The Bourne ultimatum (77 page)

“But I never
have
. I know men who have spoken with him, who in drunken moments have tried to describe him, but to me he is a complete stranger.”

“All the stronger for it,” broke in Conklin, turning to Bourne and Krupkin. “In this city he’s got all the cards,
all
of them. He’s got firepower, an untraceable network of gunslingers and couriers, and for every crevice he can crawl into and burst out from, there are dozens more available to him. Paris is his territory, his protection—we could run blindly all over the city for days, weeks, even months, getting nowhere until the moment comes when he’s got you and Marie in his gun sights ... you can also add Mo and me to that scenario. London, Amsterdam, Brussels, Rome—they’d all be better for us than Paris, but the best is Moscow. Oddly enough, it’s the one place in the world that has a hypnotic hold on him—and also the one that’s the least hospitable.”

“Aleksei,
Aleksei
,” cried Dimitri Krupkin. “I really think you should reconsider alcohol, for it’s obvious you’ve lost your senses! Say Domie actually reaches Carlos and tells him what you say. Do you really believe that on the basis of an ‘emergency’ in Moscow he’ll up and take the next plane there? Insanity!”

“You can bet your last black-market ruble I do,” replied Conklin. “That message is only to convince him to get in touch with her. Once he does, she explodes the bomb. ... She’s just heard an extraordinary piece of information that she knew should only be conveyed to him, not sent through the message tunnels.”

“And what in God’s name might
that
be?” asked Lavier, extracting another cigarette and instantly lighting it.

“The KGB in Moscow is closing in on the Jackal’s man in Dzerzhinsky Square. They’ve narrowed it down to, say, ten or fifteen officers in the highest ranks. Once they find him, Carlos is neutralized in the Komitet—worse, he’s about to lose an informer who knows far too much about him to the Lubyanka interrogators.”

“But how would
she
know that?” said Jason.

“Who would
tell
her?” added Krupkin.

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“So are your very secret substations in Beijing, Kabul and—forgive my impertinence—Canada’s Prince Edward Island, but you don’t advertise them,” said Krupkin.

“I didn’t know about Prince Edward,” admitted Alex. “Regardless, there are times when advertisements aren’t necessary, only the means to convey the information credibly. A few minutes ago I didn’t have any means, only authenticity, but that gap has just been filled. ... Come over here, Kruppie—just you for the moment, and stay away from the window. Look between the corner of the drapes.” The Soviet did as he was told, going to Conklin’s side and parting the fold of lace fabric from the wall. “What do you see?” asked Alex, gesturing at a shabby, nondescript brown car below on the avenue Montaigne. “Doesn’t do much for the neighborhood, does it?”

Krupkin did not bother to reply. Instead, he whipped the miniaturized radio from his pocket and pressed the transmitter button. “Sergei, there’s a brown automobile roughly eighty meters down the street from the building’s entrance—”

“We know, sir,” interrupted the aide. “We’ve got it covered, and if you’ll notice, our backup is parked across the way. It’s an old man who barely moves except to look out the window.”

“Does he have a car telephone?”

“No, comrade, and should he leave the automobile he’ll be followed, so there can be no outside calls unless you direct otherwise.”

“I shall not direct otherwise. Thank you, Sergei. Out.” The Russian looked at Conklin. “The old man,” he said. “You saw him.”

“Bald head and all,” affirmed Alex. “He’s not a fool; he’s done this before and knows he’s being watched. He can’t leave for fear of missing something, and if he had a phone there’d be others down in the Montaigne.”

“The Jackal,” said Bourne, stepping forward, then stopping, remembering Conklin’s order to stay away from the window.

“Now, do you understand?” asked Alex, addressing the question to Krupkin.

“Of course,” conceded the KGB official, smiling. “It’s why you wanted an ostentatious limousine from our embassy. After we leave, Carlos is told that a Soviet diplomatic vehicle was sent to pick us up, and for what other reason would we be here but to interrogate Madame Lavier? Naturally, in my well-advertised presence was a tall man who might or might not be Jason Bourne, and another shorter individual with a disabled leg—thus confirming that it
was
Jason Bourne. ... Our unholy alliance is therefore established and observed, and again, naturally, during our harsh questioning of Madame Lavier, tempers flared and references were made to the Jackal’s informer in Dzerzhinsky Square.”

