Robert Ludlum - Bourne 2 - Bourne Supremecy

by The Bourne Supremacy [lit]

  He left the oppressively crowded arcade and turned right on the equally congested pavement. The Golden Mile of the Tsim Sha Tsui was preparing for its nightly games, and so would he. He could return to the hotel now; the assistant manager would be miles away, conceivably booking a flight to Taiwan, if there was any truth at all in his hysterical statements. Webb would use the freight elevator to reach his room in case others were awaiting him in the lobby, although he doubted it. The shooting gallery that was a deserted office in the New World Centre was not a command post, and the marksman was not a commander but a relay, now frightened for his life.

  With each step David took down Nathan Road, the shorter his breath became, the louder his chest pounded. Twelve minutes from now he would hear Marie's voice. Oh God, he wanted to hear it so! He had to! It was all that would keep him sane, all that mattered.

  'Your fifteen minutes are over,' said Webb, sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to control his heartbeat, wondering if the rapid echo could be heard as he heard it, hoping it caused no tremor in his voice.

  'Call five-two, six, five, three. '

  'Five?' David recognized the exchange. 'She's over in Hong Kong, not Kowloon. '

  'She will be moved immediately. '

  'I'll call you back after I've spoken to her. '

  'There is no need, Jason Bourne. Knowledgeable men are there and they will speak with you. My business is finished and you have never seen me. '

  'I don't have to. A photograph will be taken when you leave that office, but you won't know from where or by whom. You'll probably see a number of people - in the hallway, or in an elevator or the lobby - but you won't know which one has a camera with a lens that looks like a button on his jacket, or an emblem on her purse. Stay well, minion. Think nice thoughts. '

  Webb depressed the telephone bar, disconnecting the line; he waited three seconds, released it, heard the dial tone, and touched the buttons. He could hear the ring. Christ, he couldn't stand it!

  'Wei?'

  'This is Bourne. Put my wife on the line. '

  'As you wish. '

  'David?

  'Are you all right"!? shouted Webb on the edge of hysteria.

  'Yes, just tired, that's all, my darling. Are you all right-'

  'Have they hurt you - have they touched you?

  'No, David, they've been quite kind, actually. But you know how tired I get sometimes. Remember that week in

  Zurich when you wanted to see the Fraumunster and the museums and go out sailing on the Limmat, and I said I just wasn't up to it?

  There'd been no week in Zurich. Only the nightmare of a single night when both of them nearly lost their lives. He running the gauntlet of his would-be executioners in the Steppdeckstrasse, she nearly raped, sentenced to death on a deserted riverfront in the Guisan Quai. What was she trying to tell him?

  'Yes, I remember. '

  'So you mustn't worry about me, darling. Thank God you're here! We'll be together soon, they've promised me that. It'll be like Paris, David. Remember Paris, when I thought I'd lost you? But you came to me and we both knew where to go. That lovely street with the dark green trees and the-'

  That will be all, Mrs Webb,' broke in a male voice. 'Or should I say Mrs Bourne,' the man added, speaking directly into the phone.

  'Think, David, and be careful? yelled Marie in the background. 'And don't worry, darling! That lovely street with the row of green trees, my favourite tree-'

  'Ting zhi!' cried the male voice, issuing an order in Chinese. 'Take her away! She's giving him information! Quickly. Don't let her speak!'

  'You harm her in any way, you'll regret it for the rest of your short life,' said Webb, icily. 'I swear to Christ I'll find you. '

  There has been no cause for unpleasantness up to this moment,' replied the man slowly, his tone sincere. 'You heard your wife. She has been treated well. She has no complaints. '

  'Something's wrong with her! What the hell have you done that she can't tell me?'

  'It is only the tension, Mr Bourne. And she was telling you something, no doubt in her anxiety trying to describe this location - erroneously, I should add - but even if it were accurate it would be as useless to you as the telephone number. She is on her way to another apartment, one of

  millions in Hong Kong. Why would we harm her in any way? It would be counterproductive. A great taipan wants to meet with you. '

  'Yao Ming?

  'Like you, he goes by several names. Perhaps you can reach an accommodation. '

  'Either we do or he's dead. And so are you. '

  'I believe what you say, Jason Bourne. You killed a close blood relative of mine who was beyond your reach, in his own island fortress on Lantau. I'm sure you recall. '

  'I don't keep records. Yao Ming. When?'

  Tonight. '

  'Where?

  'You must understand, he's very recognizable, so it must be a most unusual place. '

  'Suppose I choose it?

  'Unacceptable, of course. Do not insist. We have your wife. '

  David tensed; he was losing the control he desperately needed. 'Name it,' he said.

  The Walled City. We assume you know it. '

  'Of it,' corrected Webb, trying to focus what memory he had.

  The filthiest slum on the face of the earth, if I remember. '

  'What else would it be? It is the only legal possession of the People's Republic in all of the colony. Even the detestable Mao Zedong gave permission for our police to purge it. But civil servants are not paid that much. It remains essentially the same. '

  'What time tonight?'

