The Bourne Supremacy jb-2

by Robert Ludlum

  Havilland and Alex Conklin were alone in the white-walled room, each at either end of the conference table facing the other. McAllister and Morris Panov had gone to the undersecretary's office to listen on separate telephones to a mocked-up profile of an American killer created by the consulate for the benefit of the press. Panov had agreed to provide the appropriate psychiatric terminology with the correct Washington overtones. David Webb had asked to be alone with his wife until it was time to leave. They had been taken to a room upstairs; the fact that it was a bedroom had not occurred to anyone. It was merely a door to an empty room at the south side of the old Victorian house, away from the water-soaked men and ruins on the north side. Webb's departure had been estimated by McAllister to be in fifteen minutes or less. A car would drive Jason Bourne and the undersecretary to Kai Tak Airport. In the interest of speed and because the hydrofoils stopped running at 2100 hours, a medical helicopter would fly them to Macao, where all immigration permits would be cleared for the delivery of emergency supplies to the Kiang Wu Hospital on the Rua Coelho Do Amaral.

  'It wouldn't have worked, you know,' said Havilland, looking over at Conklin.

  'What wouldn't have?' asked the man from Langley, his own thoughts broken off by the diplomat's statement . 'What David told you?

  'Sheng would never have agreed to a meeting with someone he didn't know, with someone who didn't identify himself. '

  'It'd depend on how it was presented. That kind of thing always does. If the critical information is mind-blowing and the facts authentic, the subject doesn't have much of a choice. He can't question the messenger – he doesn't know anything -so he-has to go after the source. As Webb put it, he can't afford not to. '

  'Webb? asked the ambassador flatly, his brows arched. 'Bourne, Delta. Who the hell knows? The strategy's sound. '

  There are too many possible miscalculations, too many chances for a mis-step when one side invents a mythical party. '

  Tell that to Jason Bourne. '

  'Different circumstances. Treadstone had a willing agent provocateur to go after the Jackal. An obsessed man who chose extreme risk because he was trained for it and had lived with violence too long to let go. He didn't want to let go. There was no place else for him. '

  'It's academic,' said Conklin, 'but I don't think you're in a position to argue with him. You sent him out with all the odds against him and he comes back with the assassin in tow – and he finds you. If he said it could be done another way, he's probably right and you can't say he isn't. '

  'I can say, however,' said Havilland, resting his forearms on the table and fixing his eyes on the CIA man, 'that what we did really did work. We lost the assassin, but we gained a willing, even obsessed provocateur. From the beginning he was the optimum choice, but we never for a minute thought that he could be recruited to do the final job willingly by himself. Now he won't let anybody else do it; he's going back in, demanding his right to do it. So in the end we were right – I was right. One sets the forces in motion, on a collision course, always watching, ready to abort, to kill, if one has to, but knowing that as the complications mount and the closer they come to each other's throat, the nearer the solution is. Ultimately – in their hatreds, their suspicions, their passions -they create their own violence, and the job is done. You may lose your own people but you have to weigh that loss against what it's worth to disrupt the enemy, to expose him. '

  'You also risk exposing your own hand, the hand you insisted had to be kept out of sight. '

  'How so?'

  'Because it's not the end yet. Say Webb doesn't make it. Say he's caught, and you can bet your elegant ass the order will be to take him alive. When a man like Sheng sees that a trap is set to kill him, he'll want to know who's behind it. If pulling out a fingernail or ten doesn't do it – and it probably wouldn't -they'll needle him full of juice and find out where he comes from. He's heard everything you've told him-'

  'Even down to the point where the United States government cannot be involved,' interrupted the diplomat.

  'That's right, and he won't be able to help himself. The

  chemicals will bring it all out. Your hand's revealed. Washington is involved. '

  'By whom?'

