The Bourne Ultimatum

  “Right now he’s in a hospital in Paris.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, whenever something’s wrong with me, I tell him and he sends me to the doctor he thinks I should see.”

  “That’s not exactly socialized medicine.”

  “For me it is. I’ll give his name and address to a nurse. With luck he’ll be back soon.”

  “I repeat, you were very fortunate.”

  “I was very fast, Doctor, and so was your comrade. We saw that son of a bitch running out toward us, so we locked the doors and kept moving in the seats and firing at him as he tried to get close enough to put us away, which he damn near did.… I’m sorry about the driver; he was a brave young man.”

  “He was an angry young man as well, Aleksei,” broke in Krupkin from the other table. “Those first shots from the doorway sent him into that bus.”

  The door of the infirmary burst open, which was to say it was not opened so much as it was invaded, submitting to the august presence of the KGB commissar from the flat in Slavyansky. The blunt-featured, blunt-spoken Komitet officer in the disheveled uniform lived up to his appearance. “You,” he said to the doctor, “I’ve spoken to your associates outside. You are finished here, they say.”

  “Not entirely, comrade. There are minor items to attend to, such as therapeutical—”

  “Later,” interrupted the commissar. “We talk privately. Alone.”

  “The Komitet speaks?” asked the surgeon, his contempt minor but evident.

  “It speaks.”

  “Sometimes too often.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” replied the doctor, heading for the door. The KGB man shrugged and waited for the infirmary door to close. He then walked to the foot of both examining tables, his squinting flesh-encased eyes darting between the two wounded men, and spat out one word. “Novgorod!” he said.

  “What?”

  “What … ?”

  The responses were simultaneous; even Bourne snapped himself away from the wall.

  “You,” he added, switching to his limited English. “Understand I say?”

  “If you said what I think you said, I think I do, but only the name.”

  “I explain good enough. We question the nine men women he locked in weapons storage. He kill two guards who do not stop him, okay? He take automobile keys from four men but uses no automobiles, okay?”

  “I saw him head for the cars!”

  “Which? Three other people at Kubinka shot dead, automobile papers taken. Which?”

  “For Christ’s sake, check with your vehicle bureau, or whatever you call it!”

  “Take time. Also in Moskva, automobiles under different names, different tag plates—Leningrad, Smolensk, who knows—all to not look for automobile laws broken.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” shouted Jason.

  “Automobile ownership is regulated by the state,” explained Krupkin weakly from the table. “Each major center has its own registration and is frequently reluctant to cooperate with another center.”

  “Why?”

  “Individual ownership under different family names—even nonfamily names. It’s forbidden. There are only so many vehicles available for purchase.”

  “So?”

  “Local bribery is a fact of life. No one in Leningrad wants a finger pointed at him from a bureaucrat in Moscow. He’s telling you that it could take several days to learn what automobile the Jackal’s driving.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “You said it, Mr. Bourne, I didn’t. I’m an upstanding citizen of the Soviet Union, please remember that.”

  “But what’s it all got to do with Novgorod—that is what he said, isn’t it?”

  “Novgorod. Shto eto znachit?” said Krupkin to the KGB official. In rapid, clipped Russian, the peasant commissar gave the pertinent details to his colleague from Paris. Krupkin turned his head on the table and translated in English. “Try to follow this, Jason,” he said, his voice intermittently fading, his breathing becoming increasingly more labored. “Apparently there is a walk-around gallery above the armory’s arena. He used it and saw you through a window on the road by the hedges and came back to the weapons room screaming like the maniac he is. He shouted to his bound hostages that you were his and you were dead.… And there was only one last thing he had to accomplish.”

  “Novgorod,” interrupted Conklin, whispering, his head rigid, staring at the ceiling.

  “Precisely,” said Krupkin, his eyes focused on Alex’s profile beside him. “He’s going back to the place of his birth … where Ilich Ramirez Sanchez became Carlos the Jackal because he was disinherited, marked for execution as a madman. He held his gun against everyone’s throat, quietly demanding to know the best roads to Novgorod, threatening to kill whoever gave him the wrong answer. None did, of course, and all who knew told him it was five to six hundred kilometers away, a full day’s drive.”

  “Drive?” interjected Bourne.

  “He knows he cannot use any other means of transportation. The railroads, the airports—even the small airfields—all will be watched, he understands that.”

  “What will he do in Novgorod?” asked Jason quickly.

  “Dear God in heaven, which, of course, there is neither, who knows? He intends to leave his mark, a highly destructive memorial to himself, no doubt, in answer to those he believes betrayed him thirty-odd years ago, as well as the poor souls who fell under his gun this morning in the Vavilova.… He took the papers from our agent trained at Novgorod; he thinks they’ll get him inside. They won’t—we’ll stop him.”

  “Don’t even try,” said Bourne. “He may or may not use them, depending upon what he sees, what he senses. He doesn’t need papers to get in there any more than I do, but if he senses something wrong, and he will, he’ll kill a number of good men and still get inside.”

  “What are you driving at?” asked Krupkin warily, eyeing Bourne, the American with alternate identities and apparently conflicting life-styles.

