The Bourne ultimatum (52 page)

“That’s succinct.”

“There’s no reason not to be.”

“Of course, you’re forfeiting any chance of collecting a million francs—or, as you suggested, perhaps a great deal more.”

“Then may I also suggest,” said Santos, crossing his thick arms in front of him and absently glancing at the large tattoos on his skin, “that a man with such funds available will not only part with them in exchange for his life, but will happily deliver the information requested so as to avoid unnecessary and excruciating pain.” The Jackal’s man suddenly slammed his clenched right fist down on the armrest and shouted, “What do you know about a
blackbird
? Who told you about Le Coeur du Soldat? Where do you come from and who
are
you and who is your
client
?”

Bourne froze, his body rigid but his mind spinning, whirling, racing. He had to get
out
! He had to reach Bernardine—how many hours was his call overdue? Where was
Marie
? Yet what he wanted to do,
had
to do, could not be done by opposing the giant across the room. Santos was neither a liar nor a fool. He would and could kill his prisoner handily and without hesitation ... and he would not be duped by outright false or convoluted information. The Jackal’s man was protecting two turfs—his own and his mentor’s. The Chameleon had only one option open: to expose a part of the truth so dangerous as to be credible, the ring of authenticity so plausible that the risk of rejecting it was unacceptable. Jason put the ice bag on the tray and spoke slowly from the shadows of the large couch.

“Obviously I don’t care to die for a client or be tortured to protect his information, so I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t as much as I’d like under the present circumstances. I’ll take your points in order if I’m not too damned frightened to forget the sequence. To begin with, the funds are not available to me personally. I meet with a man in London to whom I deliver the information, and he releases an account in Bern, Switzerland, to a name and a number—any name, any number—that I give him. ... We’ll skip over my life and the ‘excruciating pain’—I’ve answered both. Let’s see, what do I know about a blackbird? The Coeur du Soldat is part of that question, incidentally. ... I was told that an old man—name and nationality unknown, at least to me, but I suspect French—approached a well-known public figure and told him he was the target of an assassination. Who believes a drunken old man, especially one with a long police record looking for a reward? Unfortunately the assassination took place, but fortunately an aide to the deceased was by his side when the old man warned him. Even more fortunate, the aide was and is extremely close to my client and the assassination was a welcome event to both. The aide secretly passed on the old man’s information. A blackbird is sent a message through a café known as Le Coeur du Soldat in Argenteuil. This blackbird must be an extraordinary man, and now my client wants to reach him. ... As for myself, my offices are hotel rooms in various cities. I’m currently registered under the name of Simon at the Pont-Royal, where I keep my passport and other papers.” Bourne paused, his palms outstretched. “I’ve just told you the entire truth as I know it.”

“
Not
the entire truth,” corrected Santos, his voice low and guttural. “Who is your client?”

“I’ll be killed if I tell you.”

“I’ll kill you right now if you don’t,” said the Jackal’s conduit, removing Jason’s hunting knife from his wide leather belt, the blade glistening in the light of the floor lamp.

“Why not give me the information my client wants along with a name and a number—any name, any number—and I’ll guarantee you two million francs. All my client asks is for me to be the
only
intermediary. Where’s the harm? The blackbird can turn me down and tell me to go to hell. ...
Three
million!”

Santos’s eyes wavered as if the temptation were almost too much for his imagination. “Perhaps we’ll do business later—”

“Now.”

“
No
!” Carlos’s man pushed his immense body out of the chair and walked toward the couch, the knife held threateningly in front of him. “Your client.”

“Plural,” replied Bourne. “A group of powerful men in the United States.”

“Who?”

“They guard their names like nuclear secrets, but I know of one and he should be enough for you.”

“
Who
?”

“Find out for yourself—at least learn the enormity of what I’m trying to tell you.
Protect
your blackbird by all means! Ascertain that I’m telling you the truth and in the process make yourself so rich you can do anything you want to do for the rest of your life. You could travel, disappear, perhaps have time for those books of yours rather than being concerned with all that garbage downstairs. As you pointed out, neither of us is young. I make a generous brokering fee and you’re a wealthy man, free of care, of unpleasant drudgery. ... Again, where’s the harm? I can be turned down, my clients turned down. There’s no trap. My clients don’t ever want to see him. They want to
hire
him.”

