"No problem," Robbinet said. "Shall we use our same arrangement?" Bourne had no idea what that was. He had no choice but to agree.
"Bon. How much?"
He went up the escalator, past Aviary Court. "A hundred thousand should do it. I'll be staying at the Danubius Grand Hotel under Alex's name. Mark the packet 'Hold for Arrival.'"
"Mais oui, Jason. It will be done just as you wish. Is there any other assistance I can provide?"
"Not at the moment." Bourne saw Deron up ahead, standing outside a store called Dry Ice. "Thanks for everything, Jacques."
"Remember caution, man ami" Robbinet said before signing off. "With Khan in the field, anything can happen."
Deron had spotted Bourne and began walking at a slower pace so Bourne could catch up to him. He was a slight man with skin the color of cocoa, a chiseled, high-cheekboned face and eyes that flashed his keen intelligence. With his lightweight coat, smartly tailored suit and gleaming leather attache case, he looked every inch the businessman. He smiled as they walked side by side through the mall.
"It's good to see you, Jason."
"Too bad the circumstances are so dire."
Deron laughed. "Hell, when disaster strikes is the only time I see you!" While they spoke, Bourne was gauging sight lines, assessing escape routes, checking faces.
Deron unlocked his briefcase, handed Bourne a slim packet. "Passport and contacts."
"Thanks." Bourne put the packet away. "I'll get payment to you within the week."
"Whenever." Deron waved a long-fingered artist's hand. "Your credit is good with me." He handed Bourne another item. "Dire situations require extreme measures." Bourne held the gun in his hand. "What is this made of? It's so light."
"Ceramic and plastic. Something I've been working on for a couple of months now," Deron said with no little pride. "Not useful for distance but spot-on at close range."
"Plus, it won't be picked up at the airport," Bourne said. Deron nodded. "Ammo, as well." He handed Bourne a small cardboard box. "Plastictipped ceramic, makes up for the small caliber. Another plus, look here, see these vents on the barrel—they dissipate the noise of percussion. The firing makes almost no sound." Bourne frowned. "Doesn't that cut down on the stopping power?" Deron laughed. "Old school ballistics, m'man. Believe me, you take someone down with this, they stay down."
"Deron, you're a man of unusual talents."
"Hey, I gotta be me." The forger sighed deeply. "Copying the Old Masters has its charm, I suppose. You cannot believe how much I've learned studying their techniques. On the other hand, the world you opened up to me—a world no one else here in this entire mall but us knows exists—now that is what I call excitement." A wind had come up, a damp harbinger of change, and he raised the collar of his coat against it. "I admit I once harbored a secret desire to market some of my more unusual products to people like you." He shook his head. "But no more. What I do now on the side, I do for fun." Bourne saw a man in a trench coat stop in front of a store window to light up a cigarette. He was still standing there, seemingly gazing at the shoes on display. The trouble was, they were women's shoes. Bourne gave a hand signal and they both turned to their left, walking away from the shoe store. In a moment Bourne used the available reflective surfaces to glance behind them. The man in the trench coat was nowhere to be seen.
Bourne hefted the gun, which seemed light as air. "How much?" he said. Deron shrugged. "It's a prototype. Let's say this, you name the price based on its use to you. I trust you'll be fair."
When Ethan Hearn had first come to Budapest, it had taken him some time to get used to the fact that Hungarians were as literal as they were deliberate. Accordingly, the bar Underground was situated in Pest at 30 Terez Koruta, in a cellar beneath a cinema. Being below a movie theater also adhered to the Hungarian idiosyncrasy, for Underground was an homage to the well-known Hungarian film by Emir Kusticura of the same name. As far as Hearn was concerned, the bar was postmodern in the ugliest sense of the word. Steel beams were visible across the ceiling, interspersed with a line of gigantic factory fans that blew the smoke-thickened air down around the drinking and dancing denizens. But what Hearn liked least about Underground was the music—a loud and cacophonous mixture of aggrieved garage rock and sweaty funk.
