“Get out!” yelled Sergei, pulling Bourne from the seat onto the dirt by the fence, as his stunned superior and Alex Conklin crawled out behind him.
“Let’s go!” cried Jason, gripping the AK-47 and getting to his feet. “That son of a bitch blew up the car by remote.”
“I’ll go first!” said the Soviet.
“Why?”
“Frankly, I’m younger and stronger—”
“Shut up!” Bourne raced ahead, zigzagging to draw fire, then plummeting to the ground when it came from the driver of Carlos’s van. He raised his weapon in the grass, knowing that the Jackal’s man believed his fusillade had been accurate; the head appeared and then was no more as Jason squeezed the trigger.
The second Russian backup, hearing the death cry from behind the van, rose from the sloping grass and continued toward the restaurant’s entrance. From inside came the sound of erratic gunfire, sudden bursts accompanied by screams of panic, followed by additional bursts. A living nightmare of terror and blood was taking place within the confines of a once bucolic country inn. Bourne got to his feet, Sergei at his side; running, they joined the other surviving Soviet aide. At Jason’s nod, the Russians pulled back the doors and as one they burst inside.
The next sixty seconds were as terrifying as the shrieking hell depicted by Munch. A waiter and two of the men who were among the three couples were dead, the waiter and one man sprawled on the floor, their skulls shattered, what was left of their faces lying in blood; the third man was splayed back in the banquette, his eyes wide and glass-dead, his clothes riddled with bullets, rivulets of blood rolling down the fabric. The women were in total shock, alternately moaning and screaming as they kept trying to crawl over the pine walls of the booth. The well-dressed man and wife from the Italian embassy were nowhere in sight.
Sergei suddenly rushed forward, his weapon on auto fire; in a rear corner of the room he had spotted a figure whom Bourne had not seen. The stocking-faced killer sprang out of the shadows, his machine swinging into position, but before he could exercise his advantage, the Soviet cut him down.… Another! A body lurching behind the short counter that served as a bar. Was it the Jackal? Jason pivoted into the diagonal wall, crouching, his eyes darting into every recess in the vicinity of the wine racks. He lunged to the base of the bar as the second Russian backup, assessing the situation, ran to the hysterical women, spinning around, his gun swinging back and forth protecting them. The stocking-faced head shot up from behind the counter, his weapon surging out over the wood. Bourne sprang to his feet, gripping the hot barrel with his left hand, his right commanding the AK-47; he fired point-blank into the terrorist’s contorted face beyond the silk. It was not Carlos. Where was the Jackal?
“In there!” shouted Sergei as if he had heard Jason’s furious question.
“Where?”
“Those doors!”
It was the country restaurant’s kitchen. Both men converged on the swinging doors. Again Bourne nodded, the signal for them to crash inside, but before they could move, both were partially blown back by an explosion from within; a grenade had been set off, with fragments of metal and glass embedded in the doors. The smoke billowed, wafting out into the dining room; the smell was acrid, sickening.
Silence.
Jason and Sergei once more approached the kitchen’s entrance, and once again they were stopped by a second sudden explosion followed by staccato gunfire, the bullets piercing the thin, louvered panels of the swinging doors.
Silence.
Standoff.
Silence.
It was too much for the furious, impassioned Chameleon. He cracked the bolt of his AK-47, pulled the selective lever and then the trigger for auto fire, and crashed the doors open, lunging for the floor.
Silence.
Another scene from another hell. A section of the outside wall had been blown away, the obese owner and his chef, still wearing his toque, were dead, corpses pinned against the lower shelves of the kitchen, blood streaming across and down the wood.
Bourne slowly rose to his feet, his legs in agony, every nerve in his body frayed, the edge of hysteria not far away. As if in a trance, he looked around through the smoke and the debris, his eyes finally settling on a large, ominous fragment of brown butcher’s paper nailed to the wall with a heavy cleaver. He approached it and, yanking out the cleaver, read the words printed in a black butcher’s pencil:
The trees of Tannenbaum will burn and children will be the kindling. Sleep well Jason Bourne.
