Page 66 of The Bourne Ultimatum (Jason Bourne 3)

  “Later—”

  “Now. Your friend Krupkin is helping us, which means he’s helping Marie and me and I’m grateful for his help. The colonel here is also on our side or we wouldn’t be seeing what’s on that screen at this moment. I want to know what happened between that man and me, and all of Langley’s security measures can go to hell. The more I know about him—now—the better I know what to ask for, what to expect.” Bourne suddenly turned to the Soviets. “For your information, there’s a period in my life I can’t completely remember, and that’s all you have to know. Go on, Alex.”

  “I have trouble remembering last night,” said the colonel.

  “Tell him what he wants to know, Aleksei. It can have no bearing on our interests. The Saigon chapter is closed, as is Kabul.”

  “All right.” Conklin lowered himself into a chair and massaged his right calf; he tried to speak casually but the attempt was not wholly successful. “In December of 1970 one of your men was killed during a search-and-destroy patrol. It was called an accident of ‘friendly fire,’ but you knew better. You knew he was marked by some horseshit artists down south at headquarters; they had it in for him. He was a Cambodian and no saint by any means, but he knew all the contraband trails, so he was your point.”

  “Just images,” interrupted Bourne. “All I get are fragments. I see but I can’t remember.”

  “The facts aren’t important anymore; they’re buried along with several thousand other questionable events. Apparently a large narcotics deal went sour in the Triangle and your scout was held responsible, so a few hotshots in Saigon thought a lesson should be taught their gook runners. They flew up to your territory, went into the grass, and took him out like they were a VC advance unit. But you saw them from a piece of high ground and blew all your gaskets. You tracked them back to the helicopter pad and gave them a choice: Get in and you’d storm the chopper leaving no survivors, or they could come back with you to the base camp. They came back under your men’s guns and you forced Field Command to accept your multiple charges of murder. That’s when Ice-Cold Ogilvie showed up looking after his Saigon boys.”

  “Then something happened, didn’t it? Something crazy—everything got confused, twisted.”

  “It certainly did. Bryce got you on the stand and made you look like a maniac, a sullen pathological liar and a killer who, except for the war and your expertise, would be in a maximum security prison. He called you everything in the rotten black book and demanded that you reveal your real name—which you wouldn’t do, couldn’t do, because your first wife’s Cambodian family would have been slaughtered. He tried to tie you in verbal knots, and, failing that, threatened the military court with exposing the whole bastard battalion, which it also couldn’t allow.… Ogilvie’s thugs got off for lack of credible testimony, and after the trial you had to be physically restrained in the barracks until Ogilvie was airborne back to Saigon.”

  “His name was Kwan Soo,” said Bourne dreamily, his head moving back and forth as if rejecting a nightmare. “He was a kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen, sending the drug money back to three villages so they could eat. There wasn’t any other way … oh, shit! What would any of us have done if our families were starving?”

  “That wasn’t anything you could say at the trial and you knew it. You had to hold your tongue and take Ogilvie’s vicious crap. I came up and watched you and I never saw a man exercise such control over his hatred.”

  “That isn’t the way I seem to recall it—what I can recall. Some of it’s coming back, not much, but some.”

  “During that trial you adapted to the necessities of your immediate surroundings—you might say like a chameleon.” Their eyes locked, and Jason turned back to the television screen.

  “And there he is with Carlos. It’s a small rotten world, isn’t it? Does he know I’m Jason Bourne?”

  “How could he?” asked Conklin, getting out of the chair. “There was no Jason Bourne then. There wasn’t even a David, only a guerrilla they called Delta One. No names were used, remember?”

  “I keep forgetting; what else is new?” Jason pointed at the screen. “Why is he in Moscow? Why did you say Medusa found the Jackal? Why?”

  “Because he’s the law firm in New York.”

  “What?” Bourne whipped his head toward Conklin. “He’s the—”

  “The chairman of the board,” completed Alex, interrupting. “The Agency closed in and he got out. Two days ago.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” cried Jason angrily.

