The Bourne Ultimatum (Jason Bourne 3)

“He would, too.” Charles Casset nodded; he sat in the chair in front of the director’s desk, a computer printout of a long-buried classified file in his hand. “When you read this you’ll understand. Alex really did try to kill Bourne in Paris years ago—his closest friend and he tried to put a bullet in his head for all the wrong reasons.”

“Conklin’s on his way to Paris now. He and Morris Panov.”

“That’s on your head, Peter. I wouldn’t have done it, not without strings.”

“I couldn’t refuse him.”

“Of course you could. You didn’t want to.”

“We owed him. He brought us Medusa—and from here on, Charlie, that’s all that concerns us.”

“I understand, Director Holland,” said Casset coldly. “And I assume that due to foreign entanglements you’re working backwards into a domestic conspiracy that should be incontestably established before you alert the guardians of domestic accord, namely, the Federal Bureau.”

“Are you threatening me, you lowlife?”

“I certainly am, Peter.” Casset dropped the ice from his expression, replacing it with a calm, thin smile. “You’re breaking the law, Mr. Director.… That’s regrettable, old boy, as my predecessors might have said.”

“What the hell do you want from me?” cried Holland.

“Cover one of our own, one of the best we ever had. I not only want it, I insist upon it.”

“If you think I’m going to give him everything, including the name of Medusa’s law firm on Wall Street, you’re out of your fucking mind. It’s our keystone!”

“For God’s sake, go back into the navy, Admiral,” said the deputy director, his voice level, again cold, without emphasis. “If you think that’s what I’m suggesting, you haven’t learned very much in that chair.”

“Hey, come on, smart ass, that’s pretty close to insubordination.”

“Of course it is, because I’m insubordinate—but this isn’t the navy. You can’t keelhaul me, or hang me from the yardarm, or withhold my ration of rum. All you can do is fire me, and if you do, a lot of people will wonder why, which wouldn’t do the Agency any good. But that’s not necessary.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Charlie?”

“Well, to begin with, I’m not talking about that law firm in New York because you’re right, it is our keystone, and Alex with his infinite imagination would probe and threaten to the point where the shredding begins and our paper trail here and abroad ends.”

“I had something like that in mind—”

“Then again you were right,” interrupted Casset, nodding. “So we keep Alex away from our keystone, as far away from us as possible, but we give him our marker. Something tangible he can plug into, knowing its value.”

Silence. Then Holland spoke. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“You would if you knew Conklin better. He knows now that there’s a connection between Medusa and the Jackal. What did you call it? A self-fulfilling prophecy?”

“I said the strategy was so perfect it was inevitable and therefore self-fulfilling. DeSole was the unexpected catalyst who moved everything ahead of schedule—him and whatever the hell happened down in Montserrat.… What’s this marker of yours, this tangible item of value?”

“The string, Peter. Knowing what he knows, you can’t let Alex bounce around Europe like a loose cannon any more than you could give him the name of that law firm in New York. We need a pipeline to him so we have some idea what he’s up to—more than an idea, if we can manage it. Someone like his friend Bernardine, only someone who can also be our friend.”

“Where do we find such a person?”

“I have a candidate—and I hope we’re not being taped.”

“Count on it,” said Holland with a trace of anger. “I don’t believe in that crap and this office is swept every morning. Who’s the candidate?”

“A man at the Soviet embassy in Paris,” replied Casset calmly. “I think we can deal.”

“A mole?”

“Not for a minute. A KGB officer whose first priority never changes. Find Carlos. Kill Carlos. Protect Novgorod.”

“Novgorod …? The Americanized village or town where the Jackal was initially trained in Russia?”

“Half trained and escaped from before he could be shot as a maniac. Only, it’s not just an American compound—that’s a mistake we make so often. There are British and French compounds, too, also Israeli, Dutch, Spanish, West German and God knows how many others. Dozens of square miles cut out of the forests along the Volkhov River, dotted with settlements so that you’d swear you were in a different country with each one you entered—if you could get inside, which you couldn’t. Like the Aryan breeding farms, the Lebensborn of Nazi Germany, Novgorod is one of Moscow’s most closely guarded secrets. They want the Jackal as badly as Jason Bourne does.”

