Leaning forward in the chair, Bourne snapped the trigger housing out of its recess and checked the weapon’s bore under the light of the floor lamp above him. It was a repetitive, pointless exercise; the bore was spotless. During the past four hours he had cleaned d’Anjou’s gun three times, dismantling it three times and each time oiling each mechanism until each part of the dark metal glistened. The process occupied his time. He had studied d’Anjou’s arsenal of weapons and explosives, but since most of the equipment was in sealed boxes, conceivably tripped against theft, he let them be and concentrated on the single gun. There was only so much pacing one could do in the Frenchman’s flat on the Rua das Lorchas overlooking Macao’s Porto Interior—or Inner Harbor—and they had agreed he was not to go outside in daylight. Inside, he was as safe as he could be anywhere in Macao. D’Anjou, who changed residences at will and whim, had rented the waterfront apartment less than two weeks ago using a false name and a lawyer he had never met, who in turn employed a “rentor” to sign the lease, which the attorney sent by messenger to his unknown client by way of the checkroom at the crowded Floating Casino. Such were the ways of Philippe d’Anjou, formerly Echo of Medusa.
Jason reassembled the weapon, depressed the shells in the magazine, and cracked it up through the handle. He got out of the chair and walked to the window, the gun in his hand. Across the expanse of water was the People’s Republic, so accessible for anyone who knew the procedures arising from simple human greed. There was nothing new under the sun since the time of the pharaohs where borders were concerned. They were erected to be crossed—one way or another.
He looked at his watch. It was close to five o’clock; the afternoon sun was descending. D’Anjou had called him from Hong Kong at noon. The Frenchman had gone to the Peninsula with Bourne’s room key, packed his suitcase without checking out, and was taking the one o’clock jetfoil back to Macao. Where was he? The trip took barely an hour, and from the Macao pier to the Rua das Lorchas was no more than ten minutes by cab. But then predictability was not Echo’s strong suit.
Fragments of the Medusa memories came back to Jason, triggered by the presence of d’Anjou. Although painful and frightening, certain impressions provided a certain comfort, again thanks to the Frenchman. Not only was d’Anjou a consummate liar when it counted most and an opportunist of the first rank, but he was extraordinarily resourceful. Above all, the Frenchman was a pragmatist. He had proven that in Paris, and those memories were clear. If he was delayed, there was a good reason. If he did not appear, he was dead. And this last was unacceptable to Bourne. D’Anjou was in a position to do something Jason wanted above all to do himself but dared not risk Marie’s life in doing it. It was risk enough that the trail of the impostor-assassin had brought him to Macao in the first place, but as long as he stayed away from the Lisboa Hotel he trusted his instincts. He would remain hidden from those looking for him—looking for someone who even vaguely resembled him in height, or build, or coloring. Someone asking questions in the Lisboa Hotel.
One call from the Lisboa to the taipan in Hong Kong and Marie was dead. The taipan had not merely threatened—threats were too often a meaningless ploy—he had used a far more lethal expedient. After shouting and crashing his large hand on the arm of the fragile chair, he had quietly given his word: Marie would die. It was a promise made by a man who kept his promises, kept his word.
Yet for all that, David Webb sensed something he could not define. There was about the huge taipan something a bit larger than life, too operatic, that had nothing to do with his size. It was if he had used his immense girth to advantage in a way that large men rarely do, preferring to let only their sheer size do the impressing. Who was the taipan? The answer was at the Lisboa Hotel, and since he dared not go there himself, d’Anjou’s skills could serve him. He had told the Frenchman very little; he would tell him more now. He would describe a brutal double killing, the weapon an Uzi, and say that one of the victims was a powerful taipan’s wife. D’Anjou would ask the questions he could not ask, and if there were answers he would take another step toward Marie.
Play the scenario.—Alexander Conklin.
Whose scenario?—David Webb.
You’re wasting time!—Jason Bourne. Find the impostor. Take him!
Quiet footsteps in the outside hallway. Jason spun away from the window and raced silently to the wall, pressing his back against it, the gun leveled at the door, where the swinging panel would conceal him. A key was cautiously, quietly inserted. The door swung slowly open.
