The Bourne Supremacy (52 page)

She had over an hour to think in the countryside quiet as she sat in the taxi that drove her down to Kowloon. It would be another forty-five minutes once they reached the less quiet outskirts, particularly a congested district called Mongkok. The contrite people of Tuen Mun had been not only generous and protective but inventive as well. The banker, Jitai, apparently had confirmed that the hoodlums' victim was indeed a white woman in hiding and running for her life, and that therefore, as she was in the process of reaching people who might help her, perhaps her appearance might be altered. Western clothes were brought from several shops, clothes that struck Marie as odd; they seemed drab and utilitarian, neat but dreary. Not cheap, but the kind of clothes that would be selected by a woman who had either no sense of design or felt herself above it. Then after an hour in the back room of a beauty shop she understood why such a costume had been chosen. The women fussed over her; her hair was washed and blown dry, and when the process was over she had looked in the mirror, barely breathing as she did so. Her face - drawn, pale and tired - was framed by a shell of hair no longer a striking auburn but mouse-grey with subtle tinges of white. She had aged more than a decade; it was an extension of what she had attempted after escaping from the hospital but far bolder, far more complete. She was the Chinese image of the upper-middle-class, serious, no-nonsense tourist -probably a widow - who peremptorily issued instructions, counted her money, and never went anywhere without a guidebook which she continuously checked off against each site on her well-organized itinerary. The people of Tuen Mun knew such tourists well and their imposed portrait was accurate. Jason Bourne would approve.

There were other thoughts, however, that occupied her on the ride to Kowloon, desperate thoughts that she tried to control and keep in perspective, pushing away the panic that could so easily engulf her, causing her to do the wrong thing, make a wrong move that could harm David - kill David. Oh, God, where are you? How can I find you? Howl

She searched her memory for anyone who could help her, constantly rejecting every name and every face that came to her because in one way or another each had been a part of that horrible strategy so ominously termed beyond-salvage -the death of an individual the only acceptable solution. Except, of course, Morris Panov, but Mo was a pariah in the eyes of the government; he had called the official killers by their rightful names: incompetents and murderers. He would get nowhere, and conceivably bring about a second order for beyond-salvage.

Beyond-salvage... A face came to her, a face with tears running down his cheeks, muted cries of mercy in his tremulous voice, a once-close friend of a young foreign service officer and his wife and children in a remote outpost called Phnom Penh. Conklin! His name was Alexander Conklin*. Throughout David's long convalescence he had tried repeatedly to see her husband but David would not permit it, saying that he would kill the CIA man if he walked through the door. The crippled Conklin had wrongfully, stupidly made accusations against David, not listening to the pleas of an amnesiac, instead assuming treachery and 'turning' to the point where he had tried to kill David himself outside of Paris. And, finally, he had mounted a last attempt on New York's 71st Street, at a sterile house called Treadstone 71, that nearly succeeded. When the truth about David was known, Conklin had been consumed with guilt, shattered by what he had done. She had actually felt sorry for him; his anguish was so genuine, his guilt so devastating. She had talked with Alex over coffee on the porch, but David would never see him. He was the only one she could think of that made sense - any sense at all!

The hotel was called the Empress, on Chatham Road in Kowloon. It was a small hotel in the crowded Tsim Sha Tsui frequented by a mix of cultures, neither rich nor hardly poor, by and large salesmen from the East and West who had business to do without the largess of executive expense accounts. The banker, Jitai, had done his job; a single room had been reserved for a Mrs Austin, Penelope Austin. The 'Penelope' had been Jitai's idea, for he had read many English novels and 'Penelope' seemed 'so right'. So be it, as Jason Bourne would have said, thought Marie.

She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the telephone, unsure of what to say but knowing she had to say it. 'I need the number of a person in Washington, DC, in the United States,' she said to the operator. 'It's an emergency.'

There is a charge for overseas information-'

'Charge it,' broke in Marie. 'It's urgent. I'll stay on the line

'Yes?' said the voice filled with sleep. 'Hello!

'Alex, it's Marie Webb.'

'Goddamn you, where are you? Where are both of you? He found you!'

'I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't found him and he hasn't found me. You know about all this?

