Darkness. The figure dressed in the uniform of a United States marine dropped down from the top of the wall at the rear of the grounds in the house on Victoria Peak. He crept to his left, passing a sheet of interwoven strands of barbed wire that filled a space where a section of the wall had been blown away, and proceeded around the edge of the property. Staying in the shadows, he raced across the lawn to the corner of the house. He peered around at the demolished bay windows of what had been a large Victorian study. In front of the shattered glass and the profusion of broken frames stood a marine guard, an M-16 rifle planted casually on the grass, the end of the barrel in his hand, a .45 automatic strapped to his belt. The addition of a rifle to the smaller weapon was a sign of max-alert—the intruder understood this, and smiled to see that the guard did not think it necessary to hold the M-16 in his hands. Marines and poised weapons were not welcome. The stock of a rifle would crash into a man’s head before he knew it was into its whip. The intruder waited for the opportune moment; it came when the guard’s chest swelled with a long yawn and his eyes briefly closed as he inhaled deeply. The intruder raced around the corner, springing off his feet, the wire of a garrote looping over the guard’s head. It was over in seconds. There was barely a sound.
The killer left the body where it lay, as it was far darker in this area of the grounds than elsewhere. Many of the rear floodlights had been shattered by the explosions. He got to his feet and edged his way to the next corner, where he took out a cigarette, lighting it with the cupped flame from a butane lighter. He then stepped out into the glare of the floodlights and walked casually around the corner toward the huge, charred French doors where a second marine was at his post on the brick steps. The intruder held the cigarette in his left hand, which covered his face as he drew on it.
“Out for a smoke?” asked the guard.
“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep,” said the man, with an American accent that was a product of the Southwest.
“Those fuckin’ cots weren’t made for sleeping. Just sit on one and you know it.… Hey, wait a minute! Who the hell are you?”
The marine had no chance to level his rifle. The intruder lunged, thrusting his knife straight into the guard’s throat with deadly accuracy, cutting off all sound, all life. The killer quickly dragged the corpse around the corner of the building and left it in the shadows. He wiped the blade off on the dead man’s uniform, reinserted it beneath his tunic, and returned to the French doors. He entered the house.
He walked down the long, dimly lit corridor at the end of which stood a third marine in front of a wide, sculptured door. The guard angled his rifle downward and looked at his watch. “You’re early,” he said. “I’m not due to be relieved for another hour and twenty minutes.”
“I’m not with this unit, buddy.”
“You with the Oahu group?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought they got you jokers out of here pronto and back to Hawaii. That’s the scuttlebutt.”
“A few of us were ordered to stay behind. We’re down at the consulate now. That guy, what’s-his-name, McAllister, has been taking our testimonies all night.”
“I tell you, pal, this whole goddamned thing is weird!”
“You got it, triple weird. By the way, where’s that fruitcake’s office? He sent me up here to bring him back his special pipe tobacco.”
“It figures. Mix some grass in it.”
“Which office?”
“Earlier I saw him and the doctor go in that first door on the right. Then later, before he left, he went in here.” The guard tilted his head to indicate the door behind him.
“Whose place is that?”
“I don’t know his name, but he’s the top banana. They call him the ambassador.”
The killer’s eyes narrowed. “The ambassador?”
“Yeah. The room’s fractured. Half of it’s blown apart by that fucking maniac, but the safe’s intact, which is why I’m here and another guy outside in the tulips. Must be a couple of million in there for extracurricular activities.”
“Or something else,” said the intruder softly. “The first door on the right, huh?” he added, turning and reaching under his tunic.
“Hold it,” said the marine. “Why didn’t the gate send word in here?” He reached for the hand-held radio strapped to his belt. “Sorry, but I’ve got to check you out, buddy. It’s standard—”
The killer threw his knife. As it plunged into the guard’s chest he hurled himself on the marine, his thumbs centering in on the man’s throat. Thirty seconds later he opened the door of Havilland’s office and dragged the dead man inside.
They crossed the border in full darkness, business suits and regimental ties replacing the rumpled, nondescript clothes they had worn previously. Added to their attire were two proper attaché cases strapped with diplomatique tape, indicating government documents beyond the scrutiny of immigration points. In truth, the cases held their weapons, as well as several additional items Bourne had picked up in d’Anjou’s flat after McAllister produced the sacrosanct plastic tape that was respected even by the People’s Republic—respected as long as China wanted the same courtesy extended to its own foreign service personnel. The conduit from Macao whose name was Wong—at least that was the name he offered—was impressed by the diplomatic passports, but for safety’s sake, as well as for the $20,000 American for which he said he felt a moral obligation, decided to prepare the border-crossing his way.
“It’s not as difficult as perhaps I led you to believe before, sir,” explained Wong. “Two of the guards are cousins on my blessed mother’s side—may she rest with the holy Jesus—and we help each other. I do more for them than they do for me, but then I am in a better position. Their stomachs are fuller than most in the city of Zhuhai Shi and both have television sets.”
“If they’re cousins,” said Jason, “why did you object to the watch I gave one of them before? You said it was too expensive.”
“Because he’ll sell it, sir, and I don’t care to see him spoiled. He’ll expect too much from me.”
