Page 10 of The Bourne Legacy (Jason Bourne 4)

  “I didn’t,” Bourne said.

  “That’s what you all say. Deny, deny, deny. It’s the government’s way, isn’t it?” A crafty smile crossed the other’s face. “Sit down, Mr. Webb—or Bourne—whatever you’re calling yourself today.”

  Bourne looked up. “You’re Agency.”

  “Not at all. I’m an independent operator. Unless Alex told them, I doubt if anyone inside the Agency knows I even exist.” The tailor’s smile grew wider. “That’s why Alex came to me in the first place.”

  Bourne nodded. “I’d like to know about that.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt.” Fine reached for the phone on his desk. “On the other hand, when your own people get hold of you, you’ll be too busy answering their questions to care about anything else.”

  “Don’t do that,” Bourne said sharply.

  Fine halted with the receiver in midair. “Give me a reason.”

  “I didn’t kill Alex. I’m trying to find out who did.”

  “But you did kill him. According to the bulletin I read, you were at his house at the time he was shot to death. Did you see anyone else there?”

  “No, but Alex and Mo Panov were dead when I arrived.”

  “Bullshit. Why did you kill him, I wonder.” Fine’s eyes narrowed. “I imagine it was because of Dr. Schiffer.”

  “I never heard of Dr. Schiffer.”

  The tailor emitted a harsh laugh. “More bullshit. And I suppose you never heard of DARPA.”

  “Of course I have,” Bourne said. “It stands for Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Is that where Dr. Schiffer works?”

  With a sound of disgust, Fine said, “I’ve had enough of this.” When he momentarily took his eyes off Bourne to dial a number, Bourne lunged at him.

  The DCI was in his capacious corner office, on the phone with Jamie Hull. Brilliant sunlight spilled in the window, firing the jewel tones of the carpet. Not that the magnificent play of colors had any effect on the DCI. He was still in one of his black moods. Bleakly, he looked at the photos of himself with presidents in the Oval Office, foreign leaders in Paris, Bonn and Dakar, entertainers in L.A. and Vegas, evangelical preachers in Atlanta and Salt Lake City, even, absurdly, the Dalai Lama in his perpetual smile and saffron robes, on a visit to New York City. These pictures not only failed to rouse him from his gloom but made him feel the years of his life, as if they were layers of chain-mail weighing him down.

  “It’s a fucking nightmare, sir,” Hull was saying from far-off Reykjavík. “First off, setting up security in conjunction with the Russians and Arabs is like chasing your tail. I mean, half the time I don’t know what the hell they’re saying and the other half I don’t trust the interpreters—ours or theirs—are telling me exactly what they’re saying.”

  “You should have taken foreign language courses in grad school, Jamie. Just get on with it. I’ll send you other interpreters, if you like.”

  “Really? And where would be we getting them? We’ve excised all the Arabists, haven’t we?”

  The DCI sighed. That was a problem, of course. Almost all the Arab-speaking intelligence officers they’d had on their payroll had been deemed sympathetic to the Islamic cause, always shouting down the hawks, trying to explain how peace-loving most Islamics really were. Tell that to the Israelis. “We’ve got a whole crop of new ones due here day after tomorrow from the Center for the Study of Intelligence. I’ll have a couple sourced out to you ASAP.”

  “That’s not all, sir.”

  The DCI scowled, vexed that he heard no hint of gratitude in the other’s voice. “What now?” he snapped. What if he removed all the photos? he wondered. Would that improve the lugubrious atmosphere in here?

  “Not to complain, sir, but I’m trying my damnedest to establish proper security measures in a foreign country with no particular allegiance to the United States. We don’t give them aid, so they aren’t beholden to us. I invoke the president’s name and what do I get? Blank stares. That makes my job triply difficult. I’m a member of the most powerful nation on the planet. I know more about security than everyone in Iceland put together. Where’s the respect I’m supposed to—”

  The intercom buzzed, and with a certain amount of satisfaction, the Old Man put Hull on hold. “What is it?” he barked into the intercom.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir,” the duty officer said, “but a call’s just come in on Mr. Conklin’s emergency line.”