  “Get me inside ahead of him with a detailed map of the whole complex and some kind of document that gives me free access to go wherever I want to go.”

  “You’ve lost your senses!” cried Dimitri. “A nondefecting American, an assassin hunted by every NATO country in Europe, inside Novgorod?”

  “Nyet, nyet, nyet!” roared the Komitet commissar. “I understand good, okay? You are lunatic, okay?”

  “Do you want the Jackal?”

  “Naturally, but there are limits to the cost.”

  “I haven’t the slightest interest in Novgorod or in any of the compounds—you should know that by now. Your little infiltrating operations and our little infiltrating operations can go on and on and it doesn’t matter because none of it means a goddamned thing in the long run. It’s all adolescent game playing. We either live together on this planet or there is no planet.… My only concern is Carlos. I want him dead so I can go on living.”

  “Of course, I personally agree with much of what you say, although the adolescent games do keep some of us rather gracefully employed. However, there’s no way I could convince my more rigid superiors, starting with the one standing above me.”

  “All right,” said Conklin from his table, his eyes still on the ceiling. “Down and dirty—we deal. You get him into Novgorod and you keep Ogilvie.”

  “We’ve already got him, Aleksei.”

  “Not clean, you haven’t. Washington knows he’s here.”

  “So?”

  “So I can say you lost him and they’ll believe me. They’ll take my word for it that he flew out of your nest and you’re mad as hell, but you can’t get him back. He’s operating from points unknown or unreachable, but obviously under the sovereign protection of a United Nations country. As a matter of conjecture, I suspect that’s how you got him over here in the first place.”

  “You’re cryptic, my fine old enemy. To what purpose should I entertain your suggestion?”


  “No World Court embarrassments, no charges of harboring an American accused of international crimes.… You win the stakes in Europe. You take over the Medusa operation with no complications—in the person of one Dimitri Krupkin, a proven sophisticate from the cosmopolitan world of Paris. Who better to guide the enterprise?… The newest hero of the Soviet, a member of the inner economic council of the Presidium. Forget the lousy house in Geneva, Kruppie, how about a mansion on the Black Sea?”

  “It is a most intelligent and attractive offer, I grant you,” said Krupkin. “I know two or three men on the Central Committee whom I can reach in a matter of minutes—everything confidential, of course.”

  “Nyet, nyet!” shouted the KGB commissar, slamming his fist down on Dimitri’s table. “I understand some—you talk too fast—but all is lunatic!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, shut up!” roared Krupkin. “We’re discussing things far beyond your grasp!”

  “Shto?” Like a young child reprimanded by an adult, the Komitet officer, his puffed eyes widened, was both astonished and frightened by his subordinate’s incomprehensible rebuke.

  “Give my friend his chance, Kruppie,” said Alex. “He’s the best there is and he may bring you the Jackal.”

  “He may also bring about his own death, Aleksei.”

  “He’s been there before. I believe in him.”

  “Belief,” whispered Krupkin, his own eyes now on the ceiling. “Such a luxury it is.… Very well, the order will be issued secretly, its origins untraceable, of course. You’ll enter your own American compound. It’s the one least understood.”

  “How fast can I get there?” asked Bourne. “There’s a lot I have to put together.”

  “We have an airport in Vnokova under our control, no more than an hour away. First, I must make arrangements. Hand me a telephone.… You, my imbecilic commissar! I will hear no more from you! A telefone!” The once all-powerful, now subdued superior, who had really understood only such words as “Presidium” and “Central Committee,” moved with alacrity, bringing an extension phone to Krupkin’s table.

  “One more thing,” said Bourne. “Have Tass put out an immediate bulletin with heavy coverage in the newspapers, radio and television that the assassin known as Jason Bourne died of wounds here in Moscow. Make the details sketchy but have them parallel what happened here this morning.”

  “That’s not difficult. Tass is an obedient instrument of the state.”

  “I haven’t finished,” continued Jason. “I want you to include in those sketchy details that among the personal effects found on Bourne’s body was a road map of Brussels and its environs. The town of Anderlecht was circled in red—that has to appear.”

  “The assassination of the supreme commander of NATO—very good, very convincing. However, Mr. Bourne or Webb or whatever your name may be, you should know that this story will splash across the world like a giant tidal wave.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Are you prepared for it?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “What about your wife? Don’t you think you should reach her first, before the civilized world learns that Jason Bourne is dead?”

  “No. I don’t even want the slightest risk of a leak.”

  “Jesus!” exploded Alex, coughing. “That’s Marie you’re talking about. She’ll fall apart!”

  “It’s a risk I’ll accept,” said Delta coldly.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “So be it,” agreed the Chameleon.

  John St. Jacques, tears welling in his eyes, walked into the bright, sunlit room at the sterile house in the Maryland countryside; in his hand was a page of computer printout. His sister was on the floor in front of the couch playing with an exuberant Jamie, she having put the infant Alison back into the crib upstairs. She looked worn and haggard, her face pale with dark circles under her eyes; she was exhausted from the tension and the jet lag of the long, idiotically routed flights from Paris to Washington. In spite of arriving late last night, she had gotten up early to be with the children—no amount of friendly persuasion on the part of the motherly Mrs. Cooper could dissuade her from doing so. The brother would have given years of his life not to do what had to be done during the next few minutes, but he could not risk the alternatives. He had to be with her when she found out.