On such considerations, thought Bourne, were the tightest borders in the world patrolled. Regardless, they were directed by Wong to enter the last gate on the right at precisely 8:55; he would cross separately a few minutes later. Their red-striped passports were studied, sent to an inside office, and amid many abrupt smiles on the part of a cousin, the honored diplomats were rapidly passed through. They were instantly welcomed to China by the prefect of the Zhuhai Shi–Guangdong Province Control who returned their passports. She was a short, broad-shouldered, muscular woman. Her English was obscured by a thick accent but was understandable.
“You have government business in Zhuhai Shi?” she asked, her smile belied by her clouded, vaguely hostile eyes. “The Guangdong garrison, perhaps? I can arrange auto transport, please?”
“Bu xiexie,” said the undersecretary of State, declining, and then for courtesy’s sake reverting to English to show respect for his host’s diligence in learning it. “It’s a minor conference, lasting for only a few hours, and we’ll return to Macao later tonight. We’ll be contacted here, so we’ll have some coffee and wait.”
“In my office, please?”
“Thank you, but I think not. Your people will be looking for us in the … kafie dian—the café.”
“Over on the left-right, sir. On the street. Welcome again to the People’s Republic.”
“Your courtesy will not be forgotten,” said McAllister, bowing.
“You are with thanks,” replied the heavyset woman, nodding and striding away.
“To use your words, analyst,” said Bourne, “you did that very well. But I should tell you she’s not on our side.”
“Of course not,” agreed the undersecretary. “She’s been instructed to call someone either here at the garrison or in Beijing confirming that we’ve crossed over. That someone will reach Sheng, and he’ll know it’s me—and you. No one else.”
“He’s airborne,” said Jason as they walked slowly toward the dimly lit coffee shop at the end of a dingy concrete walkway that emerged on the street. “He’s on his way here. Incidentally, we’ll be followed, you know that, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t know that,” replied McAllister, looking briefly at Bourne. “Sheng will be cautious. I’ve given him enough information to alarm him. If he thought there was only one file—which happens to be the truth—he might take chances, thinking he could buy it from me and kill me. But he thinks, or has to assume, that there’s a copy in Washington. That’s the one he wants destroyed. He won’t do anything to upset me or to make me panic and run. Remember, I’m the amateur and I frighten easily. I know him. He’s putting it all together now and is probably carrying more money to me than I’ve ever dreamed of. Of course, he expects to get it back once the files are destroyed and he does kill me. So, you see, I have a very strong reason not to fail—or not to succeed by failing.”
The man from Medusa again stared at the man from Washington. “You’ve really thought this out, haven’t you?”
“Thoroughly,” answered McAllister, looking straight ahead. “For weeks. Every detail. Frankly, I didn’t think you’d be a part of it because I thought you’d be dead, but I knew I could reach Sheng. Somehow—unofficially, of course. Any other way, including a confidential conference, would entail protocol, and even if I got him alone, without his aides, I couldn’t touch him. It would look like a government-sanctioned assassination. I considered reaching him directly, for old times’ sake, and using words that would trigger a response—pretty much what I did last night. As you said to Havilland, the simplest ways are usually the best. We tend to complicate things.”
“In your defense, you frequently have to. You can’t be caught with a smoking gun.”
“That’s such a trite expression,” said the analyst with a derisive laugh. “What does it mean? That you were led or misled into an error of inconsequential consequence? Policy doesn’t revolve around a single man’s embarrassment, or it shouldn’t. I’m constantly appalled by the people’s cries for righteousness when they have no idea, no concept, of how we have to deal.”
“Maybe the people every now and then want a straight answer.”
“They can’t have one,” said McAllister as they approached the door of the coffee shop, “because they couldn’t understand.”
Bourne stood in front of the door without opening it. “You’re blind,” he said, his eyes locked with the undersecretary’s. “I wasn’t given a straight answer, either, much less an explanation. You’ve been in Washington too long. You should try a couple of weeks in Cleveland or Bangor, Maine. It might broaden that perspective of yours.”
“Don’t lecture me, Mr. Bourne. Less than forty-six percent of our population care enough to cast a ballot—which determines the directions we take. It’s all left to us—the performers and the professional bureaucrats. We’re all you’ve got.… May we go inside, please? Your friend Mr. Wong said we were to spend only a few minutes being seen having coffee and then go out on the street. He said he’d meet us there in exactly twenty-five minutes, and twelve have already elapsed.”
“Twelve? Not ten or fifteen, but twelve?”
“Precisely.”
“What do we do if he’s two minutes late? Shoot him?”
“Very funny,” said the analyst, pushing the door open.
They walked out of the coffee shop and into the dark, bruised pavement of the run-down square fronting the Guangdong checkpoint. As it was a slow time at the gates, there were no more than a dozen people crossing the thoroughfare, disappearing into the darkness. Of the three streetlights in the immediate vicinity, only one was working, dimly. Visibility was poor. The twenty-five-minute mark passed, and was stretched to thirty, then approached thirty-eight. Bourne spoke.
“Something’s wrong. He should have made contact by now.”
“Two minutes and we shoot him?” said McAllister, instantly disliking his own attempt at humor. “I mean, I gathered that staying calm was everything.”
“For two minutes, not close to fifteen,” replied Jason. “It’s not normal,” he added softly, as if to himself. “On the other hand, it could be normally abnormal. He wants us to make contact with him.”
“I don’t understand—”
“You don’t have to. Just walk alongside me, as if we were strolling, passing the time until we’re met. If she sees us, the lady wrestler won’t be surprised. Chinese officials are notoriously late for conferences; they feel it gives them the advantage.”