Bourne crashed it back into the intruder, spinning around and grabbing the stunned figure in the frame. He yanked him inside and kicked the door shut, the weapon aimed at the head of the fallen man, who had dropped a suitcase and a very large package. It was d’Anjou.
“That’s one way to get your head blown off, Echo!”
“Sacre-bleu! It is also the last time I will ever be considerate of you! You don’t see yourself, Delta. You look as you did in Tam Quan, without sleep for days. I thought you might be resting.”
Another memory, briefly flashed. “In Tam Quan,” said Jason, “you told me I had to sleep, didn’t you? We hid in the brush and you formed a circle around me and damn near gave me an order to get some rest.”
“It was purely a self-serving request. We couldn’t get ourselves out of there, only you could.”
“You said something to me then. What was it? I listened.”
“I explained that rest was as much a weapon as any blunt instrument or firing mechanism man had ever devised.”
“I used a variation later. It became an axiom for me.”
“I’m so glad you had the intelligence to listen to your elders. May I please rise? Will you please lower that damned gun?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“We have no time,” said d’Anjou, getting up and leaving the suitcase on the floor. He tore the brown paper off the large package. Inside were pressed khaki clothes, two belted holsters and two visored hats; he threw them all on a chair. “These are uniforms. I have the proper identifications in my pocket. I am afraid I outrank you, Delta, but then age has its privileges.”
“They’re uniforms of the Hong Kong police.”
“Kowloon, to be precise. We may have our chance, Delta! It’s why I was so long getting back. Kai-tak Airport! The security is enormous, just what the impostor wants in order to show he’s better than you ever were! There’s no guarantee, of course, but I’d stake my life on it—it’s the classic challenge for an obsessed maniac. ‘Mount your forces, I’ll break through them!’ With one kill like that he reestablishes the legend of his utter invincibility. It’s him, I’m sure of it!”
“Start from the beginning,” ordered Bourne.
“As we dress, yes,” agreed the Frenchman, removing his shirt and unbuckling his trousers. “Hurry! I have a motor launch across the road. Four hundred horsepower. We can be in Kowloon in forty-five minutes. Here! This is yours! Mon Dieu, the money I’ve spent makes me want to vomit!”
“The PRC patrols,” said Jason, peeling off his clothes and reaching for the uniform. “They’ll shoot us out of the water!”
“Idiot, certain known boats are negotiated with by radio in code. There is, after all, honor among us. How do you think we run our merchandise? How do you think we survive? We meet in coves at the Chinese islands of Teh Sa Wei and payments are made. Hurry!”
“What about the airport? Why are you so sure it’s him?”
“The Crown governor. Assassination.”
“What?” shouted Bourne, stunned.
“I walked from the Peninsula to the Star Ferry with your suitcase. It’s only a short distance, and the ferry is far quicker than a taxi through the tunnel. As I passed the Kowloon Police Hill on Salisbury Road I saw seven patrol cars drive out at emergency speed, one behind the other, all turning left, which is not to the godown. It struck me as odd—yes, two or three for a local eruption, but seven? It was good joss, as these people say. I called my contact on the Hill and he was cooperative—it was also not much of an internal secret any longer. He said if I stayed around I’d see another ten cars, twenty vans, all heading out to Kai-tak within the next two hours. Those I saw were the advance search teams. They had received word through their underground sources that an attempt was to be made on the Crown governor’s life.”
“Specifics!” commanded Bourne harshly, buckling his trousers and reaching for the long khaki shirt that served as a jacket under the bullet-laden holster belt.
“The governor is flying in from Beijing tonight with his own entourage from the Foreign Office, as well as another Chinese negotiating delegation. There will be newspaper people, television crews, everyone. Both governments want full coverage. There is to be a joint meeting tomorrow between all the negotiators and leaders of the financial sector.”
“The ’97 treaty?”
“Yet another round in the endless verbosity about the Accords. But, for all our sakes, just pray they keep talking pleasantly.”
“The scenario,” said Jason softly, stopping all movement.
“What scenario?”
“The one you yourself brought up, the scenario that had the wires burning between Peking and Government House. Kill a Crown governor for the murder of a vice-premier? Then perhaps a foreign secretary for a ranking member of the Central Committee—a prime minister for a chairman? How far does it go? How many selected killings before the breaking point is reached? How long before the parent refuses to tolerate a disobedient child and marches into Hong Kong? Christ, it could happen. Someone wants it to happen!”
