“It was a trial, wasn’t it, Alex?” said Bourne, bewildered, the words floating, hesitant. “A military trial.”
“Yes, it was,” agreed Conklin. “But it wasn’t your trial, you weren’t the accused.”
“I wasn’t?”
“No. You were the one who brought charges, a rare thing for any of your group to do then, in or out of the field. A number of the army people tried to stop you but they couldn’t.… We’ll go into it later, discuss it later.”
“I want to discuss it now,” said Jason firmly. “That man is with the Jackal, right there in front of our eyes. I want to know who he is and what he is and why he’s here in Moscow—with the Jackal.”
“Later—”
“Now. Your friend Krupkin is helping us, which means he’s helping Marie and me and I’m grateful for his help. The colonel here is also on our side or we wouldn’t be seeing what’s on that screen at this moment. I want to know what happened between that man and me, and all of Langley’s security measures can go to hell. The more I know about him—now—the better I know what to ask for, what to expect.” Bourne suddenly turned to the Soviets. “For your information, there’s a period in my life I can’t completely remember, and that’s all you have to know. Go on, Alex.”
“I have trouble remembering last night,” said the colonel.
“Tell him what he wants to know, Aleksei. It can have no bearing on our interests. The Saigon chapter is closed, as is Kabul.”
“All right.” Conklin lowered himself into a chair and massaged his right calf; he tried to speak casually but the attempt was not wholly successful. “In December of 1970 one of your men was killed during a search-and-destroy patrol. It was called an accident of ‘friendly fire,’ but you knew better. You knew he was marked by some horseshit artists down south at headquarters; they had it in for him. He was a Cambodian and no saint by any means, but he knew all the contraband trails, so he was your point.”
“Just images,” interrupted Bourne. “All I get are fragments. I see but I can’t remember.”
“The facts aren’t important anymore; they’re buried along with several thousand other questionable events. Apparently a large narcotics deal went sour in the Triangle and your scout was held responsible, so a few hotshots in Saigon thought a lesson should be taught their gook runners. They flew up to your territory, went into the grass, and took him out like they were a VC advance unit. But you saw them from a piece of high ground and blew all your gaskets. You tracked them back to the helicopter pad and gave them a choice: Get in and you’d storm the chopper leaving no survivors, or they could come back with you to the base camp. They came back under your men’s guns and you forced Field Command to accept your multiple charges of murder. That’s when Ice-Cold Ogilvie showed up looking after his Saigon boys.”
“Then something happened, didn’t it? Something crazy—everything got confused, twisted.”
“It certainly did. Bryce got you on the stand and made you look like a maniac, a sullen pathological liar and a killer who, except for the war and your expertise, would be in a maximum security prison. He called you everything in the rotten black book and demanded that you reveal your real name—which you wouldn’t do, couldn’t do, because your first wife’s Cambodian family would have been slaughtered. He tried to tie you in verbal knots, and, failing that, threatened the military court with exposing the whole bastard battalion, which it also couldn’t allow.… Ogilvie’s thugs got off for lack of credible testimony, and after the trial you had to be physically restrained in the barracks until Ogilvie was airborne back to Saigon.”
“His name was Kwan Soo,” said Bourne dreamily, his head moving back and forth as if rejecting a nightmare. “He was a kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen, sending the drug money back to three villages so they could eat. There wasn’t any other way … oh, shit! What would any of us have done if our families were starving?”
“That wasn’t anything you could say at the trial and you knew it. You had to hold your tongue and take Ogilvie’s vicious crap. I came up and watched you and I never saw a man exercise such control over his hatred.”
“That isn’t the way I seem to recall it—what I can recall. Some of it’s coming back, not much, but some.”
“During that trial you adapted to the necessities of your immediate surroundings—you might say like a chameleon.” Their eyes locked, and Jason turned back to the television screen.
“And there he is with Carlos. It’s a small rotten world, isn’t it? Does he know I’m Jason Bourne?”
“How could he?” asked Conklin, getting out of the chair. “There was no Jason Bourne then. There wasn’t even a David, only a guerrilla they called Delta One. No names were used, remember?”
“I keep forgetting; what else is new?” Jason pointed at the screen. “Why is he in Moscow? Why did you say Medusa found the Jackal? Why?”
“Because he’s the law firm in New York.”
“What?” Bourne whipped his head toward Conklin. “He’s the—”
“The chairman of the board,” completed Alex, interrupting. “The Agency closed in and he got out. Two days ago.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” cried Jason angrily.
“Because I never thought for a moment we’d be standing here looking at that picture on the screen. I still can’t understand it, but I can’t deny it, either. Also, I saw no reason to bring up a name you might or might not remember, a personally very disturbing occurrence you might or might not remember. Why add an unnecessary complication? There’s enough stress.”
