Bourne and d'Anjou went through customs with a minimum of effort, the way eased for them by their fluent Chinese. The guards were actually pleasant, barely glancing at their minimal luggage, more curious about their linguistic ability than their possessions. The chief official accepted without question the story of two Oriental scholars on a holiday from which pleasant tales of travel would no doubt find their way into the lecture halls. They converted a thousand dollars each into renminbi, literally the People's Money, and were given nearly two thousand Yuan apiece in return. And Bourne took off the glasses he had purchased in Washington from his friend Cactus.
'One thing bewilders me,' said the Frenchman as they stood in front of an electronic sign showing the next three hours of arrivals and departures. 'Why would he be flown in on a commercial plane? Certainly, whoever is paying him has government or military aircraft at his disposal.'
'Like ours, those aircraft have to be signed out and accounted for,' answered Jason. 'And whoever it is has to keep his distance from your assassin. He comes in as a tourist or a businessman and then the convoluted process of making contact begins. At least that's what I'm counting on.'
'Madness! Tell me, Delta, if you do take him - and I add that it's a significant "if because he's extraordinarily capable - have you any idea how to get him out?
'I've got money, American money, large bills, more than you can imagine. It's in the lining of my jacket.'
'That's why we stopped at the Peninsula, isn't it? Why you told me not to check you out yesterday. Your money's there.'
'It was. In the hotel safe. I'll get him out.'
'On the wings of, Pegasus?'
'No, probably a Pan Am flight with the two of us helping a very sick friend. Actually, somewhere along the line I think you gave me the idea.'
Then I am a mental case!'
'Stay by the window,' said Bourne. There's another twelve minutes before the next plane is due from Kai Tak, but then that could mean two minutes or twelve hours. I'm going to
buy us both a present.'
'Madness,' mumbled the Frenchman, too tired to do more than shake his head.
When Jason returned he directed d'Anjou into a corner within sight of the immigration doors, which were kept closed except when passengers were emerging from customs. Bourne reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a long, thin brightly covered box with the sort of gaudy wrapping found in souvenir shops the world over. He removed the top; inside on ersatz felt was a narrow brass letter-opener with Chinese characters along the handle. The point was obviously honed and sharp. Take it,' said Jason. 'Put it in your belt.'
'How's the balance?' asked Medusa's Echo as he slid the blade under his trousers.
'Not bad. It's about halfway to the base of the handle and the brass gives it weight. The thrust should be decent.'
'Yes, I recall,' said d'Anjou. 'One of the first rules was never to throw a knife, but one evening at dusk you watched a Gurkha take out a scout ten feet away without firing a shot or risking hand-to-hand combat. His carbine bayonet spun through the air like a whirling missile, right into the scout's chest. The next morning you ordered the Gurkha to teach us - some did better than others.'
'How did you do?'
'Reasonably well. I was older than all of you and felt drawn to whatever defences I could learn that did not take great physical exertion. Also I kept practising. You saw me; you commented on it frequently.'
Jason looked at the Frenchman. 'It's funny, but I don't remember any of that.'
'I just naturally thought... I'm sorry, Delta.'
'Forget it. I'm learning to trust things I don't understand.'
The vigil continued, reminding Bourne of his wait in Lo Wu as one trainload after another crossed the border, no one revealed until a short, elderly man with a limp became someone else in the distance. The 11:30 plane was over two hours late. Customs would take an additional fifty minutes...
'That one!' cried d'Anjou, pointing to a figure walking out of the immigration doors.
'With a cane?' asked Jason. 'With a limp?'
'His shabby clothes cannot conceal his shoulders!' exclaimed Echo. The grey hair is too new; he hasn't brushed it sufficiently, and the dark glasses too wide. Like us, he is tired. You were right. The summons to Beijing had to be complied with and he is careless.'
'Because "rest is a weapon" and he disregarded it?'
'Yes. Last night Kai Tak must have taken its toll on him, but more important he had to obey. Merde! His fees must be in the hundreds of thousands!'
'He's heading for the hotel,' said Bourne. 'Stay back here, I'll follow him - at a distance. If he spotted you, he'd run and we could lose him.'
'He could spot you'
'Not likely. I invented the game. Also, I'll be behind him. Stay here. I'll come back for you.'
Carrying his canvas bag, his gait showing the weariness of jet lag, Jason fell in line with the disembarked passengers heading into the hotel, his eyes on the grey-haired man ahead. Twice the former British commando stopped and turned around, and twice, with each brief movement of the shoulders, Bourne also turned and bent down, as if brushing an insect from his leg or adjusting the strap of his bag, his body and face out of sight. The crowd at the registration counter grew and Jason was eight people behind the killer in the second line, making himself as inconspicuous as possible, continually stooping to kick his bag ahead. The commando reached the female clerk; he showed his papers, signed the register, and limped with his cane towards a bank of brown elevators on the right. Six minutes later Bourne faced the same clerk. He spoke in Mandarin.
'Ni neng bang-zhu wo ma?' he began, asking for help. 'It was a sudden trip and I've no place to stay. Just for the night.'