D’Anjou stood motionless, holding the wide belt of the holster with its ominous strand of brass-capped shells. “What I suggested was no more than speculation based on the random violence caused by an obsessed killer who accepts his contracts without discrimination. There’s enough greed and political corruption on both sides to justify that speculation. But what you’re suggesting, Delta, is quite different. You’re saying it’s a plan, an organized plan to disrupt Hong Kong to the point that the Mainland takes over.”
“The scenario,” repeated Jason Bourne. “The more complicated it gets, the simpler it appears.”
The rooftops of Kai-tak Airport were swarming with police, as were the gates and the tunnels, the immigration counters and the luggage areas. Outside, on the immense field of black tarmac, powerful floodlights were joined by roving, sharper searchlights probing every moving vehicle, every inch of visible ground. Television crews uncoiled cables under watching eyes, while interviewers standing behind sound trucks practiced pronunciation in a dozen languages. Reporters and photographers were kept beyond the gates as airport personnel shouted through the amplifiers that roped-off sections on the field would soon be available for all legitimate journalists with proper passes issued by the Kai-tak management. It was madness. And then the totally unexpected happened as a sudden rainstorm swept over the colony from the darkness of the western horizon. It was yet another autumn deluge.
“The impostor has good luck—good joss—as they say, doesn’t he?” said d’Anjou as he and Bourne in their uniforms marched with a phalanx of police through a covered walkway made of corrugated tin to one of the huge repair hangars. The hammering of the rain was deafening.
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” replied Jason. “He studied the weather reports from as far away as Sichuan. Every airport has them. He spotted it yesterday, if not two days ago. Weather’s a weapon, too, Echo.”
“Still, he could not dictate the arrival of the Crown governor on a Chinese aircraft. They are often hours late, usually hours late.”
“But not days, not usually. When did the Kowloon police get word of the attempt?”
“I asked specifically,” said the Frenchman. “Around eleven-thirty this morning.”
“And the plane from Peking was scheduled to arrive sometime this evening?”
“Yes, I told you that. The newspaper and the television people were ordered to be here by nine o’clock.”
“He studied the weather reports. Opportunities present themselves. You grab them.”
“And this is what you must do, Delta! Think like him, be him! It is our chance!”
“What do you think I’m doing?… When we get to the hangar, I want to break away. Can your ersatz identification make it possible?”
“I am a British Sector commander from the Mongkok Divisional Police.”
“What does that mean?”
“I really don’t know, but it was the best I could do.”
“You don’t sound British.”
“Who would know that out here at Kai-tak, old chap?”
“The British.”
“I’ll avoid them. My Chinese is better than yours. The Zhongguo ren will respect it. You’ll be free to roam.”
“I have to be,” said Jason Bourne. “If it’s your commando, I want him before anyone else spots him! Here. Now!”
Roped stanchions were moved out of the high-domed hangar by maintenance personnel in glossy yellow rain slickers. Then a truckload of the yellow coats arrived for the police contingents; men caught them as they were thrown out of the rear of the van. Putting them on, the police then formed several groups to receive instructions from their superiors. Order was rapidly emerging from the confusion compounded by the newly arrived, bewildered troops and the problems caused by the sudden downpour. It was the sort of order Bourne distrusted. It was too smooth, too conventional for the job they faced. Ranks of brightly dressed soldiers marching forward were in the wrong place with the wrong tactics when seeking out guerrillas—even one man trained in guerrilla warfare. Each policeman in his yellow slicker was both a warning and a target—and he was also something else. A pawn. Each could be replaced by another dressed the same way, by a killer who knew how to assume the look of his enemy.
