'He knew, then? About your sickness?'
'He knew... he knows. He kept me out of Sandhurst - our West Point, in case you don't know - because he didn't want me anywhere near his precious army. He figured they'd find me out and it'd dim his precious image. He damn near had apoplexy when I joined up. He won't have a decent night's sleep until he's told quietly that I'm out - dead out with all the traces buried.'
'Why are you telling me who you are? 'Simple,' replied the former commando, his eyes boring into Jason's. The way I read it, whichever way it goes, only one of us is going to make it through. I'll do my damndest to see that it's me, I told you that. But it may not be - you're no slouch - and if it isn't, you'll have a name you can shock the goddamn world with, probably make a bloody fortune in the bargain what with literary and cinema rights, that sort of thing.'
'Then the general will spend the rest of his life sleeping peacefully.'
'Sleep?' He'll probably blow his brains out! You weren't listening. I said he'd be told quietly, all the traces buried, no name surfacing. But this way nothing's buried. It's all hanging out like Maggie's drawers, the whole sick sordid mess with no apologies on my part, chap. I know what I am, I accept it. Some of us are just plain different. Let's say we're anti-social, to put it one way; hard-core violent is another -rotten, still another. The only difference within my being different is that I'm bright enough to know it.'
'And accept it,' said Bourne, quietly.
'Wallow in it! Positively intoxicated by the highs! And let's look at it this way. If I lose and the story blows, how many practising anti-socials might be fired up by it? How many other different men are out there who'd be only too happy to take my place, as I took yours? This bloody world is crawling with Jason Bournes. Give them direction, give them an idea, and they'll flock to the source and be off and running. That was the Frenchman's essential genius, can't you see?'
'I see garbage, that's all I see.'
'Your eyesight's not too shabby. That's what the general will see - a reflection of himself - and he'll have to live with the exposure, choke with it.'
'If he wouldn't help you, you should have helped yourself, commit yourself. You're bright enough to know that.'
'And cut off all the fun, all the highs? Unthinkable, sport! You go your way and find the most expendable outfit in the service, hoping the accident will happen that will put an end to it before they peg you for what you are. I found the outfit, but the accident never happened. Unfortunately, competition brings out the best in all of us, doesn't it? We survive because somebody else doesn't want us to... And then, of course, there's drink. It gives us confidence, even the courage to do the things we're not sure we can do.'
'Not when you're working.'
'Of course not, but the memories are there. The whisky bravado that tells you you can do it.'
'False,' said Jason Bourne.
'Not entirely,' countered the assassin. 'You draw strength from what you can.'
'There are two people,' said Jason. 'One you know, the other you don't - or you don't want to.'
'False!' repeated the commando. 'He wouldn't be there unless I wanted my kicks, don't kid yourself. And don't delude yourself, either, Mr Original. You'd be better off putting a bullet in my head, because I'll take you, if I can. I'll kill you, if I can.'
'You're asking me to destroy what you can't live with.'
'Cut the crap, Bourne! I don't know about you, but I get my kicks! I want them! I don't want to live without them!'
'You just asked me again.'
'Stow it, you fucker!'
'And again.'
'Stop it!' The assassin lurched out of the chair. Jason took two steps forward, his right foot again lashing out, again pounding the killer's ribs, sending him back into the chair. Allcott-Price screamed in pain.
'I won't kill you, Major,' said Bourne quietly. 'But I'll make you wish you were dead.'
'Grant me a last wish,' coughed the killer through an open mouth, holding his chest with his bound hands. 'Even I've done that for targets... I can take the unexpected bullet but I can't take the Hong Kong garrison. They'd hang me late at night when no one's around, just to make it official, according to the regs. They'd put a thick rope around my neck and make me stand on a platform. I can't take that?
Delta knew when to switch gears. 'I told you before,' he said calmly. That may not be in store for you. I'm not dealing with the British in Hong Kong.'
'You're not what?'
'You assumed it, but I never said it.'
'You're lying?
Then you're less talented than I thought, which wasn't much to begin with.'
'I know. I can't think geometrically?
'You certainly can't.'
Then you're a premium man - what you Americans call a bounty hunter - but you're working privately.'
'In a sense, yes. And I have an idea that the man who sent me after you may want to hire you, not kill you.'
'Jesus Christ-'
'And my price was heavy. Very heavy.'
Then you are in the business.'
'Only this once. I couldn't refuse the reward. Lie down on the bed.'
'What?
'You heard me.'
'I have to go to the loo.'
'Be my guest,' replied Jason, walking to the bathroom door and opening it. 'It's not one of my favourite sports, but I'll be watching you.' The assassin relieved himself with Bourne's gun trained on him. Finished, he walked out into the small, shabby room in the cheap hotel south of the Mongkok. The bed,' said Bourne again, gesturing with his weapon. 'Get prone and spread your legs.'
That fairy behind the desk downstairs would love to hear this conversation.'
