there several days before it reaches the heavenly north gate. '
'I hope you're not serious,' interrupted Bourne.
'Oh, no, generous tourist. All the drivers are superior mechanics – when they have the good fortune to locate their engines. ' The driver laughed contemptuously and pressed his foot on the accelerator.
Three minutes later they passed the 'bus-vehicle' carrying the killer. Forty-six minutes after that they entered the sculptured white marble bridge over the flowing waters of a man-made moat that fronted the massive Gate of Heavenly Peace – from which the leaders of China displayed themselves on the wide platform above approving the paraded instruments of war and death. Inside the misnomered gate is one of the most extraordinary human achievements on earth. Tian an men Square. The electrifying vortex of Beijing.
The majesty of its sheer vastness first catches the visitor's eye, then the architectural immensity of the Great Hall of the People on the right, where reception areas accommodate as many as three thousand people. The single banquet hall seats over five thousand, the major 'conference room' ten thousand with space to spare. Opposite the Gate, reaching towards the clouds, is a four-sided shaft of stone, an obelisk mounted on a two-storey terrace of balustraded marble, all glistening in the sunlight, while in the shadows below on the huge base of the structure are carved the struggles and triumphs of Mao's revolution. It is the Monument to the People's Heroes, Mao first in the pantheon. There are other buildings, other structures – memorials, museums, gates and libraries – as far as the eye can see. But, above all, the eye is struck by the compelling vastness of open space. Space and people... and for the ear something else, totally unexpected. A dozen of the world's great stadiums, all dwarfing Rome's Colosseum, could be placed within Tian an men Square and not exhaust the acreage; people in hundreds of thousands can wander about the open areas and still leave room for hundreds of thousands more. But there is an absence of an element whose lack would never have been found in Rome's bloody arena, much less tolerated in the contemporary great stadiums of the world. Sound; it is barely there, only decibels above silence, interrupted by the soft rippling notes of bicycle bells. The quiet is at first peaceful and then frightening. It is as though an enormous, transparent geodesic dome had been lowered over a hundred acres, as an unspoken, but understood, command from a nether kingdom repeatedly informs those below that they are in a cathedral. It is unnatural, unreal, and yet there is no hostility towards the unheard voice, only acceptance – and that is more frightening. Especially when the children are quiet.
Jason observed these things quickly and dispassionately. He paid the driver the sum based on the odometer reading and shifted his concentration to the purpose and problems facing him and d'Anjou. For whatever reason, whether a phone call had reached him or whether he had opted for back-up instructions, the commando was on his way to Tian a men Square. The pavane would begin with his arrival, the slow steps of the cautious dance bringing the killer closer and closer to his client's representative, the assumption being that the client would remain out of sight. But no contact would be made until the impostor was convinced the rendezvous was clean. Therefore the 'priest' would mount his own surveillance, circling the appointed co-ordinates of the meeting ground, searching out whatever armed minions were in place. He would take one, perhaps two, pressing them at the point of a knife or jamming a silenced gun into their ribs to elicit the information he needed; a false look in the eyes would tell him that the conference was a prelude to execution. Finally, if the landscape seemed clear, he would propel a minion under a gun to approach the client's representative and give his ultimatum: the client himself must show up and walk into the net of the assassin's making. Anything else was unacceptable; the central figure, the client, had to be the deadly balance. A second meeting ground would be established. The client would arrive first, and at the first sign of deception he would be blown away. That was the way of Jason Bourne. It would be the commando's if he had half a brain in his head.
Bus number 7421 rolled lethargically into place at the end of the line of vehicles disgorging tourists. The assassin in priestly garb emerged, helping an elderly woman down to the pavement, patting her hand as he nodded his gentle goodbyes. He turned away, walked rapidly to the rear of the bus, and disappeared around it.
