The Bourne Ultimatum

by Robert Ludlum

  “I understand,” shouted another voice. “And, please, you understand that many guns are directed at you when I open the door. It is understand?”

  “Understand!” shouted Bourne, at the last second remembering to drop Carlos’s weapon on the concrete floor. The door opened.

  “Da!” said the Soviet police officer, instantly correcting himself as he spotted the machine pistol at Jason’s feet. “Nyet!” he yelled.

  “Nye za shto?” said a breathless Krupkin, urging his heavyset body forward.

  “Pochemu?”

  “Komitet!”

  “Prekrasno.” The policeman nodded obsequiously, but stayed in place.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Krupkin. “The lobby is cleared and our assault squad is in place!”

  “He was here!” whispered Bourne, as if his intense quiet voice further obscured his incomprehensible words.

  “The Jackal?” asked Krupkin, astonished.

  “He came down this staircase! He couldn’t have gone out on any other floor. Every fire door is dead-bolted from the inside—only the crash bars release them.”

  “Skazhi,” said the KGB official to the hotel guard, speaking in Russian. “Has anyone come through this door within the past ten minutes since the orders were given to seal them off?”

  “No, sir!” replied the mititsiya. “Only a hysterical woman in a soiled bathrobe. In her panic, she fell in the bathroom and cut herself. We thought she might have a heart attack, she was screaming so. We escorted her immediately to the nurse’s office.”

  Krupkin turned to Jason, switching back to English. “Only a woman came through, a woman in panic who had injured herself.”

  “A woman? Is he certain?… What color was her hair?”

  Dimitri asked the guard; with the man’s reply he again looked at Bourne. “He says it was reddish and quite curly.”

  “Reddish?” An image came to Jason, a very unpleasant one. “A house phone—no, the front desk! Come on, I may need your help.” With Krupkin following, the barefooted Bourne ran across the lobby to a clerk at the reception counter. “Can you speak English?”

  “Certainly most good, even many veniculars, mister sir.”

  “A room plan for the tenth floor. Quickly.”

  “Mister sir?”

  Krupkin translated; a large loose-leaf notebook was placed on the counter, the plastic-enclosed page turned to—“This room!” said Jason, pointing at a square and doing his best not to alarm the frightened clerk. “Get it on the telephone! If the line’s busy, knock off anybody on it.”

  Again Krupkin translated as a phone was placed in front of Bourne. He picked it up and spoke. “This is the man who came into your room a few minutes ago—”

  “Oh, yes, of course, dear fellow. Thank you so much! The doctor’s here and Binky’s—”

  “I have to know something, and I have to know it right now.… Do you carry hairpieces, or wigs, with you when you travel?”

  “I’d say that’s rather impertinent—”

  “Lady, I don’t have time for amenities, I have to know! Do you?”

  “Well, yes I do. It’s no secret, actually, all my friends know it and they forgive the artifice. You see, dear boy, I have diabetes … my gray hair is painfully thin.”

  “Is one of those wigs red?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I rather fancy changing—”

  Bourne slammed down the phone and looked over at Krupkin. “The son of a bitch lucked out. It was Carlos!”

  “Come with me!” said Krupkin as they both raced across the empty lobby to the complex of back-room offices of the Metropole. They reached the nurse’s infirmary door and went inside. They both stopped; both gasped and then winced at what they saw.

  There were rolls of torn, unwound gauze and reels of tape in various widths, and broken syringes and tubes of antibiotics scattered about the examining table and the floor, as if all were somehow administered in panic. These, however, the two men barely noticed, for their eyes were riveted on the woman who had tended to her crazed patient. The Metropole’s nurse was arched back in her chair, her throat surgically punctured, and over her immaculate white uniform ran a thin stream of blood. Madness!

  Standing beside the living room table, Dimitri Krupkin spoke on the phone as Alex Conklin sat on the brocaded couch massaging his bootless leg and Bourne stood by the window staring out on the Marx Prospekt. Alex looked over at the KGB officer, a thin smile on his gaunt face as Krupkin nodded, his eyes on Conklin. An acknowledgment was being transmitted between the two of them. They were worthy adversaries in a never-ending, essentially futile war in which only battles were won, the philosophical conflicts never resolved.

