The mists rose like layers of diaphanous scarves above Victoria Harbor as the huge jet circled for the final approach into Kai-tak Airport. The early morning haze was dense, the promise of a humid day in the colony. Below on the water the junks and the sampans bobbed beside the outlying freighters, the squat barges, the chugging multitiered ferries, and the occasional marine patrols that swept through the harbor. As the plane descended into the Kowloon airport, the serried ranks of skyscrapers on the island of Hong Kong took on the appearance of alabaster giants, reaching up through the mists and reflecting the first penetrating light of the morning sun.
Webb studied the scene below, both as a man under a horrible strain and as one consumed by an eerily detached curiosity. Down there somewhere in the seething, vastly overpopulated territory was Marie—that was uppermost in his thoughts and the most agonizing to think about. Yet another part of him was like a scientist filled with a cold anxiety as he peered into the clouded lens of a microscope trying to discern what his eye and his mind could understand. The familiar and the unfamiliar were joined, and the result was bewilderment and fear. During Panov’s sessions in Virginia, David had read and reread hundreds of travel folders and illustrated brochures describing all the places the mythical Jason Bourne was known to have been; it was a continuous, often painful exercise in self-probing. Fragments would come to him in flashes of recognition; many were all too brief and confusing, others prolonged, his sudden memories astonishingly accurate, the descriptions his own, not those of travel agents’ manuals. As he looked down now, he saw much that he knew he knew but could not specifically remember. So he looked away and concentrated on the day ahead.
He had wired the Regent Hotel in Kowloon from Dulles Airport requesting a room for a week in the name of one Howard Cruett, the identity on Cactus’s refined, blue-eyed passport. He had added: “I believe arrangements were made for our firm with respect to Suite six-nine-zero, if it is available. Arrival day is firm, flight is not.”
The suite would be available. What he had to find out was who had made it available. It was the first step toward Marie. And either before or after or during the process there were items to purchase—some would be simple to buy, others not, but even finding the more inaccessible would not be impossible. This was Hong Kong, the colony of survival and the tools of survival. It was also the one civilized place on earth where religions flourished but the only commonly acknowledged god of believers and nonbelievers alike was money. As Marie had put it: “It has no other reason for being.”
The tepid morning reeked with the odors of a crowded, rushing humanity, the smells strangely not unpleasant. Curbsides were being hosed ferociously, steam rising from pavements drying in the sun, and the fragrance of herbs boiling in oil wafted through the narrow streets from carts and concessions screeching for attention. The noises accumulated; they became a series of constant crescendos demanding acceptance and a sale or at least a negotiation. Hong Kong was the essence of survival; one worked furiously or one did not survive. Adam Smith was outdone and outdated; he could never have conceived of such a world. It mocked the disciplines he projected for a free economy; it was madness. It was Hong Kong.
David held up his hand for a taxi, knowing that he had done so before, knowing the exit doors he had headed for after the prolonged drudgery of customs, knowing he knew the streets through which the driver took him—not really remembering, but somehow knowing. It was both comforting and profoundly terrifying. He knew and he did not know. He was a marionette being manipulated on the stage of his own sideshow, and he did not know who was the puppet or who the puppeteer.
“It was an error,” said David to the clerk behind the oval marble counter in the center of the Regent’s lobby. “I don’t want a suite. I’d prefer something smaller; a single or a double room will do.”
“But the arrangements have been made, Mr. Cruett,” replied the bewildered clerk, using the name on Webb’s false passport.
“Who made them?”
The youthful Oriental peered down at a signature on the computer printout reservation. “It was authorized by the assistant manager, Mr. Liang.”
“Then in courtesy I should speak with Mr. Liang, shouldn’t I?”
“I’m afraid it will be necessary. I’m not sure there’s anything else available.”
“I understand. I’ll find another hotel.”
“You are considered a most important guest, sir. I will go back and speak with Mr. Liang.”