'Stay a good thirty feet behind and watch me,' said Jason. 'Do as I do. When I stop, you stop; when I turn, you turn. Be in a crowd; go from one group to another but make sure there are always people around you. '
'Be careful, Delta. He is not an amateur. '
'
Neither am I. ' Bourne ran to the end of the bus, stopped, and edged his way around the hot, foul-smelling louvres of the rear engine. His priest was about fifty yards ahead, his black suit a dark beacon in the hazy sunlight. Crowds or no crowds he was easy to follow. The commando's cover was acceptable, his playing of it even more so, but like most covers there was always the glaring but unrecognized liability. It was in limiting those liabilities that the best distinguished themselves from the merely better. Professionally, Jason approved the clerical status, not the clerical colour. A roman priest might be wedded to black, but not an Anglican vicar; a solid grey was perfectly acceptable under the collar. Grey faded in the sunlight, black did not.
Suddenly, the assassin broke away from the crowd and walked up behind a Chinese soldier taking pictures, the camera at eye level, the soldier's head moving constantly. Bourne understood. This was no insignificant enlisted man on leave in Beijing; he was too mature, his uniform too well tailored – as d'Anjou had remarked about the army officer in the truck. The camera was a transparent device to scan the crowds; the initial meeting ground was not far away. The commando, now playing his role to the fullest, clasped a fatherly right hand on the military man's left shoulder. His left was unseen but his black coat filled the space between them – a gun had been jammed into the officer's ribs. The soldier froze, his expression stoic even in his panic. He moved with the assassin, the commando now gripping his arm and issuing orders. The soldier abruptly, out of character, bent over, holding his left side, recovering quickly and shaking his head; the weapon had been rammed again into his ribcage. He would follow orders or he would die in Tian an men Square. There was no compromise.
Bourne spun around, lowering his body and tying a perfectly firm shoelace, apologizing to those behind him. The assassin had checked his rear flank; the evasive action was demanded. Jason stood up. Where was he? Where was the impostor! There! Bourne was bewildered; the commando had let the soldier go! Why! The army officer was suddenly running through the crowds, screaming, his gestures wildly spastic, then in a frenzy he collapsed and chattering, excited people gathered around his unconscious body.
Diversion! Watch him. Jason raced ahead, feeling the time was right. It had not been a gun but a needle – not jammed but puncturing the soldier's ribcage. The assassin had taken out one protector; he would look for another, and perhaps another after that. The scenario Bourne had predicted was being played out. And as the killer's concentration was solely on his search for his next victim, the time was right! Now! Jason knew he could take out anyone on earth with a paralysing blow to the kidneys, especially a man whose least concern was an attack on himself – for the quarry was attacking and his concentration was absolute. Bourne closed the gap between himself and the impostor. Fifty feet, forty, thirty-five, thirty... he broke away from one crowd into another... the black-suited 'priest' was within reach. He could take him! Marie!
A soldier. Another soldier! But now, instead of an assault there was communication. The army man nodded and gestured to his left. Jason looked over, bewildered. A short Chinese in civilian clothing and carrying a government briefcase was standing at the foot of a wide stone staircase that led up to the entrance of an immense building with granite pillars everywhere supporting twin sloping pagoda roofs. It was directly behind the Heroes Monument, the carved calligraphy over the huge doors proclaiming it to be the Chairman Mao Memorial Hall. Two lines were moving up the steps, guards separating the individual groups. The civilian was between the two lines, the briefcase a symbol of authority; he was left alone. Suddenly, without any indication that he would make such a move, the tall assassin gripped the soldier's arm, propelling the smaller army man in front of him. The officer's back arched, his shoulders snapping upright; a weapon had been shoved into his spine, the commands specific.
As the excitement mounted and the crowds and the police continued to run towards the collapsed first soldier, the assassin and his captive walked steadily towards the civilian at the steps of the Mao Memorial. The man was afraid to move and again Bourne understood. These men were known to the killer; they were at the core of the tight, elite circle that led to the assassin's client and that client was nearby. They were no mere minions; once they appeared the lesser figures became even less important for these men rarely exposed themselves. The diversion, which was now reduced to a mild disturbance as the police swiftly controlled the crowds and carried the body away, had given the impostor the seconds he needed to control the chain that led to the client. The soldier in his grip was dead if he disobeyed, and with a single shot any reasonably competent marksman could kill the man by the steps. The meeting was in two stages, and as long as the assassin controlled the second stage he was perfectly willing to proceed. The client was obviously somewhere inside the vast mausoleum and could not know what was happening outside, nor would a mere minion dare follow his superiors up into the conference area.