“ ‘Let them sweat’?”
“Exactly. Only that’s not who we’re meeting now. Come on, let’s go to the left; it’s darker, away from the light. Be casual; talk about the weather, anything. Nod your head, shake it, shrug—just keep up steady, low-keyed movements.”
They walked for about fifty feet when it happened. “Kam Pek!” The name of the casino in Macao was whispered, shot out of the shadows beyond a deserted newsstand.
“Wong?”
“Stay where you are and make a show of conversation, but listen to me!”
“What’s happened?”
“You’re being followed.”
“Two points for a brilliant bureaucrat,” said Jason. “Any comment, Mr. Undersecretary?”
“It’s unexpected but not illogical,” answered McAllister. “A safeguard, perhaps. False passports abound over here, as we happen to know.”
“Queen Kong checked us out. Strike one.”
“Then, perhaps, to make sure we don’t link up with the kind of people you suggested last night,” whispered the analyst, his words too low to be heard by the Chinese conduit.
“That’s possible.” Bourne raised his voice slightly so that the conduit could hear him, his eyes on the border gate’s entrance. There was no one. “Who’s following us?”
“The Pig.”
“Soo Jiang?”
“Ever so, sir. It is why I must stay out of sight.”
“Anyone else?”
“No one that I could see, but I don’t know who is on the road to the hills.”
“I’ll take him out,” said the man from Medusa called Delta.
“No!” objected McAllister. “His orders from Sheng may include confirming that we remain alone, that we don’t meet others. You just agreed it was possible.”
“The only way he could do that is to reach others himself. He can’t do that—if he can’t do that. And your old friend wouldn’t permit a radio transmission while he’s in a plane or a chopper. It could be picked up.”
“Suppose there are specific signals—a flare or a powerful flashlight beamed up, telling the pilot everything’s clear?”
Jason looked at the analyst. “You do think things out.”
“There is a way,” said Wong from the shadows, “and it is a privilege I should like to reserve for myself, no additional charge.”
“What privilege?”
“I will kill the Pig. It will be done in such a way that cannot be compromised.”
“What?” Astonished, Bourne started to turn his head.
“Please, sir! Look straight ahead.”
“Sorry. But why?”
“He fornicates indiscriminately, threatening the women he favors with loss of employment for themselves and their husbands, even brothers and cousins. Over the past four years he has brought shame to many families, including mine on my blessed mother’s side.”
“Why hasn’t he been killed before now?”
“He travels with armed guards, even in Macao. Yet in spite of this, several attempts have been made by enraged men. They resulted in reprisals.”
“Reprisals?” asked McAllister quietly.
“People were chosen, again indiscriminately, and charged with stealing supplies and equipment from the garrison. The punishment for such crimes is death in the fields.”
“Jesus,” muttered Bourne. “I won’t ask questions. You’ve got reason enough. But how tonight?”
“His guards are not with him now. They may be waiting for him on the road to the hills, but they are not with him now. You start out, and if he follows you I will follow him. If he does not follow you, I will know that your journey will not be interrupted and I will catch up with you.”
“Catch up with us?” Bourne frowned.
“After I kill the Pig and leave his pig body in its proper and, for him, disgraceful place. The female toilet.”
“And if he does follow us?” asked Jason.
“My opportunity will come, even as I serve as your eyes. I will see his guards, but they will not see me. No matter what he does, the moment will be there when he separates himself, if only by a few feet in the darkness. It will be enough, and it will be assumed he has brought shame to one of his own men.”
“We’ll get started.”
“You know the way, sir.”
“As if I had a road map.”
“I will meet you at the base of the first hill beyond the high grass. Do you remember it?”
“It’d be hard to forget. I nearly bought a grave in China there.”
“After seven kilometers, head into forest toward the fields.”
“I intend to, you taught me. Have a good hunt, Wong.”
“I will, sir. I have reason enough.”
The two Americans walked across the ravaged old square, away from the dim light into complete darkness. An obese figure in civilian clothes watched them from the shadows of the concrete walkway. He looked at his watch and nodded, half smiling to himself in satisfaction. Colonel Soo Jiang then turned and walked back through the man-made tunnel into the stark immigration complex with iron gates and wooden booths and barbed wire in the distance, all bathed in dull gray light. He was greeted by the prefect of the Zhuhai Shi–Guangdong Province Control, who strode purposefully, martially, enthusiastically, toward him.
“They must be very important men, Colonel,” said the prefect, her eyes not at all hostile, but instead with a look that bordered on blind worship. And fear.
“Oh, they are, they are,” agreed the colonel.
“Surely they have to be for such an illustrious officer as yourself to make sure of their requirements. I made the telephone call to the man in Guangzhou, as you requested, and he thanked me, but he did not get my name—”
“I will make sure he has it,” Soo broke in wearily.
“And I will keep only my best people on the gates to greet them when they return later tonight to Macao.”
Soo looked at the woman. “That won’t be necessary. They will be taken to Beijing for strictly confidential, highest-level conferences. My orders are to remove all records of their having crossed the Guangdong border.”
“That confidential?”
“Ever so, Madame Comrade. These are secret affairs of state and must be kept as such even from your most intimate associates. Your office, please.”
“At once,” said the broad-shouldered woman, turning with military precision. “I have tea or coffee, and even the British whisky from Hong Kong.”