'You can phone him later in your own time. Down. Quickly!'
'You're always in a hurry-'
'More than you'll ever understand.' Jason lifted his knapsack from the floor and put it on the bed, pulling out the nylon cords as the deranged killer crawled oh top of the soiled spread. Ninety seconds later the commando's ankles were lashed to the bed's rear metal springs, his neck circled with the thin, white line, the rope stretched and knotted to the springs in front. Finally, Bourne slipped off the pillowcase and tied it around the major's head, covering his eyes and ears, leaving his mouth free to breathe. His wrists bound beneath him, the assassin was again immobilized. But now his head began to twitch in sudden jerks and his mouth stretched with each spasm. Extreme anxiety had overcome former Major Allcott-Price. Jason recognized the signs dispassionately.
The squalid hotel he had managed to find had no such conveniences as a telephone. The only communication with the outside world would be a knock on the door, which meant
either the police or a wary desk clerk informing the guest that if the room was to be occupied another hour, an additional day's rent was required. Bourne crossed to the door, slipped silently out into the dingy corridor and headed for the pay phone he had been told was at the far end of the hallway.
He had committed the telephone number to memory, waiting - praying, if it were possible - for the moment when he would dial it. He inserted a coin and did so now, his breath short, the blood racing to his head. 'Snake lady!' he said into the phone, drawing out the two words in harsh, flat emphasis. 'Snake lady, snake-'
'Qing, qing,' broke in an impersonal voice over the line, speaking rapidly in Chinese. 'We are experiencing a temporary disruption of service for many telephones on this exchange. Service should be resumed shortly. This is a recording... Qing, qing-'
Jason replaced the phone. A thousand fragmented thoughts, like broken mirrors, collided in his mind. He walked rapidly back down the dimly-lit corridor, passing a whore in a doorway counting money. She smiled at him, raising her hands to her blouse; he shook his head and ran to the room. He waited fifteen minutes, standing quietly by the window, hearing the guttural sounds that emerged from his prisoner's throat. He returned to the door and once more stepped outside noiselessly. He walked to the phone, again inserted money and
dialled.
'Qing-' He slammed the telephone down, his hands trembling, the muscles of his jaw working furiously as he thought about the prostrate 'merchandise' he had brought back to exchange for his wife. He picked up the phone for a third time and dialled O. 'Operator,' he began in Chinese, 'this is an emergency! It's most urgent I reach the following number.' He gave it to her, his voice rising in barely controlled panic. 'A recording explained that there was difficulty on the line, but this is an emergency-'
'One minute, please. I will attempt to be of assistance.' Silence followed, every second filled with a growing echo in his chest, reverberating like an accelerating kettledrum. His temples throbbed; his mouth was dry, his throat parched -burning.
'The line is temporarily in disuse, sir,' said a second female voice.
The line! That line?
'Yes, sir.'
'Not "many telephones" on the exchange?
'You asked the operator about a specific number, sir. I would not know about other numbers. If you have them I will gladly check for you.'
'The recording specifically said many telephones yet you're saying one line! Are you telling me you can't confirm a... a multiple malfunction?'
'A what?'
'Whether a whole lot of phones aren't working! You've got computers. They spell out trouble spots. I told the other operator this is an emergency]'
'If it is medical I will gladly summon an ambulance. If you will give me your address-'
'I want to know whether a lot of phones are out or whether it's just one! I have to know that!'
'It will take me some time to gather such information, sir. It's past nine o'clock in the evening and the repair stations are on reduced crews-'
'But they can tell you if there's an area problem, goddamn it!'
'Please, sir, I am not paid to be abused.'
'Sorry, I'm sorry I... Address? Yes, the address! What's the address of the number I gave you?'
'It is unpublished, sir.'
'But you have it!'
'Actually, I do not, sir. The laws of confidentiality are most strict in Hong Kong. My screen shows only the word "unpublished".'
'I repeat! This really is a matter of life and death!'
'Then let me reach a hospital... Oh, sir, please wait. You were correct, sir. My screen now shows that the last three digits of the number you gave me are electronically crossing over into one another, so the repair station is attempting to correct the problem.'
'What's the geographical location?'
The prefix is "five", therefore it is on the island of Hong Kong.'
'Narrower! Whereabouts on the island?
'Digits on telephone numbers have nothing to do with specific streets or locations. I'm afraid I cannot help you any further, sir. Unless you care to give me your address so that I might send an ambulance.'
'My address...? said Jason bewildered, exhausted, on the edge of panic. 'No,' he continued. 'I don't think I'll do that.'
Edward Newington McAllister bent over the desk as the woman replaced the phone. She was visibly shaken, her Oriental face pale from the strain of the call. The undersecretary of state hung up a separate phone on the other side of the desk, a pencil in his right hand, an address on a notepad beneath him. 'You were absolutely wonderful,' he said, patting the woman's arm. 'We have it. We've got him. You kept him on long enough - longer than he would have permitted in the old days - the trace is confirmed. At least the building, and that's enough. A hotel.'
