The Bourne ultimatum (80 page)

“Only you, however,” broke in the count, “can confirm it for us. What is the name of this third man on your contract? Surely we have a right to know.”

“Why not? He’s a loser named Bourne, Jason Bourne, who’s blackmailing our clients.”

“
Ecco
,” said the husband quietly.

“
Ultimo
,” added the wife. “What do you know of this Bourne?” she asked.

“What I told you. He went out under cover for the government and got shafted by the big boys in Washington. He gets pissed off, so he ends up shafting our clients. A real slime.”

“You’ve never heard of Carlos the Jackal?” said the count, leaning back in the chair, studying the capo supremo.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I heard of him, and I see what you mean. They say this Jackal character has a big thing against this Bourne and vice versa, but it don’t cut no ice with me. You know, I thought that fox-cat was just in books, in the movies, you know what I mean? Then they tell me he’s a real hit man, wadda y’ know?”

“Very real,” agreed the countess.

“But, like I said, him I couldn’t care less about. I want the Jew shrink, the cripple, and this rot-gut Bourne, that’s all. And I
really
want them.”

The diplomat and his wife looked at each other; they shrugged in mild astonishment, then the
contessa
nodded, deferring to her husband. “Your sense of fiction has been shattered by reality,” said the count.

“Come again?”

“There
was
a Robin Hood, you know, but he wasn’t a noble of Locksley. He was a barbaric Saxon chief who opposed the Normans, a murdering, butchering thief, extolled only in legends. And there
was
an Innocent the Third, a pope who was hardly innocent and who followed the savage policies of a predecessor, Saint Gregory the Seventh, who was hardly a saint. Between them they split Europe asunder, into rivers of blood for political power and to enrich the coffers of the ‘Holy Empire.’ Centuries before, there
was
the gentle Quintus Cassius Longinus of Rome, beloved protector of the Further Spain, yet he tortured and mutilated a hundred thousand Spaniards.”

“What the
hell
are you talkin’ about?”

“These men were fictionalized, Signor DeFazio, into many different shadings of what they may actually have been, but regardless of the distortions, they were real. Just as the Jackal is real, and is a deadly problem for you. As, unfortunately, he is a problem for us, for he’s a complication we cannot accept.”

“
Huh
?” The capo supremo, mouth gaping, stared at the Italian aristocrat.

“The presence of the Soviets was both alarming and enigmatic,” continued the count. “Then finally we perceived a possible connection, which you just confirmed. ... Moscow has been hunting Carlos for years, solely for the purpose of executing him, and all they’ve gotten for their efforts is one dead hunter after another. Somehow—God
knows
how—Jason Bourne negotiated with the Russians to pursue their common objective.”

“For Christ’s sake, speak English
or
Italian, but with words that make sense! I didn’t exactly go to Harvard City College, gumball. I didn’t have to,
capisce
?”

“The Jackal stormed that country inn yesterday. He’s the one hunting down Jason Bourne, who was foolish enough to come back to Paris and persuade the Soviets to work with him. Both were stupid, for this
is
Paris and Carlos will win. He’ll kill Bourne and your other targets and laugh at the Russians. Then he’ll proclaim to the clandestine departments of all governments that he
has
won, that he’s the
padrone
, the
maestro
. You in America have never been exposed to the whole story, only bits and pieces, for your interest in Europe stops at the money line. But we have lived through it, watching in fascination, and now we are mesmerized. Two aging master assassins obsessed with hatred, each wanting only to cut the other’s throat.”

“Hey, back up, gumball!” shouted DeFazio. “This slime Bourne’s a fake, a
contraffazione
. He never
was
an executioner!”

“You’re quite wrong, signore,” said the countess. “He may not have entered the arena with a gun, but it became his favorite instrument. Ask the Jackal.”

“
Fuck
the Jackal!” cried DeFazio, getting up from the chair.

“
Lou
!”

“Shut
up
, Mario! This Bourne is
mine
, ours!
We
deliver the corpse,
we
take the pictures with me—
us
—standing over all three with a dozen ice picks in their bodies, their heads pulled up by the hair, so nobody can say it ain’t our kills!”