'You speak our language very well,' said the clerk, her almond eyes wide in appreciation. 'You do us honour,' she added politely.
'I hope to do much better during my stay here. I'm on a scholarly trip.'
'It is the best kind. There are many treasures in Beijing, and elsewhere, of course, but this is the heavenly city. You have no reservation?'
'I'm afraid not. Everything was last minute, if you know what I mean.'
'As I speak both languages, I can tell you that you said it correctly in ours. Everything is rush-rush. I'll see what I can do. It will not be terribly grand, of course.'
'I can't afford terribly grand,' said Jason, shyly. 'But I have a roommate - we can share the same bed, if necessary.'
'I'm certain it will be a case of sharing, at such short notice.' The clerk's fingers leafed through the file cards. 'Here,' she said. 'A single back room on the second floor. I think it may fit your economics-'
'We'll take it,' agreed Bourne. 'By the way, a few minutes ago I saw a man in this line who I'm sure I know. He's getting on now but I think he was an old professor of mine when I studied in England. Grey-haired, with a cane... I'm certain it's he. I'd like to call him.'
'Oh, yes, I remember.' The clerk now separated the most recent registration cards in front of her. The name is Wadsworth, Joseph Wadsworth. He's in three twenty-five. But you may be wrong. His occupation is listed as an offshore oil consultant from Great Britain.'
'You're right, wrong man,' said Jason, shaking his head in embarrassment. He took the key to the room.
'We can take him! Now!' Bourne gripped d'Anjou's arm, pulling the Frenchman away from the deserted corner of the terminal.
'Now? So easily? So quickly? It is incredible!' The opposite,' said Jason, leading d'Anjou towards the crowded row of glass doors that was the entrance to the hotel. 'It's completely credible. Your man's mind is on a dozen different things right now. He's got to stay out of sight. He can't place a call through a switchboard, so he'll remain in his room waiting for a call to -him giving him his instructions.' They walked through a glass door, looked around and headed to the left of the long counter. Bourne continued, speaking rapidly. 'Kai Tak didn't work last night so he has to consider another possibility. His own elimination on the
basis that whoever discovered the explosives under the car saw him and identified him - which is the truth. He has to insist that his client is alone at the arranged rendezvous so that he can reach him one on one. It's his ultimate protection.' They found a staircase and started climbing. 'And his clothes,' went on Medusa's Delta. 'He'll change them. He can't appear as he was and he can't appear as he is. He has to be someone else.' They reached the third floor and Jason, his hand on the knob, turned to d'Anjou. 'Take my word for it, Echo, your boy's involved. He's got exercises going on in his head that would challenge a Russian chess player.'
'Is this the academic speaking or the man they once called Jason Bourne?'
'Bourne,' said David Webb, his eyes cold, his voice ice. 'If it ever was, it's now.'
The canvas bag slung over his shoulder, Jason slowly opened the door at the head of the stairs, inching his body past the frame. Two men in dark pinstriped suits walked up the hallway towards him complaining at the apparent lack of room service; their speech was British. They opened the door to their room and went inside. Bourne pushed the staircase door back and shoved d'Anjou through; they walked down the corridor. The room numbers were in Chinese and English.
Three forty-one, 339, 337 - they were in the right hallway, the room was along the left wall. Three Indian couples suddenly emerged from a brown elevator, the women in their saris, the men in tight-fitting cloth trousers; they passed Jason and d'Anjou, chattering, looking for their rooms, the husbands obviously annoyed to be carrying their own luggage.
Three thirty-five, 333, 331-
This is the end" screamed a female voice, as an obese woman in curlers strode martially out of a door on the right wearing a bathrobe. The nightgown underneath trailed below, twice snarling her feet. She yanked it up, revealing a pair of legs worthy of a rhinoceros. 'The toilet doesn't work and you can forget the phone!'
'Isabel, I told you!' shouted a man in red pyjamas peering through the open door. 'It's the jet lag. Get some sleep and remember this isn't Short Hills! Don't nit-pick. Expand yourself!'
'Since I can't use the bathroom, I have no choice! I'll find some slant-eyed bastard and yell like hell! Where are the stairs? I wouldn't walk into one of those goddamned elevators. If they move at all, it's probably sideways and right through the walls into a Seven-Four-Seven!'
The distraught woman swept by on her way to the staircase exit. Two of the three Indian couples had difficulty with their keys, finally managing to negotiate the locks with loud, well-placed kicks, and the man in the red pyjamas slammed the door of his room after shouting to his wife in high dudgeon. 'It's like that class reunion at the club! You're so embarrassing, Isabel!'
Three twenty-nine, 327... 325. The room. The hallway was deserted.
They could hear the strains of Oriental music from behind the door. The radio was turned up, the volume loud, to be made louder with the first ring of a telephone bell. Jason pulled d'Anjou back and spoke quietly against the wall. 'I don't remember any Gurkhas or any scouts-'
'A part of you did, Delta,' interrupted Echo.