'He speaks very fine Chinese. The dialect is rather northern, but he adjusts to Guangzhou. He also did not trust me.'
'It doesn't matter. We'll put people around the hotel. Every entrance and exit. It's on a street called Shek Lung.'
'Below the Mongkok, in the Yau Ma Ti, actually,' said the woman interpreter. 'There's probably only one entrance, through which the garbage is taken every morning, no doubt.'
'I have to reach Havilland at the hospital. He shouldn't have gone there!'
'He appeared to be most anxious,' offered the interpreter.
'Last statements,' said McAllister, dialling. 'Vital information from a dying man. It's permitted.'
'I don't understand any of you.' The woman got up from the desk as the undersecretary moved around and sat in the chair. 'I can follow instructions, but I don't understand you.'
'Good Lord, I forgot. You have to leave now. What I'm discussing is highly classified... We're extremely appreciative and I can assure you you have our gratitude and I'm quite certain a bonus, but I'm afraid I must ask you to leave.'
'Gladly, sir,' said the interpreter. 'And you may forget the gratitude, but please include the bonus. I learned that much in Economics Eight at the University of Arizona.' The woman left.
'Emergency, police facilities!' McAllister fairly shouted into the phone. The ambassador please. It's urgent! No, no names are required, thank you, and bring him to a telephone where we can talk privately.' The undersecretary massaged his left temple, digging deeper and deeper into his scalp until Havilland got on the line.
'Yes, Edward?
'He called. It worked. We know where he is! A hotel in the Yau Ma Ti.'
'Surround it, but don't make any moves! Conklin has got to understand. If he smells what he thinks is rotten bait, he'll pull back. And if we don't have the wife, we don't have our assassin. For God's sake, don't blow this, Edward! Everything must be tight - and very, very delicate! Beyond-salvage could well be the next order of business.'
Those aren't words I'm used to, Mr Ambassador.'
There was a pause on the line; when Havilland spoke his voice was cold. 'Oh, yes they are, Edward. You protest too much, Conklin was right about that. You could have said no at the beginning, at Sangre de Cristo in Colorado. You could have walked away but you didn't, you couldn't. In some ways you're like me - without my accidental advantages, of course. We think and out-think; we take sustenance from our manipulations. We swell with pride with every progressive move in the human chess game - where every move can have terrible consequences for someone - because we believe in something. It all becomes a narcotic, and the sirens' songs are really appeals to our egos. We have our minor powers because of our major intellects. Admit it, Edward. I have. And if it makes you feel any better, I'll say what I said before. Someone has to do it.'
'Nor do I care for out-of-context lectures,' said McAllister.
'You'll receive no more from me. Just do as I tell you. Cover all the exits at that hotel, but inform every man that no overt moves are to be made. If Bourne goes anywhere, he's to be discreetly followed, not touched under any circumstances. We must have the woman before contact is made.'
Morris Panov picked up the phone. 'Yes?'
'Something's happened.' Conklin spoke rapidly, quietly. 'Havilland left the waiting room to take an emergency call. Is anything going on over there?'
'No, nothing. We've just been talking.'
'I'm worried. Havilland's men could have found you.'
'Good Lord, how?'
'Checking every hotel in the colony for a white man with a limp, that's how.'
'You paid the clerk not to say anything to anyone. You said it was a confidential business conference - perfectly normal.'
They can pay, too, and say it's a confidential government matter that brings generous rewards or equally generous harassment. Guess who takes precedence?'
'I think you're over-reacting,' protested the psychiatrist.
'I don't care what you think, Doctor, just get out of there. Now. Forget Marie's luggage - if she has any. Leave as quickly as you can.'
'Where should we go?'
'Where it's crowded, but where I can find you.'
'A restaurant?'
'It's been too many years and they change names every twenty minutes over here. Hotels are out; they're too easily covered.'
'If you're right, Alex, you're taking too much time-'
'I'm thinking!... All right. Take a cab to the foot of Nathan Road at Salisbury - have you got
that? Nathan and Salisbury. You'll see the Peninsula Hotel, but don't go inside. The strip heading north is called the Golden Mile. Walk up and down on the right side, the east side, but stay within the first four blocks. I'll find you, as soon as I can.'
'All right,' said Panov. 'Nathan and Salisbury, the first four blocks north on the right... Alex, you're quite certain you're right, aren't you?
'On two counts,' answered Conklin. 'For starters, Havilland didn't ask me to go with him to find out what the "emergency" was - that's not our arrangement. And if the emergency isn't you and Marie, it means Webb's made contact. If that's the case, I'm not trading away my only bargaining chip, which is Marie. Not without on-sight guarantees. Not with Ambassador Raymond Havilland. Now, get out of there!'
Robert Ludlum - Bourne 2 - Bourne Supremecy Page 61
