"She can even fly up to Paris under any name she cares to," added Bernardine. "Still, I have an idea. It's probably as worthless as my brain but I suggest it anyway. ... Do you and she have special-how do you say it?-nicknames for each other? Sobriquets of endearment perhaps?"
"We're not much for the cute stuff, frankly. ... Wait a minute. A couple of years ago, Jamie, that's our son, had trouble with 'Mommy.' He turned it around and called her 'Meemom.' We kidded about it and I called her that for a few months off and on until he got it right."
"I know she speaks French fluently. Does she read the papers?"
"Religiously, at least the financial pages. I'm not sure she goes seriously much beyond them; it's her morning ritual."
"Even in a crisis?"
"Especially in a crisis. She claims it calms her."
"Let's send her a message-on the financial pages."
Ambassador Phillip Atkinson settled in for a morning of dreary paperwork at the American embassy in London. The dreariness was compounded by a dull throbbing at his temples and a sickening taste in his mouth. It was hardly a typical hangover because he rarely drank whisky and for over twenty-five years had never been drunk. He had learned a long time ago, roughly thirty months after Saigon fell, the limits of his talents, his opportunities and, above all, his resources. When he returned from the war with reasonable, if not exceptional, commendations at twenty-nine, his family had purchased him an available seat on the New York Stock Exchange, where in thirty additional months he had lost something over three million dollars.
"Didn't you ever learn a goddamned thing at Andover and Yale?" his father had roared. "At least make a few connections on the Street?"
"Dad, they were all jealous of me, you know that. My looks, the girls-I look like you, Dad-they all conspired against me. Sometimes I think they were really getting at you through me! You know how they talk. Senior and Junior, dashing socialites and all that crap. ... Remember the column in the Daily News when they compared us to the Fairbankses?"
"I've known Doug for forty years!" yelled the father. "He's got it upstairs, one of the best."
"He didn't go to Andover and Yale, Dad."
"He didn't have to, for Christ's sake! ... Hold it. Foreign Service ... ? What the hell was that degree you got at Yale?"
"Bachelor of Arts."
"Screw that! There was something else. The courses or something."
"I majored in English literature and minored in political science."
"That's it! Shove the fairy stuff on the back burner. You were outstanding in the other one-the political science bullshit."
"Dad, it wasn't my strongest course."
"You passed?"
"Yes. ... Barely."
"Not barely, with honors! That's it!"
And so Phillip Atkinson III began his career in the Foreign Service by way of a valuable political contributor who was his father, and never looked back. And although that illustrious man had died eight years ago, he never forgot the old war horse's last admonition: "Don't fuck this up, son. You want to drink or you want to whore around, you do it inside your own house or in a goddamned desert somewhere, understand? And you treat that wife of yours, whatever the hell her name is, with real affection wherever anybody can see you, got it?"
"Yes, Dad."
Which was why Phillip Atkinson felt so blah on this particular morning. He had spent the previous evening at a dinner party with unimportant royals who drank until the drink flowed out of their nostrils, and with his wife who excused their behavior because they were royals, all of which he could tolerate only with seven glasses of Chablis. There were times when he longed for the freewheeling, free-drinking days of the old Saigon.
The telephone rang, causing Atkinson to blur his signature on a document that made no sense to him. "Yes?"
"The high commissioner from the Hungarian Central Committee is on the line, sir."
"Oh? Who's that-who are they? Do we recognize them-it-him?"
"I don't know, Mr. Ambassador. I really can't pronounce his name.
"Very well, put him through."
"Mr. Ambassador?" said the deep accented voice on the phone. "Mr. Atkinson?"
"Yes, this is Atkinson. Forgive me, but I don't recollect either your name or the Hungarian affiliation you speak for."
"It does not matter. I speak on behalf of Snake Lady-"
"Stop!" cried the ambassador to the Court of St. James's. "Stay on the line and we'll resume talking in twenty seconds." Atkinson reached down, snapped on his scrambler, and waited until the spiraling sounds of the pre-interceptor subsided. "All right, continue."