“Ah, yes, the British whisky. May I escort you, comrade? My work is finished.”
The two somewhat grotesquely Wagnerian figures marched in waddling lockstep toward the streaked glass door of the prefect’s office.
“Cigarettes!” whispered Bourne, gripping McAllister’s shoulder.
“Where?”
“Up ahead, off the road on the left. In the woods!”
“I didn’t see them.”
“You weren’t looking for them. They’re being cupped but they’re there. The barks of the trees get a touch of light one moment, then they’re dark the next. No rhythm, just erratic. Men smoking. Sometimes I think the Far East likes cigarettes more than sex.”
“What do we do?”
“Exactly what we’re doing, only louder.”
“What?”
“Keep walking and say whatever comes to mind. They won’t understand. I’m sure you know ‘Hiawatha’ or ‘Horatio on the Bridge,’ or in your wild college days maybe Aura Lee. Don’t sing, just say the words; it’ll keep your mind off things.”
“But why?”
“Because this is what you predicted. Sheng is making sure that we don’t link up with anyone who could be a threat to him. Let’s give him that reassurance, okay?”
“Oh, my God! Suppose one of them speaks English?”
“It’s highly unlikely, but if you’d rather, we’ll just improvise a conversation.”
“No, I’m not good at that. I hate parties and dinners, I never know what to say.”
“That’s why I suggested the doggerel. I’ll interrupt whenever you pause. Go ahead now, speak casually but rapidly. This is no place for Chinese scholars who speak fast English.… The cigarettes are out. They’ve spotted us! Go on!”
“Oh, Lord … very well. Ah, ah … ‘Sitting on O’Reilly’s porch, telling tales of blood and slaughter—’ ”
“That’s very appropriate!” said Jason, glaring at his pupil.
“ ‘Suddenly it came to me, why not shag O’Reilly’s daughter—’ ”
“Why, Edward, you constantly surprise me.”
“It’s an old fraternity song,” whispered the analyst.
“What? I can’t hear you, Edward. Speak up.”
“ ‘Fiddilly-eye-eee, fiddilly-eye-ohh, fiddilly-eye-eee to the one ball Reilly—’ ”
“That’s terrific!” interrupted Bourne as they passed the section of the woods where only seconds ago concealed men had been smoking. “I think your friend will appreciate your point of view. Any further thoughts?”
“I forgot the words.”
“Your thoughts, you mean. I’m sure they’ll come to you.”
“Something about ‘old man Reilly.’ … Oh, yes, I remember. First there was ‘Shag, shag and shag some more, shag until the fun was over,’ and then came old Reilly.… ‘Two horse pistols by his side, looking for the dog who shagged his daughter.’ I did remember.”
“You belong in a museum, if Ripley owns one.… But look at it this way, you can research the entire project back in Macao.”
“What project?… There was another that was always great fun. ‘A hundred bottles of beer on the wall, a hundred bottles of beer; one fell down’—Oh, Lord, it’s been so long. It was repetitious reduction—‘ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall—’ ”
“Forget it, they’re out of earshot.”
“Oh? Earshot? Thank God!”
“You sounded fine. If any of those clowns understood a word of English, they’re even more confused than I am. Well done, analyst. Come on, let’s walk faster.”
McAllister looked at Jason. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you? You prodded me into remembering something—anything—knowing I’d concentrate and not panic.”
Bourne did not answer; he simply made a statement. “Another hundred feet and you keep going by yourself.”
“What? You’re leaving me?”
“For about ten, maybe fifteen, minutes. Here, keep walking and angle your arm up so I can put my briefcase on it and open the damn thing.”
“Where are you going?” asked the undersecretary as the attaché case rested awkwardly on his left arm. Jason opened it, took out a long-bladed knife, and closed the case. “You can’t leave me alone!”
“You’ll be all right, nobody wants to stop you—us. If they did, it would have been done.”
“You mean that could have been an ambush?”
“I was counting on your analytical mind that it wasn’t. Take the case.”
“But what are you—”
“I have to see what’s back there. Keep walking.”
The man from Medusa spun off to his left and entered the woods at a turn in the road. Running rapidly, silently, instinctively avoiding the tangled underbrush at the first touch of resistance, he moved to his right in a wide semicircle. Minutes later he saw the glow of cigarettes, and, moving like a forest cat, crept closer and closer until he was within ten feet of the group of men. The intermittent moonlight, filtered through the massive trees, provided enough illumination for him to count the number. There were six, each armed with a lightweight machine gun strapped over his shoulders.… And there was something else, something that was strikingly inconsistent. Each of the men wore the four-buttoned, tailored uniforms of high officers in the army of the People’s Republic. And from the snatches of conversation he could hear, it was clear that they spoke Mandarin, not Cantonese, which was the normal dialect for soldiers, even officers, of the Guangdong garrison. These men were not from Guangdong. Sheng had flown in his own elite guard.
Suddenly, one of the officers snapped his lighter and looked at his watch. Bourne studied the face above the flame. He knew it, and seeing it confirmed his judgment. It was the face of the man who had tried to trap Echo by posing as a prisoner on the truck that terrible night, the officer Sheng treated with a degree of deference. A thinking killer with a soft voice.
“Xian zai, ” said the man, stating that the moment had come. He picked up a hand-held radio and spoke. “Da li shi, da li shi!” he barked, raising his party by the code name Marble. “They are alone, there is no one else. We will proceed as instructed. Prepare for the signal.”
