– 'What?'
'You're my diversion, Major. When I let you free with the gun, you'll head for the gate or a blown-out section of the wall – whichever, it's your choice. They'll try to stop you. You'll fire back, naturally, and while they concentrate on you, I'll get inside.'
'You bastard!'
'My feelings are hurt, but then I don't have feelings any longer, so it doesn't matter. I simply have to get inside-'
The last explosion blew up a sculptured tree, its roots smashing into a weakened section of the wall, stones falling out of place, the wall itself half crumbling, splitting rocks forming a V at the centre of secondary impact. Marines from the gate contingent rushed forward.
Wow!' roared Delta, rising to his full height.
'Give me the gun! Let go of it!'
Jason Bourne suddenly froze. He could not move – except that by some instinct or other he crashed his knee up into the killer's throat, sending the assassin over on his side. A man had appeared beyond the shattered glass doors of the burning foyer. A handkerchief covered his face, but it could not cover his limp. His limp! With his club foot the silhouetted figure kicked down the left frame of the french doors and awkwardly walked down the three steps to the short flagstone patio fronting the once stately gardens. He dragged himself forward and yelled as loud as he could, ordering the guards who could hear him to hold their fire. The figure did not have to lower his handkerchief, Delta knew the face. It was the face of his enemy. It was Paris, a cemetery outside Paris. Alexander Conklin had come to kill him. Beyond-salvage was the order from on high.
'David! It's Alex! Don't do what you're doing! Stop it! It's we, David! I'm here to help you!'
'You're here to kill me! You came to kill me in Paris, you tried again in New York! Treadstone Seventy-one! You've got a short memory, you bastard!'
'You don't have any memory, goddamn you! You became Delta, that's what they wanted! I know the whole story, David. I flew over here because we put it together! Marie, Mo Panov, and I! We're all here. Marie's safe!'
'Lies! Tricks! All of you, you killed her! You would have killed her in Paris, but I wouldn't let you near her! I kept her away from you!'
'She's not dead, David! She's alive! I can bring her to you!
Now!'
'More lies!' Delta crouched and pulled the trigger, spraying the patio, the bullets ricocheting up into the burning foyer, but for reasons unknown to him they did not cut down the man himself. 'You want to pull me out so you can give the order and I'm dead. Beyond-salvage carried out! No way, executioner!. I'm going inside! I want the silent, secret men behind you! They're there! I know they're there!' Bourne grabbed the fallen assassin and pulled him to his feet handing him the gun. 'You wanted a Jason Bourne, he's yours! I'm setting him loose among the roses. Kill him while I kill!' Half crazed, half survivor, the commando lunged through the flowering bushes away from Bourne. He raced first down the path, then instantly returned, seeing that the marine guards were at the north and south areas of the wall. If he showed himself on the east border of the garden he was caught between both contingents. He was dead, if he moved. 'I haven't any more time, Conklin!' yelled Bourne. Why couldn't he kill the man who had betrayed him? Squeeze the trigger! Kill the last of Treadstone Seventy-one! Kill. Kill! What stopped him!
The assassin threw himself over the bed of flowers, clutching the warm barrel of Bourne's machine gun, wrenching it downward, levelling and firing his own gun at Jason. The bullet grazed Bourne's forehead and, in fury, he yanked back the trigger of the repeating weapon. Bullets thundered into the ground, the vibrations within their small, deadly arena earth-shattering. He grabbed the Englishman's gun, twisting it counterclockwise. The assassin's half-mutilated right arm was no match for the man from Medusa. The gun exploded as Bourne wrenched it free. The impostor fell back on the grass, his eyes glazed, within them the knowledge that he had lost.
'David! For God's sake, listen to me! You have to-'
There is no David here!' screamed Jason, his knee rammed into the assassin's chest . 'My rightful name is Bourne, sprung from Delta, spawned by Medusa! The snake lady! Remember?
'We have to talk!'
'We have to die! You have to die! The secret men inside are my contract with myself, with Marie! They have to die!' Bourne gripped the lapel of the assassin's jacket, pulling him up on his feet . 'I repeat! Here's your Jason Bourne! He's all yours!'
