The Bourne ultimatum (82 page)

“What’s come now, you
bastard
, is that a friend of mine inside there is shot up! You
did
it!”

“A truce, then?” said Mario.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“I have a very fast car a half mile away.” The killer from Larchmont, New York, pulled a square instrument from his belt. “It can be here in less than a minute. I’m sure the driver knows the nearest hospital.”

“
Do
it!”

“It’s done, Jason Bourne,” said Mario, pressing a button.

Morris Panov had been rolled into the operating room; Louis DeFazio was still on a gurney, as it was determined that his wound was superficial. And through back-channel negotiations between Washington and Quai d’Orsay, the criminal known only as Mario was securely in the custody of the American embassy in Paris.

A white-frocked doctor came out into the hospital’s waiting room; both Conklin and Bourne got to their feet, frightened. “I will not pretend to be a bearer of glad tidings,” said the physician in French, “for it would be quite wrong. Both lungs of your friend were punctured, as well as the wall of his heart. He has at best a forty-sixty chance of survival—against him, I’m afraid. Still, he is a strong-willed man who wants to live. At times that means more than all the medical negatives. What else can I tell you?”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Jason turned away.

“I have to use a telephone,” said Alex to the surgeon. “I should go to our embassy, but I haven’t the time. Do I have any guarantee that I won’t be tapped, overheard?”

“I imagine you have every guarantee,” replied the physician. “We wouldn’t know how to do it. Use my office, please.”

“Peter?”

“
Alex
!” cried Holland from Langley, Virginia. “Everything go all right? Did Marie get off?”

“To answer your first question, no, everything did not go all right; and as far as Marie goes, you can expect a panicked phone call from her the minute she reaches Marseilles. That pilot won’t touch his radio.”

“What?”

“Tell her we’re okay, that David’s not hurt—”

“What are you
talking
about?” broke in the director of Central Intelligence.

“We were ambushed while waiting for the plane from Poitiers. I’m afraid Mo Panov’s in bad shape, so bad I don’t want to think about it right now. We’re in a hospital and the doctor’s not encouraging.”

“Oh, God, Alex, I’m
sorry
.”

“In his own way, Mo’s a fighter. I’ll still bet on him. Incidentally, don’t tell Marie. She thinks too much.”

“Of course not. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes, there is, Peter. You can tell me why Medusa’s here in Paris.”

“In
Paris
? It’s not according to everything I know and I know a hell of a lot.”

“Our identification’s positive. The two guns that hit us an hour ago were sent over by Medusa. We’ve even got a confession of sorts.”

“I don’t
understand
!” protested Holland. “Paris never entered into our thinking. There’s no linkage in the scenario.”

“Sure, there is,” contradicted the former station chief. “You said it yourself. You called it a self-fulfilling prophecy, remember? The ultimate logic that Bourne conceived as a theory. Medusa joining up with the Jackal, the target Jason Bourne.”

“That’s the point, Alex. It
was
only a theory, hypothetically convincing, but still just a theory, the basis for a sound strategy. But it never happened.”

“It obviously did.”

“Not from this end. As far as we’re concerned, Medusa’s now in Moscow.”

“
Moscow
?” Conklin nearly dropped the phone on the doctor’s desk.

“That’s right. We’ve concentrated on Ogilvie’s law firm in New York, tapping everything that could be tapped. Somehow—and we don’t know how—Ogilvie was tipped off and got out of the country. He took an Aeroflot to Moscow, and the rest of his family headed to Marrakesh.”

“Ogilvie ... ?” Alex could barely be heard; frowning, his memory peeled away the years. “From Saigon? A legal officer from
Saigon
?”

“That’s right. We’re convinced he runs Medusa.”

“And you withheld that information from me?”

“Only the name of the firm. I told you we had our priorities and you had yours. For us, Medusa came first.”

“You simple swab jockey!” exploded Conklin. “I
know
Ogilvie—more precisely, I
knew
him. Let me tell you what they called him in Saigon: Ice-Cold Ogilvie, the smoothest-talking legal scumball in Vietnam. With a few subpoenas and some research, I could have told you where a few of his courtroom skeletons were buried—you blew it! You could have pulled him in for fixing the army courts in a couple of killings—there are no statutes, civilian or military, on those crimes. Jesus, why didn’t you
tell
me?”