Webb nodded, as the clerk, reservation in hand, ducked under the counter on the far left and walked rapidly across the crowded floor to a door behind the concierge’s desk. David looked around at the opulent lobby, which in a sense started outside in the immense circular courtyard with its tall, gushing fountains, and extended through the bank of elegant glass doors and across the marble floor to a semicircle of enormously high tinted windows that looked out over Victoria Harbor. The ever-moving tableau beyond was a hypnotic addition to the mise en scène of the open curving lounge in front of the wall of soft-colored glass. There were dozens of small tables and leather settees, mostly occupied, with uniformed waiters and waitresses scurrying about. It was an arena from which tourists and negotiators alike could view the panorama of the harbor’s commerce, played out in front of the rising skyline of the island of Hong Kong in the distance. The watery view outside was familiar to Webb, but nothing else. He had never been inside the extravagant hotel before; at least nothing of what he saw aroused any flashes of recognition.
Suddenly his eyes were drawn to the sight of the clerk rushing across the lobby several steps ahead of a middle-aged Oriental, obviously the Regent’s assistant manager, Mr. Liang. Again the younger man ducked under the counter and quickly resumed his position in front of David, his accommodating eyes as wide as they could be in anticipation. Seconds later the hotel executive approached, bowing slightly from the waist, as befitted his professional station.
“This is Mr. Liang, sir,” announced the clerk.
“May I be of service?” said the assistant manager. “And may I say it is a pleasure to welcome you as our guest?”
Webb smiled and shook his head politely. “It may have to be another time, I’m afraid.”
“You are displeased with the accommodations, Mr. Cruett?”
“Not at all, I’d probably like them very much. But, as I told your young man, I prefer smaller quarters, a single or even a double room, but not a suite. However, I understand there may not be anything available.”
“Your wire specifically mentioned Suite six-ninety, sir.”
“I realize that and I apologize. It was the work of an overzealous sales representative.” Webb frowned in a friendly, quizzical manner and asked courteously, “Incidentally, who did make those arrangements? I certainly didn’t.”
“Your representative, perhaps,” offered Liang, his eyes noncommittal.
“In sales? He wouldn’t have the authority. No, he said it was one of the companies over here. We can’t accept, of course, but I’d like to know who made such a generous offer. Surely, Mr. Liang, since you personally authorized the reservation, you can tell me.”
The noncommittal eyes became more distant, then blinked; it was enough for David, but the charade had to be played out. “I believe one of our staff—our very large staff—came to me with the request, sir. There are so many reservations, we are so busy, I really can’t recall.”
“Certainly there are billing instructions.”
“We have many honored clients whose word on a telephone is sufficient.”
“Hong Kong has changed.”
“And always changing, Mr. Cruett. It is possible your host wishes to tell you himself. It would not be proper to intrude on such wishes.”
“Your sense of trust is admirable.”
“Backed by a billing code in the cashier’s computer, naturally.” Liang attempted a smile; it was false.
“Well, since you have nothing else, I’ll strike out on my own. I have friends at the Pen across the street,” said Webb, referring to the revered Peninsula Hotel.
“That will not be necessary. Further arrangements can be made.”
“But your clerk said—”
“He is not the assistant manager of the Regent, sir.” Liang briefly glared at the young man behind the counter.
“My screen shows nothing to be available,” protested the clerk in defense.
“Be quiet!” Liang instantly smiled, as falsely as before, aware that he had undoubtedly lost the charade with his command. “He is so young—they are all so young and inexperienced—but very intelligent, very willing.… We keep several rooms in reserve for misunderstood occasions.” Again he looked at the clerk and spoke harshly while smiling. “Ting, ruan-ji!” He continued rapidly in Chinese, every word understood by an expressionless Webb. “Listen to me, you boneless chicken! Do not offer information in my presence unless I ask you! You will be spit from the garbage shoot if you do it again. Now assign this fool Room two-zero-two. It is listed as Hold; remove the listing and proceed.” The assistant manager, his waxen smile even more pronounced turned back to David. “It is a very pleasant room with a splendid view of the harbor, Mr. Cruett.”
The charade was over, and the winner minimized his victory with persuasive appreciation. “I’m most grateful,” said David, his eyes boring into those of the suddenly insecure Liang. “It will save me the trouble of phoning all over the city telling people where I’m staying.” He stopped, his right hand partially raised, a man about to continue. David Webb was acting on one of several instincts, instincts developed by Jason Bourne. He knew it was the moment to instill fear. “When you say a room with a splendid view, I assume you mean ‘you hao jingse de fang jian.’ Am I right? Or is my Chinese too foolish?”