“And you think this KGB fellow will cooperate, keep us informed about Conklin if they make contact?”

“I can try. After all, we have a common objective, and I know Alex would accept him because he knows how much the Soviets want Carlos on the dead list.”

Holland leaned forward in his chair. “I told Conklin I’d help him any way I could as long as it didn’t compromise our going after Medusa.… He’ll be landing in Paris within the hour. Shall I leave instructions at the diplomatic counter for him to reach you?”

“Tell him to call Charlie Bravo Plus One,” said Casset, getting up and dropping the computer printout on the desk. “I don’t know how much I can give him in an hour, but I’ll go to work. I’ve got a secure channel to our Russian, thanks to an outstanding ‘consultant’ of ours in Paris.”

“Give him a bonus.”

“She’s already asked for one—harassed me is more appropriate. She runs the cleanest escort service in the city; the girls are checked weekly.”

“Why not hire them all?” asked the director, smiling.

“I believe seven are already on the payroll, sir,” answered the deputy director, his demeanor serious, in contrast to his arched eyebrows.

Dr. Morris Panov, his legs unsteady, was helped down the metal steps of the diplomatically cleared jet by a strapping marine corporal in starched summer khakis carrying his suitcase. “How do you people manage to look so presentable after such a perfectly horrendous trip?” asked the psychiatrist.

“None of us will look this presentable after a couple of hours of liberty in Paris, sir.”

“Some things never change, Corporal. Thank God.… Where’s that crippled delinquent who was with me?”

“He was vehicled off for a diplograph, sir.”

“Come again? A noun’s a verb leading to the incomprehensible?”

“It’s not so hard, Doctor,” laughed the marine, leading Panov to a motorized cart complete with a uniformed driver and a stenciled American flag on the side. “During our descent, the tower radioed the pilot that there was an urgent message for him.”

“I thought he went to the bathroom.”

“That, too, I believe, sir.” The corporal put the suitcase on a rear rack and helped Mo into the cart. “Easy now, Doctor, lift your leg up a little higher.”

“That’s the other one, not me,” protested the psychiatrist. “He’s the one without a foot.”

“We were told you’d been ill, sir.”

“Not in my goddamned legs.… Sorry, young man, no offense. I just don’t like flying in small tubes a hundred and ten miles up in the sky. Not too many astronauts come from Tremont Avenue in the Bronx.”

“Hey, you’re kidding, Doc!”

“What?”

“I’m from Garden Street, you know, across from the zoo! The name’s Fleishman, Morris Fleishman. Nice to meet a fellow Bronxite.”

“Morris?” said Panov, shaking hands. “Morris the Marine? I should have had a talk with your parents.… Stay well, Mo. And thank you for your concern.”

“You get better, Doc, and when you see Tremont Aven

ue again, give it my best, okay?”

“I will, indeed, Morris,” replied Morris, raising his hand as the diplomatic cart shot forward.

Four minutes later, escorted by the driver, Panov entered the long gray corridor that was the immigration-free access to France for government functionaries of nations accredited by the Quai d’Orsay. They walked into the large holding lounge where men and women were gathered in small groups, conversing quietly, the sounds of different languages filling the room. Alarmed, Mo saw that Conklin was nowhere in sight; he turned to the driver-escort as a young woman dressed in the neutral uniform of a hostess approached.

“Docteur?” she asked, addressing Panov.

“Yes,” replied Mo, surprised. “But I’m afraid my French is pretty rusty if not nonexistent.”

“It’s of no matter, sir. Your companion requested that you remain here until he returns. It will be no more than a few minutes, he was quite sure.… Please, sit down. May I bring you a drink?”

“Bourbon with ice, if you’d be so kind,” answered Panov, lowering himself into the armchair.

“Certainly, sir.” The hostess retreated as the driver placed Mo’s suitcase beside him.

