Bourne 4 - The Bourne Legacy (16 page)

"There's someone on the line," his assistant said in his ear. Thankfully, she monitored his after-hours calls from home. "He says it's urgent he speak with you." Robbinet smiled at Delphine. His mistress was an elegant, mature beauty whose looks were diametrically opposed to those of his wife of thirty years. They had been having a most delightful conversation about Aristide Maillot, whose voluptuous nudes graced the Tuilleries, and Jules Massenet, whose opera
Manon
they both thought overrated. Really, he could not understand the American male obsession with girls scarcely out of their teens. The thought of taking as a mistress someone his daughter's age seemed frightful to him, not to mention pointless. What on earth would there be to talk about over cafe and
millefeuille^
"Has he given you his name?" he said into the phone. "Yes. Jason Bourne." Robbinet's pulse started to pound. "Put him through," he said immediately. Then, because it was inexcusable to speak on the phone for any length of time in front of one's mistress, he excused himself, went outside into the fine mist of the Parisian evening and waited for the sound of his old friend's voice.

"My dear Jason. How long has it been?"

Bourne's spirits rose the moment he heard Jacques Robbinet's voice booming through his cell phone. At last the voice of someone inside who wasn't—he hoped!—trying to kill him. He was barreling down the Capital Beltway in another car he had stolen on his way to meet Deron.

"To tell you the truth, I don't know."

"It's been years, can you believe it?" Robbinet said. "But, really, I must tell you that I've kept track of you through Alex."

Bourne, who'd felt some initial trepidation, now began to relax. "Jacques, you've heard about Alex."

"Yes,
mon ami.
The American DCI has sent out a worldwide sanction on you. But I don't believe a word of it. You couldn't possibly have murdered Alex. Do you know who did?"

"I'm trying to find out. All I know for certain at the moment is that someone named Khan may be involved."

The silence at the other end of the line went on so long that Bourne was forced to say,

"Jacques? Are you there?"

"Yes,
mon ami.
You startled me, that's all." Robbinet took a deep breath. "This Khan, he is known to us. He's a professional assassin of the first rank. We ourselves know that he's been responsible for over a dozen high-level hits worldwide."

"Whom does he target?"

"Mainly politicians—the president of Mali, for instance—but also from time to time prominent business leaders. As far as we've been able to determine, he's neither political nor an ideologue. He takes the commissions strictly for money. He believes in nothing but that."

"The most dangerous kind of assassin."

"Of that there can be no doubt,
mon ami"
Robbinet said. "Do you suspect him of murdering Alex?"

"It's possible," Bourne said. "I encountered him at Alex's estate just after I found the bodies. It might have been he who called the police because they showed up while I was still in the house." "A classic setup," Robbinet concurred. Bourne was silent for a moment, his mind filled with Khan, who could have shot him dead on campus or, later, from his vantage point in the willow. The fact that he didn't told Bourne a great deal. This apparently wasn't a normal commission for Khan; his stalking was personal, a vendetta of some sort that must have had its origins in the jungles of Southeast Asia. The most logical assumption was the Bourne had killed Khan's father. Now the son was out for revenge. Why else would he be obsessed with Bourne's family?

Why else would he ask about Bourne abandoning Jamie? This theory fit the circumstances perfectly.

"What else can you tell me about Khan?" Bourne said now. "Very little," Robbinet replied, "other than his age, which is twenty-seven." "He looks younger than that," Bourne mused. "Also, he's part Asian." "Rumor is he's half-Cambodian, but you know how reliable rumors can be."

"And the other half?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. He's a loner, no known vices, residence unknown. He burst on the scene six years ago, killing the prime minister of Sierra Leone. Before that, it's as if he didn't exist."

Bourne checked his rear-view mirror. "So he made his first official kill when he was twenty-one."

"Some coming-out party, eh?" Robbinet said dryly. "Listen, Jason, about this man Khan, I can't overemphasize how dangerous he is. If he's involved in any way, you must use extreme caution." "You sound frightened, Jacques."

"I am,
man ami.
Where Khan is concerned, there's no shame in it. You should be, too. A healthy dose of fear makes one cautious, and believe me, now is a time for caution."

"I'll keep that in mind," Bourne said. He maneuvered through traffic, looking for the right exit. "Alex was working on something, and I think he was killed because of it. You don't know anything about what he was involved with, do you?"