Oddly, László Molnar did not seem to mind. In fact, he appeared to want to stay out among the hip-swaying crowd, as if reluctant to return home. There was something brittle about his manner, Hearn thought, in his quick abrasive laugh, the way his eyes roamed the room, never alighting on anything or anyone for long, as if he carried a dark and corrosive secret close under his skin. Hearn's occupation caused him to run up against a great deal of money. He wondered, not for the first time, whether so much wealth could have a ruinous effect on the human psyche. Perhaps this was the reason he had never aspired to riches.
Molnar insisted on ordering for both of them, a nastily sweet cocktail called a Causeway Spray that involved whiskey, ginger ale, Triple Sec and lemon. They found a table in a corner where Hearn could barely see the small menu and continued their discussion of opera, which, given the venue, seemed absurd.
It was after his second drink that Hearn spotted Spalko, standing in the haze at the rear of the club. His boss caught his eye, and Hearn excused himself. Two men were loitering near Spalko. They did not look as if they belonged at Underground, but then, Hearn told himself, neither did he or Laszl6 Molnar. Spalko led him down a dim corridor lit with pin lights like stars. He opened a narrow door into what Hearn imagined was the manager's office. No one was inside.
"Good evening, Ethan." Spalko smiled as he closed the door behind them. "It appears you have lived up to your billing. Well done!" "Thank you, sir."
"And now," Spalko said with great bonhomie, "it is time for me to take over." Hearn could hear the bone-jarring thump of the electronic bass through the walls.
"Don't you think I ought to stay around long enough to introduce you?"
"Not necessary, I assure you. Time for you to get some rest." He looked at his watch.
"In fact, given the late hour, why don't you take tomorrow off." Hearn bridled. "Sir, I couldn't—" Spalko laughed. "You can, Ethan, and you will." "But you told me in no uncertain terms—"
"Ethan, I have the power to make policy and I have the power to make exceptions to it. When your sleeper-sofa arrives, you can do what you want, but tomorrow you have off."
"Yes, sir." The young man ducked his head, grinning sheepishly. He hadn't had a day off in three years. A morning in bed with nothing to do but read the paper, spread orange marmalade on his toast, sounded like heaven to him. "Thank you. I am most grateful."
"Go on, then. By the time you're back in the office, I'll have read and made suggestions on your pitch letter." He guided Hearn out of the overheated office. When he saw the young man mount the steps to the front door, he nodded to the two men flanking him and they set off through the frenetic hubbub of the bar.
Laszl6 Molnar had begun peering through the fog of smoke and colored lights for his new friend. When Hearn had gotten up, he had been engrossed in the gyrating backside of a young girl in a short skirt, but he'd finally noticed that Hearn had been gone longer than expected. Molnar was taken aback when instead of Hearn the two men sat down on either side of him.
"What is this?" he said, his voice cracking in fright. "What do you want?" The men said nothing. The one on his right clamped him with a fearsome strength that made him wince. He was too much in shock to cry out, but even if he had had the presence of mind to do so, the incessant clangor of the club would have drowned him out. As it was, he sat petrified as the man on his left jabbed his thigh with a syringe. It was over so quickly, done so discreetly under the table that no one could possibly notice. It took but thirty seconds for the drug Molnar had been injected with to take effect. His eyes rolled up in their sockets and his body went limp. The two men were prepared for this, and they held him up as they rose, maneuvering him to a standing position.
"Can't hold his liquor," one of the men said to a nearby patron. He laughed. "What can you do with people like that?" The patron shrugged and, grinning, returned to his dancing. No one else gave them a second look as they took Laszl6 Molnar out of Underground. Spalko was waiting for them in a long, sleek BMW. They bundled the unconscious Molnar into the trunk of the car, then scrambled into the front, one behind the wheel, the other in the front passenger's seat.
The night was bright and clear. A full moon rode low in the sky. It seemed to Spalko that all he need do was reach out a finger and he could flick it like a marble across the black velvet table of the sky. "How did it go?" he asked.
"Sweet as honey," the driver replied as he fired the ignition.