There was no more time for analysing, Jason knew it. He had to act. Quickly. He had to get inside Mao Zedong's monument and watch, wait for the meeting to conclude one way or another – and the repugnant possibility that he might have to protect the assassin crossed his mind. Yet it was within the realm of reality and the only plus for him was the fact that the impostor had followed a scenario he himself might have created. And if the conference was peaceful, it was simply a matter of following the assassin – by then inevitably buoyed by the success of his tactics as well as by whatever the client delivered – and taking an unsuspecting supreme egotist in Tian an men Square.
Bourne turned, looking for d'Anjou. The Frenchman was on the edge of a controlled tourist group; he nodded as if he had read Delta's thoughts. He pointed to the ground beneath him, then made a circle with his index finger. It was a silent signal from their days in Medusa. It meant he would remain where he was, but if he had to move he would stay in sight of that specific location. It was enough. Jason crossed behind the assassin and his prisoner and walked diagonally through the crowd, rapidly negotiating the open space to the line on the right half of the staircase, and up to the guard. He spoke in a polite, if pleading, Mandarin.
'High Officer, I'm most embarrassed! I was so taken by the calligraphy on the People's Monument that I lost my group which passed through here only minutes ago.'
'You speak our language very well,' said the astonished guard, apparently used to the strange accents of tongues he neither knew nor cared to know. 'You are most courteous. '
'I'm simply an underpaid teacher from the West who has an enduring love of your great nation, High Officer. '
The guard laughed. 'I'm not so high, but our nation is great. My daughter wears blue jeans in the street. '
'I beg your pardon?'
'It's nothing. Where is your tour-group identification?'
'My what?'
The name tag to be worn on all outer clothing. '
'It kept falling off,' said Bourne, shaking his head helplessly. 'It wouldn't stay pinned. I must have lost it. '
'When you catch up, see your guide and get another. Go ahead. Get to the back of the line on the steps. Something is going on. The next group may have to wait. You'll miss your tour. '
'Oh? Is there a problem?'
'I don't know. The official with the government briefcase gives us our orders. I believe he counts the yuan that could be made here, thinking this holy place should be like Beijing's underground train. '
'You've been most kind. '
'Hurry, sir. '
Bourne rushed up the steps, bending down behind the crowd, once again tightening a secure shoelace, his head angled to watch the assassin's progress. The impostor talked quietly to the civilian with the soldier still in his grip – but something was odd. The short Chinese in the dark suit nodded, but his eyes were not on the impostor; they were focused beyond the commando. Or were they? Jason's angle of vision was not the best. No matter, the scenario was being followed, the client reached on the assassin's terms.
He walked through the doors
into the semi-darkness, as awed as everyone in front of him by the sudden appearance of the enormous white marble sculpture of a seated Mao, rising so high and so majestically that one nearly gasped in its presence. Theatricality helped. The shafts of light that played down on the exquisite apparently translucent marble evoked an ethereal effect that isolated the gigantic sitting figure from the velvet tapestry behind it and the outer darkness around. The massive statue with its searching eyes seemed in itself alive and aware.
Jason pulled his own eyes away and looked for doorways and corridors. There were none. It was a mausoleum, a hall dedicated to a nation's saint. But there were pillars, wide high shafts of marble that provided areas of seclusion. In the shadows behind any one of them could be the meeting ground. He would wait. He would stay in other shadows and watch.
His group entered the second great hall and it was, if anything, more electrifying than the first. Facing them was a crystal glass coffin encasing the body of Chairman Mao Zedong, draped in the Red flag, the waxen corpse in peaceful repose – the closed eyes, however, any second likely to open wide and glare in fiery disapproval. There were flowers surrounding the raised sarcophagus, and two rows of dark green pine trees in huge ceramic pots lined the opposing walls. Again shafts of light played a dramatic symphony of colour, pockets of darkness pierced by intersecting beams that washed over the brilliant yellows and reds and blues of the banks of flowers.
The Bourne Supremacy jb-2 Page 42