“How could this be done? How could I be satisfied?”

“Invent some high position for yourself and reach the American ambassador in London—the name is Atkinson. Tell him you’ve received confidential instructions from Snake Lady. Ask him if you should carry them out.”

“Snake Lady? What’s that?”

“Medusa. They call themselves Medusa.”

Mo Panov excused himself and slid out of the booth. He made his way through the crowded highway diner toward the men’s room, frantically scanning the wall at the far end for a pay phone. There was none! The only goddamned phone was ten feet from the booth and in clear sight of the wild-eyed platinum blonde whose paranoia was as deeply embedded as the dark roots of her hair. He had casually mentioned that he thought he should call his office and tell his staff about the accident and where he was, and was instantly met with invective.

“And have a swarm of cops coming out to pick you
up
! Not on your fuckin’ life, Medicine Man. Your office calls the fuzz, they call my devoted Chief Fork-in-Mouth, and my ass is bouncing into every barbed-wire fence in the county. He’s in with every cop on the roads. I think he tells ’em where to get laid.”

“There’d be no reason for me to mention you and I certainly wouldn’t. If you recall, you said he might resent me.”

“Resent don’t count. He’d just cut your cute little nose off. I’m not takin’ any chances—you don’t look like you’re too with-it. You’d blurt out about your accident—next thing the cops.”

“You know, you’re not really making sense.”

“All right, I’ll make sense. I’ll yell ‘Rape!’ and tell these not-so-pansy truckers I picked you up on the road two days ago and I’ve been a sex slave ever since. How does that grab you?”

“Very firmly. May I at least go to the men’s room? It’s urgent that I do.”

“Be my guest. They don’t put phones in the can in these places.”

“Really? ... No, honestly, I’m not chagrined, not disappointed—just curious. Why don’t they? Truckers make good money; they’re not interested in stealing dimes or quarters.”

“Boy, you’re from La La Land, Doc. Things happen on the highways; things get switched or snitched, you dig? If people make phone calls, other people want to know who makes them.”

“Really ... ?”

“Oh,
Jesus
. Hurry up. We only got time for a couple of greasies, so I’ll order. He’ll head up Seventy, not Ninety-seven. He wouldn’t figure.”

“Figure what? What are Seventy and Ninety-seven?”

“Routes, for Christ’s sake! There are routes and there are
routes
. You are one dumb medicine man. Hit the head, then maybe later we’ll stop at a motel where we can continue our business discussion while you get an advance bonus.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m pro-choice. Is that against your religion?”

“Good Lord, no. I’m a firm advocate.”

“Good. Hurry
up
!”

So Panov headed for the men’s room, and indeed the woman was right. There was no phone, and the window to the outside was too small for anyone but a small cat or a large rat to crawl through. ... But he had money, a great deal of money, along with five driver’s licenses from five different states. In Jason Bourne’s lexicon these were weapons, especially the money. Mo went to the urinal—long overdue—and then to the door; he pulled it back several inches to observe the blonde. Suddenly, the door swung violently back several feet and Panov crashed into the wall.

“Hey,
sorry
, pal!” cried a short heavyset man, who grabbed the psychiatrist by the shoulders as Mo grabbed his face. “You okay, buddy?”

“Oh, certainly. Yes, of course.”

“The hell you are, you got a nosebleed! C’mon over here by the towels,” ordered the T-shirted trucker, one sleeve rolled up to hold a pack of cigarettes. “C’mon, put your head back while I get some cold water on your schnoz. ... Loosen up and lean against the wall. There, that’s better; we’ll stop this sucker in a moment or two.” The short man reached up and gently pressed the wet paper towels across Panov’s face while holding the back of his neck, and every few seconds checking the flow of blood from Mo’s nostrils. “There y’are, buddy, it’s damned near stopped. Just breathe through your mouth, deep breaths, you got me? Head tilted, okay?”

“Thank you,” said Panov, holding the towels and amazed that a nosebleed could be stopped so quickly. “Thank you very much.”

“Don’t thank me, I bashed you one by mistake,” answered the trucker, relieving himself. “Feel better now?” he asked, zipping up his trousers.