Bourne got out of Tysons Corner as quickly as he could. Though he had deemed it a secure place for his rendezvous with Deron, security for him was now a relative word. He drove to the Wal-Mart on New York Avenue. It was in the belly of the city, a busy enough area for him to feel that he would have some anonymity.
He pulled into the lot between 12th and 13th Streets across the avenue and parked. The sky had begun to fill up with clouds; it was ominously dark on the southern horizon. Inside, he picked out clothes, toiletry items, a battery charger for the cell phone, along with a number of other items. Then he searched for a backpack in which he could easily stow everything. Waiting on the checkout line, shuffling along with everyone else, he felt his anxiety mounting. He seemed to look at no one, but in reality he was keeping his eye out for any untoward attention directed his way.
Too many thoughts crowded his mind. He was a fugitive from the Agency with what amounted to a price on his head. He was being stalked by a strangely arresting young man of extraordinary talents who just happened to be one of the most accomplished international assassins in the world. He had lost his two best friends, one of whom appeared to be involved in what was clearly an exceedingly dangerous extracurricular activity.
Thus preoccupied, he missed the chief security guard walking behind him. Early this morning a government agent had briefed him on the fugitive, handing him the same photo he'd seen last night on TV, asking him to keep an eagle eye out for the perp. The agent had explained that his visit was part of the dragnet, him and other CIA agents going around to all the major stores, movie theaters and the like, making sure the security people knew that finding this Jason Bourne should be their number-one priority. The guard felt a combination of pride and fear as he turned right around, went into his office cubicle and dialed the number the agent had given him.
Moments after the guard hung up the phone, Bourne was in the men's room. Using the electric clipper he had bought, he shaved off almost all his hair. Then he changed clothes, pulling on jeans, a red-and-white checked cowboy shirt with pearl-tone buttons and a pair of Nike running shoes. At the mirror in front of the line of sinks, he pulled out the small pots he had purchased at the makeup counter. He applied the contents of these judiciously, deepening the skin tone of his face. Another product thickened his brows, making them more prominent. The contact lenses Deron had provided turned his gray eyes a dull brown. Occasionally, he was obliged to pause as someone entered or washed up, but mainly the men's room was deserted.
When he was finished, he stared at himself in the mirror. Not quite satisfied, he gave himself a mole, prominently displayed high up on one cheek. Now the transformation was complete. Donning his backpack, he went out, through the store, heading toward the glass-encased front entrance.
Martin Lindros was in Alexandria, picking up the pieces of the botched termination at Lincoln Fine Tailors when he had gotten the call from the chief security officer at the Wal-Mart on New York Avenue. This morning he had decided that he and Detective Harry Harris would split up, canvassing the area with their respective squads. Lindros knew that Harris was a couple of miles closer than he was because the state policeman had checked in not ten minutes ago. He was in a diabolical quandary. He knew he was going to catch six kinds of hell from the DCI because of the Fine fiasco. If the Old Man found out that he had allowed a state police detective to arrive at Jason Bourne's lastknown location before him, he'd never hear the end of it. It was a bad situation, he thought as he gunned his car. But the overriding priority was to get Bourne. All at once he made his decision. To hell with interdepartmental secrets and jealousies, he thought. He toggled his phone on, got Harris on the line, gave him the Wal-Mart address.
"Harry, listen carefully, you are to make a silent approach. Your job is to secure the area. You are to make sure Webb does not escape, nothing more. Under no circumstances are you to show yourself or try to apprehend him. Is that clear? I'm only minutes behind you."
I'm not as stupid as I look, Harry Harris thought as he coordinated the three patrol cars he had under his command. And I'm certainly not as stupid as Lindros thinks I am. He'd had more than adequate experience with federal types and he had yet to like what he had seen. The feds had ingrained in them this superior attitude, as if the other police forces were clueless, had to be led around like children. This attitude was like a bone stuck in Harris' craw. Lindros interrupted him when he had tried to tell him of his own theories, so why should he bother to share them now? Lindros saw him as nothing more than a pack mule, someone so grateful to be chosen to work with the CIA that he would follow orders unfailingly and unquestioningly. It was clear to Harris now that he was totally out of the loop. Lindros had deliberately failed to inform him of the Alexandria sighting. Harris had only learned about it by accident. As he turned into the Wal-Mart parking lot, he decided to take full control of the situation while he still had the chance. His mind made up, he grabbed his two-way radio, began barking orders to his men.