Yet the strategy of infiltration for the purpose of a kill was suicidal, and Jason knew there was no such commitment on the part of his impostor. Unless … unless the weapon to be used had a sound level so low, the rain would eliminate it … but even then the target’s reaction could not be instantaneous. A cordon would immediately be erected around the killing ground at the first sign of the Crown governor’s collapse, every exit blocked, everyone in the vicinity ordered under guns to remain in place. A delayed reaction? A tiny air dart whose impact was no greater than a pinprick, a minor annoyance to be swatted away like a bothersome fly, as the lethal drop of poison entered the bloodstream to cause death slowly but inevitably, time not a consideration. It was a possibility, but again there were too many obstacles to surmount, too much accuracy demanded beyond the limits of an air-compressed weapon. The Crown governor would undoubtedly be wearing a protective vest, and targeting the face was out. Facial nerves exaggerated pain, and any foreign object making contact so close to the eyes would produce an immediate and dramatic reaction. That left the hands and the throat: the first were too small and conceivably could be moving too fast; the second was simply too limited an area. A high-powered rifle on a rooftop? A rifle of unquestioned accuracy with an infrared telescopic sight? Another possibility—an all too familiar yellow slicker replaced by one worn by an assassin. But again, it was suicidal, for such a weapon would produce an isolated explosion, and to mount a silencer would reduce the accuracy of the rifle to the point where it could not be trusted. The odds were against a killer on a rooftop. The kill would be too obvious.
And the kill was everything. Bourne understood that, especially under the circumstances. D’Anjou was right. All the factors were in place for a spectacular assassination. Carlos the Jackal could not ask for more—nor could Jason Bourne, reflected David Webb. To pull it off in spite of the extraordinary security would crown the new “Bourne” king of his sickening profession. Then how? Which option would he use? And after the decision was made, what avenue of escape would be most effective, most possible?
One of the television trucks with their complicated equipment was too obvious a means for an escape. The incoming aircraft’s maintenance crews were checked and double- and triple-checked; an outsider would be spotted instantly. All the journalists would pass through electronic gates that picked up an excess of ten milligrams of metal. And the rooftops were out. How, then?
“You’re cleared!” said d’Anjou, suddenly appearing at his side, holding a piece of paper in his hand. “This is signed by the prefect of the Kai-tak police.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you are a Jew trained by the Mossad in antiterrorist activities and posted to us in an exchange program. The word will be spread.”
“Good God, I don’t speak Hebrew!”
“Who here does? Shrug and continue in your tolerable French—which is spoken here but very badly. You’ll get away with it.”
“You’re impossible, you know that, don’t you?”
“I know that Delta, when he was our leader in Medusa, told Command Saigon that he would not go out in the field without ‘old Echo.’ ”
“I must have been out of my mind.”
“You were less in command of it then, I’ll grant you that.”
“Thanks a lot, Echo. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” said the Frenchman. “You are Delta. You will always be Delta.”
Removing the bright yellow rain slicker and the visored hat, Bourne walked outside and showed his clearance to the guards by the hangar doors. In the distance, the press was being herded through the electronic gates toward the roped stanchions. Microphones had been placed on the edge of the runway, and police vans were joined by motorcycle patrols forming a tight semicircle around the press conference area. The preparations were about complete, all the security forces in place, the media equipment in working order. The plane from Peking had obviously begun its descent in the downpour. It would land in a matter of minutes, minutes Jason wished could be extended. There were so many things to look for and so little time to search. Where? What? Everything was both possible and impossible. Which option would the killer use? What vantage point would he zero in on for the perfect kill? And how would he most logically escape from the killing ground alive?
Bourne had considered every option he could think of and ruled each out. Think again! And again! Only minutes left. Walk around and start at the beginning … the beginning. The premise: the assassination of the Crown governor. Conditions: seemingly airtight, with security police training guns from rooftops, blocking every entrance, every exit, every staircase and escalator, all in radio contact. The odds were overwhelmingly against. Suicide.… Yet it was these same heavily negative odds that the impostor-killer found irresistible. D’Anjou had been right again: with one spectacular kill under these conditions an assassin’s supremacy would be established—or reestablished. What had the Frenchman said? With one kill like that he reestablishes the legend of his invincibility.
Who? Where? How? Think! Look!
The downpour drenched his Kowloon police uniform. He continuously wiped the water from his face as he moved about peering at everyone and everything. Nothing! And then the muted roar of the jet engines could be heard in the distance. The jet from Peking was making its final approach at the far end of the runway. It was landing.
