Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Ultimatum

"Now, just a minute," protested the analyst defensively but firmly. "I'm precise in everything I say, and, frankly, whoever you are, I don't like the tone of your voice one bit."

"He's upset," said Armbruster, as if his associate was dismissible. "He's a spaghetti head from New York and doesn't trust anybody."

"Who's to trust in New York?" asked the short, dark man, laughing and poking his elbow into the wide girth of Albert Armbruster. "You WASPs are the worst, you got the banks, amico!"

"Let's keep it that way and out of the courts. ... The description, please?" The chairman looked at DeSole.

"It's incomplete, but there is a long-ago tie-in with Medusa that I'll describe-precisely."

"Go ahead, pal," said the man from New York.

"He's rather large-tall, that is-and in his late forties or early fifties and-"

"Has he got some gray around his temples?" asked Armbruster, interrupting.

"Well, yes, I think the gardener said something to that effect-graying, or gray in his hair, or something like that. It's obviously why he judged him to be in his forties or fifties."

"It's Simon," said Armbruster, looking at the New Yorker.

"Who?" DeSole stopped, as the other two stopped and looked at him.

"He called himself Simon, and he knew all about you, Mr. CIA," said the chairman. "About you and Brussels and our whole thing."

"What are you talking about?"

"For starters, your goddamn fax machine exclusively between you and that fruitcake in Brussels."

"It's a buried, dedicated line! It's locked up!"

"Someone found the key, Mr. Precision," said the New Yorker, not smiling.

"Oh, my God, that's terrible! What should I do?"

"Make up a story between you and Teagarten, but do it from public phones," continued the mafioso. "One of you will come up with something."

"You know about ... Brussels?"

"There's very little I don't know."

"That son of a bitch conned me into thinking he was one of us and he had me by the balls!" said Armbruster angrily, continuing to walk along the edge of the parking lot, the other two joining him, DeSole hesitantly, apprehensively. "He seemed to know everything, but when I think back, he only brought up bits and pieces-damned big bits and pieces like Burton and you and Brussels-and I, like a fucking idiot, filled in a hell of a lot more. Shit!"

"Now, just wait a minute!" cried the CIA analyst, once again forcing the others to stop. "I don't understand-I'm a strategist, and I don't understand. What was David Webb Jason Bourne, if he is Jason Bourne-doing at Swayne's place the other night?"

"Who the hell is Jason Bourne?" roared the chairman of the Federal Trade Commission.

"He's the tie-in with Saigon's Medusa that I just mentioned. Thirteen years ago the Agency gave him the name Jason Bourne, the original Bourne a dead man by then, and sent him out in deep cover on a Four Zero assignment-a termination with extreme prejudice, if you like-"

"A hit, if you want to speak English, paisan."

"Yes, yes, that's what it was. ... But things went wrong; he had a loss of memory and the operation collapsed. It collapsed, but he survived."

"Holy Christ, what a bunch of zucchinis!"

"What can you tell us about this Webb ... or Bourne-this Simon or the 'Cobra'? Jesus, he's a walking vaudeville act!"

"Apparently that's what he did before. He assumed different names, different appearances, different personalities. He was trained to do that when he was sent out to challenge the assassin called the Jackal-to draw him out and kill him."

"The Jackal?" asked the astonished capo supremo of the Cosa Nostra. "Like in the movie?"

"No, not the movie or the book, you idiot-"

"Hey, easy, amico."

"Oh, shut up. ... Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, otherwise known as Carlos the Jackal, is a living person, a professional killer the international authorities have been hunting for over a quarter of a century. Outside of scores of confirmed hits, many think he was the puff of smoke on the grassy knoll in Dallas, the true killer of John Kennedy."

"You're shittin' me."

"I can assure you, I am not shitting you. The word we got at the Agency at the highest secure levels was that after all these years Carlos had tracked down the only man alive who could identify him, Jason Bourne-or, as I'm firmly convinced, David Webb."

"That word had to come from somebody!" exploded Albert Armbruster. "Who was it?"

"Oh, yes. Everything's so sudden, so bewildering. ... He's a retired field agent with a crippled leg, a man named Conklin, Alexander Conklin. He and a psychiatrist-Panov, Morris Panov-are close friends of Webb ... or Jason Bourne."

"Where are they?" asked the capo supremo grimly.

"Oh, you couldn't reach either one, talk to either of them. They're both under maximum security."

"I didn't ask for the rules of engagement, paisan, I asked where they were."

"Well, Conklin's at a condominium in Vienna, a proprietary of ours no one could penetrate, and Panov's apartment and office are both under round-the-clock surveillance."

"You'll give me the addresses, won't you?"

"Certainly, but I guarantee they won't talk to you."

"Oh, that would be a pity. We're just looking for a guy with a dozen names, asking questions, offering assistance."

"They won't buy it."

"Maybe I can sell it."

"Goddamn it, why?" spouted Armbruster, then immediately lowered his voice. "Why was this Webb or Bourne or whoever the hell he is at Swayne's?"

"It's a gap I can't fill," said DeSole.

"A what?"

"That's an Agency term for no answer."

"No wonder the country's up shit's creek."

"That's not true-"

"Now you shut up!" ordered the man from New York, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small notepad and a ballpoint pen. "Write out the addresses of this retired spook and the yid shrink. Now!"

"It's difficult to see," said DeSole, writing, angling the small pad of paper toward the neon lights of the closed gas station. "There. The apartment number may be wrong but it's close, and Panov's name will be on the mailbox. But I tell you again, he won't talk to you."

"Then we'll just have to apologize for interrupting him."

"Yes, you probably will. I gather he's very dedicated where his patients are concerned."

"Oh? Like that telephone line into your fax machine."

"No, no, that's a technical term. Number Three wire, to be precise."

"And you're always precise, aren't you, paisan?"

"And you're very irritating-"

"We've got to go," broke in Armbruster, watching the New Yorker take back the pad and the ballpoint pen. "Stay calm, Steven," he added, obviously suppressing his anger and heading back to the limousine. "Remember, there's nothing we can't handle. When you talk to Jimmy T in Brussels, see if you two can come up with a reasonable explanation, okay? If not, don't worry, we'll figure it out upstairs."

"Of course, Mr. Armbruster. But if I may ask? Is my account in Bern ready for immediate release-in case ... well, you understand ... in case-"

"Of course it is, Steven. All you have to do is fly over and write out the numbers of your account in your own handwriting. That's your signature, the one on file, remember?"

"Yes, yes, I do."

"It must be over two million by now."

"Thank you. Thank you ... sir."

"You've earned it, Steven. Good night."

The two men settled back in the rear seat of the limousine, but there was no lack of tension. Armbruster glanced at the mafioso as the chauffeur, beyond the glass partition, turned on the ignition. "Where's the other car?"

The Italian switched on the reading light and looked at his watch. "By now he's parked less than a mile down the road from the gas station. He'll pick up DeSole on his way back and stay with him until the circumstances are right."