The hotel man stared at the American. “I could not have phrased it better,” he said softly. “The clerk will see to everything. Enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Cruett.”
“Enjoyment must be measured by accomplishment, Mr. Liang. That’s either a very old or very new Chinese proverb, I don’t know which.”
“I suspect it’s new, Mr. Cruett. It’s too active for passive reflection, which is the soul of Confucius, as I’m sure you do know.”
“Isn’t that accomplishment?”
“You are too swift for me, sir.” Liang bowed. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to reach me.”
“I hardly think that will be necessary, but thank you. Frankly, it was a long and dreadful flight, so I’ll ask the switchboard to hold all calls until dinnertime.”
“Oh?” Liang’s insecurity became something far more pronounced; he was a man afraid. “But surely if an emergency arises—”
“There’s nothing that can’t wait. And since I’m not in Suite six-ninety, the hotel can simply say I’m expected later. That’s plausible, isn’t it? I’m terribly tired. Thank you, Mr. Liang.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cruett.” The assistant manager bowed again, searching Webb’s eyes for a last sign. He found none and turned quickly, nervously, and headed back to his office.
Do the unexpected. Confuse the enemy, throw him off-balance.—Jason Bourne. Or was it Alexander Conklin?
“It is a most desirable room, sir!” exclaimed the relieved clerk. “You will be most pleased.”
“Mr. Liang is very accommodating,” said David. “I should show my appreciation, as, indeed, I will, for your help.” Webb took out his leather money clip and unobtrusively removed an American $20 bill. He extended a handshake, the bill concealed. “When does Mr. Liang leave for the day?”
The bewildered but overjoyed young man glanced to his right and left, speaking as he did so in disjointed phrases. “Yes! You are most kind, sir. It is not necessary, sir, but thank you, sir. Mr. Liang leaves his office every afternoon at five o’clock. I, too, leave at that hour. I would stay, of course, if our management requested, for I try very hard to do the best I can for the honor of the hotel.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Webb. “And most capably. My key, please. My luggage will arrive later due to a switch in flights.”
“Of course, sir!”
David sat in the chair by the tinted window looking across the harbor at the island of Hong Kong. Names came to him accompanied by images—Causeway Bay, Wanchai, Repulse Bay, Aberdeen, the Mandarin, and finally, so clear in the distance, Victoria Peak with its awesome view of the entire colony. Then he saw in his mind’s eye the masses of humanity meshing through the jammed, colorful, frequently filthy streets, and the crowded hotel lobbies and lounges with their softly lit chandeliers of gold filigree where the well-dressed remnants of the empire reluctantly mingled with the emerging Chinese entrepreneurs—the old crown and the new money had to find accommodation.… Alleyways.… For some reason thronged and run-down alleyways came into focus. Figures raced through the narrow thoroughfares, crashing into cages of small screeching birds and writhing snakes of various sizes—wares of peddlers on the lowest rungs of the territory’s ladder of commerce. Men and women of all ages, from children to ancients, were dressed in rags, and pungent, heavy smoke curled slowly upward, filling the space between the decaying buildings, diffusing the light, heightening the gloom of the dark stone walls blackened by use and misuse. He saw it all and it all had meaning for him, but he did not understand. Specifics eluded him; he had no points of reference and it was maddening.
Marie was out there! He had to find her! He sprang up from the chair in frustration, wanting to pound his head to clear the confusion, but he knew it would not help—nothing helped, except time, and he could not stand the strain of time. He had to find her, hold her, protect her, as she had once protected him by believing in him when he had not believed in himself. He passed the mirror above the bureau and looked at his haggard, pale face. One thing was clear. He had to plan and act quickly, but not as the man he saw in the glass. He had to bring into play everything he had learned and forgotten as Jason Bourne. From somewhere within him he had to summon the elusive past and trust unremembered instincts.