"I have received instructions from Snake Lady and was told to confirm the origin from you."
"Confirmed!"
"And therefore I am to carry out these instructions?"
"Good Lord, yes! Whatever they say. My God, look what happened to Teagarten in Brussels, Armbruster in Washington! Protect me! Do whatever they say!"
"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador."
Bourne first sat in the hottest tub he could endure, then took the coldest shower he could tolerate. He then changed the dressing around his neck, walked back into the small hotel room and fell on the bed. ... So Marie had found a simple, ingenious way to reach Paris. Goddamn it! How could he find her, protect her? Had she any idea what she was doing? David would go out of his mind. He'd panic and make a thousand mistakes. ... Oh, my God, I am David!
Stop it. Control. Pull back.
The telephone rang; he grabbed it off the bedside table. "Yes?"
"Santos wants to see you. With peace in his heart."
24
The Emergency Medical Service helicopter was lowered into its threshold; the rotors were cut and the blades thumped to a stop. Following EMS procedure when disembarking ambulatory patients, only then did the exit door open and the metal steps slap down to the ground. A uniformed paramedic preceded Panov, turning and assisting the doctor to the tarmac, where a second man in civilian clothes escorted him to a waiting limousine. Inside were Peter Holland, director of the CIA, and Alex Conklin, the latter in the right jump seat, obviously for conversational purposes. The psychiatrist climbed in beside Holland; he took several deep breaths, sighed audibly and fell back into the seat.
"I am a maniac," he stated, emphasizing each word. "Certifiably insane and I'll sign the papers of commitment myself."
"You're safe, that's all that matters, Doctor," said Holland. "Good to see you, Crazy Mo," added Conklin.
"Have you any idea what I did? ... I purposely crashed a car into a tree with me in it! Then after walking at least half the distance to the Bronx, I was picked up by the only person I know who may have more loose bananas in her head than I do. Her libido is unhinged and she's running away from her trucker husband-hot on her French heels-who I subsequently learned has the cuddly name of the Bronk. My hooker chauffeur proceeds to hold me hostage with such wiles as threatening to yell 'Rape!' in a diner filled with a collection of the NFL's most carnivorous linebackers-except for one who got me out." Panov abruptly stopped and reached into his pocket. "Here," he continued, thrusting the five driver's licenses and the roughly six thousand dollars into Conklin's hands.
"What's this?" asked the bewildered Alex.
"I robbed a bank and decided to become a professional driver! ... What do you think it is? I took it from the man who was guarding me. I described as best I could to the chopper's crew where the crash took place. They're flying back to find him. They will; he's not walking anywhere."
Peter Holland reached for the limousine's telephone, pushing three buttons. In less than two seconds, he spoke. "Get word to EMS-Arlington, Equipment Fifty-seven. The man they're picking up is to be brought directly to Langley. To the infirmary. And keep me informed as to their progress. ... Sorry, Doctor. Go on."
"Go on? What's to go on to? I was kidnapped and held in some farmhouse and injected with enough sodium pentothal, if I'm not mistaken, to make me a resident of-of La La Land, which I
was recently accused of being by Madame Scylla Charybdis."
"What the hell are you talking about?" said Holland flatly. "Nothing, Admiral, or Mr. Director or-"
"Peter's fine, Mo," completed Holland. "I simply didn't understand you."
"There's nothing to understand but the facts. My allusions are compulsive attempts at false erudition. It's called posttraumatic stress."
"Of course, now you're perfectly clear."
Panov turned to the DCI with a nervous smile. "It's my turn to be sorry, Peter. I'm still wound up. This last day or so hasn't exactly been representative of my normal life-style."
"I don't think it's anybody's," concurred Holland. "I've seen my share of rotten stuff, but nothing like this, nothing that tampers with the mind. I missed all that."
"There's no hurry, Mo," added Conklin. "Don't press yourself; you've taken a lot of punishment. If you like, we can postpone the briefing for a few hours so you can rest, calm down."
