Morris Panov approached the intersection still bothered by the curious telephone conversation he had had ten minutes ago, still trying to recall each segment of the plan he was to follow, afraid to look at his watch to see if he had reached a specific place within a specific time span-he had been told not to look at his watch in the street ... and why couldn't they say "at approximately such and such" rather than the somewhat unnerving term "time span," as if a military invasion of Washington were imminent. Regardless, he kept walking, crossing the streets he was told to cross, hoping some unseen clock kept him relatively in tune with the goddamned "time spans" that had been determined by his striding back and forth between two pegs on some lawn behind a garden apartment in Vienna, Virginia. ... He would do anything for David Webb-good Christ, anything – but this was insane. ... Yet, of course, it wasn't. They would not ask him to do what he was doing if it were.
What was that? A face in shadows peering at him, just like the other two! This one hunched over on a curb, raising wine-soaked eyes up at him. Old men-weather-beaten, old, old men who could barely move-staring at him! Now he was allowing his imagination to run away with him-the cities were filled with the homeless, with perfectly harmless people whose psychoses or poverty drove them into the streets. As much as he would like to help them, there was nothing he could do but professionally badger an unresponsive Washington. ... There was another! In an indented space between two storefronts barricaded by iron gates-he, too, was watching him. Stop it! You're being irrational. ... Or was he? Of course, he was. Go on, keep to the schedule, that's what you're supposed to do. ... Good God! There's another. Across the street. ... Keep going!
The vast moonlit grounds of the Smithsonian dwarfed the two figures as they converged from intersecting paths, joining each other and proceeding to a bench. Conklin lowered himself with the aid of his cane while Mo Panov looked around nervously, listening, as if he expected the unexpected. It was 3:28 in the predawn morning, the only noises the subdued rattle of crickets and mild summer breezes through the trees. Guardedly Panov sat down.
"Anything happen on the way here?" asked Conklin.
"I'm not sure," replied the psychiatrist. "I'm as lost as I was in Hong Kong, except that over there we knew where we were going, whom we expected to meet. You people are crazy."
"You're contradicting yourself, Mo," said Alex, smiling. "You told me I was cured."
"Oh, that? That was merely obsessive manic-depression bordering on dementia praecox. This is nuts! It's nearly four o'clock in the morning. People who aren't nuts do not play games at four o'clock in the morning."
Alex watched Panov in the dim wash of a distant Smithsonian floodlight that illuminated the massive stone structure. "You said you weren't sure. What does that mean?"
"I'm almost embarrassed to say-I've told too many patients that they invent uncomfortable images to rationalize their panic, justify their fears."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It's a form of transference-"
"Come on, Mo!" interrupted Conklin. "What bothered you? What did you see?"
"Figures ... some bent over, walking slowly, awkwardly-not like you, Alex, incapacitated not by injuries but by age. Worn out and old and staying in the darkness of storefronts and side streets. It happened four or five times between my apartment house and here. Twice I almost stopped and called out for one of your men, and then I thought to myself, My God, Doctor, you're overreacting, mistaking a few pathetic homeless people for what they're not, seeing things that aren't there."
"Right on!" Conklin whispered emphatically. "You saw exactly what was there, Mo. Because I saw the same, the same kind of old people you saw, and they were pathetic, mostly in beat up clothes and who moved slower than I move. ... What does it mean? What do they mean? Who are they?"
Footsteps. Slow, hesitant, and through the shadows of the deserted path walked two short men-old men. At first glance they, indeed, appeared to be part of the swelling army of indigent homeless, yet there was something different about them, a sense of purpose, perhaps. They stopped nearly twenty feet away from the bench, their faces in darkness. The old man on the left spoke, his voice thin, his accent strange. "It is an odd hour and an unusual place for two such well-dressed gentlemen to meet. Is it fair for you to occupy a place of rest that should be for others not so well off as you?"
"There are a number of unoccupied benches," said Alex pleasantly. "Is this one reserved?"
"There are no reserved seats here," replied the second old man, his English clear but not native to him. "But why are you here?"
"What's it to you?" asked Conklin. "This is a private meeting and none of your business."
"Business at this hour and in this place?" The first aged intruder spoke while looking around.
"I repeat," repeated Alex. "It's none of your business and I really think you should leave us alone."
"Business is business," intoned the second old man.
"What in God's name is he talking about?" whispered the bewildered Panov to Conklin.
"Ground zero," said Alex under his breath. "Be quiet." The retired field agent turned his head up to the two old men. "Okay, fellas, why don't you go on your way?"
"Business is business," again said the second tattered ancient, glancing at his colleague, both their faces still in shadows.
"You don't have any business with us-"
"You can't be sure of that," interrupted the first old man, shaking his head back and, forth. "Suppose I were to tell you that we bring you a message from Macao?"
"What?" exclaimed Panov.
"Shut up!" whispered Conklin, addressing the psychiatrist but his eyes on the messenger. "What does Macao mean to us?" he asked flatly.
"A great taipan wishes to meet with you. The greatest taipan in Hong Kong."
"Why?"
