The Emergency Medical Service helicopter roared across Victoria Harbor past the out islands of the South China Sea toward Macao. The patrol boats of the People’s Republic had been apprised by way of the naval station in Gongbei; there would be no firing at the low-flying aircraft on an errand of mercy. As McAllister’s luck would have it, a visiting party official from Peking had been admitted to the Kiang Wu Hospital with a bleeding duodenal ulcer. He required RH-negative blood, which was continuously in short supply. Let them come, let them go. If the official were a peasant from the hills of Zhuhai, he’d be given the blood of a goat and let him hope for the best.
Bourne and the undersecretary of State wore the white, belted coveralls and caps of the Royal Medical Corps, with no rank of substance indicated on their sleeves; they were merely grousing subordinates ordered to carry blood to a Zhongguo ren belonging to a regime that was in the process of further dismantling the Empire. Everything was being done properly and efficiently in the new spirit of cooperation between the colony and its soon-to-be new masters. Let them come, let them go. It’s all a lifetime away and for us without meaning. We will not benefit. We never benefit. Not from them, not from those above.
The hospital’s rear parking area had been cleared of vehicles. Four searchlights outlined the threshold. The pilot shuttered the aircraft into vertical-hold, then began his descent, clammering down toward the concrete landing zone. The sight of the lights and the sound of the roaring helicopter had drawn crowds on the street beyond the hospital’s gates on the Rua Coelho do Amaral. That was all to the good, thought Bourne, looking down from the open hatchway. He trusted that even more onlookers would be attracted for the chopper’s departure in roughly five minutes as the slapping blades continued to rotate at slow speed, the searchlights remained on, and the cordon of police stayed in place—all signs of this most unusual activity. Crowds were the best that he and McAllister could hope for; in the confusion they could become part of the curious onlookers as two other men in the white coveralls of the Royal paramedics took their places by rushing to the aircraft, their bodies bent beneath the rotors, for the return trip to Hong Kong.
Grudgingly, Jason had to admire McAllister’s ability to move his chess pieces. The analyst had the convictions of his connivance. He knew which buttons to press to shift his pawns. In the current crisis the pawn was a doctor at the Kiang Wu Hospital who several years ago had diverted IMF medical funds to his own clinic on the Almirante Sergio. Since Washington was a sponsor of the International Monetary Fund, and since McAllister had caught the doctor with his hands in the till, he was in a position to expose him and had threatened to do so. Yet the doctor had prevailed. The physician had asked McAllister how he expected to replace him—there was a dearth of competent doctors in Macao. Would it not be better for the American to overlook his indiscretion if his clinic serviced the indigent? With records of such service? The choirboy in McAllister had capitulated, but not without remembering the doctor’s indiscretion—and his debt. It was being paid tonight.
“Come on!” yelled Bourne, rising and gripping one of the two canisters of blood. “Move!”
McAllister clung to a wall bar on the opposite side of the aircraft as the helicopter thump-crashed onto the cement. He was pale, his face frozen into a mask of itself. “These things are an abomination,” he mumbled. “Please wait till we’re settled.”
“We’re settled. It’s your schedule, analyst. Move.”
Directed by the police, they raced across the parking area to a pair of double doors held open by two nurses. Inside, a white-jacketed Oriental doctor, the inevitable stethoscope hanging from a pocket, grabbed McAllister’s arm.
“Good to see you again, sir,” he said in fluent but heavily accented English. “Although it is under curious circumstances—”
“So were yours three years ago,” broke in the analyst sharply, breathlessly, peremptorily cutting off the once-errant doctor. “Where do we go?”
“Follow me to the blood laboratory. It is at the end of the corridor. The head nurse will check the seals and sign the receipts, after which you will also follow me into another room where the two men who will take your places are waiting. Give them the receipts, change clothes, and they will leave.”
“Who are they?” asked Bourne. “Where did you find them?”
“Portuguese interns,” replied the doctor. “Unmonied young doctors sent from Pedroso to complete their residencies out here.”
