The Bourne Ultimatum

"I understand that."

"Are you prepared for it?"

"Yes, I am."

"What about your wife? Don't you think you should reach her first, before the civilized world learns that Jason Bourne is dead?"

"No. I don't even want the slightest risk of a leak."

"Jesus!" exploded Alex, coughing. "That's Marie you're talking about. She'll fall apart!"

"It's a risk I'll accept," said Delta coldly.

"You son of a bitch!"

"So be it," agreed the Chameleon.

John St. Jacques, tears welling in his eyes, walked into the bright, sunlit room at the sterile house in the Maryland countryside; in his hand was a page of computer printout. His sister was on the floor in front of the couch playing with an exuberant Jamie, she having put the infant Alison back into the crib upstairs. She looked worn and haggard, her face pale with dark circles under her eyes; she was exhausted from the tension and the jet lag of the long, idiotically routed flights from Paris to Washington. In spite of arriving late last night, she had gotten up early to be with the children-no amount of friendly persuasion on the part of the motherly Mrs. Cooper could dissuade her from doing so. The brother would have given years of his life not to do what had to be done during the next few minutes, but he could not risk the alternatives. He had to be with her when she found out.

"Jamie," said St. Jacques gently. "Go find Mrs. Cooper, will you please? I think she's in the kitchen."

"Why, Uncle John?"

"I want to talk to your mother for a few minutes."

"Joh

"I have to, Sis."

"What ... ?"

The child left, and as children often do, he obviously sensed something serious that was beyond his understanding; he stared at his uncle before heading to the door. Marie got to her feet and looked hard at her brother, at the tears that began to roll down his cheeks. The terrible message was conveyed. "No ... !" she whispered, her pallid face growing paler. "Dear God, no, she cried, her hands and then her shoulders starting to tremble. "No ... no!" she roared.

"He's gone, Sis. I wanted you to hear it from me, not over a radio or a TV set. I want to be with you."

"You're wrong, wrong!" screamed Marie, rushing toward him, grabbing his shirt and clenching the fabric in her fists. "He's protected! ... He promised me he was protected!"

"This just came from Langley," said the younger brother, holding up the page of computer printout. "Holland called me a few minutes ago and said it was on its way over. He knew you had to see it. It was picked up from Radio Moscow during the night and will be on all the broadcasts and in the morning papers."

"Give it to me!" she shouted defiantly. He did so and gently held her shoulders, prepared to take her in his arms and give what comfort he could. She read the copy rapidly, then shook off his hands, frowning, and walked back to the couch and sat down. Her concentration was absolute; she placed the paper on the coffee table and studied it as though it were an archaeological find, a scroll perhaps.

"He's gone, Marie. I don't know what to say-you know how I felt about him."

"Yes, I know, Joh

Jason Bourne's alive and up to his tricks and that means David's alive, too."

My God, she can't accept it, thought the brother, walking to the couch and kneeling beside the coffee table in front of Marie, taking her hands in his. "Sis, honey, I don't think you understand. I'll do everything possible to help you, but you've got to understand."

"Bro, you're very sweet but you haven't read this closely-really closely. The impact of the message detracts from the subtext. In economics we call it obfuscation with a cloud of smoke and a couple of mirrors."

"Huh?" St. Jacques released her hands and stood up. "What are you talking about?"

Marie picked up the Langley communiqué and sca

"What do you mean? Why?"

"Because the presumed assassin was in Russia, and Moscow wants no conceivable linkage to the killing of a NATO commander. ... No, Bro, someone bent the rules and persuaded Tass to put out the story, and I suspect heads will roll. I don't know where Jason Bourne is, but I know he's not dead. David made sure I'd know that."

Peter Holland picked up the phone and touched the buttons on his console for Charles Casset's private line.

"Yes?"

"Charlie, it's Peter."

"I'm relieved to hear that."

"Why?"

"Because all I'm getting on this phone is trouble and confusion. I just got off with our source in Dzerzhinsky Square and he told me the KGB's after blood."

"The Tass release on Bourne?"

"Right. Tass and Radio Moscow assumed the story was officially sanctioned because it was faxed by the Ministry of Information using the proper immediate-release codes. When the shit hit the fan, no one owned up, and whoever programmed the codes can't be traced."

"What do you make of it?"

"I'm not sure, but from what I've learned about Dimitri Krupkin, it could be his style. He's now working with Alex and if this isn't something out of the Conklin textbook, I don't know Saint Alex. And I do."

"That dovetails with what Marie thinks."

"Marie?"

"Bourne's wife. I just spoke to her and her argument's pretty strong. She says Moscow's report is a wash for all the right reasons. Her husband's alive."

"I agree. Is that what you called to tell me?"

"No," answered the director, taking a deep breath. "I'm adding to your trouble and confusion."

"I'm not relieved to hear that. What is it?"

"The Paris telephone number, the link to the Jackal we got from Henry Sykes in Montserrat that reached a café on the Marais waterfront in Paris."

"Where someone would answer a call for a blackbird. I remember."

"Someone did and we followed him. You're not going to like this."

"Alex Conklin is about to earn the prick-of-the-year award. He put us on to Sykes, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"Do tell."

"The message was delivered to the home of the director of the Deuxième Bureau."

"My God! We'd better turn that over to the SED branch of French intelligence with a restricted chronology."

"I'm not turning anything over to anybody until we hear from Conklin. We owe him that much-I think."

"What the hell are they doing?" shouted a frustrated Casset over the phone. "Putting out false death notices-from Moscow, no less! What for?"

"Jason Bourne's gone hunting," said Peter Holland. "And when the hunt is over-if it's over and if the kill is made-he's going to have to get out of the woods before anyone turns on him. ... I want every station and listening post on the borders of the Soviet Union on full alert. Code name: Assassin. Get him back."