'Who the hell do you think almost broke my neck last week when he flew into Washington? David] I've got relays on every phone that can reach me!' Mo Panov's got the same! Where are you?'

'Hong Kong - Kowloon, I guess. The Empress Hotel, under the name of Austin. David reached you?'

'And Mo! He and I have turned every trick in the deck to find out what the hell is going on and we've been stonewalled] No, I take it back - not stonewalled - no one else knows what's going on either! I'd know if they did! Good Christ, Marie, I haven't had a drink since last Thursday!'

'I didn't know you missed it.'

'I miss it! What's happening?'

Marie told him, including the unmistakable stamp of government bureaucracy on the part of her captors, and her escape, and the help given by Catherine Staples that turned into a trap, engineered by a man named McAllister whom she had seen on the street with Staples.

'McAllister? You saw him?'

'He's here, Alex. He wants to take me back. With me he controls David, and he'll kill him! They tried before!'

There was a pause on the line, a pause filled with anguish. ' We tried before,' said Conklin softly. 'But that was then, not now.'

'What can I do?'

'Stay where you are,' ordered Alex. 'I'll be on the earliest plane to Hong Kong. Don't go out of your room. Don't make any more calls. They're searching for you, they have to be.'

'David's out there, Alex! Whatever they've forced him to do because of me, I'm frightened to death!'

'Delta was the best man ever developed in Medusa. No one better ever walked into that field. I know. I saw.' That's one aspect, and I've taught myself to live with it. But not the other, Alex! His mind! What will happen to his mind? Conklin paused again, and when he spoke his voice was pensive. 'I'll bring a friend with me, a friend to all of us. Mo won't refuse. Stay put, Marie. It's time for a showdown. And, by Christ, there's going to be one!'

23

'Who are you?' screamed Bourne in a frenzy, gripping the old man by the throat and pressing him into the wall.

'Delta, stop it? commanded d'Anjou. 'Your voice! People will hear you. They'll think you're killing him. They'll call the desk.'

'I may kill him and the phones don't work!' Jason released the impostor's impostor, released his throat but gripped the front of his shirt, ripping it as he swung the man down into a chair.

The door,' continued d'Anjou steadily, angrily. 'Put it in place as best you can, for God's sake. I want to get out of Beijing alive, and every second with you diminishes my prospects. The door!

Half crazed, Bourne whipped around, picked up the shattered door and shoved it into the frame, adjusting the sides and kicking them into place. The old man massaged his throat and suddenly tried to spring out of the chair.

Won, mon ami!' said the Frenchman, blocking him. 'Stay where you are. Do not concern yourself with me, only with him. You see, he really might kill you. In his rage he has no respect for the golden years, but since I'm nearly there, I do.'

'Rage? This is an outrage? sputtered the old man, coughing his words. 'I fought at El Alamein and, by Christ, I'll fight now!' Again the old man struggled out of the chair, and again d'Anjou pushed him back as Jason returned.

'Oh, the stoically heroic British,' observed the Frenchman. 'At least you had the grace not to say Agincourt.'

'Cut the crap!' shouted Bourne, pushing d'Anjou aside and leaning over the chair, his hands on both arms, crowding the old man back into the seat. 'You tell me where he is and you tell me quickly, or you may wish you never got out of El Alamein!'

'Where who is, you maniac?"

'You're not the man downstairs! You're not Joseph Wadsworth going up to room three twenty-five!'

'This is room three twenty-five and I am Joseph Wadsworth! Brigadier, retired, Royal Engineers!'

'When did you check in?'

'Actually, I was spared that drudgery,' replied Wadsworth haughtily. 'As a professional guest of the government, certain courtesies are extended. I was escorted through customs and brought directly here. I must say the room service is hardly up to snuff - God knows it's not the Connaught - and the damned telephone's mostly on the fritz.'

'I asked you when!'

'Last night, but since the plane was six hours late I suppose I should say this morning.'

'What were your instructions?'

'I'm not sure it's any of your business.'

Bourne whipped out the brass letter-opener from his belt and held the sharp point against the old man's throat. 'It is if you want to get out of that chair alive.'

'Good God, you are a maniac.'

'You're right, I haven't much time for sanity. In fact, none at all. The instructions?