'Don't shoot! Hold your fire!' roared Conklin, as bewildered segments of the three marine contingents began to close in and the deafening sirens of the Hong Kong police roared to a stop at the demolished gate.
The man from Medusa slammed his shoulder into the commando's back, propelling the killer out into the light of the roaring flames and the floodlights. There hew! That's the prize you wanted^
There was a burst of rifle fire as the assassin reeled out, then dove to the ground, rolling over and over to avoid the bullets.
'Stop it! Not him! For Christ's sake, hold your fire. Don't kill him!'
'Not him? roared Jason Bourne. 'Not him! Only me! Isn't that right, you son of a bitch? Now, you do die! For Marie, for Echo, for all of us!'
He squeezed the trigger of the machine gun, but still the bullets would not hit their mark! He swung around and, swinging back and forth, aimed his deadly weapon at both converging squads of marines. Again, he fired several prolonged bursts, crouching, ducking, moving from place to place behind the roses. Yet he angled the barrel above their heads! Why? The children could not stop him. But then the children in their pressed GI issue should not die for the manipulators. He had to get inside the sterile house. Now! No moments were left. It was now!
'David?' A woman's voice. Oh Christ, a woman's voice! 'David, David, David! A figure in a flowing skirt ran out of the sterile house. She grabbed Alexander Conklin and pushed him away. She stood alone on the patio. 'It's me, David! 'I'm here! I'm safe! Everything's all right, my darling!'
Another trick, another lie. It was an old woman with grey hair, white hair! 'Get out of my way, lady, or I'll kill you. You're just another lie, another trick?
'David, it's me! Can't you hear me-'
'I can see you! A trick!'
'No, David!'
'My name's not David. I told your scum friend, there's no
David here!'
'Don't!' screamed Marie, desperately shaking her head and running in front of several marines who had crawled out on the grass, away from the swirling, vanishing clouds of gas. They were on their knees with a clear view of Bourne, getting their bearings, levelling their rifles unsteadily at him. Marie positioned herself between the recovering guards and their target . 'Haven't you done enough to him? For God's sake somebody stop them!'
'And get blown away by some son of a bitch terrorist? yelled a youthful voice from the ranks by the front wall.
'He's not what you think! Whatever he is the people inside made him that way! You heard him. He won't fire on you if you don't shoot!'
'He's already fired,' roared an officer. 'You're still standing!' yelled back Alex Conklin from the edge of the patio. 'And he's a better marksman with more weapons than any man here! Account for it! I can!'
'I don't need you!' thundered Jason Bourne, once again triggering a burst of machine gun fire into the burning wall of the sterile house.
Suddenly, the assassin was on his feet, crouching, then lunging for the marine nearest him, a hatless youngster still coughing from the gas. The killer grabbed the guard's rifle, kicking him in the head, and firing the weapon into the next nearest marine, who lurched backwards grabbing his stomach. The killer spun around; he spotted an officer with a machine pistol not unlike Bourne's; he shot him in the neck, and grabbed the weapon from the falling body. He paused for only a split half-second evaluating his chances, then whipped the machine pistol up under his left arm. Delta watched, instinctively knowing what the commando would do, knowing, too, that his diversion was about to take place.
The assassin did it. He fired a
gain, one round after another into the closed ranks of the young, inexperienced marines by the front wall, racing, dodging his way across the short stretch of grass into the shoulder-high flowers on Bourne's left. It was his only escape route, the least illuminated collapsed right rear wall.
'Stop him!' shouted Conklin, limping frantically across the patio. 'But don't shoot! Don't kill him! For Christ's sake, don't kill him!'
'Bullshit!' came the reply from someone in the squad of marines by the left rear wall. The assassin, twisting, turning, crouching, his rifle on repeat fire, quickly worked his way towards the broken wall, pinning the guards down by his rapid bursts. The rifle chamber ran out of shells; he threw it down, swinging the murderous machine pistol into place, and started his last race towards the broken wall, spraying the prone contingent of marines. He was there! The darkness beyond was his escape!
'You motherfucker!' It was a teenager's cry, the voice immature, in torment, but nevertheless lethal. 'You killed my buddy! You blew his fucking face off! You're going to buy it, you shithead!'
