که‌گا‌به

Chapter eleven

The KGB

Bourne and Marie drove south to the small city of Corbeil-Essonnes, where there was a new shopping center several kilometers west of the highway. From a public telephone Bourne placed a call to Vienna, Virginia, but Alex Conklin wasn’t there. Instead, there was the voice of a recorded operator saying, “The telephone number you have called is no longer in service.”

Bourne called the apartment in Washington and heard another recorded voice. “This is Alex,” it said. “I’ll be away for some time, visiting a place where a grave error was made. Call me in five or six hours. It’s now nine-thirty in the morning, Eastern Standard Time. Out, Juliet.”

Stunned, his mind spinning, Bourne hung up the phone and stared at Marie. “Something’s happened and I have to make sense of it. His last words were - “Out, Juliet.”

“Juliet,” Marie said. “Hotel, India, Juliet - it’s the international radio operators’ alphabet. Juliet’s for J and J is for Jason!… What was the rest?”

“He’s visiting somewhere ‘where a grave error was made’”

“A what?”

“He said to call him in five or six hours - he was visiting a place where a grave error - grave?

my God, it’s Rambouillet!”

“The cemetery?”

“Where he tried to kill me thirteen years ago - when he thought I’d changed sides. That’s it! Rambouillet!”

“Not in five or six hours,” objected Marie. “Whenever he left the message, he couldn’t fly to Paris and then drive to Rambouillet in five hours. He was in Washington.”

“Of course he could; we’ve both done it before. An army jet out of Andrews Air Force Base to Paris.” Bourne suddenly looked at his watch. “It’s still only around noon in the islands. Let’s find another phone.”

“Johnny? Tranquility? You really think -“

“I can’t stop thinking,” interrupted Bourne, rushing ahead. “There’s a phone inside, over there,” he said, approaching the huge windows of an ice cream shop. “Get me a chocolate one,” he said, leading Marie into the crowded store.

Bourne crossed to the phone, immediately understanding why it was not used; the noise of the store was almost unbearable. Three minutes later, holding his hand against his left ear, Bourne had the unexpected comfort of hearing Tranquility Hotel’s most annoying employee over the phone.

“This is Mr. Pritchard, Tranquility Hotel’s assistant manager. May I inquire as to the nature of your -“

“You can shut up,” shouted Bourne. “Get Johnny St Jacques on the phone, now. This is his brother-in-law.”

“Of course, sir. One moment, please.”

“Johnny?”

“David, where are you?”

“That doesn’t matter. Get out of there. Take the kids and Mrs. Cooper and get out!”

“We know all about it. Alex Conklin called several hours ago and said somebody named Holland would reach us – I gather he’s the chief of your intelligence service.”

“He is. Did he?”

“Yeah, about twenty minutes after I talked to Alex. He told us we’re being taken out by helicopter around two o’clock this afternoon. David, what the hell is going on? Where’s Marie?”

“She’s all right - I’ll explain everything later. Just do as Holland says. Did he say where you were being taken?”

“He didn’t want to, but no American is going to order me and your kids around - my Canadian sister’s kids. He said we were going to a safe house in Virginia. It’s on a piece of land in Fairfax with no public entry and its own airfield.”

“I know the place,” said Bourne. “It’s called Tannenbaum. He’s right - it’s the best of the safe houses. He likes us.”

“I asked you before - where’s Marie?”

“She’s with me.”

“She found you!”

“Later, Johnny. I’ll reach you in Fairfax.” Bourne hung up the phone.

They met at Rambouillet and drove to a small country restaurant: Alex Conklin, Mo Panov, Jason Bourne, and Marie Webb. The family was together. They sat around a table at the back. The owner said that the cooking was extraordinary, but since nobody was hungry Bourne paid for four starters to keep the owner happy.

“We’ll be working with the Soviets,” Conklin said. “It’s all right - Holland arranged it and I know the contact. I’ve known him for years, but Washington doesn’t know that I know him. His name is Krupkin, Dimitri Krupkin, and he can be bought and paid for.”