“Which only I’d known about through my dealing with Santos at Le Coeur du Soldat,” said Jason quietly. “So Dominique has a credible observer—an old man from Carlos’s army of old men—to back up the information she delivers. ... I’ve got to say it, Saint Alex, that serpentine brain of yours hasn’t lost its cunning.”

“I hear a professor I once knew. ... I thought he’d left us.”

“He has.”

“Only for a while, I hope.”

“Well done, Aleksei. You still have the touch; you may remain abstemious if you must, much as it pains me. ... It’s always the nuances, isn’t it?”

“Not always by any means,” disagreed Conklin simply, shaking his head. “Most of the time it’s foolish mistakes. For instance, our new colleague here, ‘Domie,’ as you affectionately call her, was told she was still trusted, but she wasn’t, not completely. So an old man was dispatched to watch her apartment—no big deal, just a little insurance in a car that doesn’t belong in a street with Jaguars and Rolls-Royces. So we pay off on the small policy, and with luck cash in on the big one. Moscow.”

“Let me intellectualize,” said Krupkin. “Although you were always far better in that department than I, Aleksei. I prefer the best wine to the most penetrating thoughts, although the latter—in both our countries—invariably leads to the former.”

“
Merde
!” yelled Dominique Lavier, crushing out her cigarette. “What are you two idiots talking about?”

“They’ll tell us, believe me,” answered Bourne.

“As has been reported and repeated in secure circles too often for comfort,” continued the Soviet, “years ago we trained a madman in Novgorod, and years ago we would have put a bullet in his head had he not escaped. His methods, if sanctioned by any legitimate government, especially the two superpowers, would lead to confrontations neither of us can ever permit. Yet, withal, in the beginning he was a true revolutionary with a capital
R
, and we, the world’s
truest
revolutionaries, disinherited him. ... By his lights, it was a great injustice and he never forgets it. He will always yearn to come back to the mother’s breast, for that’s where he was born. ... Good
God
, the people he’s killed in the name of ‘aggressors’ while he made fortunes is positively
revolting
!”

“But you denied him,” said Jason flatly, “and he wants that denial reversed. He has to be acknowledged as the master killer you trained. That psychopathic ego of his is the basis for every thing Alex and I mounted. ... Santos said he continuously bragged about the cadre he was building in Moscow—‘Always Moscow, it’s an obsession with him’—those were Santos’s words. The only specific person he knew about, and not by name, was Carlos’s mole high up in the KGB, but he said Carlos claimed to have others in key positions at various powerful departments, that as the monseigneur he’d been sending them money for years.”

“So the Jackal thinks he forms a core of supporters within our government,” observed Krupkin. “Despite everything, he still believes he can come back. He is, indeed, an egomaniac but he’s never understood the Russian mind. He may temporarily corrupt a few cynical opportunists, but these will cover themselves and turn on him. No one looks forward to a stay at the Lubyanka or a Siberian gulag. The Jackal’s Potemkin village will burn to the ground.”

“All the more reason for him to race to Moscow and put out the brushfires,” said Alex.

“What do you mean?” asked Bourne.

“The burning will start with the exposure of Carlos’s man in Dzerzhinsky Square; he’ll know that. The only way to prevent it is for him to reach Moscow and make a determination. Either his informer will elude internal security or the Jackal will have to kill him.”

“I forgot,” interrupted Bourne. “Something else Santos said ... most of the Russians on Carlos’s payroll spoke French. Look for a man high up in the Komitet who speaks French.”

Krupkin’s radio again intruded, the two piercing beeps barely muffled by his jacket. He pulled it out and spoke. “Yes?”

“I don’t know how or why, comrade,” said the tense voice of Sergei, “but the ambassador’s limousine has just arrived at the building. I
swear
to you I have no idea what happened!”

“I do. I called for it.”

“But the embassy flags will be seen by everyone!”

“Including, I trust, an alert old man in a brown automobile. We’ll be down shortly. Out.” Krupkin turned to the others. “The car’s here, gentlemen. Where shall we meet, Domie? And when?”

