The Bourne Ultimatum

by Robert Ludlum

  “I try to be.… Oh, don’t blame the concierges, they belong to you. I’m much further below scale. Chambermaids and stewards are more to my liking. They’re not so spoiled and nobody really misses them if they don’t show up one day.”

  Spread across the table were Bourne’s three passports, courtesy of Cactus in Washington, as well as the gun and the knife taken from him last night. “You’re very convincing, but it doesn’t solve anything, does it?”

  “We’ll see,” answered Santos. “I’ll accept your money now—for my best efforts—but instead of your flying to London, have London fly to Paris. Tomorrow morning. When he arrives at the Pont-Royal, you’ll call me—I’ll give you my private number, of course—and we’ll play the Soviets’ game. Exchange for exchange, like walking across a bridge with our respective prisoners in tow. The money for the information.”

  “You’re crazy, Santos. My clients don’t expose themselves that way. You just lost the rest of the three million.”

  “Why not try them? They could always hire a blind, couldn’t they? An innocent tourist with a false bottom in his or her Louis Vuitton carryon? No alarms are set off with paper. Try it! It is the only way you’ll get what you want, monsieur.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” said Bourne.

  “Here is my telephone.” Santos picked up a prearranged card from the table with numbers scrawled across it. “Call me when London arrives. In the meantime, I assure you, you will be watched.”

  “You’re a real swell guy.”

  “I’ll escort you to the elevator.”

  Marie sat up in bed, sipping hot tea in the dark room, listening to the sounds of Paris outside the windows. Not only was sleep impossible, but it was intolerable, a waste of time when every hour counted. She had taken the earliest flight from Marseilles to Paris and had gone directly to the Meurice on the rue de Rivoli, the same hotel where she had waited thirteen years ago, waited for a man to listen to reason or lose his life, and in doing so, losing a large part of hers. She had ordered a pot of tea then, and he had come back to her; she ordered tea now from the night floor steward, absently perhaps, as if the repeated ritual might bring about a repetition of his appearance so long ago.

  Oh, God, she had seen him! It was no illusion, no mistake, it was David! She had left the hotel at midmorning and begun wandering, going down the list she had made on the plane, heading from one location to another without any logical sequence in mind, simply following the succession of places as they had come to her—that was her sequence. It was a lesson she had learned from Jason Bourne thirteen years ago: When running or hunting, analyze your options but remember your first. It’s usually the cleanest and the best. Most of the time you’ll take it.

  So she had followed the list, from the pier of the Bateau Mouche at the base of the avenue George V to the bank on the Madeleine … to the Trocadéro. She had wandered aimlessly along the terraces of the last, as if in a trance, looking for a statue she could not remember, jostled by the intermittent groups of tourists led by loud, officious guides. The huge statues all began to look alike; she had felt light-headed. The late August sun was blinding. She was about to sit down on a marble bench, remembering yet another dictate from Jason Bourne: Rest is a weapon. Suddenly, up ahead, she saw a man wearing a cap and a dark V-necked sweater; he had turned and raced toward the palatial stone steps that led to the avenue Gustave V. She knew that run, that stride; she knew it better than anyone! How often had she watched him—frequently from behind bleachers, sight unseen—as he had pounded around the university track, ridding himself of the furies that had gripped him. It was David! She had leaped up from the bench and raced after him.

  “David! David, it’s me!… Jason!”

  She had collided with a tour guide leading a group of Japanese. The man was incensed; she was furious, so she furiously pummeled her way through the astonished Orientals, the majority shorter than she was, but her superior sight lines were no help. Her husband had disappeared. Where had he gone? Into the gardens? Into the street with the crowds and the traffic from the Pont d’Iéna? For Christ’s sake, where?

  “Jason!” she had screamed at the top of her voice. “Jason, come back!”