  'After dark, but before the bazaar closes. Between nine-thirty and not later than fifteen minutes to ten. '

  'How do I find this Yao Ming - who isn't Yao Ming?

  There is a woman in the first block of the open market who sells snake entrails as aphrodisiacs, predominantly cobra. Go up to her and ask her where a great one is. She will tell you the descending steps to use, which alley to take. You will be met. '

  'I might never get there. The colour of my skin isn't welcome down there. '

  'No one will harm you. However, I suggest you not wear garish clothing or display expensive jewellery. '

  'Jewellery?1

  'If you own a high-priced watch, do not wear it. '

  They'd cut your arm off for a watch. Medusa. So be it.

  Thanks for the advice. '

  'One last thing. Do not think of involving the authorities, or your consulate in a reckless attempt to compromise the taipan. If you do, your wife will die. '

  That wasn't necessary. '

  'With Jason Bourne everything is necessary. You will be watched. '

  'Nine-thirty to nine-forty-five,' said Webb, replacing the phone and getting up from the bed. He went to the window and stared out at the harbour. What was it? What was Marie trying to tell him?

  ... you know how tired I get sometimes.

  No, he did not know that. His wife was a strong Ontario ranch girl who never complained of being tired.

  ... you mustn't worry about me, darling.

  A foolish plea, and she must have realized it. Marie did not waste precious moments being foolish. Unless... was she rambling incoherently?

  ... It'll be like Paris, David. We both knew where to go... that lovely street with the dark green trees.

  No, not rambling, only the appearance of rambling; there was a message. But what? What lovely street with 'dark green trees'? Nothing came to him and it was driving him out of his mind! He was failing her. She was sending a signal and it eluded him.

  ... Think, David, and be careful!... don't worry, darling! That lovely street with the row of trees, my favourite tree-

  What lovely street? What goddamned row of trees, what favourite tree? Nothing made sense to him and it should make sense! He should be able to respond, not stare out a window, his memory blank. Help me, help me! he cried silently to no one.

  An inner voice told him not to dwell on what he could n
ot understand. There were things to do; he could not willingly

  walk into the meeting ground of the enemy's choosing without some foreknowledge, some cards of his own to play... / suggest you do not wear garish clothing... It would not have been garish in any event, thought Webb, but now it would be something quite opposite - and unexpected.

  During the months in which he had peeled away the layers of Jason Bourne one theme kept repeating itself. Change, change, change. Bourne was a practitioner of change; they called him 'the chameleon', a man who could melt into different surroundings with ease. Not as a grotesque, a cartoon with fright wigs and nose putty, but as one who could adapt the essentials of his appearance to his immediate environment so that those who had met the 'assassin' - rarely, however, in full light or standing close to him - gave widely varying descriptions of the man hunted throughout Asia and Europe. The details were always in conflict: the hair was dark or light; the eyes brown, blue or speckled; the skin pale, or tanned, or blotched; the clothes well made and subdued if the rendezvous took place in a dimly lit expensive cafe, or rumpled and ill-fitting if the meeting was held on the waterfront or in the lower depths of a given city. Change. Effortlessly, with the minimum of artifice. David Webb would trust the chameleon within him. Free fall. Go where Jason Bourne directed.

  After leaving the Daimler he had gone to the Peninsula Hotel and taken a room, depositing his attache case in the hotel safe. He'd had the presence of mind to register under the name of Cactus's third false passport. If men were looking for him, they would flash the name he used at the Regent; it was all they had.

  He packed what few clothes he needed in the flight bag and walked rapidly from his room, using the service elevator to the street. He did not check out of the Regent. If men were looking for him, he wanted them to look where he was not.

  Once settled in the Peninsula, he had time for something to eat and to forage in several shops until nightfall. By the time darkness came he would be in the Walled City - before nine-thirty. Jason Bourne was giving the commands and David Webb obeyed them.

  The Walled City of Kowloon has no visible wall around it, but it is as clearly defined as if there were one made of hard, high steel. It is instantly sensed by the congested open market that runs along the street in front of the row of dark run-down flats - shacks haphazardly perched on top of one another giving the impression that at any moment the entire blighted complex will collapse under its own weight, leaving nothing but rubble where elevated rubble had stood. But a deceptive strength is found as one walks down the short flight of steps into the interior of the sprawling slum. Below ground level, cobblestoned alleyways that' are in most cases tunnels traverse beneath the ramshackle structures. In squalid corridors crippled beggars vie with half-dressed prostitutes and drug peddlers in the eerie wash of naked bulbs that hang from exposed wires along the stone walls. A putrid dampness abounds; all is decay and rot, but there is the strength of time having hardened this decomposition, petrifying it.