The mirrors of his life were shattered into a thousand pieces of glass. There was nothing else to do but scream.
31
“Stop it, David!”
“My God, he’s insane, Aleksei. Sergei, grab him, hold him.… You, help Sergei! Put him on the ground so I can talk to him. We must leave here quickly!”
It was all the two Russian aides could do to wrestle the screaming Bourne to the grass. He had raced out through the exploded hole in the wall, running into the high grass in a futile attempt to find the Jackal, firing his AK-47 into the field beyond until his magazine was empty. Sergei and the surviving backup had rushed in after him, the former ripping the weapon out of Jason’s hands, together leading the hysterical man back to the rear of the mutilated country inn, where Alex and Krupkin were waiting for them. Forcibly, their charge in a sweating, erratically breathing trance, the five men walked rapidly to the front of the restaurant; there the uncontrollable hysteria again seized the Chameleon.
The Jackal’s van was gone. Carlos had reversed his line of flight and escaped and Jason Bourne had gone mad.
“Hold him!” roared Krupkin, kneeling beside Jason as the two aides pinned Bourne to the ground. The KGB officer reached down and spread his hand across the American’s face, gouging his cheeks with thumb and forefinger, forcing Treadstone Seventy-one to look at him. “I’ll say this once, Mr. Bourne, and if it doesn’t sink in, you may stay here by yourself and take the consequences! But we must leave. If you get hold of yourself, we’ll be in touch with the proper officials of your government within the hour from Paris. I’ve read the warning to you and I can assure you your own people are capable of protecting your family—as your family was explained to me by Aleksei. But you, yourself, must be part of that communication. You can become rational, Mr. Bourne, or you can go to hell. Which will it be?”
The Chameleon, straining against the knees pinning him to the ground, exhaled as if it were his final breath. His eyes came into focus and he said, “Get these bastards off me.”
“One of those bastards saved your life,” said Conklin.
“And I saved one of theirs. So be it.”
The armor-plated Citroën sped down the country road toward the Paris highway. On the scrambled cellular telephone, Krupkin ordered a team to Epernon for the immediate removal of what was left of the Russian backup vehicle. The body of the slain man had been placed carefully in the Citroën’s trunk, and the official Soviet comment, if asked for, was one of noninvolvement: Two lower-level diplomatic staff had gone out for a country lunch when the massacre occurred. Several killers were in stocking masks, the others barely seen as the staff members escaped through a back door, running for their lives. When it was over they returned to the restaurant, covering the victims, trying to calm the hysterical women and the lone surviving man. They had called their superiors to report the hideous incident and were instructed to inform the local police and return at once to the embassy. Soviet interests could not be jeopardized by the accidental presence at the scene of an act of French criminality.
“It sounds so Russian,” Krupkin said.
“Will anyone believe it?” Alex wondered.
“It doesn’t matter,” answered the Soviet. “Epernon reeks of a Jackal reprisal. The blown-apart old man, two subordinate terrorists in stocking masks—the Sûreté knows the signs. If we were involved, we were on the correct side, so they won’t pursue our presence.”
Bourne sat silently by the window. Krupkin
was beside him with Conklin in the jump seat in front of the Russian. Jason broke his angry silence, taking his eyes off the rushing scenery and slamming his fist on the armrest. “Oh, Christ, the kids!” he shouted. “How could that bastard have learned about the Tannenbaum house?”
“Forgive me, Mr. Bourne,” broke in Krupkin gently. “I realize it’s far easier for me to say than for you to accept, but very soon now you’ll be in touch with Washington. I know something about the Agency’s ability to protect its own, and I guarantee you it’s maddeningly effective.”
“It can’t be so goddamned great if Carlos can penetrate this far!”
“Perhaps he didn’t,” said the Soviet. “Perhaps he had another source.”