  “Because I never thought for a moment we’d be standing here looking at that picture on the screen. I still can’t understand it, but I can’t deny it, either. Also, I saw no reason to bring up a name you might or might not remember, a personally very disturbing occurrence you might or might not remember. Why add an unnecessary complication? There’s enough stress.”

  “All right, Aleksei!” said an agitated Krupkin, stepping forward. “I’ve heard words and names that evoke certain unpleasant memories for me, at any rate, and I think it behooves me to ask a question or two—specifically one. Just who is this Ogilvie that concerns you so? You’ve told us who he was in Saigon, but who is he now?”

  “Why not?” Conklin asked himself quietly. “He’s a New York attorney who heads up an organization that’s spread throughout Europe and the Mediterranean. Initially, by pushing the right buttons in Washington, they bought up companies through extortion and leveraged buy-outs; they’ve cornered markets and set prices, and in the bargain they’ve moved into the killing game, employing some of the best professionals in the business. There’s hard evidence that they’ve contracted for the murder of various officials in the government and the military, the most recent example—with which you’re no doubt familiar—is General Teagarten, supreme commander of NATO.”

  “Unbelievable!” whispered Krupkin.

  “Jeez—Chrize!” intoned the peasant-colonel, his eyes bulging.

  “Oh, they’re very creative, and Ogilvie’s the most inventive of all. He’s Superspider and he’s spun a hell of a web from Washington through every capital in Europe. Unfortunately for him, and thanks to my associate here, he was caught like a fly in his own spinning. He was about to be pounced on by people in Washington he couldn’t possibly corrupt, but he was tipped off and got out the day before yesterday.… Why he came to Moscow I haven’t the vaguest idea.”

  “I may be able to answer that for you,” said Krupkin, glancing at the KGB colonel and nodding, as if to say It’s all right. “I know nothing—absolutely nothing—about any such killing as you speak of, indeed of any killing whatsoever. However, you could be describing an American enterprise in Europe that’s been servicing our interests for years.”

  “In what way?” asked Alex.

  “With all manner of restricted American technology, as well as armaments, matériel, spare parts for aircraft and weapons systems—even the aircraft and the weapons systems themselves on various occasions through the bloc countries. I tell you this knowing that you know I’d vehemently deny ever having said it.”

  “Understood,” nodded Conklin. “What’s the name of this enterprise?”

  “There’s no single name. Instead, there are fifty or sixty companies apparently under one umbrella but with so many different titles and origins it’s impossible to determine the specific relationships.”

  “There’s a name and Ogilvie runs it,” said Alex.

  “That crossed my mind,” said Krupkin, his eyes suddenly glass-cold, his expression that of an unrelenting zealot. “However, what appears to disturb you so about your American attorney, I can assure you is far, far outweighed by our own concerns.” Dimitri turned to the television set and the shakily stationary picture, his eyes now filled with anger. “The Soviet intelligence officer on that screen is General Rodchenko, second in command of the KGB and close adviser to the premier of the Soviet Union. Many things may be done in the name of Russian interests and without the premier’s knowledge

, but in this day and age not in the areas you describe. My God, the supreme commander of NATO! And never—never—using the services of Carlos the Jackal! These embarrassments are no less than dangerous and frightening catastrophes.”

  “Have you got any suggestions?” asked Conklin.

  “A foolish question,” answered the colonel gruffly. “Arrest, then the Lubyanka … then silence.”

  “There’s a problem with that solution,” said Alex. “The Central Intelligence Agency knows Ogilvie’s in Moscow.”

  “So where is the problem? We rid us both of an unhealthy person and his crimes and go about our business.”

  “It may seem strange to you, but the problem isn’t only with the unhealthy person and his crimes, even where the Soviet Union is concerned. It’s with the cover-up—where Washington’s concerned.”

  The Komitet officer looked at Krupkin and spoke in Russian. “What is this one talking about?”

  “It’s difficult for us to understand,” answered Dimitri in his native language, “still, for them it is a problem. Let me try to explain.”