Jason studied the crowd standing inside the roped stanchions. An accommodating Hong Kong government, in deference to Peking and in the desire for “full coverage,” had supplied ponchos and squares of canvas and cheap pocket raincoats for all who wanted them. The Kai-tak personnel countered the media’s demands for an inside conference by stating simply—and wisely without explanation—that it was not in the interests of security. The statements would be short, an aggregate of no more than five or six minutes. Certainly the fine members of the journalistic establishment could tolerate a little rain for such an important event.
The photographers? Metal! Cameras were passed through the gates but not all “cameras” took pictures. A relatively simple device could be inserted and locked into a mount, a powerful firing mechanism that released a bullet—or a dart—with the assistance of a telescopic view-finder. Was that the way? Had the assassin taken that option, expecting to smash the “camera” under his feet and take another from his pocket as he moved swiftly to the outskirts of the crowd, his credentials as authentic as those of d’Anjou and the “antiterrorist” from the Mossad? It was possible.
The huge jet dropped onto the runway, and Bourne walked quickly into the roped-off area, approaching every photographer he could see, looking—looking for a man who looked like himself. There must have been two dozen men with cameras; he became frantic as the plane from Peking taxied toward the crowd, the flood- and searchlights now centered on the space around the microphones and the television crews. He went from one photographer to the next, rapidly ascertaining that the man could not be the killer, then looking again to see if postures were erect, faces cosmeticized. Again nothing! No one! He had to find him, take him! Before anyone else found him. The assassination was beside the point, it was irrelevant to him! Nothing mattered except Marie!
Go back to the beginning! Target—the Crown governor. Conditions—highly negative for a kill, the target under maximum security, undoubtedly protected by personal armor, the whole security corps orderly, disciplined, the officers in tight command.… The beginning? Something was missing. Go over it again. The Crown governor—the target, a single kill. Method of the kill: suicide ruled out everything but a delayed-reaction device—an air dart, a pellet—yet the demands of accuracy made such a weapon illogical, and the loud report of a conventional gun would instantly activate the entire security force. Delay? Delayed action, not reaction! The beginning, the first assumption, was wrong! The target was not just the Crown governor. Not a single kill but multiple killings, indiscriminate killings! How much more spectacular! How much more effective for a maniac who wanted to throw Hong Kong into chaos! And the chaos would begin instantly with the security forces. Disorder, escape!
Bourne’s mind was racing as he roamed through the crowd in the downpour, his eyes darting everywhere. He tried to recall every weapon he had ever known. A weapon that could be fired or released silently, unobtrusively from a restricted, densely populated area, its effect delayed long enough for the killer to reposition himself and make a clean escape. The only device that came to mind was a grenade, but he immediately dismissed it. Then the thought of time-fused dynamite or plastique struck him. The latter was far more manageable in terms of delays and concealment. The plastic explosives could be set in time spans of minutes and fractions of minutes rather than a few seconds only; they could be hidden in small boxes or in wrapped packages, even narrow briefcases—or thicker cases supposedly filled with photographic equipment, not necessarily carried by a photographer. He started again, going back into the crowd of reporters and photographers, his eyes scanning the black tarmac below trousers and skirts, looking for an isolated container that remained stationary on the hard asphalt. Logic made him concentrate on the rows of men and women nearest the roped-off runway. In his mind the “package” would be no more than twelve inches in length if it was thick, twenty if it was an attaché case. A smaller charge would not kill the negotiators of both governments. The airfield lights were strong, but they created myriad shadows, darker pockets within the darkness. He wished he had had the sense to carry a flashlight—he had always carried one, if only a penlight, for it, too, was a weapon! Why had he forgotten? Then to his astonishment he saw flashlight beams crisscrossing the black floor of the airfield, darting between the same trousers and skirts he had been peering beyond. The security police had arrived at the same theory, and why shouldn’t they? La Guardia Airport, 1972; Lod Airport, Tel Aviv, 1974; Rue de Bac, Paris, 1975; Harrods, London, 1982. And a half-dozen embassies from Teheran to Beirut, why shouldn’t they? They were current, he was not. His thinking was slow—and he could not allow that!
Who? Where?