“Yes, I do.” And against the advice of his dear deceased mother, Mo decided to take advantage of the moment and forgo righteousness. “But I should explain that it was my mistake, not yours.”

“Waddaya mean?” asked the trucker, washing his hands.

“Frankly, I was hiding behind the door looking at a woman I’m trying to get away from—if that makes sense to you.”

Panov’s personal medic laughed as he dried his hands. “Whose sense wouldn’t it make? It’s the story of mankind, pal! They getcha in their clutches and
whammo
, they whine and you don’t know what to do, they scream and you’re at their feet. Now me, I got it different. I married a real Eur’pean, you know? She don’t speak so good English, but she’s grateful. ... Great with the kids, great with me, and I still get excited when I see her. Not like these fuckin’ princesses over here.”

“That’s an extremely interesting, even visceral, statement,” said the psychiatrist.

“It’s who?”

“Nothing. I still want to get out of here without her seeing me leave. I have some money—”

“Hold the money, who is she?”

Both men went to the door and Panov pulled it back a few inches. “She’s the one over there, the blonde’ who keeps looking in this direction and at the front door. She’s getting very agitated—”

“Holy shit,” interrupted the short trucker. “That’s the Bronk’s wife! She’s way off course.”

“Off course? The
Bronk
?”

“He trucks the eastern routes, not these. What the
hell
is she doing here?”

“I think she’s trying to avoid him.”

“Yeah,” agreed Mo’s companion. “I heard she’s been messing around and don’t charge no money.”

“Do you know her?”

“Hell, yeah. I been to a couple of their barbecues. He makes a hell of a sauce.”

“I have to get
out
of here. As I told you, I have some money—”

“So you told me and we’ll discuss it later.”

“Where?”

“In my truck. It’s a red semi with white stripes, like the flag. It’s parked out front, on the right. Get around the cab and stay out of sight.”

“She’ll see me leave.”

“No she won’t. I’m goin’ over and give her a big surprise. I’ll tell her all the CBs are hummin’ and the Bronk is headin’ south to the Carolinas—at least that’s what I heard.”

“How can I ever repay you?”

“Probably with some of that money you keep talkin’ about. Not too much, though. The Bronk’s an animal and I’m a born-again Christian.” The short trucker swung back the door, nearly shoving Panov back into the wall again. Mo watched as his conspiratorial colleague approached the booth, his conspiratorial arms extended as the trucker embraced an old friend and started talking rapidly; the woman’s eyes were attentive—she was mesmerized. Panov rushed out of the men’s room, through the diner’s entrance and toward the huge red-and-white-striped truck. He crouched breathlessly behind the cab, his chest pounding, and waited.

Suddenly, the Bronk’s wife came racing out of the diner, her platinum hair rising grotesquely in the air behind her as she ran to her bright red automobile. She climbed inside and in seconds the engine roared; she continued north as Mo watched, astonished.

“How are y’doing, buddy—wherever the hell you are?” shouted the short man with no name who had not only amazingly stopped a nosebleed but had rescued him from a manic wife whose paranoid mood swings were rooted in equal parts of vengeance and guilt.

Stop it, asshole
, cried Panov to himself as he raised his voice. “Over here ... buddy!”

Thirty-five minutes later they reached the outskirts of an unidentified town and the trucker stopped in front of a cluster of stores that bordered the highway. “You’ll find a phone there, buddy. Good luck.”

“Are you sure?” asked Mo. “About the money, I mean.”

“Sure I’m sure,” replied the short man behind the wheel. “Two hundred dollars is fine—maybe even what I earned—but more than that corrupts, don’t it? I been offered fifty times that to haul stuff I won’t haul, and you know what I tell ’em?”

“What do you tell them?”

“I tell ’em to go piss into the wind with their poison. It’s gonna flash back and blind ’em.”

“You’re a good person,” said Panov, climbing out onto the pavement.

“I got a few things to make up for.” The door of the cab slammed shut and the huge truck shot forward as Mo turned away, looking for a telephone.

“Where the hell
are
you?” shouted Alexander Conklin in Virginia.

“I don’t
know
!” answered Panov. “If I were a patient, I’d ponderously explain that it was an extension of some Freudian dream sequence because it never
happens
but it happened to me. They shot me
up
, Alex!”