“Explanations?” pressed Jason as they started down the hallway.
“None, actually,” answered the Macaoan. “What you call in English, ‘a trade.’ Perfectly legitimate. Two British medics who wish to spend a night over here and two overworked interns who deserve a night in Hong Kong. They will return on the hydrofoil in the morning. They’ll know nothing, they’ll suspect nothing. They will simply be pleased that an older doctor recognized their needs and deserts.”
“You found the right man, analyst.”
“He’s a thief.”
“You’re a whore.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
Once the canisters were delivered, the seals inspected, and the receipts signed, Bourne and McAllister followed the doctor into a locked adjacent office that held drug supplies and had its own door to the corridor, also locked. The two Portuguese interns were waiting in front of the glass cabinets; one was taller than the other and both were smiling. There were no introductions, just nods and a short statement by the doctor, addressing the undersecretary of State.
“On the basis of your descriptions—not that I needed yours—I’d say their sizes are about right, wouldn’t you?”
“They’ll do,” replied McAllister as he and Jason began removing the white coveralls. “These are outsized. If they run fast enough and keep their heads down, they’ll be okay. Tell them to leave the garments and the receipts with the pilot. He’s to sign us in once he gets to Hong Kong.” Bourne and the analyst changed into dark, rumpled trousers and loose-fitting jackets. Each handed his counterpart his coveralls and cap. McAllister said, “Tell them to hurry. Departure’s scheduled for less than two minutes.”
The doctor spoke in broken Portuguese, then turned back to the undersecretary. “The pilot can’t go anywhere without them, sir.”
“Everything’s timed and officially cleared down to the minute,” the analyst snapped, fear now in his voice. “There’s no room for someone to become any more curious than necessary. Everything has to be clockwork. Hurry!”
The interns dressed; the caps were low and in place and the receipts for the canisters of blood were in their pockets. The doctor issued his last instructions to the Americans as he handed them two orange hospital passes. “We’ll go out together; the door locks automatically. I will immediately escort our young doctors, thanking them loudly and profusely past the police ranks until they can dash to the aircraft. You head to the right, then left into the front lobby and the entrance. I hope—I really do hope—that our association, as pleasant as it has been, is now finished.”
“What are these for?” asked McAllister, holding up his hospital pass.
“Probably—hopefully—nothing. But in case you are stopped they explain your presence and you will not be questioned.”
“Why? What do they say?” There was no fact, no fragment of data, that the analyst could leave unexplained.
“Quite simply,” said the doctor, looking calmly at McAllister, “they describe you as indigent expatriates, totally without funds, whom I generously treat at my clinic without charge. For gonorrhea, to be precise. Naturally, there are the usual identifying features—height, approximate weight, hair and eye coloring, nationality. Yours are more complete, I’m afraid, as I had not met your friend. Naturally, again, there are duplicates in my files, and no one could mistake it was you, sir.”
“What?”
“Once you are out on the streets I believe my long-ago debt is canceled. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Gonorrhea?”
“Please, sir, as you say, we must hurry. Everything clockwork.” The doctor opened the door, ushered out the four men and instantly headed to the left with the two interns toward the side entrance and the medical helicopter.
“Let’s go,” whispered Bourne, touching McAllister’s arm and starting to the right.
“Did you hear that man?”
“You said he was a thief.”
“There are times when a person shouldn’t take that bromide about stealing from a thief too literally.”
“What does that mean?”
“Simply this,” said Jason Bourne, looking down at the analyst at his side. “He’s got you on several counts. Collusion, corrupt practices, and gonorrhea.”
“Oh, my God.”
They stood at the rear of the crowds by the high fence watching the helicopter roar up from the landing zone and then soar off into the night sky. One by one the searchlights were turned off, and the parking lot was once again lit by its dim lamps. Most of the police climbed into a van; those remaining walked casually back to their previous posts while several of them lighted cigarettes, as if to announce the excitement was over. The crowds began to disperse amid questions hurled at anyone and everyone. Who was it? Someone very important, no? What do you think happened? Do you think we’ll ever be told? Who cares? We had our show, so let’s have a drink, yes? Will you look at that woman? A first-class whore, I think, don’t you agree? She’s my first cousin, you bastard!