He had taken the first step; the connection was solid, he knew that. One way or another, Liang would provide him with something, probably the lowest level of information, but it would be a beginning—a name, a place, or a drop, an initial contact that would lead to another and still another. What he had to do was to move quickly with whatever he was given, not giving his enemy time to maneuver, backing whomever he reached into positions of deliver-and-survive or be-silent-and-die—and mean it. But to accomplish anything he had to be prepared. Items had to be purchased, and a tour of the colony arranged. He wanted an hour or so of observing from the backseat of an automobile, dredging up whatever he could from his damaged memory.
He picked up a large red-leather hotel directory, sat on the edge of the bed and opened it, thumbing through the pages rapidly. The New World Shopping Centre, a magnificent 5 storeyed open complex bringing under one roof the finest goods from the 4 corners of the earth … Hyperbole notwithstanding, the “complex” was adjacent to the hotel; it would do for his purposes. Limousines available. From our fleet of Daimler motor cars arrangements can be made by the hour or the day for business or sightseeing. Please contact the Concierge. Dial 62. Limousines also meant experienced chauffeurs knowledgeable in the ways of the confusing streets, back streets, roads, and traffic patterns of Hong Kong, Kowloon, and the New Territories, and knowledgeable in other ways, too. Such men knew the ins and outs and lower depths of the cities they served. Unless he was mistaken, and instinct told him he was not, an additional need would be covered. He had to have a gun. Finally, there was a bank in Hong Kong’s Central District that had certain arrangements with a sister institution thousands of miles away in the Cayman Islands. He had to walk into that bank, sign whatever was required of him, and walk out with more money than any sane man would carry on his person in Hong Kong—or anywhere else, for that matter. He would find someplace to conceal it but not in a bank where business hours restricted its availability. Jason Bourne knew: Promise a man his life and he will usually cooperate; promise him his life and a great deal of money and the cumulative effect will lead to total submission.
David reached for the message pad and pencil next to the phone on the bedside table; he started another list. The little things loomed larger with every hour that passed, and he did not have that many hours left. It was almost eleven o’clock. The harbor now glistened in the near-noon sun. He had so many things to do before 4:30, when he intended to station himself unobtrusively somewhere near the employees’ exit, or down inside the hotel garage, or wherever he learned he could follow and trap the waxen-faced Liang, his first connection.
Three minutes later his list was complete. He tore off the page, got up from the bed and reached for his jacket on the desk chair. Suddenly the telephone rang, piercing the quiet of the hotel room. He had to close his eyes, clenching every muscle in his arms and stomach so as not to leap for it, hoping beyond hope for the sound of Marie’s voice, even as a captive. He must not pick up the phone. Instinct. Jason Bourne. He had no controls. If he answered the phone, he would be the one controlled. He let it ring as he walked in anguish across the room and went out the door.
It was ten minutes past noon when he returned carrying a number of thin plastic bags from various stores in the Shopping Centre. He dropped them on the bed and began removing his purchases. Among the articles were a dark, lightweight raincoat and a dark canvas hat, a pair of gray tennis sneakers, black trousers and a sweater, also black; these were the clothes he would wear at night. Then there were other items: a spool of 75-pound-test fishing line with two palm-sized eyehooks through which a three-foot section of line would be looped and secured at both ends, a 20-ounce paperweight in the shape of a miniature brass barbell, one ice pick, and a sheathed, highly sharpened, double-edged hunting knife with a narrow 4-inch blade. These were the silent weapons he would carry both night and day. One more item remained to be found; he would find it.
As he examined his purchases, his concentration narrowing down to the eyehooks and the fishing line, he became aware of a tiny, subtle blinking of light. Start, stop … start, stop. It was annoying because he could not find the source, and, as happened so often, he had to wonder if there actually was a source or whether the intrusion was simply an aberration of his mind. Then his eyes were drawn to the bedside table; sunlight streamed in the harbor windows, washing over the telephone, but the pulsating light was there in the lower left-hand corner of the instrument—barely visible, but there. It was the message signal, a small red dot that shone for a second, went dark for a second, and then resumed its signaling at those intervals. A message was not a call, he reflected. He went to the table, studied the instructions on the plastic card, and picked up the phone; he pressed the appropriate button.
