The Bourne ultimatum (86 page)

According to the consul general in New York, Bryce Ogilvie was finished in America. The consul’s suggestion was to find him asylum somewhere and, in exchange, gradually absorb his myriad assets in Europe. What worried the consul general in New York was not Ogilvie’s financial manipulations that broke more laws than there were courts to prosecute, but rather the killings, which as far as the consul could determine were widespread and included the murder of high U.S. government officials and, unless he was grossly mistaken, the assassination of the supreme commander of NATO. Compounding this chain of horrors was New York’s opinion that in order to save a number of his companies from confiscation, Ogilvie might have ordered additional killings in Europe, primarily of those few powerful executives in various firms who understood the complex international linkages that led back to a great law firm and the unspoken code name Medusa. Should those contracted murders take place while Ogilvie was in Moscow, questions might arise that Moscow could not tolerate. Therefore, get him in and out of the Soviet Union as fast as possible, a recommendation more easily made than accomplished.

Suddenly, Rodchenko reflected, into this
danse macabre
had come the paranoid monseigneur from Paris.
It was imperative they meet immediately
! Carlos had fairly screamed his demand over the arranged public telephone communication they employed, but every precaution had to be taken. The Jackal, as always, demanded a public place, with crowds, and numerous available exits, where he could circle like a hawk, never showing himself until his professional eyes were satisfied. Two calls later, from two different locations, the rendezvous was set. St. Basil’s Cathedral in Red Square during the height of the early evening’s summer tourist onslaught. In a darkened corner to the right of the altar where there were outside exits through the curtained walkways to the sacristy.
Done
!

Then, during that third telephone call, like a crack of thunder over the Black Sea, Grigorie Rodchenko was struck by an idea so dramatically bold, yet so patently obvious and simple, that he had momentarily lost his breath. It was the solution that would totally distance the Soviet government from any involvement or complicity with either the Jackal or Medusa’s Ogilvie should such distance be necessary in the eyes of the civilized world.

Quite simply, unknown to each other, bring the Jackal and Ogilvie together, if only for an instant, just long enough to get photographic evidence of their being seen within the same frame. It was all that was needed.

He had gone to Diplomatic Relations yesterday afternoon, having requested a short routine meeting with Ogilvie. During the extremely innocuous and very friendly conference, Rodchenko had waited for his opening—an opening he had engineered with precision, having done his research.

“You spend summers on Cape Cod,
da
?” the general had said.

“For me it’s weekends mainly. My wife and the children are there for the season.”

“When I was posted in Washington, I had two great American friends on Cape Cod. I spent several lovely, as you say, weekends with them. Perhaps you know my friends, the Frosts—Hardleigh and Carol Frost?”

“Of course I do. Like myself, he’s an attorney, specializes in maritime law. They live down the shore road in Dennis.”

“A very attractive lady, the Frost woman.”

“Very.”

“
Da
. Did you ever attempt to recruit her husband for your firm?”

“No. He has his own. Frost, Goldfarb and O’Shaunessy; they cover the waterfront, as it were, in Massachusetts.”

“I feel I almost know you, Mr. Ogilvie, if only through mutual friends.”

“I’m sorry we never met at the Cape.”

“Well, perhaps, I can take advantage of our near meeting—through mutual friends—and ask of you a favor, far less than the convenience I understand my government willingly affords you.”

“I’ve been given to understand the convenience is mutual,” said Ogilvie.

“
Ahh
, I know nothing of such diplomatic matters, but it is conceivable that I could intervene on your behalf if you would cooperate with us—with my small, although not insignificant, department.”

“What is it?”

“There is a priest, a socially oriented militant priest, who claims to be a Marxist agitator well known to the courts of New York City. He arrived only hours ago and demands a clandestine meeting only hours from now. There is simply no time to verify his claims, but as he insists he has a history of legal ‘persecutions’ in the courts of New York, as well as many photographs in the newspapers, you might recognize him.”

“I probably could, if he is who he says he is.”

“
Da
! And one way or another, we will certainly let it be known how you cooperated with us.”