A young black marine leaped away from his dead white companion and raced towards the wall as the assassin swung around, vaulting over the stone. Another burst from the killer caught the marine in the shoulder; he lunged to the ground, rolled over twice to his left, and fired four rounds of ammunition.
They were followed by an agonizing, hysterical scream of defiance. It was the scream of death; the impostor, his eyes wide in hatred, fell into the jagged rocks. Major Allcott.
Price, formerly of the Royal Commandos, was gone.
Bourne started forward, his weapon raised. Marie ran to the border of the patio, the distance between them no more than a few feet . 'Don't do it, David!'
'I'm not David, lady! Ask your scum-ball friend, we go back a long time. Get out of my way!' Why couldn't he kill her? One burst and he was free to do what he had to do! Why?
'All right!' screamed Marie, holding her place. There is no David, all right! You're Jason Bourne! You're Delta!' You're anything you want to be, but you're also mine! You're my husband!' The revelation had the impact of a sudden bolt of lightning on the guards who heard it. The officers, their elbows bent, held up their hands – the universal command to hold fire – as they and the men stared in astonishment.
'I don't know you!'
'My voice is my own. You know it, Jason. '
'A trick! An actress, a mimic! A lie! It's been done before. '
'And if I look different, it's because of you, Jason Bourne?
'Get out of my way or get killed?
'You taught me in Paris! On the rue de Rivoli, the Hotel Meurice, the newsstand on the corner. Can you remember? The newspapers with the story out of Zurich, my photograph on all the front pages! And the small hotel in the Montparnasse when we were checking out, the concierge reading the paper, my picture in front of his face! You were so frightened you told me to run outside... The taxi! Do you remember the taxi? On the way to Issy-les-Moulineaux – I'll never forget that impossible name. "Change your hair," you said. "Pull it up or push it back!" You said you didn't care what I did so long as I changed it! You asked me if I had an eyebrow pencil – you told me to thicken my brows, make them longer! Your words, Jason! We were running for our lives and you wanted me to look different, to remove any likeness to the photograph that was all over Europe! I had to become a chameleon because Jason Bourne was a chameleon. He had to teach his lover, his wife! That's all I've done, Jason!'
Wo!' cried Delta, drawing the word out into a scream, the mists of confusion enveloping him, sending his mind into the outer regions of panic. The images were there! rue de Rivoli, the Montparnasse, the taxi. Listen to me. I am a chameleon called Cain and I can teach you many things I do not care to teach you but I must. I can change my colour to accommodate the forest, lean shift with the wind by smelling it. I can find my way through natural and man-made jungles. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta ... Delta is for Charlie and Charlie is for Cain. I am Cain. I am death. And I must tell you who I am and lose you.
'You do remember!' shouted David Webb's wife.
'A trick! The chemicals – I said the words. They gave you the words! They have to stop me!'
'They gave me nothing! I want nothing from them. I only want my husband! I'm Marie?
'You're a lie! They killed her!' Delta squeezed the trigger, the fusillade of bullets exploding the earth at Marie's feet. Rifles quickly were brought up to firing positions.
'Don't do it!' screamed Marie, whipping her head over at the marine guards, her eyes glaring, her voice a command. 'All right, Jason. If you don't know me, I don't want to live. I can't be plainer than that, my darling. It's why I understand what you're doing. You're throwing your life away because a part of you that's taken over thinks I'm gone and you don't want to live without me. I understand that very well because I don't want to live without you. ' Marie took several steps across the grass and stood motionless.
Delta raised the machine gun, the snub-nosed sight on the barrel centering on the grey hair streaked with white. His index finger closed around the trigger. Suddenly, involuntarily, his right hand began to tremble, then his left. The murderous weapon began to waver, at first slowly– back and forth, then faster – in circles – as Bourne's head swayed in fitful jerks; the trembling spread; his neck began to lose control.
There was a commotion within the gathering crowd at the smouldering ruins of the gate and the guardhouse several hundred feet away. A man struggled; he was held by two marines. 'Let me go, you goddamned fools! I'm a doctor, his doctor!' With a surge of strength, Morris Panov broke away and raced across the lawn into the glare of the floodlights. He stopped twenty feet from Bourne.