  “What’s he saying?” asked Bourne, annoyed.

  “I think he’s about to give a civics lesson, U.S. style.”

  “Such lessons more often than not fall on deaf ears in Washington,” interrupted Krupkin in English, then immediately resuming Russian, he addressed his KGB superior. “You see, comrade, no one in America would blame us for taking advantage of this Ogilvie’s criminal activities. They have a proverb they repeat so frequently that it covers oceans of guilt: ‘One does not look a gift horse in the mouth.’ ”

  “What has a horse’s mouth got to do with gifts? From its tail comes manure for the farms; from its mouth, only spittle.”

  “It loses something in the translation.… Nevertheless, this attorney, Ogilvie, obviously had a great many government connections, officials who overlooked his questionable practices for large sums of money, practices that entailed millions upon millions of dollars. Laws were circumvented, men killed, lies accepted as the truth; in essence, there was considerable corruption, and, as we know, the Americans are obsessed with corruption. They even label every progressive accommodation as potentially ‘corrupt,’ and there’s nothing older, more knowledgeable peoples can do about it. They hang out their soiled linen for all the world to see like a badge of honor.”

  “Because it is,” broke in Alex, speaking English. “That’s something a lot of people here wouldn’t understand because you cover every accommodation you make, every crime you commit, every mouth you shut with a basket of roses.… However, considering pots and kettles and odious comparisons, I’ll dispense with a lecture. I’m just telling you that Ogilvie has to be sent back and all the accounts settled; that’s the ‘progressive accommodation’ you have to make.”

  “I’m sure we’ll take it under advisement.”

  “Not good enough,” said Conklin. “Let’s put it this way. Beyond accountability, there’s simply too much known—or will be in a matter of days—about his enterprise, including the connection to Teagarten’s death, for you to keep him here. Not only Washington, but the entire European community would dump on you. Talk of embarrassments, this is a beaut, to say nothing about the effects on trade, or your imports and exports—”

  “You’ve made your point, Aleksei,” interrupted Krupkin. “Assuming this accommodation can be made, will it be clear that Moscow cooperated fully in bringing this American criminal back to American justice?”

  “We obviously couldn’t do it without you. As the temporary field officer of record, I’ll swear to it before both intelligence committees of Congress, if need be.”

  “And that we had nothing—absolutely nothing to do with the killings you mentioned, specifically the assassination of the supreme commander of NATO.”

  “Absolutely clear. It was one of the major reasons for your cooperation. Your government was horrified by the assassination.”

  Krupkin looked hard at Alex, his voice lower but stronger for it. He turned slowly, his eyes briefly on the television screen, then back to Conklin. “General Rodchenko?” he said. “What shall we do with General Rodchenko?”

  “What you do with General Rodchenko is your business,” replied Alex quietly. “Neither Bourne nor I ever heard the name.”

  “Da,” said Krupkin, nodding, again slowly. “And what you do with the Jackal in Soviet territory is your business, Aleksei. However, be assured we shall cooperate to the fullest degree.”

  “How do we begin?” asked Jason impatiently.

  “First things first.” Dimitri looked over at the KGB commissar. “Comrade, have you understood what we’ve said?”

  “Enough so, Krupkin,” replied the heavyset peasant-colonel, walking to a telephone on an inlaid marble table against the wall. He picked up the phone and dialed; his call was answered immediately. “It is I,” said the commissar in Russian. “The third man in tape seven with Rodchenko and the priest, the one New York identified as the American named Ogilvie. As of now he is to be placed under our surveillance and he is not to leave Moscow.” The colonel suddenly arched his thick brows, his face growing red. “That order is countermanded! He is no longer the responsibility of Diplomatic Relations, he is now the sole property of the KGB.… A reason? Use your skull, potato head! Tell them we are convinced he is an American double agent whom those fools did not uncover. Then the usual garbage: harboring enemies of the state due to laxness, their exalted positions once again protected by the Komitet—that sort of thing. Also, you might mention that they should not look a gift horse in the mouth.… I don’t understand any more than you do, comrade, but those butterflies over there in their tight-fitting suits probably will. Alert the airports.” The commissar hung up.

