The Bourne Ultimatum

"Conte and Contessa is what we're known by," answered the husband, smiling, the tight smile more appropriate to a mask than a human face.

"See what I mean, cugino? These are people of high regard. ... So, Mr. Count, bring us up to date, how about it?"

"There's no question about it, Signor DeFazio," replied the Roman, his voice as tight as his previous smile, which had completely disappeared. "I will bring you up to date, and were it in my powers I would leave you in the far distant past."

"Hey, what kind of fuckin' talk is that?"

"Lou, please!" intruded Mario, quietly but firmly. "Watch your language."

"What about his language? What kind of language is that? He wants to leave me in some kind of dirt?"

"You asked me what has happened, Signor DeFazio, and I'm telling you," said the count, his voice as strained as before. "Yesterday at noon my wife and I were nearly killed-killed, Signor DeFazio. It's not the sort of experience we're used to or can tolerate. Have you any idea what you've gotten yourself into?"

"You ... ? They marked you?"

"If you mean by that, did they know who we were, happily they did not. Had they known, it's doubtful we'd be sitting at this table!"

"Signor DeFazio," interrupted the contessa, glancing at her husband, her look telling him to calm down. "The word we received over here is that you have a contract on this cripple and his friend the doctor. Is that true?"

"Yeah," confirmed the capo supremo cautiously. "As far as that goes, but it goes further, you know what I mean?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea," replied the count icily.

"I tell you this because it's possible I could use your help, for which, like I told you, you'll be paid good, real good."

"How does the contract go 'further'?" asked the wife, again interrupting.

"There's someone else we have to hit. A third party these two came over here to meet."

The count and his countess instantly looked at each other. "A 'third party,' " repeated the man from Rome, raising the wineglass to his lips. "I see. ... A three-target contract is generally quite profitable. How profitable, Signor DeFazio?"

"Hey, come on, do I ask you what you make a week in Paris, France? Let's just say it's a lot and you two personally can count on six figures, if everything goes according to the book."

"Six figures encompass a wide spectrum," observed the countess. "It also indicates that the contract is worth over seven figures."

"Seven ... ?" DeFazio looked at the woman, his breathing on hold.

"Over a million dollars," concluded the countess.

"Yeah, well, you see, it's important to our clients that these people leave this world," said Louis, breathing again as seven figures had not been equated with seven million. "We don't ask why, we just do the job. In situations like this, our dons are generous; we keep most of the money and 'our thing' keeps its reputation for efficiency. Isn't that right, Mario?"

"I'm sure it is, Lou, but I don't involve myself in those matters."

"You get paid, don't you, cugino?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't, Lou."

"See what I mean?" said DeFazio, looking at the aristocrats of the European Mafia, who showed no reaction at all except to stare at the capo supremo. "Hey, what's the matter? ... Oh, this bad thing that happened yesterday, huh? What was it-they saw you, right? They spotted you, and some gorilla got off a couple of shots to scare you away, that's it, isn't it? I mean what else could it be, right? They didn't know who you were but you were there-a couple of times too often, maybe – so a little muscle was used, okay? It's an old scam: Scare the shit out of strangers you see more than once."

"Lou, I asked you to temper your language."

"Temper? I'm losing my temper. I want to deal!"

"In plain words," said the count, disregarding DeFazio's words with a soft voice and arched brows, "you say you must kill this cripple and his friend the doctor, as well as a third party, is that correct?"

"In plain words, you got it right."

"Do you know who this third party is-outside of a photograph or a detailed description?"

"Sure, he's a government slime who was sent out years ago to make like he was a Mario here, an esecuzione, can you believe it? But these three individuals have injured our clients, I mean really hurt them. That's why the contract, what else can I tell you?"

"We're not sure," said the countess, gracefully sipping her wine. "Perhaps you don't really know."

"Know what?"

"Know that there is someone else who wants this third party dead far more than you do," explained the count. "Yesterday noon he assaulted a small café in the countryside with murderous gunfire, killing a number of people, because your third party was inside. So were we. ... We saw them-him-warned by a guard and race outside. Certain emergencies are communicated. We left immediately, only minutes before the massacre."

"Conda

"We've spent yesterday afternoon and all day today trying to find out," began the woman, leaning forward, delicately fingering the indelicate glass as though it were an affront to her sensibilities. "Your targets are never alone. There are always men around them, armed guards, and at first we didn't know where they came from. Then on the avenue Montaigne we saw a Soviet limousine come for them, and your third man in the company of a well-known KGB officer, and now we think we do know."

"Only you, however," broke in the count, "can confirm it for us. What is the name of this third man on your contract? Surely we have a right to know."

"Why not? He's a loser named Bourne, Jason Bourne, who's blackmailing our clients."

"Ecco," said the husband quietly.

"Ultimo," added the wife. "What do you know of this Bourne?" she asked.

"What I told you. He went out under cover for the government and got shafted by the big boys in Washington. He gets pissed off, so he ends up shafting our clients. A real slime."

"You've never heard of Carlos the Jackal?" said the count, leaning back in the chair, studying the capo supremo.

"Oh, yeah, sure, I heard of him, and I see what you mean. They say this Jackal character has a big thing against this Bourne and vice versa, but it don't cut no ice with me. You know, I thought that fox-cat was just in books, in the movies, you know what I mean? Then they tell me he's a real hit man, wadda y' know?"

"Very real," agreed the countess.

"But, like I said, him I couldn't care less about. I want the Jew shrink, the cripple, and this rot-gut Bourne, that's all. And I really want them."

The diplomat and his wife looked at each other; they shrugged in mild astonishment, then the contessa nodded, deferring to her husband. "Your sense of fiction has been shattered by reality," said the count.

"Come again?"

"There was a Robin Hood, you know, but he wasn't a noble of Locksley. He was a barbaric Saxon chief who opposed the Normans, a murdering, butchering thief, extolled only in legends. And there was an I

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"These men were fictionalized, Signor DeFazio, into many different shadings of what they may actually have been, but regardless of the distortions, they were real. Just as the Jackal is real, and is a deadly problem for you. As, unfortunately, he is a problem for us, for he's a complication we ca