“For how much,” Marie asked.

“Considering his position in the Paris KGB, I’d say around 50,000 American dollars.”

“Offer him thirty-five,” Marie said, “and go up to seventy- five under pressure. Up to a hundred if necessary, of course.”

“For God’s sake,” cried Bourne. “We’re talking about us, about the Jackal. Give him anything he wants! We have the money.”

“Too easily bought by us, too easily bought by the other side.”

“Is she right,” asked Bourne, staring at Conklin.

“Normally, of course, but in this case it would have to be something like a diamond mine. Nobody wants Carlos in the ‘dead’ file more than the Soviets, and the man who brings in his dead body will be the hero of the Kremlin. Remember, Carlos was trained at Novgorod. Moscow never forgets that.”

“Then do as she says - buy him,” said Bourne.

“I understand.” Conklin leaned forward. “I’ll call him tonight, pay phone to pay phone, and get it settled. Then I’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow, maybe lunch somewhere outside Paris.”

“Why not here,” asked Bourne. “It’s quiet and I’ll know how to get here.”

“Why not,” agreed Conklin. “I’ll talk to the owner.” He turned to the others. “But not the four of us - just Jason and me.”

“I assumed that,” said Bourne coldly. “Marie must not be involved. She must not be seen or heard, is that clear?”

“David,” said Marie angrily, “you cannot and will not order me around. Do you understand that?”

“Loud and clear, lady. Then maybe you should go back to the States so you won’t have to listen to me.” Jason Bourne rose from the table, pushing the chair behind him. “Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day, so I have to get some sleep. I’ll be in the car for two minutes. You decide whether to stay or go. I’m sure Alex can get you out of France.” Bourne turned and walked away.

“Go to him,” said Panov quickly. “You know what’s happening.”

“I can’t handle it, Mo!”

“Don’t handle it, just be with him. You’re the only support he’s got. You don’t even have to talk, just be there. With him.”

“He’s become the killer again.”

“Then provide him with that link to David Webb. It has to be there, Marie.”

“Oh, God, I love him so much,” cried the wife, rushing to her feet and racing after the man who was her husband but not her husband.

“Was that the right advice, Mo,” asked Conklin.

“I don’t know, Alex. I just don’t think he should be alone with his terrors. None of us should. That’s not psychiatry, it’s just common sense.”

“Sometimes you sound like a real doctor - you know that?”

The Algerian section of Paris lies between the tenth and eleventh districts, barely three blocks, where the low buildings are Parisian but the sounds and the smells are Arabic. A long black limousine entered this district, the badge of the Roman Catholic church in gold on the doors. It stopped in front of a wood-framed three-floor house, where an old priest got out and walked to the door. He pressed a button that rang a bell on the second floor.

“Yes,” said the metallic voice from upstairs.

“I am a messenger from the American embassy,” answered the visitor. “I can’t leave my vehicle, but we have an urgent message for you.”

“I’ll be right down,” said the French-Algerian driver, who worked for the Americans. Three minutes later, the man came out of the building. “What are you dressed like that for,” he asked the messenger, who stood by the large car, covering the badge on the door.

“I’m the embassy’s Catholic priest, my son. A member of staff would like a word with you.” He opened the car door.

“Yes sir, what can I do for you,” said the driver, as he bent down to look inside the limousine.

“Where did you take our people,” asked the shadowed figure in the darkness.

“What people,” said the Algerian, concern in his voice.

“The two you picked up at the airport several hours ago. The limping man and his friend.”

“If you’re from the embassy and they want you to know, they’ll call and tell you, won’t they?”

“You’ll tell me!”

A third, powerfully built man in a driver’s uniform appeared from behind the trunk of the car. He walked rapidly forward, raising his arm and crashing a stick down on the Algerian’s head. He pushed his victim inside. The old man dressed as a priest climbed in behind him, pulling the door shut as the driver ran around to the front seat. The limousine raced away.

