“Then we can assume Carlos has heard the news, too.”
“No question. Every vehicle in Russia is equipped with a radio; it’s standard. In case of an American attack, incidentally.”
“That’s good marketing.”
“Did you really assassinate Teagarten in Brussels?”
“Get off my case—”
“Off-limits, okay. What’s your point?”
“Krupkin should have left it to me.”
“Left what?”
“The Jackal’s penetration.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Use Krupkin, if necessary, but send the word up to every tunnel, every entrance to Novgorod, to let in anyone using those papers. My guess is three or four, maybe five. They’re to watch them, but they’re to let everyone come inside.”
“You just got awarded a room made of thick sponge rubber. You’re certifiable, Archie.”
“No, I’m not. I said that everyone should be watched, followed, that the guards maintain constant contact with us here in this compound.”
“So?”
“One of those men will disappear in a matter of minutes. No one will know where he is or where he went. That man will be Carlos.”
“And?”
“He’ll convince himself he’s invulnerable, free to do whatever he wants to do, because he thinks I’m dead. That sets him free.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows and I know that we’re the only ones who can track each other, whether it’s in the jungles or the cities or a combination of both. Hatred does that, Benjamin. Or desperation.”
“That’s pretty emotional, isn’t it? Also abstract.”
“No way,” answered Jason. “I have to think like he thinks—I was trained to do that years ago.… Let’s examine the alternatives. How far up the Volkhov does Novgorod extend? Thirty, forty kilometers?”
“Forty-seven, to be exact, and every meter is impenetrable. There are magnesium pipes crisscrossing the water, spaced above and below the surface to permit the free flow of underwater life but capable of setting off alarms. On the east bank are interlocking ground grids, all weight-sensing. Anything over ninety pounds instantly sets off sirens, and television monitors and spotlights zero in on any intruder over that weight. And even if an eighty-nine-pound wonder reached the fence, he’d be electrically rendered unconscious on the first touch; that also goes for the magnesium pipes in the river. Of course, falling trees or floating logs and the heavier animals keep our security forces on the run. It’s good discipline, I suppose.”
“Then there are only the tunnels,” said Bourne, “is that right?”
“You came through one, what can I tell you that you didn’t see? Except that iron gates literally crash down at the slightest irregularity, and in emergencies all the tunnels can be flooded.”
“All of which Carlos knows. He was trained here.”
“Many years ago, Krupkin told me.”
“Many years,” agreed Jason. “I wonder how much things have changed.”
“Technologically you could probably fill a few volumes, especially in communications and security, but not the basics. Not the tunnels or the miles of grids in and out of the water; they’re built for a couple of centuries. As far as the compounds go, there’re always some minor adjustments, but I don’t think they’d tear up the streets or the buildings. It’d be easier to move a dozen cities.”
“So whatever the changes, they’re essentially internal.” They reached a miniature intersection where an argumentative driver of an early-seventies Chevrolet was being given a ticket for a traffic violation by an equally disagreeable policeman. “What’s that all about?” asked Bourne.
“The purpose of the assignment is to instill a degree of contentiousness on the part of the one driving the car. In America a person will frequently, often loudly, argue with a police officer. It’s not the case here.”
“Like in questioning authority, such as a student contradicting his professor? I don’t imagine that’s too popular, either.”
“That’s also entirely different.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Jason heard a distant hum and looked up at the sky. A light, single-engine seaplane was flying south following the Volkhov River. “My God, airborne,” he said, as if to himself.
“Forget it,” countered Benjamin. “It’s ours.… Technology again. One, there’s no place to land except patrolled helicopter pads; and two, we’re shielded by radar. An unidentified plane coming within thirty miles of here, the air base at Belopol is alerted and it’s shot down.” Across the street a small crowd had gathered, watching the disagreeable policeman and the argumentative driver, who had slammed his hand down on the roof of the Chevrolet as the crowd vocally encouraged him. “Americans can be very foolish,” mumbled the young trainer, his embarrassment showing.
“At least someone’s idea of Americans can be,” said Bourne, smiling.
“Let’s go,” said Benjamin, starting to walk away. “I personally pointed out that the assignment wasn’t very realistic, but it was explained to me that instilling the attitude was important.”
“Like telling a student that he can actually argue with a professor, or a citizen that he can publicly criticize a member of the Politburo? They are strange attitudes, aren’t they?”
“Pound sand, Archie.”
“Relax, young Lenin,” said Jason, coming alongside the trainer. “Where’s your LA cool?”
“I left it in the La Brea Tar Pits.”
“I want to study the maps. All of them.”
“It’s been arranged. Also the other ground rules.”
They sat in a conference room at staff headquarters, the large rectangular table covered with maps of the entire Novgorod complex. Bourne could not help himself; even after nearly four hours of concentration, he frequently shook his head in sheer astonishment. The series of deep-cover training grounds along the Volkhov were more expansive and more intricate than he had thought possible. Benjamin’s remark that it would “be easier to move a dozen cities” rather than drastically alter Novgorod was a simple statement of fact, not too much of an exaggeration. Scaled-down replicas of towns and cities, waterfronts and airports, military and scientific installations from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, north to the Baltic and up the Gulf of Bothnia, were represented within its boundaries, all in addition to the American acreage. Yet for all the massive detail, suggestion and miniaturization made it possible to place everything within barely thirty miles of riverfront wilderness, at a depth ranging from three to five miles.