The six officers rose in unison, adjusted their weapons, and extinguished their cigarettes by grinding them under their boots. They started rapidly for the back country road.
Bourne scrambled around on his hands and knees, got to his feet and raced through the woods. He had to reach McAllister before Sheng’s contingent closed in on him and saw through the sporadic moonlight that the analyst was alone. Should the guards become alarmed they might send a different “signal”: Conference aborted. He reached the turn in the road and ran faster, jumping over fallen branches other men would not see, slithering through vines and linked foliage others would not anticipate. In less than two minutes he sprang silently out of the woods at McAllister’s side.
“Good God!” gasped the undersecretary of State.
“Be quiet!”
“You’re a maniac!”
“Tell me about it.”
“It would take hours.” With trembling hands, McAllister handed Jason his attaché case. “At least, this didn’t explode.”
“I should have told you not to drop it or jar it too much.”
“Oh, Jesus!… Isn’t it time to get off the road? Wong said—”
“Forget it. We’re staying in plain view until we reach the field on the second hill, then you’ll be more in view than me. Hurry up. Some kind of signal’s going to be given, which means you were right again. A pilot’s going to get clearance to land—no radio communication, just a light.”
“We’re to meet Wong somewhere. At the base of the first hill, I think he said.”
“We’ll give him a couple of minutes, but I think we can forget him, too. He’ll see what I saw, and if it were me, I’d head back to Macao and twenty thousand, American, and say I lost my way.”
“What did you see?”
“Six men armed with enough firepower to defoliate one of the hills here.”
“Oh, my God, we’ll never get out!”
“Don’t give up yet. That’s one of the things I’ve been thinking about.” Bourne turned to McAllister as he quickened their pace. “On the other hand,” he added, his voice deadly serious. “The risk was always there—doing things your way.”
“Yes, I know. I won’t panic. I will not panic.” The woods were suddenly gone; the dirt road now cut a path through fields of tall grass. “What do you think those men are here for?” asked the analyst.
“Backups in case of a trap, which any low life in this business would think it was. I told you that, and you didn’t want to believe me. But if something you said is accurate, and I think it is, they’ll stay far out of sight—to make sure you won’t panic and run. If that’s the case, it’ll be our way out.”
“How?”
“Head to the right, through the field,” replied Jason without answering the question. “I’ll give Wong five minutes, unless we spot a signal somewhere or hear a plane, but no more. And that long only because I really want the pair of eyes I paid for.”
“Could he get around those men without being seen?”
“He can if he’s not on his way back to Macao.”
They reached the end of the field of high grass and the base of the first hill where trees rose out of the ascending ground. Bourne looked at his watch, then at McAllister. “Let’s get up there, out of sight,” he said, gesturing at the trees above them. “I’ll stay here; you go up farther, but don’t walk out on that field, don’t expose yourself, stay at the edge. If you see any lights or hear a plane, whistle. You can whistle, can’t you?”
“Actually, not very well. When the children were younger and we had a dog, a golden retriever—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Throw rocks down through the trees, I’ll hear them. Go on!”
“Yes, I understand. Move.”
Delta—for he was Delta now—began his vigil. The moonlight was constantly intercepted by the drifting, low-flying clouds and he kept straining his eyes, scanning the field of tall grass, looking for a break in the monotonous pattern, for bent reeds moving toward the base of the hill, toward him. Three minutes passed, and he had nearly decided it was a waste of time when a man suddenly lurched out of the grass on his right and plunged into the foliage. Bourne lowered his attaché case and pulled the long knife from his belt.
“Kam Pek!” whispered the man.
“Wong?”
“Yes, sir,” said the conduit, walking around the trunks of trees, approaching Jason. “I am greeted with a knife?”
“There are a few other people back there, and frankly, I didn’t think you’d show up. I told you you could get out if the risks looked too great. I didn’t think it’d happen so early on, but I would have accepted it. Those are impressive weapons they’re carrying.”
“I might have taken advantage of the situation, but, added to the money, you afforded me an act of immense gratification. For many others as well. More people than you can imagine will give thanks.”
“Soo the Pig?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait a minute,” said Bourne, alarmed. “Why are you so sure they’ll think one of those men did it?”
“What men?”
“That patrol of machine guns back there! They’re not from Guangdong, not from the garrison. They’re from Beijing!”
“The act took place in Zhuhai Shi. At the gate.”
“Goddamn you! You’ve blown everything! They were waiting for him!”
“If they were, sir, he never would have arrived.”
“What?”
“He was getting drunk with the prefect of the gate. He went to relieve himself, which was where I confronted him. He is now next door, lying in a soiled female commode, his throat slit, his genitals removed.”
“Good God … Then he didn’t follow us?”
“Nor did he show any indication of doing so.”
“I see—no, I don’t see. He was cut out of tonight. It’s strictly a Beijing operation. Yet he was the primary contact down here—”
“I would know nothing of such matters,” broke in Wong defensively.
“Oh, sorry. No, you wouldn’t.”
“Here are the eyes you hired, sir. Where do you wish me to look and what do you want me to do?”
“Did you have any trouble getting by that patrol in the road?”
“None. I saw them, they did not see me. They are now sitting in the woods at the edge of the field. If it would be of help to you, the man with the radio instructed the one he reached to leave once the ‘signal’ was given. I don’t know what that means, but I presume it concerns a helicopter.”