“Now you’re the one who’s
pazzo
,” said the Mafia count quietly, in counterpoint to the capo supremo’s raucous yelling. “And please keep your voice down.”

“Then don’t get me excited—”

“He’s trying to explain things, Lou,” said DeFazio’s relative, the killer. “I want to hear what the gentleman has to say because it could be vital to my approach. Sit
down
, Cousin.” Louis sat down. “Please continue, Count.”

“Thank you, Mario. You don’t object to my calling you Mario.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Perhaps you should visit Rome—”

“Perhaps we should get back to
Paris
,” again choked the capo supremo.

“Very well,” agreed the Roman, now dividing his attention between DeFazio and his cousin, but favoring the latter. “You might take out all three targets with a long-range rifle, but you won’t get near the bodies. The Soviet guards will be indistinguishable from any other people in the area, and if they see the two of you coming in to the killing ground, they’ll open fire, assuming you’re from the Jackal.”

“Then we must create a diversion where we can isolate the targets,” said Mario, his elbows on the table, his intelligent eyes on the count. “Perhaps an emergency in the early hours of the morning. A fire in their lodgings, perhaps, that necessitates their coming outside. I’ve done it before; in the confusion of fire trucks and police sirens and the general panic, one can pull targets away and complete the assignments.”

“It’s a fine strategy, Mario, but there are still the Soviet guards.”

“We take them out!” cried DeFazio.

“You are only two men,” said the diplomat, “and there are at least three in Barbizon, to say nothing of the hotel in Paris where the cripple and the doctor are staying.”

“So we outmatch the numbers.” The capo supremo pulled the back of his hand over the sweat that had gathered on his forehead. “We hit this Barbizon first,
right
?”

“With only two men?” asked the countess, her cosmeticized eyes wide in surprise.

“
You
got men!” exclaimed DeFazio. “We’ll use a few. ... I’ll pay additional.”

The count shook his head slowly and spoke softly. “We will not go to war with the Jackal,” he said. “Those are my instructions.”

“Fairy
bastards
!”

“An interesting comment coming from you,” observed the countess, a thin insulting smile on her lips.

“Perhaps our dons are not as generous as yours,” continued the diplomat. “We are willing to cooperate up to a point but no further.”

“You’ll never make another shipment to New York,
or
Philly,
or
Chicago!”

“We’ll let our superiors debate those issues, won’t we?”

There was a sudden knocking at the door, four raps in a row, harsh and intrusive. “
Avanti
,” called out the count, instantly reaching under his jacket and ripping an automatic out of his belt; he lowered it beneath the overhang. of the red tablecloth and smiled as the manager of Tetrazzim’s entered.

“
Emergenza
,” said the grossly overweight man, walking rapidly to the well-tailored mafioso and handing him a note.

“
Grazie
.”

“
Prego
,” replied the manager, crossing back to the door and exiting as quickly as he had arrived.

“The anxious gods of Sicily may be smiling down on you after all,” said the count, reading. “This communication is from the man following your targets. They are outside Paris and they are alone, and for reasons I cannot possibly explain, there are no guards. They have no protection.”

“
Where
?” cried DeFazio, leaping to his feet.

Without answering, the diplomat calmly reached for his gold lighter, ignited it, and fired the small piece of paper, lowering it into an ashtray. Mario sprang up from his chair; the man from Rome dropped the lighter on the table and swiftly retrieved the gun from his lap. “First, let us discuss the fee,” he said as the note coiled into flaming black ash. “Our dons in Palermo are definitely not as generous as yours. Please talk quickly, as every minute counts.”

“You motherfucking
bastard
!”

“My Oedipal problems are not your concern. How much, Signor DeFazio?”

“I’ll go the limit,” replied the capo supremo, lowering himself into the chair, staring at the charred remnants of the information. “Three hundred thousand, American. That’s it.”

“That’s
excremento
,” said the countess. “Try again. Seconds become minutes and you cannot afford them.”

“All right, all
right
! Double it!”

“Plus expenses,” added the woman.

“What the fuck can
they
be?”

“Your cousin Mario is right,” said the diplomat. “Please watch your language in front of my wife.”

“Holy
shit
—”

“I warned you, signore. The expenses are an additional quarter of a million, American.”