The enormous 747 starship of the People’s Republic came into view like a great silver bird, its jet engines roaring through the deluge, whirring down as it was maneuvered into position on alien ground. The doors opened and the parade began. The two leaders of the British and the Chinese delegations emerged together. They waved and walked in unison down the metal staircase, one in the impeccable clothes of Whitehall, the other in the drab, rankless uniform of the People’s army. They were followed by two lines of aides and adjutants, Occidentals and Orientals doing their best to appear congenial with one another for the cameras. The leaders approached the microphones, and as the voices droned over the loudspeakers and through the rain the next minutes were a blur for Jason. A part of his mind was on the ceremony that was taking place under the floodlights, the larger part on the final search—for it would be final. If the impostor was there, he had to find him—before the kill, before the chaos! But, goddamn it, where? Bourne moved out beyond the ropes on the far right to get a better view of the proceedings. A guard objected; Jason showed the man his clearance and remained motionless, studying the television crews, their looks, their eyes, their equipment. If the assassin was among them, which one was he?
“We are jointly pleased to announce that further progress has been made with regard to the Accords. We of the United Kingdom …”
“We of the People’s Republic of China—the only true China on the face of the earth—express a desire to find a close communion with those who wish …”
The speeches were interrupted by each leader giving support to his counterpart, yet letting the world know there was still much to negotiate. There was tension beneath the civility, the verbal placebos, and the plastic smiles. And Jason found nothing he could focus on, nothing, so he wiped the rain from his face and nodded to the guard as he ducked under the rope and moved once again back through the crowd behind the stanchions. He threaded his way to the left side of the press conference.
Suddenly, Bourne’s eyes were drawn to a series of headlights in the downpour that curved into the runway at the far end of the field and rapidly accelerated toward the stationary aircraft. Then, as if on cue, there was a swelling of applause. The brief ceremony was over, signified by the arrival of the official limousines, each with a motorcycle escort driving up between the delegations and the roped-off crowd of journalists and photographers. Police surrounded the television trucks, ordering all but two preselected cameramen to get inside their vehicles.
It was the moment. If anything was going to happen, it would happen now. If an instrument of death was about to be placed, its charge to be exploded within the time span of a minute or less, it would have to be placed now!
Several feet to his left, he saw an officer of a police contingent, a tall man whose eyes were moving as rapidly as his own. Jason leaned toward the man and spoke in Chinese while holding out his clearance, shielding it from the rain with his hand. “I’m the man from the Mossad!” he yelled, trying to be heard through the applause.
“Yes, I know about you!” shouted the officer. “I was told. We’re grateful you’re here!”
“Do you have a flashlight—a torch?”
“Yes, of course. Do you want it?”
“Very much.”
“Here.”
“Clear me!” ordered Bourne, lifting the rope, gesturing for the officer to follow. “I haven’t time to show papers!”
“Certainly!” The Chinese followed, reaching out and intercepting a guard who was about to stop Jason—by shooting him if it was necessary. “Let him be! He’s one of us! He’s trained in this sort of thing!”
“The Jew from the Mossad?”
“It is he.”
“We were told. Thank you, sir.… But, of course, he can’t understand me.”
“Oddly enough, he does. He speaks Guangdong hua.”
“In Food Street there is what they call a Kosur restaurant that serves our dishes—”
Bourne was now between the row of limousines and the roped stanchions. As he walked down the line of rope, his flashlight directed below on the black tarmac, he gave orders in Chinese and English—shouting yet not shouting; the commands of a reasonable man looking, perhaps, for a lost object. One by one the men and women of the press moved back, explaining to those behind them. He approached the lead limousine; the flags of both Great Britain and the People’s Republic were displayed respectively on the right and left, indicating that England was the host, China the guest. The representatives rode together. Jason concentrated on the ground; the exalted passengers were about to enter the elongated vehicle with their most trusted aides amid sustained applause.
It happened, but Bourne was not sure what it was! His left shoulder touched another shoulder and the contact was electric. The man he had grazed first lurched forward and then had swung back with such ferocity that Jason was shoved off balance. He turned and looked at the man on the police escort motorcycle, then raised his flashlight to see through the dark plastic oval of the helmet.
Lightning struck, sharp, jagged bolts crashing into his skull, his eyes riveted as he tried to adjust to the incredible. He was staring at himself—from only years ago! The dark features behind the opaque bubble were his! It was the commando! The impostor! The assassin!