“You presume?”
“The Frenchman and I followed the English major here one night. It’s how I knew where to take you before. A helicopter landed and men came out to meet the Englishman.”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Told you, sir?”
“Never mind. Stay here. If that patrol across the field starts coming over, I want to know about it. I’ll be up in the field before the second hill, on the right. The same field where you and Echo saw the helicopter.”
“Echo?”
“The Frenchman.” Delta paused, thinking quickly. “You can’t light a match, you can’t draw attention to yourself—” Suddenly, there were the sharp if muted sounds of objects striking other objects. Trees! Rocks! McAllister was signaling him!
“Grab stones, pieces of wood or rocks, and keep throwing them into the woods on the right. I’ll hear them.”
“I will fill my pockets with some now.”
“I have no right to ask you this,” said Delta, picking up the attaché case, “but do you have a weapon?”
“A three-fifty-seven-caliber magnum with a beltful of ammunition, courtesy of my cousin on my mother’s side, may she rest with the holy Jesus.”
“I hope I don’t see you, and if I don’t, good-bye, Wong. Another part of me may not approve of you, but you’re a hell of a man. And believe me, you really did beat me last time.”
“No, sir, you bested me. But I would like to try again.”
“Forget it!” cried the man from Medusa, racing up the hill.
Like a giant, monstrous bird, its lower body pulsating with blinding light, the helicopter descended onto the field. As arranged, McAllister stood in full view, and, as expected, the chopper’s searchlight zeroed in on him. Also, as arranged, Jason Bourne was forty-odd yards away, in the shadows of the woods—visible, but not clearly. The rotors wound down to a grinding, abrasive halt. The silence was emphatic. The door opened, the stairs sprang out, and the slender, gray-haired Sheng Chou Yang walked down the steps, carrying a briefcase.
“So good to see you after all these years, Edward,” called out a taipan’s first son. “Would you care to inspect the aircraft? As you requested, there is no one but myself and my most trusted pilot.”
“No, Sheng, you can do it for me!” yelled McAllister, several hundred feet away, pulling a canister from inside his jacket and throwing it toward the helicopter. “Tell the pilot to step outside for a few minutes and spray the cabin. If there’s anyone inside, he—or they—will come out quickly.”
“This is so unlike you, Edward. Men like us know when to trust one another. We’re not fools.”
“Do it, Sheng!”
“Of course I will.” Under orders, the pilot stepped out of the aircraft. Sheng Chou Yang picked up the canister and sprayed the immobilizing fog into the helicopter. Several minutes elapsed; no one came out. “Are you satisfied, or should I blow the damn thing up, which would serve neither of us. Come, my friend, we’re beyond these games. We always were.”
“But you became what you are. I remained what I was.”
“We can correct that, Edward! I can demand your presence at all our conferences. I can elevate you to a position of prominence. You’ll be a star in the foreign service firmament.”
“It’s true, then, isn’t it? Everything in the file. You’re back. The Kuomintang is back in China—”
“Let’s talk quietly together, Edward.” Sheng glanced at the presumed assassin in the shadows, then gestured to his right. “This is a private matter.”
Bourne moved quickly; he raced to the aircraft while the two negotiators were standing with their backs to him. As the pilot climbed into the chopper and reached his seat, the man from Medusa was behind him.
“An jing!” whispered Jason, ordering the man to keep silent, his KG-9 machine pistol reinforcing the command. Before the stunned pilot could react, Bourne whipped a strip of heavy cloth over the man’s head, bridling it across the shocked, open mouth and yanked it taut. Then, pulling a long, thin nylon cord from his pocket, Jason lashed the man to the seat, pinning his arms. There would be no sudden lift-off.
Returning his weapon to the belt under his jacket, Bourne crawled out of the helicopter. The huge machine blocked his view of McAllister and Sheng Chou Yang, which meant that it blocked theirs of him. He walked rapidly back to his previous position, constantly turning his head, prepared to change direction if the two men emerged on either side of the aircraft; the chopper was his visual shield. He stopped; he was near enough; it was time to appear casual. He took out a cigarette and struck a match, lighting it. He then strolled aimlessly, to his left, to where he could just barely see the two figures on the other side of the helicopter. He wondered what was being said between the two enemies. He wondered what McAllister was waiting for.
Do it, analyst. Do it now! It’s your maximum opportunity. Every moment you delay you give away time, and time holds complications! Goddamn it, do it!
Bourne froze. He heard the sound of a stone hitting a tree close to where he had walked out on the field. Then another much nearer and another quickly following. It was Wong’s warning! Sheng’s patrol was crossing the field below!
Analyst, you’ll get us killed! If I run over and shoot, the sound will bring six men rushing us with more firepower than we can handle! For Christ’s sake, do it!
The man from Medusa stared at Sheng and McAllister, his self-hatred rising, close to exploding. He never should have let it happen this way. Death by the hands of an amateur, an embittered bureaucrat who wanted his moment in the sun.
“Kam Pek!” It was Wong! He had crossed through the woods on the second level and was behind him, concealed in the trees.
“Yes? I heard the stones.”
“You will not like what you hear now, sir.”
“What is it?”
“The patrol crawls up the hill.”
“It’s a protective action,” said Jason, his eyes riveted on the two figures in the field. “We may still be all right. They can’t see a hell of a lot.”
