The Bourne Supremacy (69 page)

Time was his enemy, the assassin in front of him a secondary problem. In his past - that vaguely remembered past - he had handled killers before, manipulated them before, because they were human beings subject to the wiles of his imagination. Christ, it came down to that! So simple, so logical - and he was so tired ... His mind. There was nothing else left! He had to keep thinking, had to keep prodding his imagination and make it do its work. Balance, balance! He had to keep it on his side! Think. Act. Do the unexpected!

He removed the silencer from his weapon, levelled the gun at the closed right front window, and pulled the trigger. The explosion was ear-shattering, reverberating throughout the enclosed car, as the glass splintered, blowing out into the rushing night air.

'What the hell was that for?' screamed the impostor-killer, clutching the wheel, holding an involuntary swerve in control.

'To teach you about balance,' answered Jason. 'You should understand that I'm unbalanced. The next shot could blow your head away.'

'You're a fucking lunatic, that's what you are!'

'I'm glad you understand.'

The map. One of the more civilized things about a PRC road map - and consistent with the quality of its vehicles -was the system of stars to indicate garages which were open 24 hours a day along the major routes/One had only to think of the confusion that might result from military and official vehicles breaking down to understand the necessity; it was heaven-sent for Bourne.

'There's a gas station about four miles down this road,' he said to the assassin - to Jason Bourne, he reflected. 'Stop and refill and don't say a word - which would be foolish if you tried, because you can't speak the language.'

'You do?'

'It's why I'm the original and you're the fake.'

'You can bloody well have it, Mr Original?

Jason fired the gun again, blowing the rest of the window away. 'The face!' he yelled, raising his voice over the sound of the wind. 'Remember that.'

Time was the enemy.

He took a mental inventory of what he had and it was not all that much. Money was his primary ammunition; he had more than a hundred Chinese could make in a hundred lifetimes, but money in itself was not the answer. Only time was the answer. If he had a prayer of a chance to get out of the vast land of China it had to be by air, not on the ground. He would not last that long. Again, he studied the map. It would take thirteen to fifteen hours to reach Shanghai - //the car held up and if he held up, and if they could get by the provincial checkpoints where he knew there would be alarms out for a Westerner, or two Westerners, attempting to pass through. He would be taken - they would be taken. And even if they reached Shanghai, with its relatively lax airport, how many complications might arise?

There was an option - there were always options. It was crazy and outrageous, but it was the only thing left.

Time was the enemy. Do it. There is no other choice.

He circled a small symbol on the outskirts of the city of Jinan. An airport.

Dawn. Wetness everywhere. The ground, the tall grass and the metal fence glistened with morning dew. The single runway beyond was a shining black shaft cutting across the close-cropped field, half green with today's moisture, half dullish brown from the pounding of yesterday's broiling sun. The Shanghai sedan was far off the airport road, as far off as the assassin could drive it, again concealed by foliage. The impostor was once more immobilized, now by the thumbs. Pressing the gun into his right temple, Jason had ordered the assassin to wind the spools of wire into double slipknots around each thumb, and then he had snapped the spools away with his cutter, ran the wire back and coiled the two remaining strands tightly around the killer's wrists. As the commando discovered, with any slight pressure, such as twisting or separating his hands, the wire dug deeper into his flesh.

'If I were you,' said Bourne, 'I'd be careful. Can you imagine what it would be like having no thumbs? Or if your wrists were cut?"

'Fucking technician!'

'Believe it.'

Across the airfield a light was turned on in a one-storey building with a row of small windows along the side. It was a barracks of sorts, simple in design and functional. Then there were other lights - naked bulbs, the glows more like glares. A barracks. Jason reached for the coiled roll of clothing he had removed from the small of his back; he undid the straps, unfurled the garments over the grass and separated them. There was a large Mao jacket, a pair of rumpled outsized trousers, and a visored cloth hat that was standard peasant wear. He put on the hat and the jacket, buttoning the latter over his dark sweater, then stood up and pulled the large trousers over his own. A webbed cloth belt held them in place. He smoothed the drab, bulky jacket over the trousers and turned to the impostor who was watching him with astonishment and curiosity.