“There weren’t any.”
“One never knows, sir.”
They sped through the streets of Paris in the blinding afternoon sun as the pedestrians sweltered in the summer heat. Finally they reached the Soviet embassy on the boulevard Lannes and raced through the gates, the guards waving them on, instantly recognizing Krupkin’s gray Citroën. They swung around the cobblestone courtyard, stopping in front of the imposing marble steps and the sculptured arch that formed the entrance.
“Stay available, Sergei,” ordered the KGB officer. “If there’s to be any contact with the Súreté, you’re selected.” Then, as if it were an afterthought, Krupkin addressed the aide sitting next to Sergei in the front seat. “No offense, young man,” he added, “but over the years my old friend and driver has become highly resourceful in these situations. However, you also have work to do. Process the body of our loyal deceased comrade for cremation. Internal Operations will explain the paperwork.” With a nod of his head, Dimitri Krupkin instructed Bourne and Alex Conklin to get out of the car.
Once inside, Dimitri explained to the army guard that he did not care for his guests to be subjected to the metal detecting trellises through which all visitors to the Soviet embassy were expected to pass. As an aside, he whispered in English to his guests. “Can you imagine the alarms that would go off? Two armed Americans from the savage CIA roaming the halls of this bastion of the proletariat? Good heavens, I can feel the cold of Siberia in my testicles.”
They walked through the ornate, richly decorated nineteenth-century lobby to a typical brass-grilled French elevator; they entered and proceeded to the third floor. The grille opened and Krupkin continued as he led the way down a wide corridor. “We’ll use an in-house conference room,” he said. “You’ll be the only Americans who have ever seen it or will ever see it, as it’s one of the few offices without listening devices.”
“You wouldn’t want to submit that statement to a polygraph, would you?” asked Conklin, chuckling.
“Like you, Aleksei, I learned long ago how to fool those idiot machines; but even if that were not so, in this case I would willingly submit it, for it’s true. In all honesty, it’s to protect ourselves from ourselves. Come along now.”
The conference room was the size of an average suburban dining room but with a long heavy table and dark masculine furniture, the chairs thick, unwieldy and quite comfortable. The walls were covered with deep brown paneling, the inevitable portrait of Lenin centered ostentatiously behind the head chair, beside which was a low table designed for the telephone console within easy reach. “I know you’re anxious,” said Krupkin, going to the console, “so I’ll authorize an international line for you.” Lifting the phone, touching a button, and speaking rapidly in Russian, Dimitri did so, then hung up and turned to the Americans. “You’re assigned number twenty-six; it’s the last button on the right, second row.”
“Thanks.” Conklin nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper and handing it to the KGB officer. “I need another favor, Kruppie. That’s a telephone number here in Paris. It’s supposed to be a direct line to the Jackal, but it didn’t match the one Bourne was given that did reach him. We don’t know where it fits in, but wherever it is, it’s tied to Carlos.”
“And you don’t want to call it for fear of exposing your possession of the number—initial codes, that sort of thing. I understand, of course. Why send out an alert when it’s unnecessary? I’ll take care of it.” Krupkin looked at Jason, his expression that of an older, understanding colleague. “Be of good and firm heart, Mr. Bourne, as the czarists would say facing no discernible harm whatsoever. Despite your apprehensions, I have enormous faith in Langley’s abilities. They’ve harmed my not insignificant operations more than I care to dwell upon.”
“I’m sure you’ve done your share of damage to them,” said Jason impatiently, glancing at the telephone console.
“That knowledge keeps me going.”
“Thanks, Kruppie,” said Alex. “In your words, you’re a fine old enemy.”
“Again, shame on your parents! If they had stayed in Mother Russia, just think. By now you and I would be running the Komitet.”
“And have two lakefront houses?”
“Are you crazy, Aleksei? We would own the entire Lake Geneva!” Krupkin turned and walked to the door, letting himself out with quiet laughter.
“It’s all a damned game with you people, isn’t it?” said Bourne.