Delta began to moan; the sound and the rhythm were barbaric. Jason Bourne dropped the weapon... and David Webb fell to his knees weeping. Marie started towards him.
Woa' commanded Panov, his voice quietly emphatic, stopping Webb's wife. 'He has to come to you. He must. '
'He needs me!'
'Not that way. He has to recognize you. David has to recognize you and tell his other self to let him free. You can't do that for him. He has to do it for himself. '
Silence. Floodlights. Fire.
And like a cringing, beaten child, David Webb raised his head, the tears streaming down his cheeks. Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet and ran into the arms of his wife.
33
They were in the sterile house, in the white-walled communications centre – in an antiseptic cell belonging to some futuristic laboratory complex. Whitefaced computers rose above the white counters on the left, dozens of thin, dark rectangular mouths sporadically indented, their teeth digital readouts forming luminescent green numbers that constantly changed with inviolate frequency alterations and less sophisticated, less secure means of sending and receiving information. On the right was a large white conference table above the white-tiled floor, the only deviation to colour conformity and asepsis being several black ashtrays. The players were in place around the table. The technicians had been dismissed, all systems put on hold, only the ominous Red-Alert, a 3-inch by 10-inch panel in the central computer, remained active; an operator was outside the closed door should the alarming red lights appear. Beyond this sacrosanct, isolated room the Hong Kong firefighters were hosing down the last of the smouldering embers as the Hong Kong police were calming the panicked residents from the nearby estates on Victoria Peak – many of whom were convinced that Armageddon had arrived in the form of a mainland onslaught – telling everyone that the terrible events were the work of a deranged criminal killed by government emergency units. The skeptical Peak residents were not satisfied. The times were not on their side; their world was not as it should be and they wanted proof. So the corpse of the dead assassin was paraded on a stretcher past the curious onlookers, the punctured, blood-drenched body partially uncovered for all to see. The stately residents returned to their stately homes, having by this time contemplated all manner of insurance claims.
> The players sat in white, plastic chairs, living, breathing robots waiting for a signal to commence, none really possessing the courage or the energy to open the proceedings. Exhaustion, mingled with the fear of violent death, marked their faces – marked all but one face. His possessed the deep lines and dark shadows of extreme fatigue but there was no hollow fear in his eyes, only passive, bewildered acceptance of things still beyond his understanding. Minutes ago death had held no fear for him; it was preferable to living. Now, in his confusion, his wife gripping his hand, he could feel the swelling of distant anger, distant in the sense that it was far back in the recesses of his mind, relentlessly pushing forward like the faraway thunder over a lake in an approaching summer storm.
'Who did this to us? said David Webb, his voice barely above a whisper.
'I did,' answered Havilland, at the end of the rectangular white table. The ambassador leaned slowly forward, returning Webb's deathlike stare. 'If I were in a court of law seeking mercy for an ignominious act, I would have to plead extenuating circumstances. '
'Which were? asked David in a monotone.
'First there is the crisis,' said the diplomat . 'Second there was yourself. '
'Explain that,' interrupted Alex Conklin at the other end of the table, facing Havilland. Webb and Marie were on his left in front of the white wall, Morris Panov and Edward McAllister opposite them. 'And don't leave anything out,' added the rogue intelligence officer.
'I don't intend to,' said the ambassador, his eyes remaining on David. 'The crisis is real, the catastrophe imminent. A cabal has been formed deep in Peking by a group of zealots led by a man so deeply entrenched in the hierarchy of his government, so revered as a philosopher-prince that he cannot be exposed. No one would believe it. Anyone who attempted to expose him would become a pariah. Worse, any attempt at exposure would risk a backlash so severe that Peking would cry insult and outrage, and revert to suspicion and intransigence. But if the conspiracy is not aborted, it will destroy the Hong Kong Accords and blow the colony apart. The result will be the immediate occupation by the People's Republic. I don't have to tell you what that would mean -economic chaos, violence, bloodshed and undoubtedly war in the Far East. How long could such hostilities be contained before other nations are forced to choose sides? The risk is unthinkable. '
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