The Bourne Ultimatum

by Robert Ludlum

“Huh?”

  “I’m a WASP, and ‘blondie fruits’ is but one more pejorative description given us by, I must admit, other trampled-upon minorities. Think about it. Armbruster, Swayne, Atkinson, Burton, Teagarten—‘blondies’ all. And Wall Street, certain firms in that originally WASP financial bastion, at any rate.”

  “Medusa,” said Alex, nodding. “Medusa and the Mafia.… Holy Christ.”

  “We’ve got a telephone number!” Peter leaned forward on the couch. “It was in the ledger Bourne brought out of Swayne’s house.”

  “I’ve tried it, remember? It’s an answering machine, that’s all it is.”

  “And that’s enough. We can get a location.”

  “To what end? Whoever picks up the messages does it by remote, and if he or she has half a brain, it’s done from a public phone. The relay is not only untraceable but capable of erasing all other messages, so we can’t tap in.”

  “You’re not very into high tech, are you, Field Man?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” replied Conklin. “I bought one of those VCRs so I could watch old movies, and I can’t figure out how to turn off the goddamn blinking clock. I called the dealer and he said, ‘Read the instructions on the interior panel.’ I can’t find the interior panel.”

  “Then let me explain what we can do to an answering machine.… We can jam it externally.”

  “Gee willikers, Sandy, what’s next for Orphan Annie? What the hell is that going to do? Other than kill the source.”

  “You’re forgetting. We have the location from the numbers.”

  “Oh?”

  “Someone has to come and repair the machine.”

  “Oh.”

  “We take him and find out who sent him there.”

  “You know, Peter, you’ve got possibilities. For a neophyte, you understand, your current outrageously undeserved position notwithstanding.”

  “Sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”

  Bryce Ogilvie, of the law firm Ogilvie, Spofford, Crawford and Cohen, was dictating a highly complex reply to the Justice Department’s antitrust division when his very private telephone line rang; it rang only at his desk. He picked up the phone, pressed the green button and spoke rapidly. “Hold on,” he ordered, looking up at his secretary. “Would you excuse me, please?”

  “Certainly, sir.” The secretary got out of her chair, walked across the large impressive office and disappeared beyond the door.

  “Yes, what is it?” asked Ogilvie, returning to the phone.

  “The machine isn’t working,” said the voice on the sacrosanct line.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. All I get is a busy signal.”

  “That’s the best equipment available. Perhaps someone was calling in when you called.”

  “I’ve been trying for the past two hours. There’s a glitch. Even the best machines break down.”

  “All right, send someone up to check it out. Use one of the niggers.”

  “Naturally. No white man would go up there.”

  25

  It was shortly past midnight when Bourne got off the métro in Argenteuil. He had divided the day into segments, splitting the hours between the arrangements he had to make and looking for Marie, going from one arrondissement to another, scouting every café, every shop, every large and small hotel he could recall having been a part of their fugitive nightmare thirteen years ago. More than once he had gasped, seeing a woman in the distance or across a café—the back of a head, a quick profile, and twice a crown of dark red hair, any of which from a distance or in a café’s dim light might have belonged to his wife. None of these had turned out to be Marie, but he began to understand his own anxiety and, by understanding it, was better able to control it. These were the most impossible parts of the day; the rest was merely filled with difficulty and frustration.

  Alex! Where the hell was Conklin? He could not reach him in Virginia! Because of the time difference, he had counted on Alex to take care of the details, swiftly expediting the transfer of funds, primarily. The business day on the eastern seaboard of the United States began at four o’clock, Paris time, and the business day in Paris stopped at five o’clock or before, Paris time. That left barely an hour to release and transfer over a million American dollars to one Mr. Simon at his chosen bank in Paris, and that meant said Mr. Simon had to make himself known to the aforementioned, as yet unchosen, Paris bank. Bernardine had been helpful. Helpful, hell! He had made it possible.