The excitement was over.
“Let’s go,” said Jason. “We have to move.”
“You know, Mr. Webb, you have two commands you use with irritating frequency. ‘Move’ and ‘Let’s go.’ ”
“They work.” Both men started across the Amaral.
“I’m as aware as you are that we must move quickly, only you haven’t explained where we’re going.”
“I know I haven’t,” said Bourne.
“I think it’s time you did.” They kept walking, with Bourne setting the pace. “You called me a whore,” continued the undersecretary.
“You are.”
“Because I agreed to do what I thought was right, what had to be done?”
“Because they used you. The boys in power used you and they’ll throw you away without thinking twice. You saw limousines and high-level conferences in your future and you couldn’t resist. You were willing to throw away my life without looking for an alternative—which is what you’re paid to do. You were willing to risk the life of my wife because the pull was too great. Dinners with the Forty Committee, perhaps even becoming a member; quiet, confidential meetings in the Oval Office with the celebrated Ambassador Havilland. To me that’s being a whore. Only, I repeat, they’ll throw you out without a second thought.”
Silence. For nearly a long Macao block. “You think I don’t know that, Mr. Bourne?”
“What?”
“That they’ll throw me out.”
Again Jason looked down at the meticulous bureaucrat at his side. “You know that?”
“Of course I do. I’m not in their league and they don’t want me in it. Oh, I’ve got the credentials and the mind, but I don’t have that extraordinary sense of performance that they have. I’m not prepossessing. I’d freeze in front of a television camera—although I watch idiots who do perform consistently make the most ridiculous errors. So, you see, I recognize my limitations. And since I can’t do what these men can do, I have to do what’s best for them and for the country. I have to think for them.”
“You thought for Havilland? You came to us in Maine and took my wife from me! There weren’t any other options in that swollen brain of yours?”
“None that I could come up with. None that covered everything as thoroughly as Havilland’s strategy. The assassin was the untraceable link to Sheng. If you could hunt him down and bring him in, it was the shortcut we needed to draw Sheng out.”
“You had a hell of a lot more confidence in me than I did.”
“We had confidence in Jason Bourne. In Cain—in the man from Medusa called Delta. You had the strongest motive possible: to get your wife back, the wife you love very much. And there would be no connection whatsoever to our government—”
“We smelled a covert scenario from the beginning!” exploded Bourne. “I smelled it, and so did Conklin.”
“Smelling isn’t tasting,” protested the analyst, as they rushed down a dark cobblestoned alley. “You knew nothing concrete that you could have divulged, no intermediary who pointed to Washington. You were obsessed with finding a killer who was posing as you so that an enraged taipan would return your wife to you—a man whose own wife had supposedly been murdered by the assassin who called himself Jason Bourne. At first I thought it was madness, but then I saw the serpentine logic of it all. Havilland was right. If there was one man alive who could bring in the assassin, and in that way neutralize Sheng, it was you. But you couldn’t have any connection to Washington. Therefore you had to be maneuvered within the framework of an extraordinary lie. Anything less, and you might have reacted more normally. You might have gone to the police, or to government authorities, people you knew in the past—what you could remember of the past, which was also to our advantage.”
“I did go to people I knew before.”
“And learned nothing except that the more you threatened to break silence, the more likely the government would put you back in therapy. After all, you came from Medusa and had a history of amnesia, even schizophrenia.”
“Conklin went to others—”
“And was initially told only enough for us to find out what he knew, what he’d pieced together. I gather he was once one of the best we had.”
“He was. He still is.”
“He put you beyond-salvage.”
“History. Under the circumstances, I might have done the same. He learned a lot more than I did in Washington.”