  'By Webb, for Christ's sake! By Jason Bourne, if you like. '

  'By a man with a history of mental illness, with a record of random aggression and self-deception? A paranoid schizophrenic whose logged telephone calls show a man disintegrating into dementia, making insane accusations, wild threats aimed at those trying to help him?' Havilland paused, then added quietly. 'Come now, Mr Conklin, such a man does not speak for the United States government. How could he? We've been searching for him everywhere. He's an irrational, fantasizing time bomb who finds conspiracies wherever his sick, tortured mind takes him. We want him back in therapy. We also suspect that because of his past activities he left the country with an illegal passport-'

  'Therapy...? Alex broke in, stunned by the old man's words. 'Past activities?'

  'Of course, Mr Conklin. If it's necessary, especially over a hot line – Sheng's hot line – we're willing to admit that he once worked for the government and was severely damaged by that work. But in no way is it possible he would have any official standing. Again, how could he? This tragic, violent man may have been responsible for the death of a wife he claims disappeared. '

  'Marie? You'd use Marie?'

  'We'd have to. She's in the logs, in the affidavits volunteered by men who knew Webb as a mental patient, who tried to help him. '

  'Oh, Jesus!' whispered Alex, mesmerized by the cold, precise elder statesman of covert operations. 'You told him everything because you had your own back-ups. Even if he was taken, you could cover your ass with official logs, psychiatric evaluation – you could disassociate yourself! Oh, God, you bastard. '

  'I told him the truth because he would have known it if I tried to lie to him again. McAllister, of course, went farther, emphasizing the organized crime factor which is all too true,

  but a sensitive issue I'd prefer not to bring up. Nobody does. But then I didn't tell Edward everything. He hasn't yet put enough distance between his ethics and the demands of his job. When he does, he may join me on the heights, but I don't think he's capable. '

  'You told David everything in case he was taken,' went on Conklin, not listening to Havilland. 'If the kill doesn't happen you want him taken. You're counting on the amphetamines and the scopolamine. The drugs! Then Sheng will get the message that his conspiracy's known to us and he'll get it unofficially, not from us but from an unsanctioned mental case. Jesus! It's a variation of what Webb told you!'

  'Unofficially,' agreed the diplomat . 'So much is achieved that way. No confrontations, very smooth. Very cheap. No cost at all really. '

  'Except a man's lifer shouted Alex. 'He'll be killed. He has to be killed from everyone's point of view. '

  The price, Mr Conklin, if it must be paid. '

  Alex waited, as if he expected Havilland to finish his statement. Nothing was forthcoming, only the strong, sad eyes peering into his. That's all you've got to say? It's the price – if it has to be paid?

  The stakes are far higher than we imagined – far higher. You know that as well as I do, so don't look so shocked. 'The ambassador leaned back in his chair, somewhat stiffly. 'You've made such decisions before, such calculations. '

  'Not like this. Never like this! You send in your own and you know the risks, but you don't set up a field man sealing off his escape route! He was better off believing – believing -he was bringing in the assassin to get his wife back!'

  The objective is different. Infinitely more vital. '

  'I know that. Then you don't send him! You get the codes and send someone else! Someone who isn't half dead from exhaustion!'

  'Exhausted or not, he's the best man for the job and he insists on doing it. '

  'Because he doesn't know what you've done! How you've boxed him in, made him the messenger who has to be killed!'
>
  'I had no choice. As you say, he found me. I had to tell him the truth. '

  Then, I repeat, send in someone else! A hit team recruited on the outside by a blind, no connection to us, just payment for a professional kill, the target Sheng. Webb knows how to reach Sheng, he told you that. I'll convince him to give you the codes or the sequence or whatever the hell it is, and you buy a hit team!'

  'You'd put us on a level with the Qaddafis of this world?"

  That's so puerile I can't find words to-'

  'Forget it,' broke in Havilland. If it was ever traced back to us – and it could be – we'd have to launch against China before they dropped something on us. Unthinkable. '

  'What you're doing here is unthinkable!'

  There are more important priorities than the survival of a single individual, Mr Conklin, and again you know that as well as I do. It's been your life's work – if you'll forgive me -but the present case is on a higher level than anything you ever experienced. Let's call it a geopolitical level. '

  'Son of a bitch!'