“Yes, Mr. Cruett?” said the operator at her computerized switchboard.
“There’s a message for me?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Liang has been trying to reach you—”
“I thought my instructions were clear,” interrupted Webb. “There were to be no calls until I told the switchboard otherwise.”
“Yes, sir, but Mr. Liang is the assistant manager—the senior manager when his superior is not here, which is the case this morning … this afternoon. He tells us it is most urgent. He has been calling you every few minutes for the past hour. I am ringing him now, sir.”
David hung up the phone. He was not ready for Liang, or more properly put, Liang was not yet ready for him—at least, not the way David wanted him. Liang was stretched, possibly on the edge of panic, for he was the first and lowliest contact and he had failed to place the subject where he was meant to be—in a wired suite where the enemy could overhear every word. But the edge of panic was not good enough. David wanted Liang over the edge. The quickest way to provoke that state was to permit no contact, no discussion, no exculpating explanations aimed at enlisting the subject to get the offender off the hook.
Webb grabbed the clothes off the bed and put them into two bureau drawers along with the things he had taken out of his flight bag; he stuffed the eyehooks and the fishing line between the layers of fabric. He then placed the paperweight on top of a room service menu on the desk and shoved the hunting knife into his jacket pocket. He looked down at the ice pick and was suddenly struck by a thought again born of a strange instinct: a man consumed with anxiety would overreact when stunned by the unexpected sight of something terrifying. The grim image would shock him, deepening his fears. David pulled out a handkerchief from his breast pocket, reached down for the ice pick and wiped the handle clean. Gripping the lethal instrument in the cloth, he walked rapidly to the small foyer, estimated the eye level, and plunged the pick into the white wall opposite the door. The telephone rang, then rang again steadily, as if in a frenzy. Webb let himself out and ran down the hallway toward the bank of elevators; he slipped into the next angled corridor and watched.
He had not miscalculated. The gleaming metal panels slid apart and Liang raced out of the middle elevator into Webb’s hallway. David spun around the corner and dashed to the elevators, then rapidly, quietly, walked to the corner of his own corridor. He could see the nervous Liang ringing his bell repeatedly, finally knocking on the door with increasing persistence.
Another elevator opened and two couples emerged, laughing. One of the men looked quizzically at Webb, then shrugged as the party turned left. David returned his attention to Liang. The assistant manager was now frantic, ringing the bell and pounding the door. Then he stopped and put his ear to the wood; satisfied, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a ring of keys. Webb snapped his head back out of sight as the assistant manager turned to look up and down the corridor while inserting a key. David did not have to see; he wanted only to hear.
He had not long to wait. A suppressed, guttural shriek was followed by the loud crash of the door. The ice pick had had its effect. Webb ran back to his sanctuary beyond the last elevator, again inching his body to the edge of the wall; he watched. Liang was visibly shaken, breathing erratically, deeply, as he repeatedly pressed his finger against the elevator button. Finally a bell pinged, and the metal panels of the second elevator opened. The assistant manager rushed inside.
David had no specific plan, but he knew vaguely what he had to do, for there was no other way of doing it. He walked down the corridor rapidly past the elevators, and ran the remaining distance to his room. He let himself inside and picked up the bedside telephone, pressing the digits he had committed to memory.
“Concierge’s desk,” said a pleasant voice which did not sound Oriental; it was probably Indian.
“Am I speaking to the concierge?” asked Webb.
“You are, sir.”
“Not one of his assistants?”
“I’m afraid not. Is there a specific assistant you wished to speak with? Someone resolving a problem, perhaps?”
“No, I want to talk to you,” said David quietly. “I have a situation that must be handled in the strictest confidence. May I count on yours? I can be generous.”
“You are a guest in the hotel?”
“I am a guest.”
“And there is nothing untoward involved, of course. Nothing that would damage the establishment.”
“Only enhance its reputation for aiding cautious businessmen who wish to bring trade to the territory. A great deal of trade.”
“I am at your service, sir.”