“What are you,
nuts
?”

“No, you’re vulgar. The total is one million one hundred fifty thousand dollars, to be paid as our couriers in New York so instruct you. ... If not, you will be missed in—what is it?—Brooklyn Heights, Signor DeFazio?”

“Where are the targets?” said the beaten capo supremo, his defeat painful to him.

“At a small private airfield in Pontcarré, about forty-five minutes from Paris. They’re waiting for a plane that was grounded in Poitiers because of bad weather. It can’t possibly arrive for at least an hour and a quarter.”

“Did you bring the equipment we requested?” asked Mario rapidly.

“It’s all there,” answered the countess, gesturing at the large black suitcase on a chair against the wall.

“A car, a
fast
car!” cried DeFazio as his executioner retrieved the suitcase.

“Outside,” replied the count. “The driver will know where to take you. He’s been to that field.”

“Come on,
cugino
. Tonight we collect and you can settle a score!”

Except for a single clerk behind the counter in the small one-room terminal and an air controller hired to stay the extra hours in the radio tower, the private airport in Pontcarré was deserted. Alex Conklin and Mo Panov stayed discreetly behind as Bourne led Marie outside to the gate area fronting the field beyond a waist-high metal fence. Two strips of receding amber ground lights defined the long runway for the plane from Poitiers; they had been turned on only a short time ago.

“It won’t be long now,” said Jason.

“This whole damn thing’s stupid,” retorted Webb’s wife. “
Everything
.”

“There’s no reason for you to stay and every reason for you to leave. For you to be alone here in Paris would be stupid. Alex is right. If Carlos’s people found you, you’d be taken hostage, so why risk it?”

“Because I’m capable of staying out of sight and I don’t want to be ten thousand miles away from you. You’ll forgive me if I worry about you, Mr.
Bourne
. And care for you.”

Jason looked at her in the shadows, grateful for the darkness; she could not clearly see his eyes. “Then be reasonable and use your head,” he said coldly, suddenly feeling so old, too old for such a transparently false lack of feeling. “We know Carlos is in Moscow and Krupkin isn’t far behind him. Dimitri’s flying us there in the morning, and we’ll be under the protection of the KGB in the tightest city in the world. What more could we want?”

 
“You were under the protection of the United States government on a short East Side block in New York thirteen years ago and it didn’t do you much good.”

“There’s a great deal of difference. Back then the Jackal knew exactly where I was going and when I’d be there. Right now he has no idea we even know he’s in Moscow. He’s got other problems, big ones for him, and he thinks we’re here in Paris—he’s ordered his people to keep searching for us.”

“What will you do in Moscow?”

“We won’t know until we get there, but whatever it is, it’s better than here in Paris. Krupkin’s been busy. Every ranking officer in Dzerzhinsky Square who speaks French is being watched and is under surveillance. He said the French narrowed down the possibilities and that something should break. ... Something
will
break; the odds are on our side. And when it does, I can’t be worried about you back here.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said in the past thirty-six hours.”

“So be it. You should be with the children and you know that. You’ll be out of reach and safe ... and the kids need you. Mrs. Cooper’s a terrific lady, but she’s not their mother. Besides, your brother probably has Jamie smoking his Cuban cigars and playing Monopoly with real money by now.”

Marie looked up at her husband, a gentle smile apparent in the darkness as well as in her voice. “Thanks for the laugh. I need it.”

“It’s probably the truth—your brother, I mean. If there are good-looking women on the staff, it’s quite possible our son’s lost his virginity.”

“
David
!” Bourne was silent. Marie chuckled briefly, then went on. “I suppose I really can’t argue with you.”

“And you would if my argument was flawed, Dr. St. Jacques. That’s something I’ve learned over the past thirteen years.”

“I still object to this
crazy
trip back to Washington! From here to Marseilles, then to London,
then
on a flight to Dulles. It’d be so much simpler just to get on a plane from Orly to the States.”

“It’s Peter Holland’s idea. He’ll meet you himself, so ask him; he doesn’t say an awful lot on the phone. I suspect he doesn’t want to deal with the French authorities for fear of a leak to Carlos’s people. A single woman with a common name on crowded flights is probably best.”