Page 64 of The Bourne Ultimatum (Jason Bourne 3)

  “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.”

  35

  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 confidensheeality, 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 Tranquili

ty Inn! It was so horrible. Coffins on the dock, the chapel blown up, government boats around our peaceful isle—gunshots, 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 week-end 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.”

  “It’s the number of a café on the Marais waterfront on the Seine. The routine is to ask for a blackbird—un oiseau noir—and somebody shouts out. If the blackbird’s there, contact is made. If he isn’t, you try again.”

  “Why is it useful?”

  “We’ll try again—and again and again—with a man inside.”

  “What’s happening otherwise?”

  “I can only give you a limited answer.”

  “Goddamn you!”

  “Marie can fill you in—”

  “Marie?”

  “She’s on her way home. She’s mad as hell, but she’s also one relieved wife and mother.”

  “Why is she mad?”

  “I’ve booked her low-key on several long flights back—”

  “For Christ’s sake, why?” broke in the brother angrily. “You send a goddamned plane for her! She’s been more valuable to you than anyone in your dumb Congress or your corkscrew administration, and you send planes for them all over the place. I’m not joking, Holland!”

  “I don’t send those planes,” replied the director firmly. “Others do. The ones I send involve too many questions and too much curiosity on foreign soil and that’s all I’ll say about it. Her safety is more important than her comfort.”

  “We agree on that, honcho.”

  The director paused, his irritation apparent. “You know something? You’re not really a very pleasant fellow, are you?”

  “My sister puts up with me, which more than offsets your opinion. Why is she relieved—as a wife and mother, I think you said?”

  Again Holland paused, not in irritation now, but searching for the words. “A disagreeable incident took place, one none of us could predict or even contemplate.”

  “Oh, I hear those famous fucking words from the American establishment!” roared St. Jacques. “What did you miss this time? A truckload of U.S. missiles to the Ayatollah’s agents in Paris? What happened?”

  For a third time, Peter Holland employed a moment of silence, although his heavy breathing was audible. “You know, young man, I could easily hang up the phone and dismiss your existence, which would be quite beneficial for my blood pressure.”

  “Look, honcho, that’s my sister out there, and a guy she’s married to who I think is pretty terrific. Five years ago, you bastards—I repeat, you bastards—damn near killed them both over in Hong Kong and points east. I don’t know all the facts because they’re too decent or too dumb to talk about them, but I know enough to know I wouldn’t trust you with a waiter’s payroll in the islands!”

  “Fair enough,” said Holland, subdued. “Not that it matters, but I wasn’t here then.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s your subterranean system. You would have done the same thing.”

  “Knowing the circumstances, I might have. So might you, if you knew them. But that doesn’t matter, either. It’s history.”

  “And now is now,” broke in St. Jacques. “What happened in Paris, this ‘disagreeable incident’?”

  “According to Conklin, there was an ambush at a private airfield in Pontcarré. It was aborted. Your brother-in-law wasn’t hurt and neither was Alex. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “It’s all I want to hear.”

  “I spoke to Marie a little while ago. She’s in Marseilles and will be here late tomorrow morning. I’ll meet her myself and we’ll be driven out to Chesapeake.”

  “What about David?”

  “Who?”

  “My brother-in-law!”

  “Oh … yes, of course. He’s on his way to Moscow.”

  “What?”

  The Aeroflot jetliner reversed engines and swung off the runway at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport. The pilot taxied down the adjacent exit lane, then stopped a quarter of a mile from the terminal as an announcement was made in both Russian and French.

  “There will be a five- to seven-minute delay before disembarkation. Please remain seated.”

  No explanation accompanied the information, and those passengers on the flight from Paris who were not Soviet citizens returned to their reading material, assuming the delay was caused by a backup of departing aircraft. However, those who were citizens, as well as a few others familiar with Soviet arrival procedures, knew better. The curtained-off front section of the huge Ilyushin jet, a small seating area that was reserved for special unseen passengers, was in the process of being evacuated, if not totally, at least in part. The custom was for an elevated platform with a shielded metal staircase to be rolled up to the front exit door. Several hundred feet away there was always a government limousine, and while the backs of those disembarked special passengers were briefly in view on their way to the vehicles, flight attendants roamed through the aircraft making sure no cameras were in evidence. There never were. These travelers were the property of the KGB, and for reasons known only to the Komitet, they were not to be observed in Sheremetyevo’s international terminal. It was the case this late afternoon on the outskirts of Moscow.

  Alex Conklin limped out of the shielded staircase followed by Bourne, who carried the two outsized flight bags that served as their minimum luggage. Dimitri Krupkin emerged from the limousine and hurried toward them as the steps were rolled away from the aircraft and the noise of the huge jet engines began growing in volume.

  “How is your friend the doctor?” asked the Soviet intelligence officer, shouting to be heard over the roar.

  “Holding his own!” yelled Alex. “He may not make it, but he’s fighting like hell!”

  “It’s your own fault, Aleksei!” The jet rolled away and Krupkin lowered his voice accordingly, still loud but not shouting. “You should have called Sergei at the embassy. His unit was prepared to escort you wherever you wished to go.”

“Actually, we thought that if we did, we’d be sending out an alert.”

  “Better a prohibiting alert than inviting an assault!” countered the Russian. “Carlos’s men would never have dared to attack you under our protection.”

  “It wasn’t the Jackal—the Jackal,” said Conklin, abruptly resuming a conversational tone as the roar of the aircraft became a hum in the distance.

  “Of course it wasn’t him—he’s here. It was his goons following orders.”

  “Not his goons, not his orders.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We’ll go into it later. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait.” Krupkin arched his brows. “We’ll talk first—and first, welcome to Mother Russia. Second, it would be most appreciated if you would refrain from discussing certain aspects of my life-style while in the service of my government in the hostile, war-mongering West with anyone you might meet.”

  “You know, Kruppie, one of these days they’ll catch up with you.”

  “Never. They adore me, for I feed the Komitet more useful gossip about the upper ranks of the debauched, so-called free world than any other officer in a foreign post. I also entertain my superiors in that same debauched world far better than any other officer anywhere. Now, if we corner the Jackal here in Moscow, I’ll no doubt be made a member of the Politburo, hero status.”

  “Then you can really steal.”

  “Why not? They all do.”

  “If you don’t mind,” interrupted Bourne curtly, lowering the two flight bags to the ground. “What’s happened? Have you made any progress in Dzerzhinsky Square?”

  “It’s not inconsiderable for less than thirty hours. We’ve narrowed down Carlos’s mole to thirteen possibles, all of whom speak French fluently. They’re under total surveillance, human and electronic; we know exactly where they are every minute, also who they meet and who they talk to over the telephone.… I’m working with two ranking commissars, neither of whom can remotely speak French—they can’t even speak literate Russian, but that’s the way it is sometimes. The point is they’re both failsafe and dedicated; they’d rather be instrumental in capturing the Jackal than re-fight the Nazi. They’ve been very cooperative in mounting surveillance.”