  'Your own guilt is showing now, Alex – if I may call you Alex – since you call in question my immediate family line. I never put Jason Bourne beyond-salvage. My most fervent hope is that he'll succeed, that the kill will take place. If that happens, he's free; the Far East is rid of a monster and the world will be spared an Oriental Sarajevo. That's my job, Alex. '

  'At least tell him! Warn him!'

  'I can't. Any more than you would in my position. You don't tell a tueur a gages-'

  'Come again, elegant ass?

  'A man sent in to kill must have the confidence of his convictions. He can't, for a second, reflect on his motives or his reasons. He must have no doubts at all. None. The obsession must be intact. It's his only chance to succeed. '

  'Suppose he doesn't succeed? Suppose he's killed?

  Then we start again as quickly as possible, putting someone else in place. McAllister will be with him in Macao

  and learn the sequence codes to reach Sheng. Bourne's agreed to that. If the worst happens, we might even try his conspirator-for-a-conspirator theory. He says it's too late but he could be wrong. You see, I'm not above learning, Alex. '

  'You're not above anything,' Conklin said angrily, getting out of the chair. 'But you forgot something – you forgot what you said to David. ' There's a glaring flaw. '

  'What's that?'

  'I won't let you get away with it. ' Alex limped towards the door. 'You can ask so much of a man but there comes a point when you don't ask any more. You're out, elegant ass. Webb's going to be told the truth. The whole truth. '

  Conklin opened the door. He faced the back of a tall marine, who upon hearing the sound of the door opening did a precise about-face, his rifle at port-arms.

  'Get out of my way, soldier,' said Alex.

  'Sorry, sir!' barked the marine, his eyes distant, staring straight ahead.

  Conklin turned back to the diplomat seated behind the desk. Havilland shrugged. 'Procedures,' he said.

  'I thought these people were out of here. I thought they were sequestered at the airport. '

  'The ones you saw are. These are a squad from the consulate contingent. Thanks to Downing Street's bending a few rules, this is officially US territory now. We are entitled to a military presence. '

  'I want to see Webb!'

  'You can't. He's leaving. '

  'Who the hell do you think you are?'

  'My name is Raymond Oliver Havilland. I am ambas-sador-at-large for the government of the United States of America. My decisions are to be carried out without debate during periods of crisis. This is a period of crisis. Fuck off, Alex. '

  Conklin closed the door and walked awkwardly back to his chair. 'What's next, Mr Ambassador! Do the three of us get bullets in our heads or are we given lobotomies?'

  'I'm sure we can all come to a mutual understanding. '

  They held each other, Marie knowing that he was only partly there, only partly himself. It was Paris all over again, when she knew a desperate man named Jason Bourne, who was trying to stay alive, but not sure he would, or even should, his self-doubts in some ways as lethal to him as those who wanted him killed. But it was not Paris. There were no self-doubts now, no tactics feverishly improvised to elude pursuers, no race to trap the hunters. What reminded her of Paris was the distance she felt between them. David was trying to reach her – generous David, compassionate David – but Jason Bourne would not let him go. Jason was now the hunter, not the hunted, and this strengthened his will. It was summed up in a word he used with staccato regularity. Move!

  'Why, David? Why?'

  'I told you. Because I can. Because I have to. Because it has to be done. '

  'That's not an answer, my darling. '

  'All right. ' Webb gently released his wife and held her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. 'For us then. '

  'Us?'

  'Yes. I'd see those images for the rest of my life. They'd keep coming back and they'd tear me apart because I'd know what I left behind and I wouldn't be able to handle it. I'd go into tailspins and take you with me because for all your brains you haven't the sense to bail out. '

  'I'd rather go into senseless tailspins with you than without you. Read that as seeing you alive. '

  'That's not an argument. '

  'I think it's considerable. '

  'I'll be calling the moves, not making them. '

  'What the hell does that mean?'