'Get over to the fence,' said Jason, bending down and digging into his knapsack. 'Get on your knees and lean into it,' he continued, pulling out a five-foot length of thin nylon rope. 'Press your face into the links. Eyes front! Hurry up!' The killer did as he was told, his bound hands awkwardly, painfully in front of him between his body and the fence, his head pressed into the wire mesh. Bourne walked rapidly over and quickly threaded the rope through the fence on the right side of the killer's neck, and with his fingers reaching through the open squares he swung the line across the commando's face and pulled the rope back through. He yanked it taut and knotted it at the base of the impostor's skull. He had worked so swiftly and so unexpectedly that the former officer could barely get out the words before he realized what had happened.

'What the hell are you - oh, Christ?

'As that maniac remarked about d'Anjou before he hacked into his head, you're not going anywhere, Major.'

'You're going to leave me here?' asked the killer, stunned.

'Don't be foolish. We're on the buddy system. Where I go, you go. Actually, you're going first.'

'Where!'

Through the fence,' said Jason, taking the wirecutter from the knapsack. He began cutting a pattern around the assassin's torso, relieved that the wire links were nowhere near as thick as those at the bird sanctuary. The outline complete, Bourne stepped back and raised his right foot, placing it between the impostor's shoulder blades. He shoved his leg forward. Killer and fence fell collapsing into the grass on the other side.

'Jesus? cried the commando in pain. 'Pretty fucking funny, aren't you?

'I don't feel remotely amusing,' replied Jason. 'Every move I make is very unfunny, very serious. Get up and keep your voice down.'

'For Christ's sake, I'm tied to the damn fence!'

'It's free. Get up and turn around.' Awkwardly, the assassin staggered to his feet. Bourne surveyed his work; the sight of the outline of wire mesh attached to the killer's upper body, as though held in place by a protruding nose, was funny. But the reason for its being there was not funny at all. Only with the assassin secure in front of his eyes was all risk eliminated. Jason could not control what he could not see, and what he could not see could cost him his life ... far more important, the life of David Webb's wife - even David Webb. Stay away from me! Don't interfere! We're too close!

Bourne reached over and yanked the bowknot free, holding on to one end of the line. The fence fell away and before the assassin could adjust, Jason whipped the rope around the commando's head, raising it so that the line was caught in the killer's mouth. He pulled it tight, tighter, stretching the assassin's jaw open until it was a gaping dark hole surrounded by a border of white teeth, the flesh creased in place, unintelligible sounds emerging from the commando's throat.

'I can't take credit for this, Major,' said Bourne, knotting the thin nylon rope, the remaining thirty-odd inches hanging loose. 'I watched d'Anjou and the others. They couldn't talk, they could only gag on their own vomit. You saw them, too, and you grinned. How does it feel, Major? ... Oh, I forgot, you can't answer, can you?' He shoved the assassin forward, then gripped his shoulder, sending him to the left. 'We'll skirt the end of the runway,' he said. 'Move!'

As they rounded the airfield grass, staying in the darkness of the borders, Jason studied the relatively primitive airport. Beyond the barracks was a small circular building with a profusion of glass but no lights shining except a single glare in a small square structure set in the centre of the roof. The building was Jinan's terminal, he thought, the barely-lit square on top the control tower. To the left of the barracks, at least two hundred feet to the west, was a dark, open, high-ceilinged maintenance hangar with huge wheeled ladders near the wide doors reflecting the early light. It was apparently deserted, the crews still in their quarters. Down in the southern perimeter of the field, on both sides of the runway and barely discernible, were five aircraft, all props and none imposing. Jinan Airport was a secondary, even tertiary, landing field, undoubtedly being upgraded, as were so many airports in China in the cause of foreign investment, but still a long way from international status. Then again, the air corridors were channels in the sky and not subject to the cosmetic or technological whims of airports. One simply had to enter those channels and stay on course. The sky acknowledged no borders; only earthbound men and machines did. Combined they were another problem.

'We're going into the hangar,' whispered Jason, jabbing the commando's back. 'Remember, if you make any noise, I won't have to kill you - they will. And I'll have my chance to get away because you'll be giving it to me. Don't doubt it. Get down?