  “He did it,” said Conklin, turning to Bourne. “Ogilvie stays in Moscow.”

  “I don’t give a goddamn about Ogilvie!” exploded Jason, his voice intense, his jaw pulsating. “I’m here for Carlos!”

  “The priest?” asked the colonel, walking away from the table.

  “That’s exactly who I mean.”

  “Is simple. We put General Rodchenko on a very long rope that he cannot see or feel. You will be at the other end. He will meet his Jackal priest again.”

  “That’s all I ask,” said Jason Bourne.

  General Grigorie Rodchenko sat at a window table in the Lastochka restaurant by the Krymsky Bridge on the Moskva River. It was his favorite place for a midnight dinner; the lights on the bridge and on the slow-moving boats in the water were relaxing to the eye and therefore to the metabolism. He needed the calming atmosphere, for during the past two days things had been so unsettling. Had he been right or had he been wrong? Had his instincts been correct or far off the mark? He could not know at the moment, but those same instincts had enabled him to survive the mad Stalin as a youth, the blustering Khrushchev in middle age, and the inept Brezhnev a few years later. Now there was yet a new Russia under Gorbachev, a new Soviet Union, in fact, and his old age welcomed it. Perhaps things would relax a bit and long-standing enmities fade into a once hostile horizon. Still, horizons did not really change; they were always horizons, distant, flat, fired with color or darkness, but still distant, flat and unreachable.

  He was a survivor, Rodchenko understood that, and a survivor protected himself on as many points of the compass as he could read. He also insinuated himself into as many degrees of that compass as possible. Therefore, he had labored diligently to become a trusted mouth to the chairman; he was an expert at gathering information for the Komitet; he was the initial conduit to the American enterprise known to him alone in Moscow as Medusa, through which extraordinary shipments had been made throughout Russia and the bloc nations. On the other hand, he was also a liaison to the monseigneur in Paris, Carlos the Jackal, whom he had either persuaded or bought off from contracts that might point to the Soviet Union. He had been the ultimate bureaucrat, working behind the scenes on the international stage, seeking neither applause nor celebri

ty, merely survival. Then why had he done what he did? Was it mere impetuousness born of weariness and fear and the sense of a plague-on-both-your-houses? No, it was a logical extension of events, consistent with the needs of his country and, above all, the absolute necessity that Moscow disassociate itself from both Medusa and the Jackal.

  According to the consul general in New York, Bryce Ogilvie was finished in America. The consul’s suggestion was to find him asylum somewhere and, in exchange, gradually absorb his myriad assets in Europe. What worried the consul general in New York was not Ogilvie’s financial manipulations that broke more laws than there were courts to prosecute, but rather the killings, which as far as the consul could determine were wide-spread and included the murder of high U.S. government officials and, unless he was grossly mistaken, the assassination of the supreme commander of NATO. Compounding this chain of horrors was New York’s opinion that in order to save a number of his companies from confiscation, Ogilvie might have ordered additional killings in Europe, primarily of those few powerful executives in various firms who understood the complex international linkages that led back to a great law firm and the unspoken code name Medusa. Should those contracted murders take place while Ogilvie was in Moscow, questions might arise that Moscow could not tolerate. Therefore, get him in and out of the Soviet Union as fast as possible, a recommendation more easily made than accomplished.

  Suddenly, Rodchenko reflected, into this danse macabre had come the paranoid monseigneur from Paris. It was imperative they meet immediately! Carlos had fairly screamed his demand over the arranged public telephone communication they employed, but every precaution had to be taken. The Jackal, as always, demanded a public place, with crowds, and numerous available exits, where he could circle like a hawk, never showing himself until his professional eyes were satisfied. Two calls later, from two different locations, the rendezvous was set. St. Basil’s Cathedral in Red Square during the height of the early evening’s summer tourist onslaught. In a darkened corner to the right of the altar where there were outside exits through the curtained walkways to the sacristy. Done!