  “What? Alex is dead. Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely, sir. That line has not been reassigned yet.”

  “All right. Continue.”

  “I heard the sound of a brief scuffle and someone said a name—Bourne, I think.”

  The DCI sat ramrod straight, his black mood dissolving as quickly as it had come on. “Bourne. That’s the name you heard, son?”

  “It sure sounded like it. And the same voice said something like ‘kill you.’”

  “Where did the call come from?” the Old Man demanded.

  “It was cut off, but I did a reverse trace. The number belongs to a shop in Alexandria. Lincoln Fine Tailors.”

  “Good man!” The DCI was standing now. The hand that held the phone was trembling slightly. “Dispatch two teams of agents immediately. Tell them Bourne has surfaced! Tell them to terminate him on sight.”

  Bourne, having wrested the gun away from Leonard Fine without a shot being fired, now shoved him so hard against the smudgy wall that a calendar was dislodged from its nail, fell to the floor. The phone was in Bourne’s hand; he had just severed the connection. He listened for any commotion out front, any hint that the women had heard the sounds of the brief but violent struggle.

  “They’re on their way,” Fine said. “It’s over for you.”

  “I don’t think so.” Bourne was thinking furiously. “The call went to the main switchboard. No one would know what to do with it.”

  Fine shook his head, a smirk on his face. “The call bypassed the normal Agency switchboard; it rang directly through to the DCI’s duty officer. Conklin insisted I memorize the number, to be used only in event of an emergency.”

  Bourne shook Fine until his teeth rattled. “You idiot! What have you done?”

  “Paid my final debt to Alex Conklin.”

  “But I told you. I didn’t kill him.” And then something occurred to Bourne, one last desperate try to win Fine over to his side, to get him to open up about what Conklin had been up to, a clue to why he might have been killed. “I’ll prove to you Alex sent me.”

  “More bullshit,” Fine said. “It’s too late—”

  “I know about NX 20.”

  Fine stood immobile. There was a slackness to his face; his eyes were open wide in shock. “No,” he said. “No, no, no!”

  “He told me,” Bourne said. “Alex told me. That’s why he sent me, you see.”

  “Alex could never have been coerced to tell about NX 20. Never!” The shock was fading from Fine’s face, to be replaced by a slow dawning of the grievous error he had made.

  Bourne nodded. “I’m a friend. Alex and I go all the way back to Vietnam. This is what I have been trying to tell you.”

  “God in heaven, I was on the phone with him when…when it happened.” Fine put a hand to his forehead. “I heard the shot!”

  Bourne grabbed the tailor by his vest. “Leonard, get hold of yourself. We don’t have time for a replay.”

  Fine stared into Bourne’s face. He had responded, as people most often do, to his given name. “Yes.” He nodded, licked his lips. He was a man coming out of a dream. “Yes, I understand.”

  “The Agency will be here within minutes. I need to be gone by then.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” Fine shook his head in sorrow. “Now let go of me. Please.” Freed from Bourne’s grip, he knelt beneath the back window, pulled out the radiator grille, behind which was a modern safe built into the plaster and lathe wall. He spun the dial, unlocked it, swung the heavy door open, pulled out a small manila envelope. Closing

the safe, he replaced the grille and rose, handing the envelope to Bourne.

  “This arrived for Alex late the other night. He called me yesterday morning to check on it. He said he was coming to pick it up.”

  “Who sent it?”

  At that moment, they heard voices raised in sharp command emanating from the shop out front.

  “They’re here,” Bourne said.

  “Oh God!” Fine’s features were pinched, bloodless.

  “You must have another way out.”

  The tailor nodded. He gave Bourne quick instructions. “Go on now,” he said urgently. “I’ll keep them occupied.”

  “Wipe your face,” Bourne said, and when Fine took the sheen of sweat off his face, he nodded.