“In all honesty, Alex, you never asked. You simply assumed—rightly so—that I wouldn’t tell you.”

“All right, all right, it’s done—to hell with it. By tomorrow or the next day you’ll have our two Medusans, so go to work on them. They both want to save their asses—the capo’s a slime, but his sharpshooter keeps praying for his family and it’s not organizational.”

“What are you going to do?” pressed Holland.

“We’re on our way to Moscow.”

“After
Ogilvie
?”

“No, the Jackal. But if I see Bryce, I’ll give him your regards.”

Buckingham Pritchard sat next to his uniformed uncle, Cyril Sylvester Pritchard, deputy director of immigration, in the office of Sir Henry Sykes at Government House in Montserrat. Beside them, on the deputy’s right, was their attorney, the finest native solicitor Sykes could persuade to advise the Pritchards in the event that the Crown brought a case against them as accessories to terrorism. Sir Henry sat behind the desk and glanced in partial shock at the lawyer, one Jonathan Lemuel, who raised his head and eyes to the ceiling, not to have the benefit of the tropic fan that stirred the humid air but to show disbelief. Lemuel was a Cambridge-educated attorney, once a “scholarship boy” from the colonies, who years ago had made his money in London and returned in the autumn of his life to his native ’Serrat to enjoy the fruits of his labors. Actually, Sir Henry had persuaded his retired black friend to give assistance to a couple of idiots who might have involved themselves in a serious international matter.

The cause of Sir Henry’s shock and Jonathan Lemuel’s disbelief cum exasperation came about through the following exchange between Sykes and the deputy director of immigration.

“Mr. Pritchard, we’ve established that your nephew overheard a telephone conversation between John St. Jacques and his brother-in-law, the American Mr. David Webb. Further, your nephew Buckingham Pritchard here, freely, even enthusiastically, admits calling you with certain information contained in that conversation and that you in turn emphatically stated that you had to reach Paris immediately. Is this true?”

“It is all
completely
true, Sir Henry.”

“Whom did you reach in Paris? What’s the telephone number?”

“With respect, sir, I am sworn to secrecy.”

At that succinct and totally unexpected reply, Jonathan Lemuel had lifted his astonished eyes to the ceiling.

Sykes, regaining his composure, put an end to the brief pause of amazement. “
What
was that, Mr. Pritchard?”

“My nephew and I are part of an international organization involving the great leaders of the world, and we have been sworn to secrecy.”

“Good God, he believes it,” muttered Sir Henry.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Lemuel, lowering his head. “Our telephone service here is not the most sophisticated, especially where pay phones are concerned, which I presume you were instructed to use, but within a day or so that number can be traced. Why not simply give it to Sir Henry now. He obviously needs to know quickly, so where is the harm?”

“The harm, sir, is to our superiors in the organization—that was made explicitly clear to me personally.”

“What’s the name of this international organization?”

“I don’t know, Sir Henry. That is part of the confiden
sheeal
ity, do you not see?”

“I’m afraid
you’re
the one who doesn’t see, Mr. Pritchard,” said Sykes, his voice clipped, his anger surfacing.

“Oh, but I
do
, Sir Henry, and I shall prove it to you!” interrupted the deputy, looking at each man as if to draw the skeptical Sykes and the astonished attorney, as well as his adoring nephew, into his confidence. “A large sum of money was wired from a private banking institution in Switzerland directly to my own account here in Montserrat. The instructions were clear, if flexible. The funds were to be used liberally in pursuit of the assignments delegated to me. ... Transportation, entertainment, lodgings—I was told I had complete discretion, but, of course, I keep a record of all expenditures, as I do as the second highest officer of immigration. ... Who but vastly superior people would put such trust in a man they knew only by an enviable reputation and position?”

Henry Sykes and Jonathan Lemuel again looked at each other, astonishment and disbelief now joined by total fascination. Sir Henry leaned forward over the desk. “Beyond this—shall we say—in-depth observation of John St. Jacques requiring the obvious services of your nephew, have you been given other assignments?”

“Actually not, sir, but I’m sure that as soon as the leaders see how expeditiously I have performed, others will follow.”