  People had looked at her, some with the empathetic glances of lovers burned, most simply disapproving. She had run down the never-ending steps to the street, spending—how long a time she could not recall—searching for him. Finally, in exhaustion, she had taken a taxi back to the Meurice. In a daze, she reached her room and fell on the bed, refusing to let the tears come. It was no time for tears. It was a time for a brief rest and food; energy to be restored, the lessons of Jason Bourne. Then back into the streets, the hunt to continue. And as she lay there, staring at the wall, she felt a swelling in her chest, in her lungs perhaps, and it was accompanied by a sense of passive elation. As she was looking for David, he was looking for her. Her husband had not run away, even Jason Bourne had not run away. Neither part of the same man could have seen her. There had been another unknown reason for the sudden, hurried exit from the Trocadéro, but there was only one reason for his being at the Trocadéro. He, too, was searching what memories he had of Paris thirteen years ago. He, too, understood that somewhere, someplace in those memories he would find her.

  She had rested, ordered room service and two hours later gone out again into the streets.

  Now, at the moment, as she drank her tea, she could not wait for the light to come. The day ahead was meant for searching.

  “Bernardine!”

  “Mon Dieu, it is four o’clock in the morning, so I can assume you have something vital to tell this seventy-year-old man.”

  “I’ve got a problem.”

  “I think you have many problems, but I suppose it’s a minor distinction. What is it?”

  “I’m as close as I can be but I need an end man.”

  “Please speak clearer English, or if you will, far clearer French. It must be an American term, this ‘end man.’ But then you have so many esoteric phrases. I’m sure someone sits in Langley and thinks them up.”

  “Come on, I haven’t time for your bon mots.”

  “You come on, my friend. I’m not trying to be clever, I’m trying to wake up.… There, my feet are on the floor and a cigarette’s in my mouth. Now, what is it?”

  “My access to the Jackal expects an Englishman to fly over from London this morning with two million eight hundred thousand francs—”

  “Far less than you have at your disposal, I assume,” interrupted Bernardine. “The Banque Normandie was accommodating, was it not?”

  “Very. The money’s there, and that Tabouri of yours is a beaut. He tried to sell me real estate in Beirut.”

  “That Tabouri is a thief—but Beirut is interesting.”

  “Please.”

  “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “I’m being watched, so I can’t go to the bank, and I don’t have any Englishman to bring what I can’t get to the Pont-Royal.”

  “That’s your problem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you willing to part with, say, fifty thousand francs?”

  “What for?”

  “Tabouri.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You signed papers, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Sign another paper, handwritten by you and also signed, releasing the money to—Wait a moment, I must go to my desk.” There was silence on the line as Bernardine obviously went to another room in his flat; his voice returned. “Alio?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Oh, this is lovely,” intoned the former Deuxième specialist. “I sank him in his sailboat off the shoals of the Costa Brava. The sharks had a feeding frenzy; he was so fat and delectable. The name is Antonio Scarzi, a Sardinian who traded drugs for information, but you know nothing about that, of course.”

  “Of course.” Bourne repeated the last name, spelling it out.

  “Correct. Seal the envelope, rub a pencil or a pen ov
er your thumb and press your prints along the seal. Then give it to the concierge for Mr. Scarzi.”

  “Understood. What about the Englishman? This morning? It’s only a few hours away.”

  “The Englishman is not a problem. The morning is—the few hours are. It’s a simple matter to transfer funds from one bank to another—buttons are pressed, computers instantly cross-check the data, and, poof, figures are entered on paper. It’s quite another thing to collect nearly three million francs in cash, and your access certainly won’t accept pounds or dollars for fear of being caught exchanging them or depositing them. Add to this the problem of collecting notes large enough to be part of a bundle small enough to be concealed from customs inspectors.… Your access, mon ami, has to be aware of these difficulties.”

  Jason looked aimlessly at the wall, his thoughts on Bernardine’s words. “You think he’s testing me?”

  “He has to.”

  “The money could be gotten together from the foreign departments of different banks. A small private plane could hop across the channel and land in a pasture where a car’s waiting to bring the man to Paris.”