It had been arranged. Ogilvie would be in the crowds at St. Basil’s Cathedral close to the meeting ground. When he saw Rodchenko approach a priest in the far corner to the right of the altar, he was to “come across” the KGB general casually, as if surprised. Their greeting would be brief to the point of discourtesy, so rapid and blurred as to be meaningless, the sort of encounter civilized but hostile acquaintances cannot avoid when they run into one another in a public place. Close proximity was also required, as the light was so dim and so cluttered with shadows that the attorney might not get a good look at the priest.

Ogilvie had performed with the expertise of an accomplished trial lawyer verbally trapping a prosecution’s witness with an objectionable inquiry and then shouting “I withdraw the question,” leaving the prosecutor speechless.

The Jackal had instantly turned away furiously but not before an obese elderly female, using a miniature camera that was the handle of her purse, had snapped a series of automatically advanced photographs with ultra high-speed film. That evidence was now in a vault in Rodchenko’s office. The file was titled
Surveillance of the American Male B. Ogilvie
.

On the page below the photograph showing the assassin and the American attorney together was the following:
Subject with as yet unidentified contact during covert meeting at St. Basil’s Cathedral. Meeting covered eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Photographs sent to Paris for any possible verification. It is believed that the unidentified contact may be Carlos the Jackal
.

Needless to say, Paris was working up a reply that included several photographic composites from the Deuxième Bureau and the Sûret
é
. The answer:
Confirmed. Definitely the Jackal
.

How shocking! And on Soviet soil.

The assassin, on the other hand, had proved to be less accommodating. After the brief, awkward confrontation with the American, Carlos had resumed his ice-cold inquisition, his burning savage self just below the frozen surface.

“They’re closing in on you!” said the Jackal.

“Who is?”

“The Komitet.”

“I
am
the Komitet!”

“Perhaps you’re mistaken.”

“Nothing goes on in the KGB without my knowledge. Where did you get this information?”

“Paris. Krupkin’s the source.”

“Krupkin will do anything to further himself, including the spreading of false information, even where I am concerned. He’s an enigma—one moment an efficient multilingual intelligence officer, the next a gossiping clown in French feathers, still again a pimp for traveling ministers. He can’t be taken seriously, not where serious matters are concerned.”

“I hope you’re right. I’ll reach you tomorrow, late in the evening. Will you be at home?”

“Not for a phone call from you. I’ll dine alone at the Lastochka, a late supper. What will you be doing tomorrow?”

“Making certain you
are
right.” The Jackal had disappeared into the crowds of the cathedral.

That was over twenty-four hours ago and Rodchenko had heard nothing to upset the schedule. Perhaps the psychopath had returned to Paris, somehow convinced that his paranoid suspicions were groundless, his need to keep moving, racing, flying all over Europe superseding his momentary panic. Who knew? Carlos, too, was an enigma. Part of him was a retarded sadist, a savant perhaps in the darkest methods of cruelty and killing, yet another part revealed a sick, twisted romantic, a brain-damaged adolescent reaching for a vision that wanted nothing to do with him. Who knew? The time was approaching when a bullet in his head was the answer.

Rodchenko raised his hand for the waiter; he would order coffee and brandy—the decent French brandy reserved for the true heroes of the Revolution, especially the survivors. Instead of the waiter, the manager of Lastochka came rushing to the table, carrying a telephone.

“There is an urgent call for you, General,” said the man in the loose-fitting black suit, placing the phone on the table and holding out the plastic knob of the extension cord that was to be placed into the walled receptacle.

“Thank you.” The manager left and Rodchenko inserted the device. “Yes?”

“You’re being watched wherever you go,” said the voice of the Jackal.

“By whom?”

“Your own people.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’ve been watching all day. Would you like me to describe the places you’ve been for the past thirty hours? Starting with drinks at a café on the Kalinin, a kiosk in the Arbat, the Slavyanky for lunch, an afternoon walk along the Luznekaya?”

“Stop it! Where are you?”

“Come outside the Lastochka. Slowly, casually. I’ll prove it to you.” The line went dead.