"Don't be a damn fool, Alex!" protested the psychiatrist sharply. "For the second time I've put David's life in jeopardy. The knowledge of that is far worse punishment. There's not a minute to lose. ... Forget Langley, Peter. Take me to one of your clinics. Free-floating, I want to get out everything I can recall, consciously or unconsciously. Hurry. I'll tell the doctors what to do."
"You've got to be joking," said Holland, staring at Panov.
"I'm not joking for an instant. You both have to know what I know-whether I realize I know it or not. Can't you understand that?"
The director again reached for the telephone and pressed a single button. In the front seat, beyond the glass partition, the driver picked up the phone recessed in the seat beside him. "There's been a change of plans," said Holland. "Head for Sterile Five."
The limousine slowed down, and at the next intersection turned right toward the rolling hills and verdant fields of the Virginia hunt country. Morris Panov closed his eyes, as if in a trance or as a man might do facing some appalling ordeal-his own execution perhaps. Alex looked at Peter Holland; they both glanced at Mo, then back at each other. Whatever Panov was doing, there was a reason for it. Until they reached the gates of the estate that was Sterile House Five thirty minutes later, no one spoke.
"DCI and company," announced the driver to the guard wearing the uniform of a private security firm, in reality a CIA proprietary. The limousine proceeded down the long tree-lined entrance.
"Thanks," said Mo, opening his eyes and blinking. "As I'm sure you gathered, I'm trying to clear my head and with any luck bring down my blood pressure."
"You don't have to do this," insisted Holland.
"Yes, I do," said Panov. "Maybe with time I could piece things together with a degree of clarity, but I can't now and we don't have the time." Mo turned to Conklin. "How much can you tell me?"
"Peter knows everything. For the sake of that blood pressure of yours, I won't fill you in on all the details, but the bottom line is that David's all right. At least we haven't heard otherwise."
"Marie? The children?"
"On the island," replied Alex, avoiding Holland's eyes.
"What about this Sterile Five?" asked Panov, now looking at Holland. "I assume there's a specialist, or specialists, the kind I need."
"In relays and around the clock. You probably know a few of them."
"I'd rather not." The long dark vehicle swung around the circular drive and stopped in front of the stone steps of the pillared Georgian mansion that was the focal point of the estate. "Let's go," said Mo quietly, stepping outside.
The sculptured white doors, the rose-colored marble floors and the elegant winding staircase in the great hall all combined to furnish a superb cover for the work done at Sterile Five. Defectors, double and triple agents, and field officers returned from complex assignments for rest and debriefing were continuously processed through its various agendas. The staff, each with a Four Zero clearance, consisted of two doctors and three nurses in relay units, cooks and domestic attendants recruited from the foreign service-in the main, overseas embassies-and guards, all with Ranger training or its equivalent. They moved about the house and grounds unobtrusively, eyes constantly alert, each with either a concealed or an unconcealed weapon, except for the medical personnel. Visitors without exception were given small lapel pins by the well-spoken, dark-suited house steward, who admitted them and directed them to the locations of their scheduled appointments. The man was a retired gray-haired interpreter for the Central Intelligence Agency, but he suited his position so well in appearance he might have come from Central Casting.
Naturally, at the sight of Peter Holland, the steward was astonished. He prided himself on committing to memory every schedule at Sterile Five. "A surprise visit, sir?"
"Good to see you, Frank." The DCI shook hands with the former interpreter. "You may remember Alex Conklin-"
"Good Lord, is that you, Alex? It's been years!" Again hands were shaken. "When was the last time? ... That crazy woman from Warsaw, wasn't it?"
"The KGB's been chuckling ever since," laughed Conklin. "The only secret she had was the recipe for the worst golumpki I've ever tasted. ... Still keeping your hand in, Frank?"
"Every now and then," replied the steward, grimacing in mock disapproval. "These young translators don't know a quiche from a kluski."
"Since I don't either," said Holland, "may I have a word with you, Frank?" The two older men walked off to the side speaking quietly as Alex and Mo Panov held their places, the latter frowning and sporadically breathing deeply. The director returned, handing lapel pins to his colleagues. "I know where to go now," he said. "Frank will call ahead."