'They're harmless enough. I was to be picked up some time around twelve noon, and as it's now after three, one can assume that the People's government is not run by the clock any more than its airline.'

D'Anjou touched Bourne's arm. The eleven-thirty plane,' said the Frenchman quietly. 'He's the decoy and knows nothing.'

'Then your Judas is here in another room,' replied Jason over his shoulder. 'He has to be!'

'Don't say any more, he'll be questioned.' With sudden and unexpected authority, d'Anjou edged Bourne away from the chair and spoke in the impatient tones of a superior officer. 'See here, Brigadier, we apologize for the inconvenience, it's a damned nuisance, I know. This is the third room we've broken into - we learned the name of each occupant for the purposes of shock interrogation.'

'Shock what! I don't understand.'

'One of four people on this floor has smuggled in over five million dollars' worth of narcotics. Since it wasn't the three of you, we have our man. I suggest you do as the others are doing. Say your room was broken into by a raging drunk, furious over the accommodation - that's what they're saying. There's a lot of that going on and it's best not to be put under suspicion, even by mistaken association. The government here often overreacts.'

'Wouldn't want that,' sputtered Wadsworth, formerly of the Royal Engineers. 'Damned pension's little enough to get by on. This was meant to be a little extra feathering for the old Surrey nest.'

The door, Major,' ordered d'Anjou, addressing Jason. 'Easy, now. Try to keep it upright.' The Frenchman turned to the Englishman. 'Stand by and hold it, Brigadier. Just lean it back and give us twenty minutes to get our man, then do whatever you like. Remember, a raging drunk. For your own sake.'

'Yes, yes, of course. A drunk. Raging.'

'Come, Major!'

Out in the hallway they picked up their bags and started rapidly towards the staircase. 'Hurry up? said Bourne. There's still time. He has to make his change - I'd have to make it! We'll check the street entrances, the taxi stands, try to pick two logical ones, or goddamn it, illogical ones. We'll each take one and work out signals.'

'First there are two doors,' broke in d'Anjou, breathlessly. 'In this hallway. Pick any two you wish but do it quickly. Kick them in and yell abusive language, slurring your words, of course.'

'You were serious?'

'Never more so, Delta. As we saw for ourselves the explanation is entirely plausible and embarrassment will restrict any formal investigation. The management will no doubt persuade our brigadier to keep his mouth shut. They could lose their comfortable jobs. Quickly now! Take your choice and do the job!'

Jason stopped at the next door on the right. He braced himself, then rushed towards it, crashing his shoulder into the middle of the flimsy upper panel. The door flew open.

'God's teeth? screamed a woman in Hindi, half out of her sari, which was draped around her feet.

'What the devil is happening? Has that damned lock broken again?' a naked man shrieked as he came racing out of the bathroom, his genitals shielded with an inadequate towel.

Both stood gaping at the mad intruder, who lurched about with unfocused eyes as he swept articles off the nearest bureau, yelling in a coarse, drunken voice. 'Rotten hotel! Toilets don't work, phones don't work! Nothing - Jesus, this isn't my room! Shhorry...'

Bourne weaved out, slamming the door shut behind him.

'That was fine!' said d'Anjou. They'd already had trouble with the lock. Hurry. One more. That one!' The Frenchman pointed to a door on the left. 'I heard laughter inside. Two voices.'

Again Jason crashed into a door, smashing it open, roaring his drunken complaints. However, instead of being met by two startled guests, he faced a young couple, both bare to the waist, each drawing on a pinched cigarette, inhaling deeply, their eyes glazed.

'Welcome, neighbour,' said the young American male, his voice floating, his diction precise, if at quarter speed. 'Don't let things trouble you so. The phones don't work but our can does. Use it, share it. Don't get so uptight.'

'What the hell are you doing in my room?' yelled Jason even more drunkenly, his slur now obscuring his words.

'If this is your room, macho boy,' interrupted the girl, swaying in her chair, 'you were privy to private things and we're not like that.' She giggled.

'Christ, you're stoned?

'And without taking the Lord's name in vain,' countered the young man, 'you're very drunk.'

'We don't believe in alcohol,' added the spaced-out girl. 'It produces hostility. It rises to the surface like Lucifer's demons.'