  “Jamie,” said St. Jacques gently. “Go find Mrs. Cooper, will you please? I think she’s in the kitchen.”

  “Why, Uncle John?”

  “I want to talk to your mother for a few minutes.”

  “Johnny, please,” objected Marie.

  “I have to, Sis.”

  “What …?”

  The child left, and as children often do, he obviously sensed something serious that was beyond his understanding; he stared at his uncle before heading to the door. Marie got to her feet and looked hard at her brother, at the tears that began to roll down his cheeks. The terrible message was conveyed. “No …!” she whispered, her pallid face growing paler. “Dear God, no,” she cried, her hands and then her shoulders starting to tremble. “No … no!” she roared.

  “He’s gone, Sis. I wanted you to hear it from me, not over a radio or a TV set. I want to be with you.”

  “You’re wrong, wrong!” screamed Marie, rushing toward him, grabbing his shirt and clenching the fabric in her fists. “He’s protected!… He promised me he was protected!”

  “This just came from Langley,” said the younger brother, holding up the page of computer printout. “Holland called me a few minutes ago and said it was on its way over. He knew you had to see it. It was picked up from Radio Moscow during the night and will be on all the broadcasts and in the morning papers.”

  “Give it to me!” she shouted defiantly. He did so and gently held her shoulders, prepared to take her in his arms and give what comfort he could. She read the copy rapidly, then shook off his hands, frowning, and walked back to the couch and sat down. Her concentration was absolute; she placed the paper on the coffee table and studied it as though it were an archaeological find, a scroll perhaps.

  “He’s gone, Marie. I don’t know what to say—you know how I felt about him.”

  “Yes, I know, Johnny.” Then to St. Jacques’s astonishment, his sister looked up at him, a thin, wan smile appearing on her lips. “But it’s a little early for our tears, Bro. He’s alive. Jason Bourne’s alive and up to his tricks and that means David’s alive, too.”

  My God, she can’t accept it, thought the brother, walking to the couch and kneeling beside the coffee table in front of Marie, taking her hands in his. “Sis, honey, I don’t think you understand. I’ll do everything possible to help you, but you’ve got to understand.”

  “Bro, you’re very sweet but you haven’t read this closely—really closely. The impact of the message detracts from the subtext. In economics we call it obfuscation with a cloud of smoke and a couple of mirrors.”

  “Huh?” St. Jacques released her hands and stood up. “What are you talking about?”

  Marie picked up the Langley communiqué and scanned it. “After several confused, even contradictory, accounts of what happened,” she said, “described by people on the scene at this armory, or whatever it is, the following is buried in the last paragraph. ‘Among the personal effects found on the slain assassin’s body was a map of Brussels and the surrounding area with the town of Anderlecht circled in red.’ Then it goes on to make the obvious connection with Teagarten’s assassination. It’s a wash, Johnny, from two points of view.… First, David would never carry such a map. Second, and far more telling, the fact that the Soviet media would give such prominence to the story is unbelievable enough, but to include the assassination of General Teagarten is simply too much.”

  “What do you mean? Why?”

  “Because the presumed assassin was in Russia, and Moscow wants no conceivable linkage to the killing of a NATO commander.… No, Bro, someone bent the rules and persuaded Tass to put out the story, and I suspect heads wi
ll roll. I don’t know where Jason Bourne is, but I know he’s not dead. David made sure I’d know that.”

  Peter Holland picked up the phone and touched the buttons on his console for Charles Casset’s private line.

  “Yes?”

  “Charlie, it’s Peter.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all I’m getting on this phone is trouble and confusion. I just got off with our source in Dzerzhinsky Square and he told me the KGB’s after blood.”

  “The Tass release on Bourne?”

  “Right. Tass and Radio Moscow assumed the story was officially sanctioned because it was faxed by the Ministry of Information using the proper immediate-release codes. When the shit hit the fan, no one owned up, and whoever programmed the codes can’t be traced.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “I’m not sure, but from what I’ve learned about Dimitri Krupkin, it could be his style. He’s now working with Alex and if this isn’t something out of the Conklin textbook, I don’t know Saint Alex. And I do.”

  “That dovetails with what Marie thinks.”

  “Marie?”

  “Bourne’s wife. I just spoke to her and her argument’s pretty strong. She says Moscow’s report is a wash for all the right reasons. Her husband’s alive.”

  “I agree. Is that what you called to tell me?”

  “No,” answered the director, taking a deep breath. “I’m adding to your trouble and confusion.”

  “I’m not relieved to hear that. What is it?”

  “The Paris telephone number, the link to the Jackal we got from Henry Sykes in Montserrat that reached a café on the Marais waterfront in Paris.”

  “Where someone would answer a call for a blackbird. I remember.”

  “Someone did and we followed him. You’re not going to like this.”

  “Alex Conklin is about to earn the prick-of-the-year award. He put us on to Sykes, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do tell.”

  “The message was delivered to the home of the director of the Deuxième Bureau.”