  While the tailor hurried into the shop to confront the agents, Bourne ran silently down the filthy corridor. He hoped Fine would be able to hold up under their questioning; otherwise he’d be finished. The bathroom was larger than he would have expected. To the left was an old porcelain sink beneath which were a stack of old paint cans, the tops rusted shut. A toilet was set against the rear wall, a shower to the left. Following Fine’s instructions, he stepped into the shower, located the panel in the tile wall, opened it. He stepped through, replacing the tile panel.

  Raising his hand, he pulled the old-fashioned light cord. He found himself in a narrow passage that looked to be in the adjacent building. The place stank; black plastic garbage bags had been stuffed between the rough wooden studs, possibly in lieu of insulation. Here and there, rats had scratched their way through the plastic, had gorged themselves on the rotting contents, left the rest spilling out onto the floor.

  By the meager illumination provided by the bare bulb he saw a painted metal door that opened out onto the alley behind the stores. As he made his way toward it, the door burst open and two Agency suits sprinted through, guns drawn, their eyes intent on him.

  Chapter Six

  The first two shots flew over Bourne’s head as he ducked into a crouch. Coming out of it, he kicked hard at a plastic bag of garbage, sending it flying toward the two agents. It struck one and came apart at the seam. Refuse flew everywhere, sending the agents backward, coughing, their eyes streaming, arms over their faces.

  Bourne struck upward, shattering the light bulb, plunging the narrow space into darkness. He turned and, flicking on his flashlight, saw the blank wall at the other end of the passageway. But there was a doorway to the outside, how…?

  Then he saw it and immediately extinguished the narrow beam of light. He could hear the agents shouting to each other, regaining their equilibrium. He went quickly to the far end of the passageway and knelt, feeling for the metal ring he had seen in a dull glint lying flush with the floor. He hooked his forefinger through it, pulled up, and the trap door to the cellar opened. A waft of stale, damp air came to him.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he levered himself through the opening. His shoes struck the rung of a ladder and he went down, closing the trap door behind him. He smelled the roach spray first, then, switching on his flashlight, saw the gritty cement floor littered with their withered bodies like leaves on the ground. Rooting around in the splay of boxes, cartons and crates, he found a crowbar. Racing up the ladder, he slid the thick metal bar through the grips on the hatch. It was not a good fit; the crowbar remained loose, but it was the best he could hope for. All he needed, he thought, as he crunched across the roach-littered concrete floor, was enough time to get to the sidewalk delivery access common in all commercial buildings.

  Above his head, he could hear the hammering as the two agents tried to open the hatch. It would not take long, he knew, for the crowbar to slip free under such vibration. But he had found the double metal panels to the street, had climbed the short flight of concrete steps that led upward. Behind him, the hatch burst open. He switched off his flashlight as the agents dropped to the basement floor.

  Bourne was trapped now, and he knew it. Any attempt to lift the metal panels would bring in enough daylight for them to shoot him before he was halfway to the sidewalk. He turned, crept down the stairs. He could hear them moving around, looking for the light switch. They were speaking to each other in brief, staccato undertones, marking them as seasoned professionals. He crept along the jumbled piles of supplies. He, too, was looking for something specific.

  When the lights snapped on, the two agents were spread apart, one on either side of the basement.

  “What a shithole,” one of them said.

  “Never mind that,” the other cautioned. “Where the fuck’s Bourne?”

  With their bland, impassive faces there was not much to distinguish them. They wore Agency-issue suits and Agency-issue expressions with equal assurance. But Bourne had had much experience with the people the Agency swept into its nets. He knew how they thought and, therefore, how they would act. Though not physically together, they moved in concert. They would not give much thought to where he might hide. Rather they had mathematically divided the basement into quadrants they would search as methodically as machines. He could not now avoid them, but he could surprise them.

  Once he appeared, they would move very fast. He was counting on this and so positioned himself accordingly. He had wedged himself into a crate, his eyes smarting from the fumes of the caustic industrial cleansers with which he shared the cramped space. His hand scrabbled around in the darkness. Feeling something curved against the back of his hand, he picked it up. It was a can, heavy enough for his purpose.