"He will pay you great sums. For your services."
"I'll say it again. Why?"
"We are to tell you that a killer has returned. He wants you to find him."
"I've heard that story before; it doesn't wash. It's also repetitious."
"That is between the great taipan and yourselves, sir. Not with us. He is waiting for you."
"Where is he?"
"At a great hotel, sir."
"Which one?"
"We are again to tell you that it has a great-sized lobby with always many people, and its name refers to this country's past."
"There's only one like that. The Mayflower." Conklin directed his words toward his left lapel, into a microphone sewn into the buttonhole.
"As you wish."
"Under what name is he registered?"
"Registered?"
"Like in reserved benches, only rooms. Who do we ask for?"
"No one, sir. The taipan's secretary will approach you in the lobby."
"Did that same secretary approach you also?"
"Sir?"
"Who hired you to follow us?"
"We are not at liberty to discuss such matters and we will not do so."
"That's it!" shouted Alexander Conklin, yelling over his shoulder as floodlights suddenly lit up the Smithsonian grounds around the deserted path, revealing the two startled old men to be Orientals. Nine personnel from the Central Intelligence Agency walked rapidly into the glare of light from all directions, their hands under their jackets. Since there was no apparent need for them, their weapons remained hidden.
Suddenly the need was there, but the realization came too late. Two high-powered rifle shots exploded from the outer darkness, the bullets ripping open the throats of the two Oriental messengers. The CIA men lunged to the ground, rolling for cover as Conklin grabbed Panov, pulling him down to the path in front of the bench for protection. The unit from Langley lurched to their feet and, like the combat veterans they were, including the former commando Director Peter Holland, they started scrambling, zigzagging one after another toward the source of the gunfire, weapons extended, shadows sought. In moments, an angry cry split the sil
ence.
"Goddamn it!" shouted Holland, the beam of his flashlight angled down between tree trunks. "They made their break!"
"How can you tell?"
"The grass, son, the heel imprints. Those bastards were overqualified. They dug in for one shot apiece and got out-look at the slip marks on the lawn. Those shoes were running. Forget it! No use now. If they stopped for a second position, they'd blow us into the Smithsonian."
"A field man," said Alex, getting up with his cane, the frightened, bewildered Panov beside him. Then the doctor spun around, his eyes wide, rushing toward the two fallen Orientals.
"Oh, my God, they're dead," he cried, kneeling beside the corpses, seeing their blown-apart throats. "Jesus, the amusement park! It's the same!"
"A message," agreed Conklin, nodding, wincing. "Put rock salt on the trail," he added enigmatically.
"What do you mean?" asked the psychiatrist, snapping his head around at the former intelligence officer.
"We weren't careful enough."
"Alex!" roared the gray-haired Holland, running to the bench. "I heard you, but this neuters the hotel," he said breathlessly. "You can't go there now. I won't let you."
"It neuters-fucks up-more than the hotel. This isn't the Jackal! It's Hong Kong! The externals were right, but my instincts were wrong. Wrong!"
"Which way do you want to go?" asked the director softly.
"I don't know," answered Conklin, a plaint in his voice. "I was wrong. ... Reach our man, of course, as soon as possible."
"I spoke to David-I spoke to him about an hour ago," said Panov, instantly correcting himself.
"You spoke to him?" cried Alex. "It's late and you were at home. How?"
"You know my answering machine," said the doctor. "If I picked up every crazy call after midnight, I'd never get to the office in the morning. So I let it ring, and because I was getting ready to go out and meet you, I listened. All he said was 'Reach me,' and by the time I got to the phone, he'd hung up. So I called him back."
"You called him back? On your phone?"
"Well ... yes," answered Panov hesitantly. "He was very quick, very guarded. He just wanted us to know what was happening, that 'M'-he called her 'M'-was leaving with the children first thing in the morning. That was it; he hung up right away."
"They've got your boy's name and address by now," said Holland. "Probably the message as well."
"A location, yes; the message, maybe," broke in Conklin, speaking quietly, rapidly. "Not an address, not a name."
"By morning they will have-"
"By morning he'll be on his way to Tierra del Fuego, if need be."
"Christ, what have I done?" exclaimed the psychiatrist.
"Nothing anybody else in your place wouldn't have done," replied Alex. "You get a message at two o'clock in the morning from someone you care about, someone in trouble, you call back as fast as you can. Now we have to reach him as fast as we can. So it's not Carlos, but somebody with a lot of firepower is still closing in, making breakthroughs we thought were impossible."
"Use the phone in my car," said Holland. "I'll put it on override. There'll be no record, no log."
"Let's go!" As quickly as possible, Conklin limped across the lawn toward the Agency vehicle.
"David, it's Alex."
"Your timing's pretty scary, friend, we're on our way out the door. If Jamie hadn't had to hit the potty we'd be in the car by now."
"At this hour?"
"Didn't Mo tell you? There was no answer at your place, so I called him."
"Mo's a little shook up. Tell me yourself. What's happening?"
"Is this phone secure? I wasn't sure his was."
"None more so."