“He was led to believe exactly what he wanted to believe. It was one of Havilland’s really more brilliant strokes and done at a moment’s notice. Remember, Alexander Conklin is a burned-out, bitter man. He has no love for the world he spent his adult life in, nor for the people with whom he shared that life. He was told that a possible black operation may have gone off the wire, that the scenario may have been taken over by hostile elements.” McAllister paused as they emerged from the alley and rounded a corner in the late-night Macao crowds; colored lights were flashing everywhere. “It was back to the square-one lie, don’t you see?” continued the analyst. “Conklin was convinced that someone else had moved in, that your situation was hopeless and so was your wife’s unless you followed the new scenario run by the hostile elements that had taken over.”
“That’s what he told me,” said Jason, frowning, remembering the lounge at Dulles Airport and the tears that had come to his eyes. “He told me to play out the scenario.”
“He had no choice.” McAllister suddenly gripped Bourne’s arm, nodding toward a darkened storefront up ahead on the right. “We have to talk.”
“We are talking,” said the man from Medusa sharply. “I know where we’re going and there’s no time to lose.”
“You have to take the time,” insisted the analyst. The desperation in his voice forced Bourne to stop and look at him, and then to follow him into the recessed storefront. “Before you do anything, you have to understand.”
“What do I have to understand? The lies?”
“No, the truth.”
“You don’t know what the truth is,” said Jason.
“I know, perhaps better than you do. As you said, it’s my job. Havilland’s strategy would have proved sound had it not been for your wife. She escaped; she got away. She caused the strategy to fall apart.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then surely you’re aware of the fact that whether or not he’s identified her, Sheng knows about her and understands her importance.”
“I hadn’t thought about it one way or the other.”
“Think about it now. Lin Wenzu’s unit was penetrated when it and all of Hong Kong were searching for her. Catherine Staples was killed because she was linked to your wife and it was correctly perceived that through this mystery woman she either had learned too much or was closing in on some devastating truths. Sheng’s orders obviously are to eliminate all opposition, even potential opposition. As you saw in Peking, he’s a fanatic and sees substance where there are only shadows—enemies in every dark corner.”
“What’s your point?” asked Bourne impatiently.
“He’s also brilliant and his people are all over the colony.”
“When the story breaks in the morning papers and on television, he’ll make certain assumptions and have the house in Victoria Peak as well as MI-Six scrutinized every minute of every hour, even if he has to hold hostage the estate next door and once again infiltrate British Intelligence.”
“Goddamn it, what are you driving at?”
“He’ll find Havilland and then he’ll find your wife.”
“And?”
“Suppose you fail? Suppose you’re killed? Sheng won’t rest until he learns everything there is to learn. The key is undoubtedly the woman with Havilland, the tall woman everyone was looking for. She has to be because she’s the enigma at the center of the mystery and is connected to the ambassador. If anything happens to you, Havilland will be forced to let her go, and Sheng will have her picked up—at Kai-tak, or Honolulu or Los Angeles or New York. Believe me, Mr. Webb, he won’t stop until he’s caught her. He has to know what’s been mounted against him, and she is the key. There’s no one else.”
“Again, your point?”
“Everything could happen all over again with far more horrible results.”
“The scenario?” asked Jason, bloody images of the glen in the bird sanctuary assaulting him.
“Yes,” said the analyst firmly. “Only, this time your wife is taken for real, not simply as part of the strategy to recruit you. Sheng would make certain of it.”
“Not if he’s dead!”
“Probably not. However, there’s the very real risk of failure—that he’ll remain alive.”
“You’re trying to say something but you’re not saying it!”
“All right, I’ll say it now. As the assassin, you’re the link to Sheng, the one to reach him, but I’m the one who can draw him out.”
“You?”
“It was the reason I told the embassy to use my name in the press release. You see, Sheng knows me, and I listened carefully when you outlined your conspirator-for-a-conspirator theory to Havilland. He didn’t buy it and, frankly, I didn’t either. Sheng wouldn’t accept a conference with an unknown person, but he will with someone he knows.”
“Why with you?”
“Part truth, part lie,” said the analyst, repeating Bourne’s words.