  He could hear his heart beating, a rat scratching at the wall against which the crate rested; all else was silent as the agents continued their painstakingly thorough search. Bourne waited, patient, coiled. His lookout, the rat, had ceased its scratching. At least one of the agents was near.

  It was deathly quiet now. Then, all at once, the quick catch of a breath came to him, the rustle of fabric nearly directly above his head, and he uncoiled, popping the lid off. The agent, gun in hand, reared back. His partner, across the basement, whirled. With his left hand, Bourne grabbed a handful of the nearest agent’s shirt, jerked him forward. Instinctively, the agent pulled back, resisting, and Bourne lunged forward, using the agent’s own momentum to slam his spine and head against the brick wall. He could hear the rat squeak even as the agent’s eyes rolled up and he slid down, unconscious.

  The second agent had taken two steps toward Bourne, thought better of engaging him hand-to-hand and aimed the Glock at his chest. Bourne threw the can into the agent’s face. As he recoiled, Bourne closed the gap between them, drove the edge of his hand into the side of the agent’s neck, felling him.

  An instant later, Bourne was up the concrete stairs, opening the metal panels into fresh air and blue sky. Dropping the panels back into place, he calmly walked down the sidewalk until he reached Rosemont Avenue. There, he lost himself in the crowd.

  A half-mile away, after assuring himself that he had not been followed, Bourne went into a restaurant. As he was seated at a table, he scanned every face in the room, searching for anomalies—feigned nonchalance, covert scrutiny. He ordered a BLT and a cup of coffee, then got up and headed toward the rear of the restaurant. Determining the men’s room was empty, he locked himself in a cubicle, sat down on the toilet and opened the envelope meant for Conklin that Fine had given him.

  Inside, he found a first-class airline ticket in Conklin’s name to Budapest, Hungary, and a room key for the Danubius Grand Hotel. He sat looking at the items for a moment, wondering why Conklin had been on his way to Budapest and whether the trip had anything to do with his murder.

  He took out Alex’s cell phone, dialed a local number. Now that he had a direction, he felt better. Deron picked up after the third ring.

  “Peace, Love and Understanding.”

  Bourne laughed. “It’s Jason.” He never knew how Deron was going to answer the phone. Deron was quite literally an artist at his trade. It just happened that his trade was forgery. He made his living painting copies of Old Master oils tha

t hung on mansion walls. They were so exacting, so expert that every so often one was sold at auction or ended up in a museum collection. On the side, just for the fun of it, he forged other things.

  “I’ve been following the news on you and it has a distinctly ominous tone,” Deron said, in his slight British accent.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” At the sound of the men’s room door opening, Bourne paused. He stood up, put his shoes on either side of the toilet, peered over the top of the stall. A man with gray hair, a beard and a slight limp had bellied up to the urinal. He wore a dark suede bomber jacket, black slacks, nothing special. And yet, all at once Bourne felt trapped. He had to curb his desire to get out immediately.

  “Damn, is the man on your ass?” It was always interesting to hear argot coming out of that cultured mouth.

  “He was, up until I lost him..” Bourne left the bathroom and went back into the restaurant, scanning every table as he went. By this time his sandwich had come, but his coffee was cold. He flagged down the waitress, asked for it to be replaced. When she had walked away, he said softly into the phone, “Listen, Deron, I need the usual—passport and contact lenses in my prescription, and I need them yesterday.”

  “Nationality?”

  “Let’s keep it American.”

  “I get the idea. The man won’t expect that.”

  “Something like that. I want the name on the passport to be Alexander Conklin.”

  Deron gave a low whistle. “It’s your call, Jason. Give me two hours.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Deron’s odd little giggle exploded down the line. “You can go away hungry. I have all your photos. Which one d’you want?”

  When Bourne told him, he said, “Are you sure? You’ve got your hair shaved down to the nub. Doesn’t look like you at all now.”

  “It will when I get through with my makeover,” Bourne replied. “I’ve been put on the Agency hit list.”