  “I have your assurance then, comrade,” said Krupkin in Russian, “and, frankly, I will hold you to it.… Of course I’m taping this conversation! Would you do otherwise?… Good! We understand each other as well as our respective responsibilities, so let me recapitulate. The man is seriously wounded, therefore the city taxi service as well as all doctors and all hospitals in the Moscow area have been alerted. The description of the stolen automobile has been circulated and any sightings of man or vehicle are to be reported only to you. The penalty for disregarding these instructions is the Lubyanka, that must be clear.… Good! We have a mutual understanding and I expect to hear from you the minute you have any information, yes?… Don’t have a cardiac arrest, comrade. I am well aware that you are my superior, but then this is a proletarian society, yes? Simply follow the advice of an extremely experienced subordinate. Have a pleasant day.… No, that is not a threat, it is merely a phrase I picked up in Paris—American origin, I believe.” Krupkin hung up the phone and sighed. “There’s something to be said for our vanished, educated aristocracy, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t say it out loud,” observed Conklin, nodding at the telephone. “I gather nothing’s coming down.”

  “Nothing to act upon immediately but something rather interesting, even fascinating in a macabre sort of way.”

  “By which you mean it concerns Carlos, I assume.”

  “No one else.” Krupkin shook his head as Jason looked over at him from the window. “I stopped at my office to join the assault squad and on my desk were eight large manila envelopes, only one of which had been opened. The police found them in the Vavilova and, true to form, having read the contents of only one, wanted nothing to do with them.”

  “What were they?” asked Alex, chuckling. “State secrets describing the entire Politburo as gay?”

  “You’re probably not far off the mark,” interrupted Bourne. “That was the Jackal’s Moscow cadre in the Vavilova. He was either showing them the dirt he had on them, or giving them the dirt on others.”

  “The latter in this case,” said Krupkin. “A collection of the most preposterous allegations directed at the ranking heads of our major ministries.”

  “He’s got vaults of that garbage. It’s standard operating procedure for Carlos; it’s how he buys his way into circles he shouldn’t be able to penetrate.”

  “Then I’m not being clear, Jason,” continued the KGB officer. “When I say preposterous, I mean exactly that—beyond belief. Lunacy.”

  “He’s almost always on target. Don’t take that judgment to the bank.”

  “If there were such a bank I certainly would, and I’d negotiate a sizable loan on its efficacy as collateral. Most of the information is the stuff of the lowest-grade tabloids—nothing unusual there, of course—but along with such nonsense are outright distortions of times, places, functions and even identities. For example, the Ministry of Transport is not where a particular file says, but a block away, and a certain comrade direktor is not married to the lady named but to someone else—the woman mentioned is their daughter and is not in Moscow but rather in Cuba, where she’s been for six years. Also, the man listed as head of Radio Moscow and accused of just about everything short of having intercourse with dogs, died eleven months a and was a known closet orthodox Cathol
ic, who would have been far happier as a truly devout priest.… These blatant falsehoods I picked up in a matter of minutes, time being at a premium, but I’m sure there are dozens more.”

  “You’re saying that a scam was pulled on Carlos?” said Conklin.

  “One so garish—albeit compiled with extreme conviction—it would be laughed out of our most rigidly doctrinaire courts. Whoever fed him these melodramatic ‘exposés’ wanted built-in deniabilities.”

  “Rodchenko?” asked Bourne.

  “I can’t think of anyone else. Grigorie—I say ‘Grigorie’ but I never called him that to his face; it was always ‘General’—was a consummate strategist, the ultimate survivor, as well as a deeply committed Marxist. Control was his byword, his addiction, really, and if he could control the infamous Jackal for the Motherland’s interests, what a profound exhilaration for the old man. Yet the Jackal killed him with those symbolic bullets in his throat. Was it betrayal, or was it carelessness on Rodchenko’s part at having been discovered? Which? We’ll never know.” The telephone rang and Krupkin’s hand shot down, picking it up. “Da?” Shifting to Russian, Dimitri gestured for Conklin to restrap the prosthetic boot as he spoke. “Now listen to me very carefully, comrade. The police are to make no moves—above all, they are to remain out of sight. Call in one of our unmarked vehicles to replace the patrol car, am I clear?… Good. We’ll use the Moray frequency.”