It was arranged that a Daimler limousine with the most experienced driver available would pick him up in ten minutes at the ramped courtyard drive on Salisbury Road. The concierge would be standing by the car and for his confidence would receive $200 American, roughly $1,500 Hong Kong. There would be no individual’s name assigned to the rental—which was to be paid in cash for twenty-four hours—only the name of a firm picked at random. And “Mr. Cruett,” escorted by a floor boy, could use a service elevator to the Regent’s lower level, where there was an exit that led to the New World Centre with its direct access to the pickup on Salisbury Road.
The amenities and the cash disposed of, David climbed into the backseat of the Daimler, and confronted the lined, tired face of a uniformed middle-aged driver whose weary expression was only partially leavened by a strained attempt to be pleasant.
“Welcome, sir! My name is Pak-fei, and I shall endeavor to be of excellent service to you! You tell me where, and I take you. I know everything!”
“I was counting on that,” said Webb softly.
“I beg your words, sir?”
“Wo bushi luke,” said David, stating that he was not a tourist. “But as I haven’t been here in years,” he continued in Chinese, “I want to reacquaint myself. How about the normal, boring tour of the island and then a quick trip through Kowloon? I have to be back in a couple of hours or so.… And from here on, let’s speak English.”
“Ahh! Your Chinese is very good—very high class, but I understand everything you say. Yet only two zhong-tou—”
“Hours,” interrupted Webb. “We’re speaking English, remember, and I don’t want to be misunderstood. But these two hours and your tip, and the remaining twenty-two hours and that tip, will depend on how well we get along, won’t it?”
“Yes, yes!” cried Pak-fei, the driver, as he gunned the Daimler’s motor and authoritatively careened out into the intolerable traffic of Salisbury Road. “I shall endeavor to provide very excellent service!”
He did, and the names and images that had come to David in the hotel room were reinforced by their actual counterparts. He knew the streets of the Central District, recognized the Mandarin hotel, and the Hong Kong Club, and Chater Square with the colony’s Supreme Court opposite the banking giants of Hong Kong. He had walked through the crowded pedestrian lanes to the wild confusion that was the Star Ferry, the island’s continuous link to Kowloon. Queen’s Road, Hillier, Possession Street … the garish Wanchai—it all came back to him, in the sense that he had been there, been to those places, knew them, knew the streets, even the shortcuts to take going from one place to another. He recognized the winding road to Aberdeen, anticipated the sight of the gaudy floating restaurants and, beyond, the unbelievable congestion of junks and sampans of the boat people, a massive, floating community of the perpetually dispossessed; he could even hear the clatter and slaps and shrieks of the mah-jongg players, hotly contesting their bets under the dim glow of swaying lanterns at night. He had met men and women—contacts and conduits, he reflected—on the beaches of Shek O and Big Wave, and he had swum in the crowded waters of Repulse Bay, with its huge ersatz statuary and the decaying elegance of the old Colonial Hotel. He had seen it all, he knew it all, yet he could relate it all to nothing.
He looked at his watch; they had been driving for nearly two hours. There was a last stop to make on the island, and then he would put Pak-fei to the test. “Head back to Chater Square,” he said. “I have business at one of the banks. You can wait for me.”
Money was not only a social and industrial lubricant; in large enough amounts it was a passport to maneuverability. Without it, men running were stymied, their options limited, and those in pursuit frequently frustrated by lacking the means to sustain the hunt. And the greater the amount, the more facile its release; witness the struggle of the man whose resources permit him to apply for no more than a $500 loan as compared with the relative ease another has with a line of credit of $500,000. So it was for David at the bank in Chater Square. Accommodation was swift and professional; an attaché case was provided without comment for the transport of the funds, and the offer of a guard to accompany him to his hotel was made should he feel more comfortable with one. He declined, signed the release papers and no further questions were asked. He returned to the car in the busy street.
He leaned forward, resting his left hand on the soft fabric of the front seat inches from the driver’s head. He held an American $100 bill between his thumb and index finger. “Pak-fei,” he said, “I need a gun.”
Slowly the driver’s head turned. He gazed at the bill, then turned further to look at Webb. Gone was the forced ebullience, the overweening desire to please. Instead, the expression on his lined face was passive, his sloped eyes distant. “Kowloon,” he answered. “In the Mongkok.” He took the hundred dollars.