  “There’s a bank on the rue de Grenelle that the Deuxième frequently uses. They can be accommodating in terms of hours and the absence of an authentic signature or two, but they give nothing for nothing, and they trust no one, especially anyone associated with our benevolent socialist government.”

  “You mean regardless of the teletypes, if the money’s not there you don’t get it.”

  “Not a sou. The president, himself, could call and he would be told to pick it up in Moscow, where they firmly believe he belongs.”

  “Since I can’t reach Alex, I’ve bypassed the bank in Boston and called our man in the Cayman Islands, where Marie put the bulk of the money. He’s Canadian and so’s the bank. He’s waiting for instructions.”

  “I’ll make a phone call. Are you at the Pont-Royal?”

  “No. I’ll call you back.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I suppose you could say I’m an anxious and confused butterfly going from one vaguely remembered place to another.”

  “You are looking for her.”

  “Yes. But then that wasn’t a question, was it?”

  “Forgive me, but in some ways I hope you do not find her.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.”

  He had gone to yet another point of recall, the Trocadéro, and the Palais de Chaillot. He had been shot at in the past on one of the terraces; there had been gunfire and men running down the endless stone steps, intermittently obscured by the huge gilded statues and the great sprays of the fountains, disappearing into the formal gardens, finally out of sight, out of range. What had happened? Why did he remember the Trocadéro?… But Marie had been there—somewhere. Where had she been in that enormous complex? Where?… A terrace! She had been on a terrace. Near a statue—what statue?… Descartes? Racine? Talleyrand? The statue of Descartes came to his mind first. He would find it.

  He had found it and there was no Marie. He had looked at his watch; it had been nearly forty-five minutes since he had talked to Bernardine. Like the men in his inner screen, he had raced down the steps. To a telephone.

  “Go to the Banque Normandie and ask for Monsieur Tabouri. He understands that a Monsieur Simon intends to transfer over seven million francs from the Caymans by way of voice authorization through his private banker in the islands. He is most happy to let you use his phone, but believe me, he’ll charge you for the call.”

  “Thanks, François.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “The Trocadéro. It’s crazy. I have the damnedest feelings, like vibrations, but she’s not there. It’s probably the things I can’t remember. Hell, I may have taken a bullet here, I simply don’t know.”

  “Go to the bank.”

  He had done so, and within thirty-five minutes after his call to the Caymans, the olive-skinned, perpetually smiling Monsieur Tabouri confirmed that his funds were in place. He requested 750,000 francs in the largest notes possible. They were delivered to him, and the grinning obsequious banker took him confidentially aside, away from the desk—which was rather foolish, as there was no one else in the office—and spoke quietly by a window.

  “There are some marvelous real estate opportunities in Beirut, believe me, I know. I am the expert on the Middle East and these stupid conflagrations cannot last much longer. Mon Dieu, no one will be left alive! It will once again rise as the Paris of the Mediterranean. Estates for a fraction of their value, hotels for a ridiculous price!”

  “It sounds interesting.
I’ll be in touch.”

  He had fled the Banque Normandie as if its confines held the germs of a lethal disease. He had returned to the Pont-Royal, and again tried to reach Alex Conklin in the United States. It was then close to one o’clock in the afternoon in Vienna, Virginia, and still all he had heard was an answering machine with Alex’s disembodied voice instructing the caller to leave a message. For any number of reasons, Jason had chosen not to do so.

  And now he was in Argenteuil, walking up the steps of the métro to the pavement, where he would slowly, cautiously make his way into the uglier streets and the vicinity of Le Coeur du Soldat. His instructions were clear. He was not to be the man he was last night, no limp, no ragged cast-off army clothing, no image that anyone might recognize. He was to be a simple laborer and reach the gates of the old closed-down refinery and smoke cigarettes while leaning against the wall. This was to take place between 12:30 and one o’clock in the morning. No sooner and no later.