An hour later, on the deserted Rue Houdon, the Algerian’s bruised and bleeding dead body was pushed out of the large car. Inside, the figure in shadows addressed the priest.

“Get your car and remain outside the limping one’s hotel. Report any movements and go where he goes. Don’t fail me.”

“Never, sir.”

Dimitri Krupkin was seated at a table in the country restaurant, staring across the table at Alex Conklin, who sat beside the unidentified Bourne.

“So, my dear old enemy,” Krupkin said, “how and where will I be paid according to our agreement last night on the telephone?”

“How and where do you want to be paid,” asked Bourne.

“Ah ha, you are my employer, sir?”

“I’ll be paying you, yes.”

“I shall write down the name of a bank and the number of an account in Geneva,” the Soviet said. He reached into his pocket for a pen, but was not able to use it because a man in his early thirties walked rapidly up to the table.

“What is it, Sergei,” asked Krupkin.

“You have been followed. An old man in a gray car - he arrived soon after you did - looked at the name of the restaurant, then used the car telephone.”

“That old man’s from the Jackal -“ said Bourne. “Carlos,” cried Krupkin, his blue eyes angry. “The Jackal’s after you, Aleksei?”

“No, him,” answered Conklin, pointing at Bourne.

“Good God! With what we’ve learned in Moscow, it’s all making sense. So I have the honor to meet the famous Jason Bourne. A great pleasure, sir! We have the same aim where Carlos is concerned, do we not?”

“If your men are good, we may achieve that aim before the end of the next hour. Let’s get out of here and use the back way, the kitchen. He’s found me and you can bet he’s coming out here for me. But he doesn’t know that we know that. Let’s go!”

As the three men rose from the table, Krupkin gave instructions to his assistant. “Have the car brought around to the back, Sergei.”

“Of course, comrade.” The assistant hurried back to the entrance.

They left through the kitchen and waited in Krupkin’s Citroen on the edge of a field. Suddenly, a dark brown limousine shot up the road from the highway to Paris. It pulled to a stop in front of the restaurant and two men leaped out of the side door, their faces covered, their hands holding automatic weapons. A third man came out of the vehicle, wearing a priest’s black clothing. Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting scream of revenge from the Jackal as the terrorists rushed inside, their weapons on automatic fire.

“Now,” cried Sergei. The Citroen swung out on the road, rushing toward the limousine, but in a split second its progress was stopped. A huge explosion took place on the right. The old man - the informer - and the gray car in which he was sitting were blown up, sending the Citroen to the left into a fence.

“Get out,” shouted Sergei, pulling Bourne from the seat onto the dirt by the fence, as his stunned superior and Alex Conklin crawled out behind him.

“Let’s go,” cried Bourne. “He blew up the car.”

They ran to the front doors of the restaurant and burst inside. The next sixty seconds were like a scene from hell. The waiter and two male customers were dead, lying on the floor with blood running from their heads. Women screamed.

Sergei suddenly rushed forward, his weapon on automatic fire. In a back corner of the room he had spotted a figure whom Bourne had not seen. The killer leaped out of the shadows and the Soviet shot him. But it was not Carlos. Where was the Jackal?

“In there,” shouted Sergei, pointing to the kitchen.

Both men moved toward the swinging doors, but were partially blown back by an explosion from within. A grenade had been thrown. The smoke blew out into the dining room.

Bourne crashed through the doors and threw himself flat. Silence. Another scene from another hell. A section of the outside wall had been blown away. The owner and his cook were dead, blood streaming across the floor.

Bourne slowly rose to his feet, his legs in great pain. He looked through the smoke, his eyes finally settling on a large piece of paper fixed to the wall by a kitchen knife. He approached it and read the words, printed in black pen.

THE TREES OF TANNENBAUM WILL BURN AND SO WILL THE CHILDREN. SLEEP WELL, JASON BOURNE.

The mirrors of his life exploded into a thousand pieces of glass. There was nothing else to do except scream.