“Up to a point,” agreed Alex, “but not when stolen information can lead to the loss of life—on both sides, incidentally. That’s when the weapons come out and the games are over.”
“Reach Langley,” said Jason abruptly, nodding at the console. “Holland’s got some explaining to do.”
“Reaching Langley wouldn’t help—”
“What?”
“It’s too early; it’s barely seven o’clock in the States, but not to worry, I can bypass.” Conklin again reached into a pocket and withdrew a small notebook.
“Bypass?” cried Bourne. “What kind of double talk is that? I’m close to the edge, Alex, those are my children over there!”
“Relax, all it means is that I’ve got his unlisted home number.” Conklin sat down and picked up the phone; he dialed.
“ ‘Bypass,’ for Christ’s sake. You relics of outmoded ciphers can’t use the English language. Bypass!”
“Sorry, Professor, it’s habit.… Peter? It’s Alex. Open your eyes and wake up, sailor. We’ve got complications.”
“I don’t have to wake up,” said the voice from Fairfax, Virginia. “I just got back from a five-mile jog.”
“Oh, you people with feet think you’re so smart.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Alex.… I didn’t mean—”
“Of course you didn’t, Ensign Holland, but we’ve got a problem.”
“Which means at least you’ve made contact. You reached Bourne.”
“He’s standing over my shoulder and we’re calling from the Soviet embassy in Paris.”
“What? Holy shit!”
“Not holy, just Casset, remember?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot.… What about his wife?”
“Mo Panov’s with her. The good doctor’s covering the medical bases, for which I’m grateful.”
“So am I. Any other progress?”
“Nothing you want to hear, but you’re going to hear it loud and clear.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Jackal knows about the Tannenbaum estate.”
“You’re nuts!” shouted the director of the Central Intelligence Agency so loudly that there was a metallic ring on the transoceanic line. “Nobody knows! Only Charlie Casset and myself. We built up a chrono with false names and Central American bios so far removed from Paris that no one could make a connection. Also, there was no mention of the Tannenbaum place in the orders! S’ help me, Alex, it was airtight because we wouldn’t let anyone else handle it!”
“Facts are facts, Peter. My friend got a note saying the trees of Tannenbaum would burn, the children with them.”
“Son of a bitch!” yelled Holland. “Stay on the line,” he ordered. “I’ll call St. Jacques over there, then max-security and have them moved this morning. Stay on the line!” Conkl
in looked up at Bourne, the telephone between them, the words heard by both men.
“If there’s a leak, and there is a leak, it can’t come from Langley,” said Alex.
“It has to! He hasn’t looked deep enough.”
“Where does he look?”
“Christ, you’re the experts. The helicopter that flew them out; the crew, the people who cleared an American aircraft flying into UK territory. My God! Carlos bought the lousy Crown governor of Montserrat and his head drug chief. What’s to prevent him from owning the communications between our military and Plymouth?”
“But you heard him,” insisted Conklin. “The names were fake, the chronologies oriented to Central America, and above all, no one on the relay flights knew about the Tannenbaum estate. No one.… We’ve got a gap.”
“Please spare me that crypto-jargon.”
“It’s not cryptic at all. A gap’s a space that hasn’t been filled—”
“Alex?” The angry voice of Peter Holland was back on the line.
“Yes, Peter?”
“We’re moving them out, and I won’t even tell you where they’re going. St. Jacques’s pissed off because Mrs. Cooper and the kids are settled, but I told him he’s got an hour.”
“I want to talk to Johnny,” said Bourne, bending over and speaking loud enough to be heard.
“Nice to meet you, if only on the phone,” broke in Holland.
“Thanks for all you’re doing for us,” managed Jason quietly, sincerely. “I mean that.”
“Quid pro quo, Bourne. In your hunt for the Jackal you pulled a big ugly rabbit out of a filthy hat nobody knew was there.”
The Bourne Ultimatum Page 57