  When he had asked Santos’s messengers—after giving them several hundred francs for their inconvenience—the reason for these late-night precautions, the less inhibited man had replied, “Santos never leaves Le Coeur du Soldat.”

  “He left last evening.”

  “For minutes only,” rejoined the more voluble messenger.

  “I understand.” Bourne nodded, but he had not understood, he could only speculate. Was Santos in some way the Jackal’s prisoner, confined to the sleazy café night and day? It was a fascinating query in light of the manager’s size and sheer raw power, both combined with a far-above-average intellect.

  It was 12:37 when Jason, in blue jeans, cap and a dark, tattered V-necked sweater, reached the gates of the old factory. He took out a pack of Gauloise cigarettes and leaned against the wall, lighting one with a match, holding the flame longer than necessary before he blew it out. His thoughts returned to the enigmatic Santos, the premier conduit in Carlos’s army, the most trusted satellite in the Jackal’s orbit, a man whose French might have been formed at the Sorbonne, yet Santos was a Latin American. A Venezuelan, if Bourne’s instincts had merit. Fascinating. And Santos wanted to see him ‘with peace in his heart.’ Bravo, amigo, thought Jason. Santos had reached a terrified ambassador in London with a question so loaded it made a political party’s private poll look like the essence of nonpartisan neutrality. Atkinson had no choice but to state emphatically, if not in panic, that whatever instructions Snake Lady issued were to be carried out. The power of Snake Lady was the ambassador’s only protection, his ultimate refuge.

  So Santos could bend; that decision was rooted in intellect, not loyalty, not obligation. The conduit wanted to crawl out of his sewer, and with three million francs in the offing, combined with a multitude of faraway places across the globe to choose from, the conduit’s mind told him to listen, to consider. There were alternatives in life if opportunities were presented. One had been presented to Santos, vassal to Carlos, whose fealty to his lord had perhaps run its suffocating course. It was this instinctive projection that made Bourne include in his plea—calmly but firmly, the emphasis in understatement—such phrases as You could travel, disappear … a wealthy man, free of care and unpleasant drudgery. The key words were “free” and “disappear,” and Santos’s eyes had responded. He was ready to take the three-million-franc bait, and Bourne was perfectly happy to let him break the line and swim with it.

  Jason looked at his watch; fifteen minutes had passed. No doubt Santos’s minions were checking the streets, a final inspection before the high priest of conduits appeared. Bourne thought briefly of Marie, of the sensations he felt at the Trocadéro, remembering old Fontaine’s words when the two of them watched the paths of Tranquility Inn from the high storage room, waiting for Carlos. He’s near, I feel it. Like the approach of distant thunder. In a different—far different—way Jason had like feelings at the Trocadéro. Enough! Santos! The Jackal!

  His watch read one o’clock, and the two messengers from the Pont-Royal walked out of the alley and across the street to the gates of the old refinery.

  “Santos will see you now,” said the voluble one.

  “I don’t see him.”

  “You are to come with us. He does not leave Le Coeur du Soldat.”

  “Why do I find that not to my liking?”

  “There’s no reason for such feelings. He has peace in his heart.”

  “What about his knife?”

  “He has no knife, no weapon. He never carries either.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Let’s go.”

  “He has no need for such weapons,” added the messenger, disquietingly.

  He was escorted down the alley, past the neon-lit entrance, to a barely negotiable break in the buildings. One by one, Jason between the two men, they made their way to the rear of the café, where there was just about the last thing Bourne expected to see in this run-down section of the city. It was … well, an English garden. A plot of ground perhaps thirty feet in length, twenty in depth, and trellises supporting a variety of flowering vines, a barrage of color in the French moonlight.

  “That’s quite a sight,” commented Jason. “It didn’t come about through neglect.”

  “Ah, it is a passion with Santos! No one understands it, but no one touches a single flower, either.”

  Fascinating.