The eyes that stared back at him also showed panic, but they were quicker than Webb’s. A flattened, rigid hand lashed out, crashing into Jason’s throat, cutting off all speech and thought. Bourne fell back, unable to scream, grabbing his neck, as the assassin lurched off his motorcycle. He rushed past Jason and ducked under the rope.
Get him! Take him!… Marie! The words were absent—only hysterical thoughts screamed silently in Bourne’s mind. He retched, exploding the chop in his throat, and leaped over the rope, plunging into the crowd, following the path of fallen-away bodies that had been pummeled by the killer in his race to escape.
“Stop … him!” Only the last word emerged from Jason’s throat; it was a hoarse whisper. “Let me through!” Two words were audible, but no one was listening. From somewhere near the terminal a band was playing in the downpour.
The path was closed! There were only people, people, people! Find him! Take him! Marie! He’s gone! He’s disappeared! “Let me through!” he screamed, the words now clear but heeded by no one. He yanked and pulled and bucked his way to the edge of the crowd, another crowd facing him behind the glass doors of the terminal.
Nothing! No one! The killer was gone!
Killer? The kill!
It was the limousine, the lead limousine with the flags of both countries! That was the target! Somewhere in that car or beneath that car was the timed mechanism that would blow it to the skies, killing the leaders of both delegations. Result—the scenario … chaos. Takeover!
Bourne spun around, frantically looking for someone in authority. Twenty yards beyond the rope, standing at attention as the British anthem was being played, was an officer of the Kowloon police. Clipped to his belt was a radio. A chance! The limousines had started their stately procession toward an unseen gate in the airfield.
Jason yanked the rope, pulling it up, toppling a stanchion, and started running toward the short, erect Chinese officer. “Xun su!” he roared.
“Shemma?” replied the startled man, instinctively reaching for his holstered gun.
“Stop them! The cars, the limousines! The one in front!”
“What are you talking about? Who are you?”
Bourne nearly struck the man in frustration. “Mossad!” he screamed.
“You are the one from Israel? I’ve heard—”
“Listen to me! Get on that radio and tell them to stop! Get everyone out of that car! It’s going to blow! Now!”
Through the rain the officer looked up into Jason’s eyes, then nodded once and pulled the radio from his belt. “This is an emergency! Clear the channel and patch me to Red Star One. Immediately.”
“All the cars!” interrupted Bourne. “Tell them to peel away!”
“Change!” cried the police officer. “Alert all vehicles. Put me through!” And with his voice tense but controlled, the Chinese spoke clearly, emphasizing each word. “This is Colony Five and we have an emergency. With me is the man from the Mossad and I relay his instructions. They are to be complied with at once. Red Star One is to stop instantly and order everyone out of the vehicle, instructing them to run for cover. All other cars are to turn to the left toward the center of the field, away from Red Star One. Execute immediately!”
Stunned, the crowds watched as in the distance the engines roared in unison. Five limousines swung out of position, racing into the outer darkness of the airport. The first car screeched to a stop; the doors opened and men leaped out, running in all directions.
Eight seconds later it happened. The limousine called Red Star One exploded forty feet from an open gate. Flaming metal and shattered glass spiraled up into the downpour as the band music halted in midbreath.
Peking. 11:25 P.M.
Above the northern suburbs of Peking is a vast compound rarely spoken of, and certainly not for public inspection. The major reason is security, but there is also an element of embarrassment in this egalitarian society. For inside this sprawling, forested enclave in the hills are the villas of China’s most powerful figures. The compound is shrouded in secrecy, as befits a complex enclosed by a high wall of gray stone, the entrances guarded by seasoned army veterans, the dense woods within continuously patrolled by attack dogs. And if one were to speculate on the social or political relationships cultivated there, it should be noted that no villa can be seen from another, for each structure is surrounded by its own inner wall, and all personal guards are personally selected after years of obedience and trust. The name, when it is spoken, is Jade Tower Mountain, which refers not to a geological mountain, but to an immense hill that rises above the others. At one time or another, with the ebb and flow of political fortunes, such men as Mao Zedong, Liu Shaoqi, Lin Biao, and Zhou Enlai lived here. Among the residents now was a man shaping the economic destiny of the People’s Republic. The world press referred to him simply as Sheng, and the name was immediately recognizable. His full name was Sheng Chou Yang.