“I have to get back to my vehicle,” said the diplomatic escort. “You’ll be fine here.”

“I wonder where my friend went,” mused Panov, glancing at his watch.

“Probably to an outside phone, Doctor. They come in here, get messages at the counters, then go like hell into the terminal to find public pay phones; they don’t like the ones in here. The Russkies always walk the fastest; the Arabs, the slowest.”

“Must be their respective climates,” offered the psychiatrist, smiling.

“Don’t bet your stethoscope on it.” The driver laughed and brought his hand up for an informal salute. “Take care, sir, and get some rest. You look tired.”

“Thank you, young man. Good-bye.” I am tired, thought Panov as the escort disappeared into the gray corridor. So tired, but Alex was right. If he’d flown here alone, I would never have forgiven him.… David! We’ve got to find him! The damage to him could be incalculable—none of them understands. With a single act his fragile, damaged mind could regress years—thirteen years—to where he was a functioning killer, and for him nothing else!… A voice. The figure above was talking to him. “I’m sorry, forgive me.… Your drink, Doctor,” said the hostess pleasantly. “I debated whether to wake you, but then you moved and sounded as though you were in pain—”

“No, not at all, my dear. Just tired.”

“I understand, sir. Sudden flights can be so exhausting, and if they are long and uncomfortable, even worse.”

“You touched on all three points, miss,” agreed Panov, taking his drink. “Thank you.”

“You are American, of course.”

“How could you tell? I’m not wearing cowboy boots or a Hawaiian shirt.”

The woman laughed charmingly. “I know the driver who brought you in here. He’s American security, and quite nice, very attractive.”

“Security? You mean like in ‘police’?”

“Oh, very much so, but we never use the word.… Oh, here’s your companion coming back inside.” The hostess lowered her voice. “May I ask quickly, Doctor? Does he require a wheelchair?”

“Good heavens, no. He’s walked like that for years.”

“Very well. Enjoy your stay in Paris, sir.” The woman left as Alex, limping, weaved around several groups of chattering Europeans to the chair next to Panov. He sat down and leaned forward awkwardly in the soft leather. He was obviously disturbed.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mo.

“I just talked to Charlie Casset in Washington.”

“He’s the one you like, the one you trust, isn’t he?”

“He’s the best there is when he has personal access, or, at least, human intelligence. When he can see and hear and look for himself, and not simply read words on paper or a computer screen without asking questions.”

“Are you, perchance, moving into my territory again, Doctor Conklin?”

“I accused David of that last week and I’ll tell you what he told me. It’s a free country, and your training notwithstanding, you don’t have a franchise on common sense.”

“Mea culpa,” agreed Panov, nodding. “I gather your friend did something you don’t approve of.”

“He did something he wouldn’t approve of if he had more information on whom he did it with.”

“That sounds positively Freudian, even medically imprudent.”

“Both are part of it, I guess. He made an outside unsanctioned deal with a man named Dimitri Krupkin at the Russian embassy here in Paris. We’ll be working with the local KGB—you, me, Bourne and Marie—if and when we find them. Hopefully, in Rambouillet in an hour or so.”

“What are you saying?” asked Mo, astonished and barely audible.

“Long story, short time. Moscow wants the Jackal’s head, the rest of him separated from it. Washington can’t feed us or protect us, so the Soviets will act as our temporary paterfamilias if we find ourselves in a bind.”

Panov frowned, then shook his head as though absorbing very strange information, then spoke. “I suppose it’s not your run-of-the-mill development, but there’s a certain logic, even comfort, to it.”

“On paper, Mo,” said Conklin. “Not with Dimitri Krupkin. I know him. Charlie doesn’t.”

“Oh? He’s one of the evil people?”

“Kruppie evil? No, not really—”

“Kruppie?”

“We go way back as young hustlers to Istanbul in the late sixties and Athens after that, then Amsterdam later.… Krupkin’s not malevolent, and he works like a son of a bitch for Moscow with a damn good second-rate mind, better than eighty percent of the clowns in our business, but he’s got a problem. He’s fundamentally on the wrong side, in the wrong society. His parents should have come over with mine when the Bolsheviks took the throne.”