Rodchenko hung up and signaled the waiter for his check. The aproned man’s instant response was due less to the general’s status than to the fact that he was the last diner in the restaurant. Leaving his money on top of the bill, the old soldier said good night, walked through the dimly lit foyer to the entrance and let himself out. It was nearly 1:30 in the morning, and except for a few stragglers with too much vodka in them, the street was deserted. In moments an upright figure, silhouetted in the wash of a streetlamp, emerged from a storefront, perhaps thirty meters away on the right. It was the Jackal, still in the black cloth and the white collar of a priest. He beckoned the general to join him as he walked slowly to a dark brown car parked directly across the street. Rodchenko caught up with the assassin, now standing on the curb side of the vehicle, which faced the direction of the Lastochka restaurant.

Suddenly, the Jackal snapped on a flashlight, its powerful beam shooting through the open window of the car. The old soldier momentarily stopped breathing, his heavy-lidded eyes scanning the horrible scene in front of him. Across the seat, the KGB agent behind the wheel was arched back, his throat cut, a river of blood drenching his clothes. Immediately beyond the window was the second surveillance, his wrists and feet bound by wire, a thick rope strapped around his face, yanked taut against his gaping mouth, gagging him, permitting only a rattling, gasping cough. He was alive, his eyes wide in terror.

“The driver was trained at Novgorod,” said the general, no comment in his voice.

“I know,” replied Carlos. “I have his papers. That training’s not what it was, comrade.”

“This other one is Krupkin’s liaison here in Moscow. The son of a good friend, I’m told.”

“He’s mine now.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Rodchenko, staring at the Jackal.

“Correct a mistake,” answered Carlos as he raised his gun, the silencer in place, and fired three bullets into the general’s throat.

The night sky was angry, the storm clouds over Moscow swirling, colliding, promising rain and thunder and lightning. The brown sedan sped down the country road, racing past overgrown fields, the driver maniacally gripping the wheel and sporadically glancing at his bound prisoner, a young man who kept straining at his wire-bound hands and feet, his rope-strapped face causing him enormous pain, attested to by his constant grimace and his bulging frightened eyes.

In the rear seat, the upholstery covered with blood, were the corpses of General Grigorie Rodchenko and the KGB Novgorod graduate who headed the old soldier’s surveillance team. Suddenly, without slowing down the car or giving any indication of his action, the Jackal saw what he was looking for and swerved off the road. Tires shrieking in the side-winding turn, the sedan plunged into a field of tall grass and in seconds came to a shatteringly abrupt stop, the bodies in the rear crashing into the back of the front seat. Carlos opened his door and lurched outside; he proceeded to yank the blood-drenched corpses from their upholstered crypts and dragged them into the high grass, leaving the general partially on top of the Komitet officer, their life fluids now mingling as they soiled the ground.

He returned to the car and brutally pulled the young KGB agent out of the front seat with one hand, the glistening blade of a hunting knife in his other.

“We have a lot to talk about, you and I,” said the Jackal in Russian. “And you would be foolish to withhold anything. ... You won’t, you’re too soft, too young.” Carlos whipped the man to the ground, the tall grass bending under the fall. He withdrew his flashlight and knelt beside his captive, the knife going toward the agent’s eyes.

The bloodied, lifeless figure below had spoken his last words, and they were words that reverberated like kettledrums in the ears of Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. Jason Bourne was in
Moscow
! It had to be Bourne, for the terrified, youthful KGB surveillant had blurted out the information in a gushing, panicked stream of phrases and half phrases, saying anything and everything that might possibly save his life.
Comrade Krupkin—two Americans, one tall, the other with a limp
!
We took them to the hotel, then to the Sadovaya for a conference
.

Krupkin and the hated Bourne had turned his people in Paris—in
Paris
, his impenetrable armed camp!—and had traced him to Moscow. How?
Who
? ... It did not matter now. All that mattered was that the Chameleon himself was at the Metropole; the traitors in Paris could wait. At the
Metropole
! His enemy of enemies was barely an hour away back in Moscow, no doubt sleeping the night away, without any idea that Carlos the Jackal knew he was there. The assassin felt the exhilaration of triumph—over life
and
death. The doctors said he was dying, but doctors were as often wrong as they were right, and at this moment they were wrong! The death of Jason Bourne would
renew
his life.