“I am not sure that matters, sir. They prepare themselves. I heard them—they’ve locked their weapons into firing positions.”
Bourne swallowed, a sense of futility spreading over him. For reasons he could not fathom, it was a reverse trap. “You’d better get out of here, Wong.”
“May I ask? Are these the people who killed the Frenchman?”
“Yes.”
“And for whom the Pig, Soo Jiang, has worked so obscenely these past four years?”
“Yes.”
“I believe I will stay, sir.”
Without saying a word, the man from Medusa walked back to his attaché case. He picked it up and threw it into the woods. “Open it,” he said. “If we get out of this, you can spend your days at the casino without picking up messages.”
“You’re gambling now, Wong.”
“Did you really think that we, the great warlords of the most ancient and cultured empire the world has ever known, would leave it to unwashed peasants and their ill-born offspring, schooled in the discredited theories of egalitarianism?” Sheng stood in front of McAllister; he held his briefcase across his chest with both hands. “They should be our slaves, not our rulers.”
“It was that kind of thinking that lost you the country—you, the leaders, not the people. They weren’t consulted. If they were, there might have been accommodations, compromises, and you would still have it.”
“One does not compromise with Marxist animals—or with liars. As I will not compromise with you, Edward.”
“What was that?”
With his left hand Sheng snapped his briefcase open and pulled out the file stolen from Victoria Peak. “Do you recognize it?” he asked calmly.
“I don’t believe it!”
“Believe, my old adversary. A little ingenuity can produce anything.”
“It’s impossible!”
“It’s here. In my hand. And the opening page clearly states that there is only one copy, to be sent by military escort under Ultra Maximum Security wherever it goes. Quite correctly, in my judgment, for your appraisal was accurate when we spoke over the telephone. The contents would inflame the Far East—make war unavoidable. The right-wingers in Beijing would march on Hong Kong—right-wingers there, you’d call them left on your side of the world. Foolish, isn’t it?”
“I had a copy made and sent to Washington,” broke in the undersecretary, quickly, quietly, firmly.
“I don’t believe that,” said Sheng. “All diplomatic transmissions, by telephone-computer or by pouch, must be cleared by the highest superior officer. The notorious Ambassador Havilland wouldn’t permit it, and the consulate wouldn’t touch it without his authorization.”
“I sent a copy to the Chinese consulate!” shouted McAllister. “You’re finished, Sheng!”
“Really? Who do you think receives all communications from all outside sources at our consulate in Hong Kong? Don’t bother to answer, I’ll do it for you. One of our people.” Sheng paused, his messianic eyes suddenly on fire. “We are everywhere, Edward! We will not be denied! We will have our nation back, our empire!”
“You’re insane. It can’t work. You’ll start a war!”
“Then it will be a just war! Governments across the world will have to choose. Individual rule or state rule. Freedom or tyranny!”
“Too few of you gave freedom and too many of you were tyrants.”
“We will prevail—one way or the other.”
“My God, that’s what you want! You want to push the world to the brink, force it to choose between annihilation and survival! That’s how you think you’ll get what you want, that the choice of survival will win out! This economic commission, your whole Hong Kong strategy, is just a beginning! You want to spread your poison to the whole Far East! You’re a zealot, you’re blind! Can’t you see the tragic consequences—”
“Our nation was stolen from us and we will have it back! We cannot be stopped! We march!”
“You can be stopped,” said McAllister quietly, his right hand edging to the fold in his jacket. “I’ll stop you.”
Suddenly, Sheng dropped his briefcase, revealing a gun. He fired as McAllister instinctively recoiled in terror, grabbing his shoulder.
“Dive!” roared Bourne, racing in front of the aircraft in the wash of its lights, releasing a burst of gunfire from his machine pistol. “Roll, roll! If you can move, roll away!”
“You!” Sheng screamed, firing two rapid shots down into the fallen undersecretary of State, then raising his weapon and repeatedly pulling the trigger, aiming at the zigzagging man from Medusa running toward him.
“For Echo!” shouted Bourne at the top of his lungs. “For the people you hacked to death! For the teacher on a rope you butchered! For the woman that you couldn’t stop—oh, Christ! For those two brothers, but mainly for Echo, you bastard!” A short burst exploded from the machine pistol—then no more, and no amount of pressure on the trigger could activate it! It was jammed! Jammed! Sheng knew it; he leveled his weapon carefully as Jason threw the gun down, pounding toward the killer. Sheng fired; Delta instinctively pivoted to his right, spinning in midair as he pulled his knife from his belt, then planted his foot on the ground, reversing direction, and abruptly lunged toward Sheng. The knife found its mark and the man from Medusa ripped open the fanatic’s chest. The actual killer of hundreds and would-be killer of millions was dead.
His hearing had been suspended; it wasn’t now. The patrol had raced out of the woods, bursts from machine guns filling the night and the field.… Other bursts came from beyond the helicopter—Wong had opened the attaché case and found what he needed. Two soldiers of the patrol fell; the remaining four dropped to the ground; one crawled back into the woods—he was shouting. The radio! He was reaching other men, other backups! How far away were they? How near?
Priorities! Bourne raced behind the aircraft and over to Wong, who was crouched by a tree at the edge of the woods. “There’s another one of those in there!” he whispered. “Give it to me!”
“Conserve your ammunition,” said Wong. “There’s not much more.”
“I know that. Stay here and pin them down as best you can but keep your fire low to the ground.”