"I saw Alex here in Paris perhaps six months ago. We had dinner. My impression was that he was terribly preoccupied. But you know Alex, always secretive as the tomb." Robbinet sighed. "His death is a terrible loss for all of us." Bourne turned off the Beltway at the Route 123 exit, drove to Tysons Corner. "Does

'NX 20' mean anything to you?"

"That's all you have? NX 20?"

He drove to the Tysons Corner center parking terrace C. "More or less. Look up a name: Dr. Felix Schiffer." He spelled it out. "He works for DARPA."

"Ah, now you have given me something useful. Let me see what I can do." Bourne gave him his cell phone number as he exited the car. "Listen, Jacques, I'm on my way to Budapest but I'm just about out of cash."

"No problem," Robbinet said. "Shall we use our same arrangement?" Bourne had no idea what that was. He had no choice but to agree.

"Bon. How much?"

He went up the escalator, past Aviary Court. "A hundred thousand should do it. I'll be staying at the Danubius Grand Hotel under Alex's name. Mark the packet 'Hold for Arrival.'"

"Mais oui,
Jason. It will be done just as you wish. Is there any other assistance I can provide?"

"Not at the moment." Bourne saw Deron up ahead, standing outside a store called Dry Ice. "Thanks for everything, Jacques."

"Remember caution,
man ami"
Robbinet said before signing off. "With Khan in the field, anything can happen."

Deron had spotted Bourne and began walking at a slower pace so Bourne could catch up to him. He was a slight man with skin the color of cocoa, a chiseled, high-cheekboned face and eyes that flashed his keen intelligence. With his lightweight coat, smartly tailored suit and gleaming leather attache case, he looked every inch the businessman. He smiled as they walked side by side through the mall.

"It's good to see you, Jason."

"Too bad the circumstances are so dire."

Deron laughed. "Hell, when disaster strikes is the
only
time I see you!" While they spoke, Bourne was gauging sight lines, assessing escape routes, checking faces.

Deron unlocked his briefcase, handed Bourne a slim packet. "Passport and contacts."

"Thanks." Bourne put the packet away. "I'll get payment to you within the week."

"Whenever." Deron waved a long-fingered artist's hand. "Your credit is good with me." He handed Bourne another item. "Dire situations require extreme measures." Bourne held the gun in his hand. "What is this made of? It's so light."

"Ceramic and plastic. Something I've been working on for a couple of months now," Deron said with no little pride. "Not useful for distance but spot-on at close range."

"Plus, it won't be picked up at the airport," Bourne said. Deron nodded. "Ammo, as well." He handed Bourne a small cardboard box. "Plastictipped ceramic, makes up for the small caliber. Another plus, look here, see these vents on the barrel—they dissipate the noise of percussion. The firing makes almost no sound." Bourne frowned. "Doesn't that cut down on the stopping power?" Deron laughed. "Old school ballistics, m'man. Believe me, you take someone down with this, they stay down."

"Deron, you're a man of unusual talents."

"Hey, I gotta be me." The forger sighed deeply. "Copying the Old Masters has its charm, I suppose. You cannot believe how much I've learned studying their techniques. On the other hand, the world you opened up to me—a world no one else here in this entire mall but us knows exists—now that is what I call excitement." A wind had come up, a damp harbinger of change, and he raised the collar of his coat against it. "I admit I once harbored a secret desire to market some of my more unusual products to people like you." He shook his head. "But no more. What I do now on the side, I do for fun." Bourne saw a man in a trench coat stop in front of a store window to light up a cigarette. He was still standing there, seemingly gazing at the shoes on display. The trouble was, they were women's shoes. Bourne gave a hand signal and they both turned to their left, walking away from the shoe store. In a moment Bourne used the available reflective surfaces to glance behind them. The man in the trench coat was nowhere to be seen.

Bourne hefted the gun, which seemed light as air. "How much?" he said. Deron shrugged. "It's a prototype. Let's say this, you name the price based on its use to you. I trust you'll be fair."