"I'm packing Marie and the kids off south-way south. She's screaming like hell, but I chartered a Rockwell jet out of Logan Airport, everything precleared thanks to the arrangements you made four years ago. The computers spun and everyone cooperated. They take off at six o'clock, before it's light-I want them out."
"And you, David? What about you?"
"Frankly, I thought I'd head to Washington and stay with you. If the Jackal's coming for me after all these years, I want to be in on what we're doing about it. I might even be able to help. ... I'll arrive by noon."
"No, David. Not today and not here. Go with Marie and the children. Get out of the country. Stay with your family and Johnny St. Jacques on the island."
"I can't do that, Alex, and if you were me you couldn't, either. My family's not going to be free-really free-until Carlos is out of our lives."
"It's not Carlos," said Conklin, interrupting.
"What? Yesterday you told me-"
"Forget what I told you, I was wrong. This is out of Hong Kong, out of Macao."
"That doesn't make sense, Alex! Hong Kong's finished, Macao's finished. They're dead and forgotten and there's no one alive with a reason to come after me."
"There is somewhere. A great taipan, 'the greatest taipan in Hong Kong,' according to the most recent and most recently dead source."
"They're gone. That whole house of Kuomintang cards collapsed. There's no one left!"
"I repeat, there is somewhere."
David Webb was briefly silent; then Jason Bourne spoke, his voice cold. "Tell me everything you've learned, every detail. Something happened tonight. What was it?"
"All right, every detail," said Conklin. The retired intelligence officer described the controlled surveillance engineered by the Central Intelligence Agency. He explained how he and Morris Panov spotted the old men who followed them, picking each up in sequence as they made their separate ways to the Smithsonian, none showing himself in the light until the confrontation on a deserted path on the Smithsonian grounds, where the messenger spoke of Macao and Hong Kong and a great taipan. Finally, Conklin described the shattering gunfire that silenced the two aged Orientals. "It's out of Hong Kong, David. The reference to Macao confirms it. It was your impostor's base camp."
Again there was silence on the line, only Jason Bourne's steady breathing audible. "You're wrong, Alex," he said at last, his voice pensive, floating. "It's the Jackal-by way of Hong Kong and Macao, but it's still the Jackal."
"David, now you're not making sense. Carlos hasn't anything to do with taipans or Hong Kong or messages from Macao. Those old men were Chinese, not French or Italian or German or whatever. This is out of Asia, not Europe."
"The old men, they're the only ones he trusts," continued David Webb, his voice still low and cold, the voice of Jason Bourne. " 'The old men of Paris,' that's what they were called. They were his network, his couriers throughout Europe. Who suspects decrepit old men, whether they're beggars or whether they're just holding on to the last remnants of mobility? Who would think of interrogating them, much less putting them on a rack. And even then they'd stay silent. Their deals were made-are made-and they move with impunity. For Carlos."
For a moment, hearing the strange, hollow voice of his friend, the frightened Conklin stared at the dashboard, unsure of what to say. "David, I don't understand you. I know you're upset-we're all upset-but please be clearer."
"What? ... Oh, I'm sorry, Alex, I was going back. To put it simply, Carlos scoured Paris looking for old men who were either dying or knew they hadn't long to live because of their age, all with police records and with little or nothing to show for their lives, their crimes. Most of us forget that these old men have loved ones and children, legitimate or not, that they care for. The Jackal would find them and swear to provide for the people his about-to-die couriers left behind if they swore the rest of their lives to him. In their places, with nothing to leave those who survive us but suspicion and poverty, which of us would do otherwise?"
"They believed him?"
"They had good reason to-they still have. Scores of bank checks are delivered monthly from multiple unlisted Swiss accounts to inheritors from the Mediterranean to the Baltic. There's no way to trace those payments, but the people receiving them know who makes them possible and
why. ... Forget your buried file, Alex. Carlos dug around Hong Kong, that's where his penetration was made, where he found you and Mo."
"Then we'll do some penetrating ourselves. We'll infiltrate every Oriental neighborhood, every Chinese bookie joint and restaurant, in every city within a fifty-mile radius of D.C."
"Don't do anything until I get there. You don't know what to look for, I do. ... It's kind of remarkable, really. The Jackal doesn't know that there's still a great deal I can't remember, but he just assumed that I'd forgotten about the old men of Paris."
"Maybe he didn't, David. Maybe he's counting on the fact that you'd remember. Maybe this whole charade is a prelude to the real trap he's setting for you."
"Then he made another mistake."
"Oh?"
"I'm better than that. Jason Bourne's better than that."
4
David Webb walked through the National Airport terminal and out the automatic doors onto the crowded platform. He studied the signs and proceeded across the walkway leading to the Short-Term Parking area. According to plan, he was to go to the farthest aisle on the right, turn left, and continue down the row of parked cars until he saw a metallic gray 1986 Pontiac LeMans with an ornamental crucifix suspended from the rearview mirror. A man would be in the driver's seat wearing a white cap, the window lowered. Webb was to approach him and say, "The flight was very smooth." If the man removed his cap and started the engine, David was to climb in the backseat. Nothing more would be said.
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