  Within the foul alleyways in no particular order or balance are narrow, barely lit staircases leading to the vertical series of broken-down flats, the average rising three storeys, two of which are above ground. Inside the small, dilapidated rooms the widest varieties of narcotics and sex are sold; all is beyond the reach of the police - silently agreed to by all parties - for few of the colony's authorities care to venture into the bowels of the Walled City. It is its own self-contained hell. Let it be.

  Outside in the open market that fills the garbage-strewn street where no traffic is permitted, soiled tables piled high with rejected and/or stolen merchandise are sandwiched between grimy stalls where pockets of vapour rise from huge vats of boiling oil in which questionable pieces of meat, fowl, and snake are continuously plunged, then ladled out and placed on newspapers for immediate sale. The crowds move under the weak light of dull streetlamps from one vendor to the next, haggling in high-pitched voices, shrieking back and forth, buying and selling. Then there are the kerb people, bedraggled men and women without stalls or tables whose merchandise is spread out on the pavement. They squatted behind displays of trinkets and cheap jewellery, much of it stolen from the docks, and woven cages filled with crawling

  beetles and fluttering tiny birds.

  Near the mouth of the strange, foetid bazaar a lone, muscular female sat on a low wooden stool, her thick legs parted, skinning snakes and removing their entrails, her dark eyes seemingly obsessed with each thrashing serpent in her hands. On either side were writhing burlap bags, every now and then convulsing as the doomed reptiles struck out in hissing fury at one another, enraged by their captivity. Clamped under the heavy-set woman's bare right foot was a king cobra, its jet black body immobile and erect, its head flat, its small eyes steady, hypnotized by the constantly moving crowds. The squalor of the open market was a fitting barricade for the wall-less Walled City beyond.

  Rounding the corner at the opposite end of the long bazaar, a dishevelled figure turned into the overflowing avenue. The man was dressed in a cheap, loose-fitting brown suit, the trousers too bulky, the coat too large, yet tight around the hunched shoulders. A soft wide-brimmed hat, black and unmistakably Oriental, threw a constant shadow across his face. His gait was slow, as befitted a man pausing in front of various stalls and tables examining the merchandise, but only once did he reach tentatively into his pocket to make a single purchase. Then, too, there was a stooped quality in his posture, the frame of a man having been bent from years of hard labour in the field or on the waterfront, his diet never sufficient for a body from which so much was extracted. There was a sadness as well in this man, a futility born of too little, too late, and too costly for the mind and the body. It was the recognition of impotency, pride abandoned for there was nothing to be proud of; the price of survival had been too much. And this man, this stooped figure who haltingly bought a newspaper cone of fried, questionable fish, was not unlike many of the males in the marketplace - one could say he was indistinguishable from them. He approached the muscular woman who was tearing the intestines from a still-writhing snake.

  'Where is a great one? asked Jason Bourne in Chinese, his eyes fixed on the immobile cobra, the grease from the newspaper rolling over his left hand.

  'You are early,' replied the woman without expression. 'It is dark, but you are early. '

  'I was summoned quickly. Do you question the taipan's instructions?'

  'He is fuck-fuck cheap for a taipan!' she spat out in guttural Cantonese. 'What do I care? Go down the steps behind me and take the first alleyway to the left. A whore will be standing fifteen, twenty metres down. She waits for the white man and will lead him to the taipan... Are you the white man? I cannot tell in this light and your Chinese is good - but you do not look like a white man, you do not wear a white man's clothes. '

  'If you were me, would you make a heavenly point of looking like a white man, dressing like a white man, if you were told to come down here?

  'I would make the point of a thousand devils that I was from the Qing Gaoyan!' said the woman, laughing through half gone teeth. 'Especially if you carry money. Do you carry money... our Zhongguo ren?'

  'You flatter me, but no. '

  'You lie. White people lie with heavenly words about money. '

  'Very well, I lie. I trust your snake will not attack me for it. '

  'Fool! He is old and has no fangs, no poison. But he is the heavenly image of a man's organ. He brings me money. Will you give me money?5

  'For a service, yes. '

  'Aiya! You want this old body, you must have an axe in your trousers! Chop up the whore, not me!'

  'No axe, just words,' said Bourne, his right hand slipping into his trousers pocket. He withdrew a US $100 bill and palmed it in front of the snake seller's face, keeping it out of sight of the surrounding bargain hunters.

  'Aiya - aiya!' whispered the woman as Jason pulled it away from her grasping fingers; the dead snake dropped between her thick legs.

  The service,' B
ourne repeated. 'Since you thought I was one of you, I expect others will think so, too. All I want you to do is to tell anyone who asks you that the white man never

  showed up. Is that fair?

  ''Fair! Give me the money!'

  The service"? <

  'You bought snakes! Snakes! What do I know of a white man. He never appeared! Here. Here is your snake. Make love!' The woman took the bill, bunched the entrails in her hand and shoved them into a plastic bag on which there was a designer's signature. It read Christian Dior.