  “Breakthrough?” asked Bourne, stepping away from the window as Dimitri slammed down the phone.

  “Maximum!” replied Krupkin. “The car was spotted on the Nemchinovka road heading toward Odintsovo.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything to me. What’s in Odintsovol, or whatever it’s called?”

  “I don’t know specifically, but I must assume he does. Remember, he knows Moscow and its environs. Odintsovo is what you might call an industrial suburb about thirty-five minutes from the city—”

  “Goddamn it!” yelled Alex, struggling with the Velcro straps of his boot.

  “Let me do that,” said Jason, his tone of voice brooking no objection as he knelt down and swiftly manipulated the thick strips of coarse cloth. “Why is Carlos still using the Dzerzhinsky car?” continued Bourne, addressing Krupkin. “It’s not like him to take that kind of risk.”

  “It is if he has no choice. He has to know that all Moscow taxis are a silent arm of the state, and he is, after all, severely wounded and undoubtedly now without a gun or he would have used it on you. He’s in no condition to threaten a driver or steal an automobile.… Besides, he reached the Nemchinovka road quickly; that the car was even seen is pure chance. The road is not well traveled, which I assume he also knows.”

  “Let’s get out of here!” cried Conklin, annoyed by both Jason’s attention and his own infirmity. He stood up, wavered, angrily rejected Krupkin’s hand, and started for the door. “We can talk in the car. We’re wasting time.”

  “Moray, come in, please,” said Krupkin in Russian, sitting beside the assault squad driver in the front seat, the microphone at his lips, his hand on the frequency dial of the vehicle’s radio. “Moray, respond, if I’m reaching you.”

  “What the hell’s he talking about?” asked Bourne, in the backseat with Alex.

  “He’s trying to make contact with the unmarked KGB patrol following Carlos. He keeps switching from one ultrahigh frequency to another. It’s the Moray code.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s an eel, Jason,” replied Krupkin, glancing over the seat. “Of the Muraenidae family with porelike gills and capable of descending to great depths. Certain species can be quite deadly.”

  “Thank you, Peter Lorre,” said Bourne.

  “Very good,” laughed the KGB man. “But you’ll admit it’s aptly descriptive. Very few radios can either send it or receive it.”

  “When did you steal it from us?”

  “Oh, not you, not you at all. From the British, truthfully. As usual, London is very quiet about these things, but they’re far ahead of you and the Japanese in certain areas. It’s that damned MI-Six. They dine in their clubs in Knightsbridge, smoke their odious pipes, play the innocents, and send us defectors trained at the Old Vic.”

  “They’ve had their gaps,” said Conklin defensively.

  “More so in their high-dudgeon revelations than in reality, Aleksei. You’ve been away too long. We’ve both lost more than they have in that department, but they can cope with public embarrassment—we haven’t learned that time-honored trait. We bury our ‘gaps,’ as you put it; we try too hard for that respectability which too often eludes us. Then, I suppose, we’re historically young by comparison.” Krupkin again switched back into Russian. “Moray, come in, please! I’m reaching the end of the spectrum. Where are you, Moray?”

  “Stop there, comrade!” came the metallic voice over the loudspeaker. “We’re in contact. Can you hear me?”

  “You sound like a castrato but I can hear you.”

  “This must be Comrade Krupkin—”

  “Were you expecting the pope? Who’s this?”

  “Orlov.”

  “Good! You know what you’re doing.”

  “I hope you do, Dimitri.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Your insufferable orders to do nothing, that’s why. We’re two kilometers away from the building—I drove up through the grass on a small hill—and we have the vehicle in sight. It’s parked in the lot and the suspect’s inside.”

  “What building? What hill? You tell me nothing.”

  “The Kubinka Armory.”