  Bourne was led to a small outside elevator whose steel frame was attached to the stone wall of the building. There was no other access in sight. The conveyance barely held the three of them, and once the iron gate was closed, the silent messenger pressed a button in the darkness and spoke. “We are here, Santos. Camellia. Bring us up.”

  “Camellia?” asked Jason.

  “He knows everything is all right. If not, my friend might have said ‘lily’ or ‘rose.’ ”

  “What would happen then?”

  “You don’t want to think about it. I don’t care to think about it.”

  “Naturally. Of course.”

  The outside elevator stopped with a disturbing double jerk, and the quiet messenger opened a thick steel door that required his full weight to open. Bourne was led into the familiar room with the tasteful, expensive furniture, the bookcases and the single floor lamp that illuminated Santos in his outsized armchair.

  “You may leave, my friends,” said the large man, addressing the messengers. “Pick up your money from the faggot, and for God’s sake, tell him to give René and the American who calls himself Ralph fifty francs apiece and get them out of here. They’re pissing in the corners.… Say the money’s from their friend from last night who forgot about them.”

  “Oh, shit!” exploded Jason.

  “You did forget, didn’t you?” Santos grinned.

  “I’ve had other things on my mind.”

  “Yes, sir! Yes, Santos!” The two messengers, instead of heading for the back of the room and the elevator, opened a door in the left wall and disappeared. Bourne looked after them, bewildered.

  “There is a staircase leading to our kitchen, such as it is,” said Santos, answering Jason’s unspoken question. “The door can be opened from this side, not from the steps below except by me.… Sit down, Monsieur Simon. You are my guest. How is your head?”

  “The swelling’s gone down, thank you.” Bourne sat on the large couch, sinking into the pillows; it was not an authoritative position, nor was it not meant to be. “I understand you have peace in your heart.”

  “And a desire for three million francs in the avaricious section of that heart.”

  “Then you were satisfied with your call to London?”

  “No one could have programmed that man into reacting the way he did. There is a Snake Lady and she instills extraordinary devotion and fear in high places—which means that female serpent is not without power.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell you.”

  “Your word is accepted. Now, let me recapitulate your request, your demand, as it were—”

  “My restrictions,” interrupted Jason.r />
  “Very well, your restrictions,” agreed Santos. “You and you alone must reach the blackbird, correct?”

  “It’s an absolute.”

  “Again, I must ask why?”

  “Speaking frankly, you already know too much, more than my clients realize, but then none of them was about to lose his own life on the second floor of a café in Argenteuil. They want nothing to do with you, they want no traces, and in that area you’re vulnerable.”

  “How?” Santos crashed his fist against the arm of the chair.

  “An old man in Paris with a police record who tried to warn a member of the Assembly that he was to be assassinated. He was the one who mentioned the blackbird; he was the one who spoke of Le Coeur du Soldat. Fortunately, our man heard him and silently passed the word to my clients, but that’s not good enough. How many other old men in Paris in their senile delusions may mention Le Coeur du Soldat—and you?… No, you can have nothing to do with my clients.”

  “Even through you?”

  “I disappear, you don’t. Although, in all honesty, I believe you should think about doing so.… Here, I brought you something.” Bourne sat forward on the couch and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a roll of tightly wound franc notes held together by a thick elastic band. He threw it over to Santos, who caught it effortlessly in midair. “Two hundred thousand francs on account—I was authorized to give this to you. On a best-efforts basis. You give me the information I need, I deliver it to London, and whether or not the blackbird accepts my clients’ offer, you still receive the balance of the three million.”

  “But you could disappear before then, couldn’t you?”

  “Have me watched as you’ve been doing, have me followed to London and back. I’ll even call you with the names of the airlines and the flight numbers. What could be fairer?”

  “One thing more could be fairer, Monsieur Simon,” replied Santos, pushing his immense frame out of the chair and baronially striding to a card table against the lacquered brick wall of his flat. “If you will, please come over here.”

  Jason rose from the couch and walked over to the card table, instantly astonished. “You’re thorough, aren’t you?”