“Where are you going, sir?”
“Circling back through the trees.”
“That’s what the Frenchman would have ordered me to do.”
“He was right. He was always right.” Jason dashed deeper into the woods with the bloody knife in his belt; his lungs were bursting, his legs straining, his eyes peering into the forest darkness. He threaded his way through the dense foliage as fast as he could, making as little noise as he could.
Two snaps! Thick twigs on the ground broken by having been stepped on! He saw the shrouded silhouette of a figure coming toward him and spun around the trunk of a tree. He knew who it was—the officer with the radio, the thoughtful, soft-spoken killer from the Beijing sanctuary, an experienced combat soldier: Take to the flanks and outflank. What he lacked was guerrilla training, and that lack would cost him his life. One did not step on thick objects in the forest.
The officer walked by, crouching. Jason sprang, his left arm encircling the man’s neck, the gun in his hand slammed against the soldier’s head, the knife once again doing its work. Bourne knelt down over the corpse, put his weapon in his belt, and took the officer’s powerful machine gun. He found two additional clips of ammunition; the odds were better now. It was even possible they would get out alive. Was McAllister alive? Or had a frustrated bureaucrat’s moment in the sun ended in perpetual darkness. Priorities!
He circled the field’s curving border to the point where he had entered it. Wong’s sporadic gunfire was keeping the three remaining men of Sheng’s elite patrol where they were, afraid to move. Suddenly, something made him turn around—a hum in the distance, a bright fleck in his eye. It was both! The sound was that of a racing engine, the fleck a moving searchlight scanning the dark sky. Above the descending trees he could make out a vehicle—a truck—with a searchlight mounted on its van, operated by an experienced hand. The truck sped off the road, obscured now by the high grass; only the bright searchlight was visible, moving faster and faster toward the base of the hill barely two hundred yards below. Priorities. Move!
“Hold fire!” Bourne roared, lurching away from his position. The three officers spun around in place on the ground, their machine guns erupting, bullets spraying the space from which the voice had come.
The man from Medusa stepped out. It was over in seconds as the powerful weapon blew up the earth and those killers who would have killed him.
“Wong!” he shouted, running into the field. “Come on! With me!” Seconds later he reached the bodies of McAllister and Sheng—one still alive, one a corpse. Jason bent over the analyst, who was moving both arms, his right hand stretched out, trying desperately to reach something. “Mac, can you hear me?”
“The file!” whispered the undersecretary of State. “Get the file!”
“What—?” Bourne looked over at the body of Sheng Chou Yang, and, in the dim wash of the moonlight, saw the last thing in the world he thought he would see. It was Sheng’s black-bordered dossier, one of the most secret, most explosive documents on earth. “Jesus Christ!” said Jason softly, reaching for it. “Listen to me, analyst!” Bourne raised his voice as Wong joined them. “We have to move you, and it may hurt, but we haven’t a choice!” He glanced up at Wong and continued, “There’s another patrol on its way here and it’s closing in. An emergency backup, and by my estimate they’ll be here in less than two minutes. Grit your teeth, Mr. Undersecretary. We move!”
Together Jason and Wong carried McAllister toward the helicopter. Suddenly, Bourne cried out. “Christ, wait a minute!… No, go on—you carry him,” he shouted to the conduit. “I have to go back!”
“Why?” whispered the undersecretary, in agony.
“What are you doing, sir?” cried Wong.
“Food for revisionist thought,” shouted Jason enigmatically as he raced back to the body of Sheng Chou Yang. When he reached it, he bent down and shoved a flat object under the dead man’s tunic. He rose and ran back to the aircraft as Wong was carefully, gently, placing McAllister across two of the backseats. Bourne leaped in the front, took out his knife and slashed the nylon cord that bound the pilot, then cut the cloth that gagged him. The pilot had a spasm of coughing and gasping; even before it subsided, Jason gave his orders.
“Kai feiji ba!” he shouted.
“You may speak English,” the pilot gasped. “I am fluent. It was a requirement.”
“Airborne, you son of a bitch! Now!”
The pilot snapped the switches and started the rotors as a swarm of soldiers, clearly visible in the helicopter’s lights, broke into the field. The new patrol instantly saw the five dead men of Sheng’s elite guard. The entire squad began firing at the slowly ascending aircraft.
“Get the hell out of here!” roared Jason.
“The armor on this equipment is Sheng’s armor,” said the pilot calmly. “Even the glass will withstand heavy fire. Where do we go?”
“Hong Kong!” shouted Bourne, astonished to see that the pilot, now ascending rapidly, powerfully, turned to him, smiling.
“Surely, the generous Americans or the benevolent British will grant me asylum, sir? It is a dream from the spirits!”
“I’ll be goddamned,” said the man from Medusa as they reached the first layer of low-flying clouds.
“This was a most efficient idea, sir;” said Wong from the shadows at the rear of the helicopter. “How did it occur to you?”
“It worked once before,” said Jason, lighting a cigarette. “History—even recent history—usually repeats itself.”
“Mr. Webb?” whispered McAllister.
“What is it, analyst? How are you feeling?”
“Never mind that. Why did you go back—back to Sheng?”
“To give him a farewell present. A bankbook. A confidential account in the Cayman Islands.”
“What?”
“It won’t do anybody any good. The names and the account numbers have been scissored out. But it’ll be interesting to see how Peking reacts to its existence, won’t it?”