  Hearing this, Conklin bolted forward in the seat. “Oh, my God!” he cried.

  “What is it?” asked Bourne.

  “He reached an armory.” Alex saw the frown of confusion on Jason’s face. “Over here armories are a hell of a lot more than enclosed parade grounds for legionnaires and reservists. They’re serious training quarters and warehouses for weapons.”

  “He wasn’t heading for Odintsovo,” broke in Krupkin. “The armory’s farther south, on the outskirts of the town, another four or five kilometers. He’s been there before.”

  “Those places must have tight security,” said Bourne. “He can’t just walk inside.”

  “He already has,” corrected the KGB officer from Paris.

  “I mean into restricted areas—like storerooms filled with weapons.”

  “That’s what concerns me,” went on Krupkin, fingering the microphone in his hand. “Since he’s been there before—and he obviously has—what does he know about the installation … who does he know?”

  “Get on a radio patch, call the place and have him stopped, held!” insisted Jason.

  “Suppose I reach the wrong person, or suppose he already has weapons and we set him off? With one phone call, one hostile confrontation or even the appearance of a strange automobile, there could be wholesale slaughter of several dozen men and women. We saw what he did at the Metropole, in the Vavilova. He’s lost all control; he’s utterly mad.”

  “Dimitri,” came the metallic Soviet voice over the radio speaking Russian. “Something’s happening. The man just came out of a side door with a burlap sack and is heading for the car.… Comrade, I’m not sure it’s the same man. It probably is, but there’s something different about him.”

  “What do you mean? The clothes?”

  “No, he’s wearing a dark suit and his right arm is in a black sling as before … yet he’s moving more rapidly, his pace firmer, his posture erect.”

  “You’re saying he does not appear to be wounded, yes?”

  “I guess that’s what I’m saying, yes.”

  “He could be faking it,” said Conklin. “That son of a bitch could be taking his last breath and convince you he’s ready for a marathon.”

  “For what purpose, Aleksei? Why any pretense at all?”

  “I don’t know, but if your man in that car can see him, he can see the car. Maybe he’s just in a hell of a hurry.”

  “What�
�s going on?” asked Bourne angrily.

  “Someone’s come outside with a bagful of goodies and going to the car,” said Conklin in English.

  “For Christ’s sake, stop him!”

  “We’re not sure it’s the Jackal,” interrupted Krupkin. “The clothes are the same, even to the arm sling, but there are physical differences—”

  “Then he wants you to think it isn’t him!” said Jason emphatically.

  “Shto?… What?”

  “He’s putting himself in your place, thinking like you’re thinking now and by doing that outthinking you. He may or may not know that he’s been spotted, the car picked up, but he has to assume the worst and act accordingly. How long before we get there?”

  “The way my outrageously reckless young comrade is driving, I’d say three or four minutes.”

  “Krupkin!” The voice burst from the radio speaker. “Four other people have come outside—three men and a woman. They’re running to the car!”

  “What did he say?” asked Bourne. Alex translated and Jason frowned. “Hostages?” he said quietly, as if to himself. “He just blew it!” Medusa’s Delta leaned forward and touched Krupkin’s shoulder. “Tell your man to get out of there the moment that car takes off and he knows where it’s heading. Tell him to be obvious, to blow the hell out of his horn while he passes the armory, which he must pass from one way or the other.”

  “My dear fellow!” exploded the Soviet intelligence officer. “Would you mind telling me why I should issue such an order?”

  “Because your colleague was right and I was wrong. The man in the sling isn’t Carlos. The Jackal’s inside, waiting for the cavalry to pass the fort so he can get away in another car—if there is a cavalry.”

  “In the name of our revered Karl Marx, do explain how you reached this contradictory conclusion!”

  “Simple. He made a mistake.… Even if you could, you wouldn’t shoot up that car on the road, would you?”

  “Agreed. There are four other people inside, all no doubt innocent Soviet citizens forced to appear otherwise.”

  “Hostages?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “When was the last time you heard of people running like hell into a situation where they could become hostages? Even if they were under a gun from a doorway, one or two, if not all of them, would try to race behind other cars for protection.”