“I forget. Your family was Russian.”

“Speaking the language helps with Kruppie. I can nail his nuances. He’s the quintessential capitalist. Like the economic ministers in Beijing, he doesn’t just like money, he’s obsessed with it—and everything that goes with it. Out of sight and out of sanction, he could be bought.”

“You mean by the Jackal?”

“I saw him bought in Athens by Greek developers selling additional airstrips to Washington when they knew the Communists were going to throw us out. They paid him to shut up. Then I watched him broker diamonds in Amsterdam between the merchants on the Nieuwmarkt and the dacha-elite in Moscow. We had drinks one night in the Kattengat and I asked him, ‘Kruppie, what the fuck are you doing?’ You know what he said? He said in clothes I couldn’t afford, ‘Aleksei, I’ll do everything I can to outsmart you, to help the supreme Soviet to gain world dominance, but in the meantime, if you’d like a holiday, I have a lovely house on the lake in Geneva.’ That’s what he said, Mo.”

“He’s remarkable. Of course, you told your friend Casset all this—”

“Of course I didn’t,” broke in Conklin.

“Good God, why not?”

“Because Krupkin obviously never told Charlie that he knew me. Casset may have the deal, but I’m dealing.”

“With what? How?”

“David—Jason—has over five million in the Caymans. With only a spit of that amount I’ll turn Kruppie so he’ll be working only for us, if we need him or want him to.”

“Which means you don’t trust Casset.”

“Not so,” said Alex. “I trust Charlie with my life. It’s just that I’m not sure I want it in his hands. He and Peter Holland have their priorities and we have ours. Theirs is Medusa; ours are David and Marie.”

“Messieurs?” The hostess returned and addressed Conklin. “Your car has arrived, sir. It is on the south platform.”

“You’re sure it’s for me?” asked Alex.

“Forgive me, monsieur, but the attendant said

a Mr. Smith had a difficult leg.”

“He’s certainly right about that.”

“I’ve called a porter to carry your luggage, messieurs. It’s a rather long walk. He’ll meet you on the platform.”

“Thanks very much.” Conklin got to his feet and reached into his pocket, pulling out money.

“Pardon, monsieur,” interrupted the hostess. “We are not permitted to accept gratuities.”

“That’s right. I forgot.… My suitcase is behind your counter, isn’t it?”

“Where your escort left it, sir. Along with the doctor’s, it will be at the platform within minutes.”

“Thanks again,” said Alex. “Sorry about the tip.”

“We are well paid, sir, but thank you for the thought.”

As they walked to the door that led into the main terminal of Orly Airport, Conklin turned to Panov. “How did she know you were a doctor?” he asked. “You soliciting couch business?”

“Hardly. The commuting would be a bit strenuous.”

“Then how? I never said anything about your being a doctor.”

“She knows the security escort who brought me into the lounge. In fact, I think she knows him quite well. She said in that delectable French accent of hers that he was ‘verry attractiefe.’ ”

Looking up at the signs in the crowded terminal, they started toward the south platform.

What neither of them saw was a distinguished-looking olive-skinned man with wavy black hair and large dark eyes walk quickly out of the diplomatic lounge, his steady gaze directed at the two Americans. He crossed to the wall, rushing past the crowds until he was diagonally in front of Conklin and Panov near the taxi platform. Then, squinting, as if unsure, he removed a small photograph from his pocket and kept glancing at it as he raised his eyes and looked up at the departing passengers from the United States. The photograph was of Dr. Morris Panov, dressed in a white hospital gown, a glazed, unearthly expression on his face.

The Americans went out on the platform; the dark-haired man did the same. The Americans looked around for a taxi; the dark-haired man signaled a private car. A driver got out of a cab; he approached Conklin and Panov, speaking quietly, as a porter arrived with their luggage; the two Americans climbed into the taxi. The stranger who followed them slipped into the private car two vehicles behind the cab.