Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Ultimatum

"Why the hell couldn't I talk from the hotel?" asked Bourne angrily. "I called you last night from there!"

"That was last night, not today."

"Any news about Mo?"

"Nothing yet, but they may have made a mistake. We may have a line on the army doctor."

"Break him!"

"With pleasure. I'll take off my foot and smash his face with it until he begs to cooperate-if the line on him is rumb."

"That's not why you've been calling me all night, though, is it?"

"No. I was with Peter Holland for five hours yesterday. I went over to see him after we talked, and his reaction was exactly what I thought it would be, with a few generous broadsides in the bargain."

"Medusa?"

"Yes. He insists you fly back immediately; you're the only one with direct knowledge. It's an order."

"Bullshit! He can't insist I do anything, much less give me an order!"

"He can cut you off, and I can't do anything about it. If you need something in a hurry, he won't deliver."

"Bernardine's offered to help. 'Whatever you need,' those were his words."

"Bernardine's limited. Like me, he can call in debts, but without access to the machine he's too restricted."

"Did you tell Holland I'm writing down everything I know, every statement that was made to me, every answer to every question I asked?"

"Are you?"

"I will."

"He doesn't buy it. He wants to question you; he says he can't question pages of paper."

"I'm too close to the Jackal! I won't do it. He's an unreasonable son of a bitch!"

"I think he wanted to be reasonable," said Conklin. "He knows what you're going through, what you've been through, but after seven o'clock last night he closed the doors."

"Why?"

"Armbruster was shot to death outside his house. They're calling it a Georgetown robbery, which, of course, it isn't and wasn't."

"Oh, Jesus!"

"There are a couple of other things you ought to know. To begin with, we're releasing Swayne's 'suicide.' "

"For God's sake, why?"

"To let whoever killed him think he's off the hook, and, more important, to see who shows up during the next week or so.

"At the funeral?"

"No, that's a 'closed family affair,' no guests, no formal ceremony."

"Then who's going to show up where?

"At the estate, in one form or another. We checked with Swayne's attorney, very officially, of course, and he confirmed what Swayne's wife told you about his leaving the whole place to a foundation."

"Which one?" asked Bourne.

"One you've never heard of, funded privately a few years ago by wealthy close friends of the august 'wealthy' general. It's as touching as can be. It goes under the title of the Soldiers, Sailors and Marines Retreat; the board of directors is already in place."

"Medusans."

"Or their surrogates. We'll see."

"Alex, what about the names I gave you, the six or seven names Flannagan gave me? And that slew of license plate numbers from their meetings?"

"Cute, real cute," said Conklin enigmatically.

"What's cute?"

"Take the names-they're the dregs of the wing-ding social set, no relation to the Georgetown upper crust. They're out of the National Enquirer, not The Washington Post."

"But the licenses, the meetings! That's got to be the ball of wax."

"Even cuter," observed Alex. "A ball of sheep dip. ... Every one of those licenses is registered to a limousine company, read that companies. I don't have to tell you how authentic the names would be even if we had the dates to trace them."

"There's a cemetery out there!"

"Where is it? How big, how small? There are twenty-eight acres-"

"Start looking!"

"And advertise what we know?"

"You're right; you're playing it right. ... Alex, tell Holland you couldn't reach me."

"You're joking."

"No, I mean it. I've got the concierge, I can cover. Give Holland the hotel and the name and tell him to call himself, or send over whoever he likes from the embassy to verify. The concierge will swear I checked in yesterday and he hasn't seen me since. Even the switchboard will confirm it. Buy me a few days, please."

"Holland could still pull all the plugs and probably will."

"He won't if he thinks I'll come back when you find me. I just want him to keep looking for Mo and keep my name out of Paris. Good or bad, no Webb, no Simon, no Bourne!"

"I'll try."

"Was there anything else? I've got a lot to do."

"Yes. Casset is flying over to Brussels in the morning. He's going to nail Teagarten-him we can't allow and it won't touch you."

"Agreed."

On a side street in Anderlecht, three miles south of Brussels, a military sedan bearing the flags of a four-star general officer pulled up to the curb in front of a sidewalk café. General James Teagarten, commander of NATO, his tunic emblazoned with five rows of ribbons, stepped gingerly out of the car into the bright early afternoon sunlight. He turned and offered his hand to a stunning WAC major, who smiled her thanks as she climbed out after him. Gallantly, with military authority, Teagarten released the woman's hand and took her elbow; he escorted her across the wide pavement toward a cluster of umbrella-topped tables behind a row of flowering planter boxes that was the alfresco section of the café. They reached the entrance, a latticework archway profusely covered with baby roses, and walked inside. All the tables were occupied save one at the far end of the enclosed pavement; the hum of luncheon conversation was punctuated by the tinkling of wine bottles gently touching wineglasses and the delicate clatter of utensils lowered on china plates. The decibel level of the conversation was suddenly reduced, and the general, aware that his presence inevitably brought stares, amiable waves and not infrequently mild applause, smiled benignly at no one in particular and yet at everyone as he guided his lady to the deserted table where a small folded card read Réservé.

The owner, with two waiters trailing behind him like anxious egrets, practically flew between the tables to greet his distinguished guest. When the commander was seated, a chilled bottle of Corton-Charlemagne was presented and the menu discussed. A young Belgian child, a boy of five or six, walked shyly up to the table and brought his hand to his forehead; he smiled and saluted the general. Teagarten rose to his feet, standing erect, and saluted the child back.

"Vous etes un soldat distingué, mon camarade," said the general, his commanding voice ringing through the sidewalk café, his bright smile winning the crowd, who responded with appreciative applause. The child retreated and the meal continued.

A leisurely hour later, Teagarten and his lady were interrupted by the general's chauffeur, a middle-aged army sergeant whose expression conveyed his anxiety. The commander of NATO had received an urgent message over his vehicle's secure phone, and the chauffeur had had the presence of mind to write it down and repeat it for accuracy. He handed Teagarten the note.

The general stood up, his tanned face turning pale as he glanced around the now-half-empty sidewalk café, his eyes narrowed, angry, afraid. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded wad of Belgian franc notes, peeled off several large ones and dropped them on the table. "Come on," he said to the woman major. "Let's go. ... You"-he turned to his driver-"get the car started!"

"What is it?" asked his luncheon companion.

"London. Over the wire. Armbruster and DeSole are dead."

"Oh, my God! How?"

"It doesn't matter. Whatever they say is a lie."

"What's happening?"

"I don't know. I just know we're getting out of here. Come on!"

The general and his lady rushed through the latticework archway, across the wide pavement and into the military vehicle. On either side of the hood, something was missing. The middle aged sergeant had removed the two red-and-gold flags denoting the impressive rank of his superior, the commander of NATO. The car shot forward, traveling less than fifty yards when it happened.