  “Bien. Of course. However, these logistics take time even for the most influential people. Don’t make it all appear too simple, that would be suspect. Keep your access informed as to the progress being made, emphasizing the secrecy, how there can be no risk of exposure, explain the delays. If there were none, he might think it’s a trap.”

  “I see what you mean. It comes down to what you just said—don’t make it seem so easy because that’s not credible.”

  “There’s something else, mon ami. A chameleon may be many things in daylight; still, he is safer in darkness.”

  “You forgot something,” said Bourne. “What about the Englishman?”

  “Tallyho, old chap,” said Bernardine.

  The operation went as smoothly as any Jason had ever engineered or been witness to, perhaps thanks to the flair of a resentful talented man who had been sent to the pastures too soon. While throughout the day Bourne made progress calls to Santos, Bernardine had someone other than himself pick up the sealed instructions from the concierge and bring them to him, at which point he made his appointment with Monsieur Tabouri. Shortly after four-thirty in the afternoon, the Deuxième veteran walked into the Pont-Royal dressed in a dark pin-striped suit so obviously British that it screamed Savile Row. He went to the elevator and eventually, after two wrong turns, reached Bourne’s room.

  “Here’s the money,” he said, dropping the attaché case on the floor and going straight to Jason’s hotel wet bar; he removed two miniature bottles of Tanqueray gin, snapped them open and poured the liquor into a questionably clean glass. “A votre santé,” he added, swallowing half his drink before breathing heavily through his mouth and then rapidly swallowing the rest. “I haven’t done anything like that in years.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “Frankly, no. I had others do such things. It’s far too dangerous.… Nevertheless, Tabouri is forever in your debt, and, frankly, he’s convinced me I should look into Beirut.”

  “What?”

  “Of course, I haven’t your resources, but a percentage of forty years of les fonds de contingence have found their way to Geneva on my behalf. I’m not a poor man.”

  “You may be a dead man if they pick you up leaving here.”

  “Oh, but I shan’t go,” said Bernardine, once again searching the small refrigerator. “I shall stay in this room until you have concluded your business.” François ripped open two additional bottles and poured them into his glass. “Now, perhaps, my old heart will beat slower,” he added as he walked to the inadequate desk, placed his drink on the blotter, and proceeded to take out two automatics and three grenades from his pockets, placing them all in a row in front of his glass. “Yes, I will relax now.”

  “What the hell is that—are they!” cried Jason.

  “I think you Americans call it deterrence,” replied Bernardine. “Although I frankly believe both you and the Soviets are playing with yourselves as you both put so much money into weaponry that doesn’t work. Now, I come from a different era. When you go out to do your business, you will leave the door open. If someone comes down that narrow corridor, he will see a grenade in my hand. That is not nuclear abstraction, that is deterrence.”

  “I’ll buy it,” said Bourne, going to the door. “I want to get this over with.”

  Out on Montalembert, Jason walked to the corner, and as he had done at the old factory in Argenteuil, leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. He waited, his posture casual, his mind in high gear.

  A man walked across from the bisecting rue du Bac toward him. It was the talkative messenger from last night; he approached, his hand in his jacket pocket.

  “Where’s the money?” said the man in French.

  “Where’s the information?” answered Bourne.

  “The money first.”

  “That’s not the arrangement.” Without warning, Jason grabbed the minion from Argenteuil by his lapel, yanking him forward off his feet. Bourne whipped up his free hand and gripped the messenger’s throat, his fingers digging into the man’s flesh. “You go back and tell Santos he’s got a one-way ticket to hell. I don’t deal this way.”

  “Enough!” said the low voice, its owner rounding the corner on Jason’s right. The huge figure of Santos approached. “Let him go, Simon. He is nothing. It is now only you and me.”

  “I thought you never left Le Coeur du Soldat?”

  “You’ve changed that, haven’t you?”