The three of them walked up the curving ornate staircase, Conklin limping, and down a lushly carpeted hallway on the left to the rear of the enormous house. On the right wall was a door unlike any of the doors they had passed; it was made of thick varnished oak with four small windows in the upper recessed panels and two black buttons set in an outlet casing beside the knob. Holland inserted a key, twisted it and pressed the lower button; instantly a red light appeared in the small stationary camera mounted on the ceiling. Twenty seconds later there was the familiar muffled metallic clanking of an elevator coming to a stop. "Inside, gentlemen," ordered the DCI. The door closed and the elevator began its descent.
"We walked up to go down?" asked Conklin.
"Security," answered the director. "It's the only way to get where we're going. There's no elevator on the first floor."
"Why not, may the man with one foot missing ask?" said Alex.
"I'd think you'd be able to answer that better than me," retorted the DCI. "Apparently all accesses to the cellars are sealed off except for two elevators that bypass the first floor and for which you need a key. This one and another on the other side; this takes us to where we want to go, the other leads to the furnaces, air-conditioning units and all the rest of the normal basement equipment. Frank gave me the key, incidentally. If it doesn't return to its slot within a given period of time, another alarm goes off."
"It all strikes me as unnecessarily complicated," said Panov curtly, nervously. "Expensive games."
"Not necessarily, Mo," interrupted Conklin gently. "Explosives can be concealed pretty easily in heating pipes and ducts. And did you know that during the last days of Hitler's bunker a few of his saner aides tried to insert poison gas into the air-filtering machinery? These are just precautions."
The elevator stopped and the door opened. "To your left, Doctor," Holland said. The hallway was a glistening pristine white, antiseptic in its way, which was altogether proper, as this underground complex was a highly sophisticated medical center. It was devoted not only to the healing of men and women, but also to the process of breaking them down, crippling their resistance so that information might be revealed, truths learned that could prevent the penetration of high-risk operations, frequently saving lives as a result.
They entered a room that was in stark contrast to the antiseptic quality of the f
luorescent-lit hallway. There were heavy armchairs and soft indirect lighting, a coffee urn on a table with cups and saucers; newspapers and magazines were folded neatly on other tables, all the comforts of a lounge designed for those waiting for someone or something. From an inner door a man in a white medical jacket appeared; he was frowning, looking uncertain.
"Director Holland?" he said, approaching Peter, extending his hand. "I'm Dr. Walsh, second shift. Needless to say, we didn't expect you."
"I'm afraid it's an emergency and hardly one of my choosing. May I introduce you to Dr. Morris Panov-unless you know him?"
"Of him, of course." Walsh again extended his hand. "A pleasure, Doctor, also a privilege."
"You may take both back before we're finished, Doctor. May we talk privately?"
"Certainly. My office is inside." The two men disappeared through the inner door.
"Shouldn't you go with them?" asked Conklin, looking at Peter.
"Why not you?"
"Goddamn it, you're the director. You should insist!"
"You're his closest friend. So should you."
"I don't have any clout here."
"Mine disappeared when Mo dismissed us. Come on, let's have some coffee. This place gives me the proverbial creeps." Holland went to the table with the coffee urn and poured two cups. "How do you like it?"
"With more milk and sugar than I'm supposed to have. I'll do it."
"I still take it black," said the director, moving away from the table and removing a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "My wife says the acid will kill me one day."
"Other people say tobacco will."
"What?"
"Look." Alex pointed at the sign on the opposite wall. It read: THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING.
"That I've got enough clout for," announced Holland quietly as he snapped his lighter and lit a cigarette.
Nearly twenty minutes passed. Every now and then one or the other of them picked up a magazine or a newspaper only to put it down moments later and look up at the inner door. Finally, twenty-eight minutes after he had disappeared with Panov, the doctor named Walsh reappeared.
The Bourne Ultimatum jb-3 Page 40