“Egypt, Israel, Italy,” began Jason, circling the table, staring down at the maps. “Greece, Portugal, Spain, France, the UK—” He rounded the corner as Benjamin interrupted, leaning wearily back in a chair: “Germany, the Netherlands, and the Scandinavian countries. As I explained, most of the compounds include two separate and distinct countries, usually where there are common boundaries, cultural similarities or just to conserve space. There are basically nine major compounds, representing all the major nations—major to our interests—and therefore nine tunnels, approximately seven kilometers apart starting with the one here and heading north along the river.”
“Then the first tunnel next to ours is the UK, right?”
“Yes, followed by France, then Spain—which includes Portugal—then across the Mediterranean, beginning with Egypt along with Israel—”
“It’s clear,” broke in Jason, sitting down at the end of the table, bringing his clasped hands together in thought. “Did you get word up the line that they’re to admit anyone with those papers Carlos has, no matter what he looks like?”
“No.”
“What?” Bourne snapped his head toward the young trainer.
“I had Comrade Krupkin do that. He’s in a Moscow hospital, so they can’t lock him up here for training fatigue.”
“How can I cross over into another compound? Quickly, if necessary.”
“Then
you’re ready for the rest of the ground rules?”
“I’m ready. There’s only so much these maps can tell me.”
“Okay.” Benjamin reached into his pocket and withdrew a small black object the size of a credit card but somewhat thicker. He tossed it to Jason, who caught it in midair and studied it. “That’s your passport,” continued the Soviet. “Only the senior staff has them and if one’s lost or misplaced for even a few minutes, it’s reported immediately.”
“There’s no ID, no writing or marking at all.”
“It’s all inside, computerized and coded. Each compound checkpoint has a clearing lock. You insert it and the barriers are raised, admitting you and telling the guards that you’re cleared from headquarters—and noted.”
“Damned clever, these backward Marxists.”
“They had the same little dears for just about every hotel room in Los Angeles, and that was four years ago.… Now for the rest.”
“The ground rules?”
“Krupkin calls them protective measures—for us as well as you. Frankly, he doesn’t think you’ll get out of here alive; and if you don’t, you’re to be deep-fried and lost.”
“How nicely realistic.”
“He likes you, Bourne … Archie.”
“Go on.”
“As far as the senior staff is concerned, you’re undercover personnel from the inspector general’s office in Moscow, an American specialist sent in to check on Novgorod leaks to the West. You’re to be given whatever you need, including weapons, but no one is to talk to you unless you talk to him first. Considering my own background, I’m your liaison; anything you want you relay through me.”
“I’m grateful.”
“Maybe not entirely,” said Benjamin. “You don’t go anywhere without me.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
“That’s the way it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t be impeded … and if I do get out of here, I’d like a certain Benjamin’s mother to find him alive and well and commuting to Moscow.”
The young Russian stared at Bourne, strength mingled with no little pain in his eyes. “You really think you can help my father and me?”
“I know I can … so help me. Play by my rules, Benjamin.”
“You’re a strange man.”
“I’m a hungry man. Can we get some food around here? And maybe a little bandage? I got hit a while back, and after today my neck and shoulders are letting me know it.” Jason removed his jacket; his shirt was drenched in blood.
“Jesus Christ! I’ll call a doctor—”
“No, you won’t. Just a medic, that’s all.… My rules, Ben.”
“Okay—Archie. We’re staying at the Visiting Commissars Suite; it’s on the top floor. We’ve got room service and I’ll ring the infirmary for a nurse.”
“I said I’m hungry and uncomfortable, but they’re not my major concerns.”
“Not to worry,” said the Soviet Californian. “The instant anything unusual happens anywhere, we’ll be reached. I’ll roll up the maps.”
It happened at precisely 12:02 A.M. directly after the universal changing of the guard, during the darkest darkness of the night. The telephone in the Commissars Suite screamed, propelling Benjamin off the couch. He raced across the room to the jangling, insistent instrument and yanked it off its cradle. “Yes?… Gdye? Kogda? Shto eto znachit?… Da!” He slammed the phone down and turned to Bourne at the dinner table, the maps of Novgorod having replaced the room-service dishes. “It’s unbelievable. At the Spanish tunnel—across the river two guards are dead, and on this side the officer of the watch was found fifty yards away from his post, a bullet in his throat. They ran the video tapes and all they saw was an unidentified man walking through carrying a duffel bag! In a guard’s uniform!”
“There was something else, wasn’t there?” asked Delta coldly.
“Yes, and you may be right. On the other side was a dead farmhand clutching torn papers in his hand. He was lying between the two murdered guards, one of them stripped to his shorts and shoes.… How did he do it?”