  “Apparently.” Bourne released the messenger, who looked at Santos. With a gesture of his large head, the man raced away.

  “Your Englishman arrived,” said Santos when they were alone. “He carried a valise, I saw for myself.”

  “He arrived carrying a valise,” agreed Jason.

  “So London capitulates, no? London is very anxious.”

  “The stakes are very high and that’s all I’ll say about it. The information, please.”

  “Let us first again define the procedure, shall we?”

  “We’ve defined it several times.… You give me the information, my client tells me to act upon it; and if satisfactory contact is made, I bring you the remainder of the three million francs.”

  “You say ‘satisfactory contact.’ What will satisfy you? How will you know the contact is firm? How do I know that you will not claim it is unsatisfactory and steal my money when, indeed, you have made the connection your clients have paid for?”

  “You’re a suspicious fellow, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, very suspicious. Our world, Mr. Simon, is not peopled with saints, is it?”

  “Perhaps more than you realize.”

  “That would astonish me. Please answer my questions.”

  “All right, I’ll try.… How will I know the contact’s firm? That’s easy. I’ll simply know because it’s my business to know. It’s what I’m paid for, and a man in my position does not make mistakes at this level and live to apologize. I’ve refined the process, done my research, and I’ll ask two or three questions myself. Then I’ll know—one way or another.”

  “That’s an elusive reply.”

  “In our world, Mr. Santos, being elusive is hardly a negative, is it?… As to your concern that I would lie to you and take your money, let me assure you I don’t cultivate enemies like you and the network your blackbird obviously controls any more than I would make enemies of my clients. That way is madness and a much shorter life.”

  “I admire your perspicacity as well as your caution,” said the Jackal’s intermediary.

  “The bookcases didn’t lie. You’re a learned man.”

  “That’s neither here nor there, but I have certain credentials. Appearances can be a liability as well as an asset.… What I am about to tell you, Mr. Simon, is known by only four men on the face of the earth, all of whom speak French fluently. How you wish to use that information is up to you. However, if
you even hint at Argenteuil, I’ll know it instantly and you will never leave the Pont-Royal alive.”

  “The contact can be made so quickly?”

  “With a telephone number. But you will not place the call for at least an hour from the moment we part. If you do, again I will know it, and again I tell you you’re a dead man.”

  “An hour. Agreed.… Only three other people have this number? Why not pick one you’re not particularly fond of so I might peripherally allude to him—if it’s necessary.”

  Santos permitted himself a small, flat smile. “Moscow,” he said softly. “High up in Dzerzhinsky Square.”

  “The KGB?”

  “The blackbird is building a cadre in Moscow, always Moscow, it’s an obsession with him.”

  Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, thought Bourne. Trained at Novgorod. Dismissed by the Komitet as a maniac. The Jackal!

  “I’ll bear it in mind—if it’s called for. The number, please?”

  Santos recited it twice along with the words Bourne was to say. He spoke slowly, obviously impressed that Bourne wrote nothing down. “Is it all clear?”

  “Indelibly, no pencil or paper required.… If everything goes as I trust it will, how do you want me to get you the money?”

  “Phone me; you’ve got my number. I will leave Argenteuil and come to you. And never return to Argenteuil.”

  “Good luck, Santos. Something tells me you deserve it.”

  “No one more so. I have drunk the hemlock far too many times.”

  “Socrates,” said Jason.

  “Not directly. Plato’s dialogues, to be precise. Au revoir.”

  Santos walked away, and Bourne, his chest pounding, headed back to the Pont-Royal, desperately suppressing his desire to run. A running man is an object of curiosity, a target. A lesson from the cantos of Jason Bourne.

  “Bernardine!” he yelled, racing down the narrow, deserted hallway to his room, all too aware of the open door and the old man seated at the desk, a grenade in one hand, a gun in the other. “Put the hardware away, we’ve hit pay dirt!”

  “Who’s paying?” asked the Deuxième veteran as Jason closed the door.