“Thanks for listening so carefully. Now, explain that.”
“The truth first, Mr. Webb, or Bourne, or whatever you want to be called. Sheng is aware both of my contributions to my government and of my obvious lack of progress. I’m a bright but unseen, unknown bureaucrat who’s been passed over because I lack those qualities that could elevate me, lead me to a degree of prominence, and to lucrative jobs in the private sector. In a way, I’m like Alexander Conklin without his drinking problem, but not without a degree of his bitterness. I was as good as Sheng and he knew it, but he made it and I didn’t.”
“A touching confessional,” said Jason, impatiently again. “But why would he meet with you? How could you draw him out—for a kill, Mr. Analyst, and I trust you know what that means?”
“Because I want a piece of that Hong Kong pie of his. I was nearly killed last night. It was the final indignity, and now after all these years I want something for myself, for my family. That’s the lie.”
“You’re on tenth base. I can’t find you.”
“Because you’re not listening between the lines. That’s what I’m paid to do, remember?… I’ve had it. I’m at the end of my professional rope. I was sent over here to trace down and analyze a rumor out of Taiwan. This rumor about an economic conspiracy in Peking seemed to me to have substance, and if it was true, there could be only one source in Peking: my old counterpart from the Sino-American trade conferences, the power behind China’s new trade policies. Nothing like this could be done without him, not even contemplated. So I assumed there was at best enough substance for me to contact him, not to blow the whistle but officially to dispose of the rumor for a price. I could even go so far as to say I see nothing against my government’s interests, and certainly not against mine. The main point is that he’d have to meet with me.”
“Then what?”
“Then you’d tell me what to do. You said a demolitions ‘grunt’ could do it, so why can’t I? Except not with explosives, I couldn’t handle that. A weapon, instead.”
“You’d get killed.”
“I’ll accept the risk.”
“Why?”
“Because it has to be done, Havilland’s right about that. And the instant Sheng sees you’re not the impostor, that you’re the original assassin, the one who tried to kill him in that bird sanctuary, his guards would cut you down.”
“I never intended for him to see me,” said Bourne quietly. “You were going to take care of that, but not this way.”
In the shadows of the dark storefront, McAllister stared at the Medusan. “You’re taking me with you, aren’t you?” asked the analyst finally. “Force me, if you have to.”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. You wouldn’t have agreed so readily to my coming with you to Macao. You could have told me how to reach Sheng back at the airport and demanded that we give you a certain amount of time before we acted. We wouldn’t have violated it; we’re too frightened. Regardless, you can see now that you don’t have to force me. I even brought along my diplomatic passport.” McAllister paused for a single beat, then added, “And a second one that I removed from the technicians’ file—it belongs to that tall fellow who took the picture of you on the table.”
“You what?”
“All State Department technical personnel dealing in classified matters must surrender their passports. It’s a security measure and for their own protection—”
“I have three passports,” interrupted Jason. “How the hell do you think I got around?”
“We knew you had at least two based on the Bourne records. You used one of the previous names flying into Peking, the one that said you had brown eyes, not hazel. How did you manage that?”
“I wore glasses—clear glass. By way of a friend who uses an odd name and is better than anyone you’ve got.”
“Oh, yes. A black photographer and ID specialist who calls himself Cactus. Actually, he worked secretly for Treadstone, but then you obviously remembered that, or the fact that he used to come and visit you in Virginia. According to the records, he had to be let go because he deals with criminal elements.”
“If you touch him, I’ll blow you out of the bureaucratic waters.”
“There’s no intention of doing so. Right now, however, we’ll simply transfer one of the three photographs that best suits the features described in the technician’s passport.”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“Not at all. Diplomatic passports have considerable advantages, especially over here. They eliminate the time-consuming process of a temporary visa, and although I’m sure you have sources to buy one, this is easier. China wants our money, Mr. Bourne, and our technology. We’ll be passed through quickly and Sheng will be able to check immigration and ascertain that I am who I say I am. We’ll also be provided with priority transportation if we want it, and that might be important, depending upon our sequential telephone conversations with Sheng and his aides.”