A brown sedan sped down the road fronting the imposing gray wall. It approached Gate Number Six, and as though preoccupied, the driver suddenly applied the brakes and the car sideslipped into the entrance, stopping inches from the bright orange barrier that reflected the beams of the headlights. A guard approached.
“Who is it you come to see and what is your name? I will need your official identification.”
“Minister Sheng,” said the driver. “And my name is not important, nor are my papers required. Please inform the minister’s residence that his emissary from Kowloon is here.”
The soldier shrugged. Such replies were standard at Jade Tower Mountain, and to press further might result in a conceivable transfer from this heavenly duty where the leftover food was beyond one’s imagination and even foreign beer was given for obedient and cooperative service. Still, the guard used the telephone. The visitor had to be admitted properly. To do otherwise could bring one to kneel in a field and be shot in the back of the head. The guard returned to the gatehouse and dialed the villa of Sheng Chou Yang.
“Admit him. Quickly!”
Without going back to the sedan, the guard pressed a button and the orange bar was raised. The car raced in, far too quickly over the gravel, thought the guard. The emissary was in a great hurry.
“Minister Sheng is in the garden,” said the army officer at the door, looking beyond the visitor, his eyes darting about, peering into the darkness. “Go to him.”
The emissary rushed through the front room filled with red lacquered furniture to an archway beyond which was a walled garden complete with four connecting lily ponds subtly lit with yellow lights beneath the water. Two intersecting paths of white gravel formed an X between the ponds, and low black wicker chairs and tables were placed at the far end of each path within an oval setting. Seated alone at the end of the eastern leg by the brick wall was a slender man of medium height, with close-cropped, prematurely gray hair and gaunt features. If there was anything about him that might startle someone meeting him for the first time, it was his eyes, for they were the dark eyes of a dead man, the lids never blinking even for an instant. Contrarily, they were also the eyes of a zealot whose blind dedication to a cause was the core of his strength; white heat was in the pupils, lightning in the orbs. These were the eyes of Sheng Chou Yang, and at the moment they were on fire.
“Tell me!” he roared, both hands gripping the black arms of the wicker chair. “Who does this?”
“It’s all a lie, Minister! We have checked with our people in Tel Aviv. There is no such man as was described. There is no agent from the Mossad in Kowloon! A lie!”
“What action did you take?”
“It is most confusing—”
“What action?”
“We are tracing an Englishman in the Mongkok whom no one seems to know about.”
“Fools and idiots! Idiots and fools! Whom have you spoken with?”
“Our key man in the Kowloon police. He is bewildered, and I’m sorry to say I think he is frightened. He made several references to Macao, and I did not like his voice.”
“He is dead.”
“I will transmit your instructions.”
“I’m afraid you cannot.” Sheng gestured with his left hand, his right in shadows, reaching beneath the low table. “Come pay your obedience to the Kuomintang,” he commanded.
The emissary approached the minister. He bowed low and reached for the great man’s left hand. Sheng lifted his right hand. In it was a gun.
An explosion followed, blowing the emissary’s head away. Fragments of skull and tissue seared into the lily ponds. The army officer appeared in the archway as the corpse sprang back from the impact with the white gravel.
“Dispose of him,” ordered Sheng. “He heard too much, learned too much … presumed too much.”
“Certainly, Minister.”
“And reach the man in Macao. I have instructions for him and they are to be implemented immediately, while the fires in Kowloon still light up the sky. I want him here.”
As the officer approached the dead courier, Sheng suddenly rose from the chair, and walked slowly to the edge of the nearest pond, his face illuminated by the lights beneath the water. He spoke once again, his voice flat but filled with purpose.
“Soon all of Hong Kong and the territories,” he said, staring at a lily pad. “Soon thereafter, all of China.”
“You lead, Minister,” said the officer, watching Sheng, his eyes glowing with devotion. “We follow. The march you promised has begun. We return to our Mother and the land will be ours again.”
“Yes, it will,” agreed Sheng Chou Yang. “We cannot be denied. I cannot be denied.”