“He was the good guy, I can’t think of anything else,” mused Bourne, rising quickly, and reaching, pouncing on the map of the Spanish compound. “He must have sent in his paid impostor with the rotten mocked-up papers, then ran in himself, the wounded Komitet officer at the last moment exposing the fraud and speaking the foreign language which his impostor couldn’t do and couldn’t understand.… I told you, Ben. Probe, test, agitate, confuse and find a way in. Stealing a uniform is standard, and in the confusion it got him through the tunnel.”
“But anyone using those papers was to be watched, followed. They were your instructions and Krupkin sent the word up the line!”
“The Kubinka,” said Jason, now pensive as he studied the map.
“The armory? The one mentioned in the news bulletins from Moscow?”
“Exactly. Just as he had done at the Kubinka, Carlos has someone inside here. Someone with enough authority to order an expendable officer of the guard to bring anyone penetrating the tunnel to him before sending out alarms and raising headquarters.”
“That’s possible,” agreed the young trainer rapidly, firmly. “Involving headquarters with false alarms can be embarrassing, and as you say, there must have been a lot of confusion.”
“In Paris,” said Bourne, glancing up from the compound map, “I was told that embarrassment was the KGB’s worst enemy. True?”
“On a scale of one to ten, at least eight,” replied Benjamin. “But who would he have in here, who could he have? He hasn’t been here in over thirty years!”
“If we had a couple of hours and a few computers programmed with the records of everyone in Novgorod, we might be able to feed in several hundred names and come up with possibilities, but we don’t have hours. We don’t even have minutes! Also, if I know the Jackal, it won’t matter.”
“I think it matters one whole hell of a lot!” cried the Americanized Soviet. “There’s a traitor here and we should know who it is.”
“My guess is that you’ll find out soon enough.… Details, Ben. The point is, he’s here! Let’s go, and when we get outside we stop somewhere and you get me what I need.”
“Okay.”
“Everything I need.”
“I’m cleared for that.”
“And then you disappear. I know what I’m talking about.”
“No way, José!”
“California checking in again?”
“You heard me.”
“Then young Benjamin’s mother may find a corpse for a son when she gets back to Moscow.”
“So be it!”
“So be …? Why did you have to say that?”
“I don’t know. It just seemed right.”
“Shut up! Let’s get out of here.”
41
Ilich Ramirez Sanchez snapped his fingers twice in the shadows as he climbed the short steps of the miniaturized entrance to a small church in “Madrid’s” Paseo del Prado, the duffel bag in his left hand. From behind a fluted mock pillar a figure emerged, a heavyset man in his early sixties who walked partially into the dim light of a distant streetlamp. He was dressed in the uniform of a Spanish army officer, a lieutenant general with three rows of ribbons affixed to his tunic. He was carrying a leather suitcase; he raised it slightly and spoke in the compound’s language.
“Come inside, to the vestry. You can change there. That ill-fitting guard’s jacket is an invitation for sharpshooters.”
“It’s good to speak our language again,” said Carlos, following the man inside the tiny church and turning stiffly to close the heavy door. “I’m in your debt, Enrique,” he added, glancing around at the empty rows of pews and the soft lights playing upon the altar, the gold crucifix gleaming.
“You’ve been in my debt for over thirty years, Ramirez, and a lot of good it does me,” laughed the soldier quietly as they proceede
d across to the right aisle and down toward the sacristy.
“Then perhaps you’re out of touch with what remains of your family in Baracoa. Fidel’s own brothers and sisters don’t live half so well.”
“Neither does crazy Fidel, but he doesn’t care. They say he bathes more frequently now and I suppose that’s progress. However, you’re talking about my family in Baracoa; what about me, my fine international assassin? No yachts, no racing colors, shame on you! Were it not for my warning you, you would have been executed in this very compound thirty-three years ago. Come to think of it, it was right outside this idiotic dollhouse church on the Prado that you made your escape—dressed as a priest, a figure that perpetually bewilders the Russian, like most everyone else.”
“Once I was established, did you ever lack for anything?” They entered a small paneled room where supposed prelates prepared the sacraments. “Did I ever refuse you?” Carlos added, placing the heavy duffel bag on the floor.
“I’m joking with you, of course,” objected Enrique, smiling good-naturedly and looking at the Jackal. “Where is that lusty humor of yours, my infamous old friend?”
“I have other things on my mind.”
“I’m sure you do, and, in truth, you were never less than generous where my family in Cuba was concerned, and I thank you. My father and mother lived out their lives in peace and comfort, bewildered naturally, but so much better off than anyone they knew.… It was all so insane. Revolutionaries thrown out by their own revolution’s leaders.”
“You were threats to Castro, as was Che. It’s past.”
“A great deal has passed,” agreed Enrique, studying Carlos. “You’ve aged poorly, Ramirez. Where’s that once full head of dark hair and the handsome strong face with the clear eyes?”
“We won’t talk about it.”
“Very well. I grow fat, you grow thin; that tells me something. How badly are you wounded?”