“Our sequential what?”
“You’ll talk with his subordinates in whatever sequence is required. I’ll tell you what to say, but when the final clearance is given, I’ll speak with Sheng Chou Yang.”
“You’re a flake!” yelled Jason, as much into the dark glass of the storefront as at McAllister. “You’re an amateur in this kind of thing!”
“In what you do, I am, indeed. But not in what I do.”
“Why didn’t you tell Havilland about this grand plan of yours?”
“Because he wouldn’t have permitted it. He would have placed me under house arrest because he thinks I’m inadequate. He’ll always think so. I’m not a performer. I don’t have those glib answers that ring with sincerity but are also woefully uninformed. This, however, is different, and the performers see it so clearly because it’s all part of their global, macho theatrics. Economics aside, this is a conspiracy to undermine the leadership of a suspicious, authoritarian regime. And who’s at the core of this conspiracy that has to fail? Who are these infiltrators whom Peking trusts as its own? China’s most deeply committed enemies—their own brothers from the Kuomintang on Taiwan. Again, to use the vernacular, when the shit hits the fan—as it surely will—the performers on all sides will step up to the podiums and scream their screams of treason and righteous ‘internal revolt’ because there’s nothing else the performers can do. The embarrassment’s total, complete, and on the world’s stage, massive embarrassment leads to massive violence.”
It was Bourne’s turn to stare at the analyst. As he did, Marie’s words came to him, from a different context but not irrelevant in the present case. “That’s not an answer,” he said. “It’s a point of view, but it’s not an answer. Why you? I hope it’s not to prove your decency. That would be very foolish. Very dangerous.”
“Oddly enough,” said McAllister, frowning, briefly looking at the ground. “Where you and your wife are concerned, I suppose that’s part of it—a minor part.” The undersecretary of State raised his eyes and continued calmly, “But the basic reason, Mr. Bourne, is that I’m rather tired of being Edward Newington McAllister, maybe a brilliant but surely an inconsequential analyst. I’m the mind in the back room that’s brought out when things get too complicated, and then sent back after he’s rendered a judgment. You might say I’d like that chance for a moment in the sun—out of the back room, as it were.”
Jason studied the undersecretary in the shadows. “A couple of moments ago you said there was the risk of my failing, and I’m experienced. You’re not. Have you considered the consequences if you fail?”
“I don’t think I will.”
“You don’t think you will,” repeated Bourne flatly. “May I ask why?”
“I’ve thought it out.”
“That’s nice.”
“No, I mean it,” protested McAllister. “The strategy is fundamentally simple: to get Sheng alone with me. I can do that but you can’t do it for me. And you certainly can’t get him alone with you. All I need is a few seconds—and a weapon.”
“If I allowed it, I don’t know which would frighten me more. Your succeeding or your failing. May I remind you that you’re an undersecretary of State for the United States government? Suppose you’re caught? It’s goodbye, Charlie, for everyone.”
“I’ve considered that since the day I arrived back in Hong Kong.”
“You what?”
“For weeks I’ve thought that this might be the solution, that I might be the solution. The government’s covered. It’s all written down in my papers back on Victoria Peak, with a copy for Havilland and another set to be delivered to the Chinese consulate in Hong Kong in seventy-two hours. The ambassador may even have found his set by now. So, you see, there’s no turning back.”
“What the hell have you done!”
“Described what amounts to a blood feud between Sheng and myself. Given my record and the time I spent over here, as well as Sheng’s well-known penchant for secrecy, it’s actually quite plausible. Certainly his enemies in the Central Committee will leap at it. If I’m killed or captured, so much attention will be focused on Sheng, so many questions regardless of his denials, he won’t dare move—if he survives.”
“Good Christ, save me,” said Bourne, stunned.