Lemuel raised his hand calmly a few inches off the arm of his chair to inhibit a red-faced Sykes. “Tell me,” he said quickly, gently. “This large sum of money sent from Switzerland, just how large was it? The amount doesn’t matter legally, and Sir Henry can always call your bank under the laws of the Crown, so please tell us.”

“Three hundred pounds!” replied the elder Pritchard, the pride of his value in his voice.

“Three
hundred
... ?” The solicitor’s words trailed off.

“Not exactly staggering, eh?” mumbled Sir Henry, leaning back, speechless.

“Roughly,” continued Lemuel, “what’s been your expenses?”

“Not roughly, but precisely,” affirmed the deputy director of immigration, removing a small notebook from the breast pocket of his uniform.

“My brilliant uncle is always precise,” offered Buckingham Pritchard.

“Thank you, Nephew.”

“How much?” insisted the attorney.

“Precisely twenty-six pounds, five shillings, English, or the equivalent of one hundred thirty-two East Caribbean dollars, the EC’s rounded off to the nearest double zero at the latest rate of exchange—in this case I absorbed forty-seven cents, so entered.”

“Amazing,” intoned Sykes, numbed.

“I’ve scrupulously kept every receipt,” went on the deputy, gathering steam as he continued reading. “They’re locked in a strongbox at my flat on Old Road Bay, and include the following: a total of seven dollars and eighteen cents for local calls to Tranquility—I would not use my official phone; twenty-three dollars and sixty-five cents for the long-distance call to Paris; sixty-eight dollars and eighty cents ... dinner for myself and my nephew at Vue Point, a business conference, naturally—”

“That will do,” interrupted Jonathan Lemuel, wiping his perspiring black brow with a handkerchief, although the tropical fan was perfectly adequate for the room.

“I am prepared to submit everything at the proper time—”

“I said that will do, Cyril.”

“You should know that I refused a taxi driver when he offered to inflate the price of a receipt and soundly criticized him in my official position.”

“
Enough
!” thundered Sykes, the veins in his neck pronounced. “You both have been damn fools of the first magnitude! To have even considered John St. Jacques a criminal of any sort is preposterous!”

“Sir Henry,” broke in the younger Pritchard. “I myself saw what happened at Tranquility Inn! It was so horrible. Coffins on the dock, the chapel blown up, government boats around our peaceful isle—
gun
shots, sir! It will be months before we’re back in full operation.”

“Exactly!” roared Sykes. “And do you believe Johnny St. Jay would willingly destroy his own property, his own business?”

“Stranger things have happened in the outside criminal world, Sir Henry,” said Cyril Sylvester Pritchard knowingly. “In my official capacity I’ve heard many, many stories. The incidents my nephew described are called diversionary tactics employed to create the illusion that the scoundrels are victims. It was all thoroughly explained to me.”

“Oh, it
was
, was it?” cried the former brigadier of the British army. “Well, let me explain something else, shall I? You’ve been duped by an international terrorist wanted the world over! Do you know the universal penalty for aiding and abetting such a killer? I’ll make it plain, in case it’s escaped your attention—in your official capacity, of course. ... It is death by firing squad or, less charitably, a public hanging! Now, what’s that goddamned number in Paris?”

“Under the circumstances,” said the deputy, summoning what dignity he could despite the fact that his trembling nephew clutched his left arm and his hand shook as he reached for his notebook. “I’ll write it out for you. ... One asks for a blackbird. In French, Sir Henry. I speak a few words, Sir Henry. In French—Sir Henry.”

Summoned by an armed guard dressed casually as a weekend guest in white slacks and a loose, bulky white linen jacket, John St. Jacques walked into the library of their new safe house, an estate on Chesapeake Bay. The guard, a muscular, medium-sized man with clean-cut Hispanic features, stood inside the doorway; he pointed to the telephone on the large cherry-wood desk. “It’s for you, Mr. Jones. It’s the director.”

“Thanks, Hector,” said Johnny, pausing briefly. “Is that Mr. Jones stuff really necessary?”

“As necessary as ‘Hector.’ My real name’s Roger ... or Daniel. Whatever.”

“Gotcha.” St. Jacques crossed to the desk and picked up the phone. “Holland?”

“That number your friend Sykes got is a blind, but useful.”

“As my brother-in-law would say, please speak English.”