“Tonight,” replied Lavier. “There’s a showing at La Galerie d’Or in the rue de Paradis. The artist’s a young upstart who wants to be a rock star or something, but he’s the rage and everyone will be there.”

“Tonight, then. ... Come, gentlemen. Against our instincts, we must be very observable outside on the pavement.”

f
f
f

The crowds moved in and out of the shafts of light while the music was provided by an ear-shattering rock band mercifully placed in a side room away from the main viewing area. Were it not for the paintings on the walls and the beams of the small spotlights illuminating them, a person might think he was in a discotheque rather than in one of Paris’s elegant art galleries.

Through a series of nods, Dominique Lavier maneuvered Krupkin to a corner of the large room. Their graceful smiles, arched brows and intermittently mimed laughter covered their quiet conversation.

“The word passed among the old men is that the monseigneur will be away for a few days. However, they are all to continue searching for the tall American and his crippled friend and list wherever they are seen.”

“You must have done your job well.”

“As I relayed the information he was utterly silent. In his breathing, however, there was utter loathing. I felt my bones grow cold.”

“He’s on his way to Moscow,” said the Russian. “No doubt through Prague.”

“What will you do now?”

Krupkin arched his neck and raised his eyes to the ceiling in false, silent laughter. Leveling his gaze on her, he answered, smiling. “Moscow,” he said.

Bryce Ogilvie, managing partner of Ogilvie, Spofford, Crawford and Cohen, prided himself on his self-discipline. That was to say, not merely the outward appearance of composure, but the cold calm he forced upon his deepest fears in times of crisis. However, when he arrived at his office barely fifty minutes ago and found his concealed private telephone ringing, he had experienced a twinge of apprehension at such an early morning call over that particular line. Then when he heard the heavily accented voice of the Soviet consul general of New York demanding an immediate conference, he had to acknowledge a sudden void in his chest ... and when the Russian instructed him—
ordered
him—to be at the Carlyle Hotel, Suite 4C, in one hour, rather than their usual meeting place at the apartment on Thirty-second and Madison, Bryce felt a searing-hot pain filling that void in his chest.
And
when he had mildly objected to the suddenness of the proposed, unscheduled conference, the pain in his chest had burst into fire, the flames traveling up to his throat at the Soviet’s reply: “What I have to show you will make you devoutly wish we never knew each other, much less had any occasion to meet this morning.
Be
there!”

Ogilvie sat back in his limousine, as far back as the upholstery could be pressed, his legs stretched, rigid on the carpeted floor. Abstract, swirling thoughts of personal wealth, power and influence kept circling in his mind; he had to get hold of himself! After all, he was Bryce Ogilvie,
the
Bryce Ogilvie, perhaps the most successful corporate attorney in New York, and arguably second only to Boston’s Randolph Gates in the fast track of corporate and antitrust law.

Gates
! The mere thought of that son of a bitch was a welcome diversion. Medusa had asked a minor favor of the celebrated Gates, an inconsequential, perfectly acceptable staff appointment on an ad hoc government-oriented commission, and he had not even answered their phone calls! Calls put through by another perfectly acceptable source, the supposedly irreproachable, impartial head of Pentagon procurements, an asshole named General Norman Swayne, who only wanted the best information. Well, perhaps more than information, but Gates could not have known about that. ... Gates? There was something in the
Times
the other morning about his bowing out of a hostile takeover proceeding. What was it?

The limousine pulled up to the curb in front of the Carlyle Hotel, once the Kennedy family’s favored New York City address, now the temporary clandestine favorite of the Soviets. Ogilvie waited until the uniformed doorman opened the left rear door of the car before he stepped out onto the pavement. He normally would not have done so, believing the delay was an unnecessary affectation, but this morning he did; he
had
to get hold of himself. He had to be the Ice-Cold Ogilvie his legal adversaries feared.

The elevator’s ascent to the fourth floor was swift, the walk over the blue-carpeted hallway to Suite 4-C far slower, the distance much closer.
The
Bryce Ogilvie breathed deeply, calmly, and stood erect as he pressed the bell. Twenty-eight seconds later, irritatingly clocked by the attorney as he silently counted “one one-thousand, two one-thousand,” ad nauseam, the door was opened by the Soviet consul general, a slender man of medium height whose aquiline face had taut white skin and large brown eyes.