The Bourne Ultimatum

"Can you operate the tu

"Yes! Everyone on the senior staff can, it's part of the job!"

"The iron gates you told me about?"

"Of course."

"Where are the mechanisms?"

"The guardhouse."

"Get in there!" yelled Bourne, taking one of the three remaining flares out of his field jacket pocket and handing it to Benjamin. "I've got two more of these and two other grenades. ... When you see one of my flares go over the crowd, lower those gates on this side-only this side, understood?"

"What for?"

"My rules, Ben! Do it! Then ignite this flare and throw it out the window so I'll know it's done."

"Then what?"

"Something you may not want to do, but you have to. ... Take the 'forty-seven' from the colonel's body and force the crowd, shoot it back into the street. Rapid fire into the ground in front of them-or above them-do whatever you have to do, even if it means wounding a few. Whatever the cost, it must be done. I have to find him, isolate him, above all, cut him off from everyone else trying to get out."

"You're a goddamned maniac," broke in Benjamin, the veins pronounced in his forehead. "I could kill 'a few'-more than a few! You're crazy!"

"At this moment I'm the most rational man you've ever met," interrupted Jason harshly, rapidly, as the panicked residents of Novgorod kept rushing by. "There's not a sane general in the Soviet army-the same army that retook Stalingrad-who wouldn't agree with me. ... It's called the 'calculated estimate of losses,' and there's a very good reason for that lousy verbiage. It simply means you're paying a lot less for what you're getting now than you'd pay later."

"You're asking too much! These people are my comrades, my friends; they're Russians. Would you fire into a crowd of Americans? One recoil of my hands-an inch, two inches with a 'forty-seven'-and I could maim or kill half a dozen people! The risk's too great!"

"You don't have a choice. If the Jackal gets by me-and I'll know it if he does-I'll throw in a grenade and kill twenty."

"You son of a bitch!"

"Believe it, Ben. Where Carlos is concerned I'm a son of a bitch. I can't afford him any longer, the world can't afford him. Move!"

The trainer named Benjamin spat in Bourne's face, then turned and began fighting his way to the guardhouse and the unseen corpse of the colonel beyond. Almost unconsciously Jason wiped his face with the back of his hand, his concentration solely on the fenced parking area, his eyes darting from one pocket of shadows to another, trying to center in on the origins of the automatic gunfire, yet knowing it was pointless; the Jackal had changed position by then. He counted the other vehicles in addition to the fuel truck; there were nine parked by the fence-two station wagons, four sedans and three suburban vans, all American-made or simulated as such. Carlos was concealed beyond one of them or possibly the fuel truck, the last unlikely as it was the farthest away from the open gate in the fence that permitted access to the guardhouse and thus to the tu

Jason crouched and crawled forward; he reached the waist-high fence, the pandemonium behind him continuous, deafening. Every muscle and joint in his legs and arms pounded with pain; cramps were developing everywhere, everywhere! Don't think about them, don't acknowledge them. You're too close, David! Keep going. Jason Bourne knows what to do. Trust him!

Aaughh! He spun his body over the fence; the handle of his sheathed bayonet embedded itself in his kidney. There is no pain! You're too close, David-Jason. Listen to Jason!

The searchlights-someone had pressed something and they went crazy, spi

There was a break in space, in time. In men! The last four escapees from the second car were suddenly three-and only moments later did the fourth appear-but he was not the same-the uniform was not the same! There were specks of orange and red, and the visored officer's cap was laced with gold ribbing, the visor itself too prominent for the American army, the crown of the cap too pointed. What was it? ... And, suddenly, Bourne understood. Fragments of his memories spiraled back years to Madrid or Casavieja, when he was tracing the Jackal's contracts with the Falangists. It was a Spanish uniform! That was it! Carlos had infiltrated through the Spanish compound, and as his Russian was fluent, he was using the high-ranking uniform to make his escape from Novgorod.

Jason lurched to his feet, his automatic drawn, and ran across the graveled lot, his left hand reaching into his field jacket pocket for his second-to-last flare. He pulled the release and hurled the fired stalk above the cars, beyond the fence. Benjamin would not see it from the guardhouse and mistake it for the signal to close the gates of the tu

"Eto srochno!" roared one of the escaping men, spi

"Skoryeye!" shouted another, passing three companions and racing toward the open section of the fence. As the whirling searchlights continued their maniacal spi

Now! Jason whipped out his last flare, yanked the release, and threw it with all his strength over the stream of rushing men and women at the guardhouse. Do it, Ben! he screamed in silence as he removed the next-to-last grenade from the pocket of his field jacket. Do it now!

As if in answer to his fevered plea, a thunderous roar came from the tu

Bourne dropped to the ground, his eyes sca