“It’s not necessary for you to know the particulars, but you’ll recognize the main point of your conspirator-for-a-conspirator theory. In essence I accuse him of going back on his word, of cutting me out of his Hong Kong manipulations after I spent years secretly helping him develop the structure. He’s cutting me out because he doesn’t need me any longer and he knows I can’t possibly say anything because I’d be ruined. I wrote that I was even frightened for my life.”
“Forget it!” shouted Jason. “Forget the whole goddamned thing! It’s crazy!”
“You’re assuming I’ll fail. Or be captured. I’m assuming neither—with your help, of course.”
Bourne took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “I admire your courage, even your latent sense of decency, but there’s a better way and you can provide it. You’ll have your moment in the sun, Mr. Analyst, but not this way.”
“What way, then?” asked the undersecretary of State, now bewildered.
“I’ve seen you operate, and Conklin was right. You may be a son of a bitch but you’re something. You reach into the Foreign Office in London and know who can change the rules. You spent six years over here digging around the dirty-tricks business, tracking killers and thieves and the pimps of the Far East in the name of neighborly government policy. You know which button to press and where the bodies are buried. You even remembered a squirrely doctor here in Macao who owed you a favor and you made him pay.”
“That’s all second nature. One doesn’t easily forget such people.”
“Find me others. Find me killers for a price. Between you and Havilland the two of you can do it. You’re going to get on the phone to him and tell him these are my demands. He’s to transfer a million—five million if he has to—over here to Macao in the morning, and by midafternoon I want a killer unit here ready to go up into China. I’ll make the arrangements. I know a rendezvous that’s been used before in the hills of Guangdong; there are fields that can easily be reached by helicopter, where Sheng or his lieutenants used to meet with the commando. Once he gets my message he’ll make the trip, take my word for it. You just do your part. Dig around that head of yours and come up with three or four experienced scumbags. Tell them the risk is minimal and the price high. That’s your moment in the sun, Mr. Analyst. It should be irresistible. You’ll have something on Havilland for the rest of his life. He’ll make you his chief aide, probably Secretary of State, if you want it. He can’t afford not to.”
“Impossible,” said McAllister quietly, his eyes locked with Jason’s.
“Well, maybe Secretary of State’s a bit much—”
“What you have just suggested is impossible,” broke in the undersecretary.
“Are you telling me there aren’t such men, because if you are, you’re lying again.”
“I’m sure there are. I might even know of several and I’m sure others are on that list of names Lin gave you when he was playing the role of the white-suited taipan in the Walled City. But I wouldn’t touch them. Even if Havilland ordered me to, I’d refuse.”
“Then you don’t want Sheng! Everything you said was just another lie. Liar!”
“You’re wrong, I do want Sheng. But to use your words, not this way.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t put my government, my country, in that kind of compromised position. Actually, I think Havilland would agree with me. Hiring killers is too traceable, the transferring of money too traceable. Someone gets angry or boastful or drunk; he talks and an assassination is laid at Washington’s feet. I couldn’t be a part of that. I refer you to the Kennedys’ attempts on Castro’s life using the Mafia. Insanity.… No, Mr. Bourne, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“I’m not stuck with anyone! I can reach Sheng; you can’t!”
“Complicated issues can usually be reduced to simple equations if certain facts are remembered.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I insist we do things my way.”
“Why?”
“Because Havilland has your wife.”
“She’s with Conklin! With Mo Panov! He wouldn’t dare—”
“You don’t know him,” McAllister interrupted. “You insult him but you don’t know him. He’s like Sheng Chou Yang. He’ll stop at nothing. If I’m right—and I’m sure I am—Mrs. Webb, Mr. Conklin, and Dr. Panov are guests at the house in Victoria Peak for the duration.”
“Guests?”
“That house arrest I mentioned a few minutes ago.”
“Son of a bitch!” whispered Jason, the muscles in his face pulsating.
“Now, how do we reach Peking?”
With his eyes closed, Bourne answered. “A man at the Guangdong garrison named Soo Jiang. I speak to him in French and he leaves a message for us here in Macao. At a table in a casino.”
“Move!” said McAllister.