  'I want Sheng taken out, I mean that. He doesn't deserve to live, but I won't be doing the taking-'

  'The God image doesn't suit you!' interrupted Marie, sharply. 'Let others make that decision. Walk away from it. Stay safe. '

  'You're not listening to me. I was there and I saw him -heard him. He doesn't deserve to live. In one of his screeching diatribes he called life a precious gift. That may be debatable, depending on the life, but life doesn't mean a thing to him. He wants to kill – maybe he has to, I don't know; ask Panov – it's in his eyes. He's Hitler and Mengele and Genghis Khan... the chainsaw killer – whatever – but he has to go. And I have to make sure he goes. '

  'But why?' pleaded Marie. 'You haven't answered me!'

  'I did, but you didn't hear me. One way or another I'd see him every day, hear that voice. I'd be watching him toy with terrified people before killing them, butchering them. Try to understand. I've tried and I'm no expert but I've learned a few things about myself. Only an idiot wouldn't. It's the images, Marie, the goddamned pictures that keep coming back, opening doors – memories I don't want to know about, but have to. The clearest and simplest way I can put it is that I can't take any more. I can't add to that collection of bad surprises. You see, I want to get better – not entirely cured, I can accept that, live with it – but I can't slide back, either. I won't slide back. For both our sakes. '

  'And you think by engineering a man's death you'll get rid of those images?'

  'I think it'll help, yes. Everything's relative and I wouldn't be here if Echo hadn't thrown his life away so I could live. It's not always fashionable to say it, but like most people I have a conscience. Or maybe it's guilt because I survived. I simply have to do it because I can. '

  'You've convinced yourself?

  'Yes, I have. I'm best equipped. '

  'And you say you're calling the moves, not making them?

  'I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm coming back because I want a long life with you, lady. '

  'What's my guarantee? Who's going to make the moves?

  'The whore who got us into this. '

  'Havilland?'

  'No, he's the pimp. McAllister's the whore, he always was. The man who believes in decency, who wears it on his sleeve until the power boys ask him to put out. He'll probably call in the pimp and that's fine. Between them they can do it. '

  'But how?'

  'There are men – and women – who will kill if the price is high enough. They may not have the egos of the mythical Jason Bourne o
r the very real Carlos the Jackal, but they're everywhere in that goddamned filthy shadow world. Edward, the whore, told us he made enemies throughout the Far East, from Hong Kong to the Philippines, from Singapore to Tokyo, all in the name of Washington who wanted influence over here. If you make enemies you know who they are, know the signals to send out to reach them. That's what the whore and the pimp are going to do. I'll set up the kill, but someone else will do the killing, and I don't care how many millions it costs them. I'll watch from a distance to make sure that the butcher's killed, that Echo gets what's coming to him, that the Far East is rid of a monster who can plunge it into a terrible war – but that's all I'll do. Watch. McAllister doesn't know it but he's coming with me. We're extracting our pound of flesh. '

  'Who's talking now? asked Marie. 'David or Jason?'

  The husband paused, his silent thoughts deep. 'Bourne,' he said finally. 'It has to be Bourne until I'm back. '

  'You know that?'

  'I accept it. I don't have a choice. '

  There was a soft, rapid knocking at the bedroom door. 'Mr Webb. It's McAllister. It's time to leave. '

  35

  The Emergency Medical Service helicopter roared across Victoria Harbour past the out islands of the South China Sea towards Macao. The patrol boats of the People's Republic had been appraised by way of the naval station in Gongbei; there would be no firing at the low-flying aircraft on an errand of mercy. As McAllister's luck would have it, a visiting party official from Peking had been admitted to the Kiang Wu Hospital with a bleeding duodenal ulcer. He required RH-negative blood which was continuously in short supply. Let them come, let them go. If the official were a peasant from the hills of Zhuhai, he'd be given the blood of a goat and let him hope for the best.

  Bourne and the undersecretary of state wore the white, belted coveralls and caps of the Royal Medical Corps, with no rank of substance indicated on their sleeves; they were merely grousing subordinates ordered to carry blood to a Zhongguo ren belonging to a regime that was in the process of further dismantling the Empire. Everything was being done properly and efficiently in the new spirit of co-operation between the colony and its soon-to-be new masters. Let them come, let them go. It's all a lifetime away and for us without meaning. We will not benefit. We never benefit. Not from them, not from those above.