Thirty yards away a guard walked out of the cavernous structure, a rifle slung over his shoulder, his arms stretching as his chest swelled with a yawn. Bourne knew it was the moment to act; a better one might not present itself. The assassin was prone, his wire-bound hands beneath him, his gaping mouth pressed into the earth. Grabbing the loose nylon rope, Jason gripped the killer's hair, yanking up his head, and looped the line twice around the commando's neck. 'You move, you choke,' whispered Bourne, getting to his feet.

He ran silently to the hangar's wall, then quickly walked to the corner and peered around the edge. The guard had barely moved. Then Jason understood - the man was urinating. Perfectly natural and perfectly perfect. Bourne stepped away from the building, dug his right foot into the grass and rushed forward, his weapon a rigid right hand preceded by an arcing left foot striking the base of the guard's spine. The man collapsed, unconscious. Jason dragged him back to the corner of the hangar, then across the grass to where the assassin lay immobile, afraid to move.

'You're learning, Major,' said Bourne, again grabbing the commando's hair and pulling the nylon rope from around his neck. The fact that the looped rope would not have choked the impostor any more than a loose clothesline wound around a person's neck would, told Delta something. His prisoner could not think geometrically; stresses were not a strong point in the killer's imagination, only the spoken threat of death. It was something to bear in mind. 'Get up,' ordered Jason. The assassin did so, his gaping mouth swallowing air, his eyes furious, hatred in his stare. Think about Echo,' said Bourne, his own eyes returning the killer's loathing. 'Excuse me, I mean d'Anjou. The man who gave you your life back - a life, at any rate, and one you apparently took to. Your Pygmalion, old chap] ... Now, hear me, and hear me well. Would you like the rope removed?'

'Auggh!' grunted the assassin, nodding his head, his eyes reduced from hatred to pleading.

'And your thumbs released?'

'Auggh, auggh!'

'You're not a guerrilla, you're a gorilla,' said Jason, pulling the automatic from his belt. 'But as we used to say in the old days - before your time, chap - there are "conditions". You see, we both either get out of here alive, or we disappear, our mortal remains consigned to a Chinese fire, no past, no present - certainly no retrospective regarding our sub-zero contributions to society ... I see I'm boring you. Sorry, I'll forget the whole thing.'

'Auggh!'

'Okay, if you insist. Naturally, I won't give you a weapon, and if I see you trying to grab one - which I will if you try -you're dead. But if you behave, we might - just might - get away. What I'm really saying to you, Mr Bourne, is that whoever your client is over here can't allow you to live anymore than he can me. Understand? Dig? Capisce?'

'Auggh!'

'One thing more,' added Jason, tugging at the rope that fell over the commando's shoulder. This is nylon, or polyurethane, or whatever the hell they call it. When it's burned it just swells up like a marshmallow; there's no way you can untie it. It'll be attached to both your ankles, both knots curled up into cement. You'll have a step-span of approximately five feet - only - because I'm a technician. Do I make myself clear?'

The assassin nodded, and as he did so Bourne sprang to his right, kicking the back of the commando's knees, sending the impostor to the ground, his bound thumbs bleeding. Jason knelt down, the gun in his left hand pressed into the killer's mouth, the fingers of his right undoing the bowknot behind the commando's head.

'Christ almighty? cried the assassin, as the rope fell away.

'I'm glad you're of a religious persuasion,' said Bourne, dropping the weapon and rapidly lashing the rope around the commando's ankles, forming a square knot on each; he ignited his lighter and fired the ends. 'You may need it.' He picked up the gun, held it against the killer's forehead, and uncoiled the wire around his prisoner's wrists. Take off the rest,' he ordered. 'Be careful with the thumbs, they're damaged.'

'My right arm's no piece of cake, either!' said the Englishman, struggling to remove the slipknots. His hands freed, the assassin shook them, then sucked the blood from his wounds. 'You got your magic box, Mr Bourne"? he asked.

'Always an arm's length away, Mr Bourne,' replied Jason. 'What do you need?

Tape. Fingers bleed. It's called gravity.'

'You're so well schooled.' Bourne reached behind him for the knapsack and pulled it forward, dropping it in front of the commando, his gun levelled at the killer's head. 'Feel around. It's a spool near the top.'