When Ethan Hearn had first come to Budapest, it had taken him some time to get used to the fact that Hungarians were as literal as they were deliberate. Accordingly, the bar Underground was situated in Pest at 30 Terez Koruta, in a cellar beneath a cinema. Being below a movie theater also adhered to the Hungarian idiosyncrasy, for Underground was an homage to the well-known Hungarian film by Emir Kusticura of the same name. As far as Hearn was concerned, the bar was postmodern in the ugliest sense of the word. Steel beams were visible across the ceiling, interspersed with a line of gigantic factory fans that blew the smoke-thickened air down around the drinking and dancing denizens. But what Hearn liked least about Underground was the music—a loud and cacophonous mixture of aggrieved garage rock and sweaty funk.

Oddly, László Molnar did not seem to mind. In fact, he appeared to want to stay out among the hip-swaying crowd, as if reluctant to return home. There was something brittle about his manner, Hearn thought, in his quick abrasive laugh, the way his eyes roamed the room, never alighting on anything or anyone for long, as if he carried a dark and corrosive secret close under his skin. Hearn's occupation caused him to run up against a great deal of money. He wondered, not for the first time, whether so much wealth could have a ruinous effect on the human psyche. Perhaps this was the reason he had never aspired to riches.

Molnar insisted on ordering for both of them, a nastily sweet cocktail called a Causeway Spray that involved whiskey, ginger ale, Triple Sec and lemon. They found a table in a corner where Hearn could barely see the small menu and continued their discussion of opera, which, given the venue, seemed absurd.

It was after his second drink that Hearn spotted Spalko, standing in the haze at the rear of the club. His boss caught his eye, and Hearn excused himself. Two men were loitering near Spalko. They did not look as if they belonged at Underground, but then, Hearn told himself, neither did he or Laszl6 Molnar. Spalko led him down a dim corridor lit with pin lights like stars. He opened a narrow door into what Hearn imagined was the manager's office. No one was inside.

"Good evening, Ethan." Spalko smiled as he closed the door behind them. "It appears you have lived up to your billing. Well done!" "Thank you, sir."

"And now," Spalko said with great bonhomie, "it is time for me to take over." Hearn could hear the bone-jarring thump of the electronic bass through the walls.

"Don't you think I ought to stay around long enough to introduce you?"

"Not necessary, I assure you. Time for you to get some rest." He looked at his watch.

"In fact, given the late hour, why don't you take tomorrow off." Hearn bridled. "Sir, I couldn't—" Spalko laughed. "You can, Ethan, and you will." "But you told me in no uncertain terms—"

"Ethan, I have the power to make policy and I have the power to make exceptions to it. When your sleeper-sofa arrives, you can do what you want, but tomorrow you have off."

"Yes, sir." The young man ducked his head, grinning sheepishly. He hadn't had a day off in three years. A morning in bed with nothing to do but read the paper, spread orange marmalade on his toast, sounded like heaven to him. "Thank you. I am most grateful."

"Go on, then. By the time you're back in the office, I'll have read and made suggestions on your pitch letter." He guided Hearn out of the overheated office. When he saw the young man mount the steps to the front door, he nodded to the two men flanking him and they set off through the frenetic hubbub of the bar.

Laszl6 Molnar had begun peering through the fog of smoke and colored lights for his new friend. When Hearn had gotten up, he had been engrossed in the gyrating backside of a young girl in a short skirt, but he'd finally noticed that Hearn had been gone longer than expected. Molnar was taken aback when instead of Hearn the two men sat down on either side of him.

"What is this?" he said, his voice cracking in fright. "What do you want?" The men said nothing. The one on his right clamped him with a fearsome strength that made him wince. He was too much in shock to cry out, but even if he had had the presence of mind to do so, the incessant clangor of the club would have drowned him out. As it was, he sat petrified as the man on his left jabbed his thigh with a syringe. It was over so quickly, done so discreetly under the table that no one could possibly notice. It took but thirty seconds for the drug Molnar had been injected with to take effect. His eyes rolled up in their sockets and his body went limp. The two men were prepared for this, and they held him up as they rose, maneuvering him to a standing position.

"Can't hold his liquor," one of the men said to a nearby patron. He laughed. "What can you do with people like that?" The patron shrugged and, grinning, returned to his dancing. No one else gave them a second look as they took Laszl6 Molnar out of Underground. Spalko was waiting for them in a long, sleek BMW. They bundled the unconscious Molnar into the trunk of the car, then scrambled into the front, one behind the wheel, the other in the front passenger's seat.