'Maybe, but that's beside the point. This is the beginning of the end of the road. We'll leave our bags out here. I'll go for the door and you follow hard. Keep your blade ready. But I want you to understand something and there can't be a mistake - don't throw it unless you absolutely have to. If you do, go for his legs. Nothing above the waist.'
'You put more faith in an older man's accuracy than I do.'
'I'm hoping I won't have to call on it. These doors are made of hollow plywood and your assassin's got a lot on his mind. He's thinking about strategy, not about us. How could we know he's here, and even if we did how could we get across the border on such short notice? And I want him! I'm taking him! Ready?
'As I ever will be,' said the Frenchman, lowering his canvas bag and pulling the brass letter-opener from his belt. He held the blade in his hand, his fingers spread, seeking the balance.
Bourne slipped the flight bag off his shoulder to the floor and quietly positioned himself in front of room 325. He looked at d'Anjou. Echo nodded, and Jason sprang towards the door, his left foot a battering ram, crashing into the space below the lock. The door plunged inward as though blown apart; wood shattered, hinges were torn from their bolts. Bourne lunged inside rolling over and over on the floor, his eyes spinning in all directions.
'Arretez? roared d'Anjou.
A figure came through an inner doorway - the grey-haired man, the assassin Jason sprang to his feet, hurling himself at his quarry, grabbing the man's hair, yanking him to the left, then to the right, crashing him back into the doorframe. Suddenly the Frenchman screamed as the brass blade of the letter-opener flashed through the air, embedding itself in the wall, the handle quivering. It was off the mark, a warning.
'Delta! No!'
Bourne stopped all movement, his quarry pinned, helpless under his weight and grip.
'Look? cried d'Anjou.
Jason slowly moved back, his arms rigid, caging the figure in front of him. He stared into the gaunt, wrinkled face of a very old man with thinning grey hair.
22
Marie lay on the narrow bed staring up at the ceiling. The rays of the noonday sun streamed through the shadeless windows filling the small room with blinding light and too much heat. Sweat clogged her face, and her torn blouse clung to her moist skin. Her feet ached from the midmorning madness that had begun as a walk down an unfinished coastal road to a rocky beach below - a stupid thing to do, but at the time the only thing she could do; she had been going out of her mind.
The sounds of the street floated up, a strange cacophony of high-pitched voices, sudden shrieks and bicycle bells and the blaring horns of trucks and public buses. It was as if a crowded, bustling, hustling section of Hong Kong had been ripped out of the island and set down in some far away place where a wide river and endless fields and distant mountains replaced Victoria Harbour and the countless rows of ascending tall buildings made of glass and stone. In a sense the transplant had happened, she reflected. The miniature city of Tuen Mun was one of those space-oriented phenomena that had sprung up north of Kowloon in the New Territories. One year it had been an arid river plain, the next a rapidly developing metropolis of paved roads and factories, shopping districts, and spreading apartment buildings, all beckoning those from the south with the promise of housing and jobs in the thousands, and those who heeded the call brought with them the unmistakable hysteria of Hong Kong's commerce. Without it they would be filled with innocuous anxieties too placid to contend with; these were the descendants of Guangzhou - the province of Canton - not world-weary Shanghai.
Marie had awakened with the first light, what sleep she had managed wracked with nightmares - and knew that she faced another suspension of time until Catherine called her. She had telephoned late last night, dragging her out of a sleep induced by total exhaustion only to tell her cryptically that several unusual things had happened that could lead to favorable news. She was meeting a man who had taken an interest, a remarkable man who could help. Marie was to stay in the flat by the telephone in case there were new developments. Since Catherine had instructed her not to use names or specifics on the phone, Marie had not questioned the brevity of the call. 'I'll phone you first thing in the morning my dear.' Staples had abruptly hung up.
She had not called by 8:30 or by 9:00, and by 9:36 Marie could stand it no longer. She reasoned that names were unnecessary, each knew the other's voice, and Catherine had to understand that David Webb's wife was entitled to something 'first thing in the morning'. Marie had dialled Staples's flat in Hong Kong; there was no answer, so she dialled again to make sure she had spun the correct numbers. Nothing. In frustration and without caring, she had called the consulate.
'Foreign Service Officer Staples, please. I'm a friend from the Treasury Board in Ottawa. I'd like to surprise her.'
The connection's very good, honey.'
'I'm not in Ottawa, I'm here,' said Marie picturing the face of the ta
lkative receptionist only too well.
'Sorry, hon, Mrs Staples is off-premises with no instructions. To tell you the truth, the high commish is looking for her too. Why don't you give me a number-'
Marie lowered the phone into its cradle, a sublime panic passing through her. It was nearly 10:00, and Catherine was an early riser. 'First thing in the morning' might be any time between 7:30 and 9:30, most likely splitting the difference, but not 10 o'clock, not under the circumstances. And then 12 minutes later the phone had rung. It was the beginning of a far less subtle panic.
'Marie?'
Robert Ludlum - Bourne 2 - Bourne Supremecy Page 41