Bourne was near the entrance to the Wal-Mart when three Virginia State Police cars came barreling down New York Avenue, sirens blaring. He shrank back into shadows. There could be no doubt, they were heading directly for the Wal-Mart. He'd been made, but how? No time to worry about that now. He had to work out an escape plan. The patrol cars screeched to a halt, blocking traffic, causing immediate irate shouts from motorists. Bourne could think of only one reason why they were out of their jurisdiction. They had been recruited by the Agency. The D.C. Metro Police would be livid.
He pulled out Alex's cell phone, dialed the police emergency line.
"This is Detective Morran of the Virginia State Police," he said. "I want to speak to a district commander pronto."
"This is Third District Commander Burton Philips," a steely voice said in his ear.
"Listen, Philips, you boys were told in no uncertain terms to keep your noses out of our business. Now I find your cruisers showing up at the Wal-Mart on New York Avenue and I—"
"You're in the heart of the district, Morran. What the hell are you doing poaching on my jurisdiction?"
"That's my business," Bourne said in his nastiest voice. "Just get on the horn and pull your goddamned boys out of my hair."
"Morran, I don't know where you get your shit attitude, but it won't play with me. I swear I'll be there in three minutes to tear your balls off myself!" By this time the street was swarming with cops. Instead of retreating back to the store, Bourne, keeping his left knee rigid, limped calmly out along with perhaps a dozen other shoppers. Half of the contingent of cops, led by a tall stoop-shouldered detective with a haggard face, quickly scanned the faces of the dozen, Bourne included, as they rushed inside the store. The remaining cops fanned out in the parking lot. Some were securing New York Avenue between 12th and 13th Streets, others were busy ensuring that newly arriving patrons remained in their cars; still others were on their walkie-talkies, coordinating traffic.
Instead of heading for his car, Bourne turned to his right, went around the corner toward the loading dock at the rear of the building where the deliveries came in. Up ahead, he could see three or four semis parked, in the process of being unloaded. Diagonally across the street was Franklin Park. He set off in that direction. Someone shouted at him. He kept on walking as if he
hadn't heard. Sirens screamed and he glanced his watch. Commander Burton Philips was right on time. He was halfway down the side of the building when the shouts came again, more commanding. Then there was a welter of harsh voices, raised in heated expletive-laden argument.
He turned, saw the stoop-shouldered detective, his service revolver out. Behind the detective came running the tall, imposing figure of Commander Philips, silver hair shining, his heavy-jowled face in high color from exertion and rage. In the fashion of dignitaries the world over, he was flanked by a pair of heavyweights armed with scowls as big as their shoulders. They had their right hands on their sidearms, apparently ready to blast to smithereens anyone foolish enough to intervene in their commander's wishes.
"You in charge of these Virginia troopers?" Philips called.
"State police," the stoop-shouldered detective said. "And, yeah, I'm in charge." He frowned as he saw the D.C. Metro uniforms. "What in hell are you doing here? You'll muck up my operation."
"Your operation!" Commander Philips was apoplectic. "Get the hell out of my swamp, you fucking hick bastard!"
The detective's narrow face went white. "Who are you calling a fucking hick bastard?" Bourne left them to it. The park was out now; having come under the detective's scrutiny, he needed a more immediate means of escape. Slipping to the end of the building, he went down the row of semis until he found one that had already been unloaded. He climbed into the cab. The key was in the ignition and he turned it over. With a basso profundo rumble, the truck started up.
"Hey, where ya think you're goin', dude?"
The driver yanked open the door. He was a huge man with a neck like a tree stump and arms to match. As he swung up, he grabbed a sawed-off shotgun from a hidden berth above his head. Bourne slammed a balled fist into the bridge of his nose. Blood flew, the driver's eyes went out of focus and he lost his grip on the shotgun.
Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy Page 13