“All right, Aleksei!” said an agitated Krupkin, stepping forward. “I’ve heard words and names that evoke certain unpleasant memories for me, at any rate, and I think it behooves me to ask a question or two—specifically one. Just who is this Ogilvie that concerns you so? You’ve told us who he was in Saigon, but who is he now?”
“Why not?” Conklin asked himself quietly. “He’s a New York attorney who heads up an organization that’s spread throughout Europe and the Mediterranean. Initially, by pushing the right buttons in Washington, they bought up companies through extortion and leveraged buy-outs; they’ve cornered markets and set prices, and in the bargain they’ve moved into the killing game, employing some of the best professionals in the business. There’s hard evidence that they’ve contracted for the murder of various officials in the government and the military, the most recent example—with which you’re no doubt familiar—is General Teagarten, supreme commander of NATO.”
“Unbelievable!” whispered Krupkin.
“Jeez—Chrize!” intoned the peasant-colonel, his eyes bulging.
“Oh, they’re very creative, and Ogilvie’s the most inventive of all. He’s Superspider and he’s spun a hell of a web from Washington through every capital in Europe. Unfortunately for him, and thanks to my associate here, he was caught like a fly in his own spinning. He was about to be pounced on by people in Washington he couldn’t possibly corrupt, but he was tipped off and got out the day before yesterday.… Why he came to Moscow I haven’t the vaguest idea.”
“I may be able to answer that for you,” said Krupkin, glancing at the KGB colonel and nodding, as if to say It’s all right. “I know nothing—absolutely nothing—about any such killing as you speak of, indeed of any killing whatsoever. However, you could be describing an American enterprise in Europe that’s been servicing our interests for years.”
“In what way?” asked Alex.
“With all manner of restricted American technology, as well as armaments, matériel, spare parts for aircraft and weapons systems—even the aircraft and the weapons systems themselves on various occasions through the bloc countries. I tell you this knowing that you know I’d vehemently deny ever having said it.”
“Understood,” nodded Conklin. “What’s the name of this enterprise?”
“There’s no single name. Instead, there are fifty or sixty companies apparently under one umbrella but with so many different titles and origins it’s impossible to determine the specific relationships.”
“There’s a name and Ogilvie runs it,” said Alex.
“That crossed my mind,” said Krupkin, his eyes suddenly glass-cold, his expression that of an unrelenting zealot. “However, what appears to disturb you so about your American attorney, I can assure you is far, far outweighed by our own concerns.” Dimitri turned to the television set and the shakily stationary picture, his eyes now filled with anger. “The Soviet intelligence officer on that screen is General Rodchenko, second in command of the KGB and close adviser to the premier of the Soviet Union. Many things may be done in the name of Russian interests and without the premier’s knowledge, but in this day and age not in the areas you describe. My God, the supreme commander of NATO! And never—never—using the services of Carlos the Jackal! These embarrassments are no less than dangerous and frightening catastrophes.”
“Have you got any suggestions?” asked Conklin.
“A foolish question,” answered the colonel gruffly. “Arrest, then the Lubyanka … then silence.”
“There’s a problem with that solution,” said Alex. “The Central Intelligence Agency knows Ogilvie’s in Moscow.”
“So where is the problem? We rid us both of an unhealthy person and his crimes and go about our business.”
“It may seem strange to you, but the problem isn’t only with the unhealthy person and his crimes, even where the Soviet Union is concerned. It’s with the cover-up—where Washington’s concerned.”
The Komitet officer looked at Krupkin and spoke in Russian. “What is this one talking about?”
“It’s difficult for us to understand,” answered Dimitri in his native language, “still, for them it is a problem. Let me try to explain.”
“What’s he saying?” asked Bourne, annoyed.
“I think he’s about to give a civics lesson, U.S. style.”
“Such lessons more often than not fall on deaf ears in Washington,” interrupted Krupkin in English, then immediately resuming Russian, he addressed his KGB superior. “You see, comrade, no one in America would blame us for taking advantage of this Ogilvie’s criminal activities. They have a proverb they repeat so frequently that it covers oceans of guilt: ‘One does not look a gift horse in the mouth.’ ”
“What has a horse’s mouth got to do with gifts? From its tail comes manure for the farms; from its mouth, only spittle.”
“It loses something in the translation.… Nevertheless, this attorney, Ogilvie, obviously had a great many government connections, officials who overlooked his questionable practices for large sums of money, practices that entailed millions upon millions of dollars. Laws were circumvented, men killed, lies accepted as the truth; in essence, there was considerable corruption, and, as we know, the Americans are obsessed with corruption. They even label every progressive accommodation as potentially ‘corrupt,’ and there’s nothing older, more knowledgeable peoples can do about it. They hang out their soiled linen for all the world to see like a badge of honor.”
“Because it is,” broke in Alex, speaking English. “That’s something a lot of people here wouldn’t understand because you cover every accommodation you make, every crime you commit, every mouth you shut with a basket of roses.… However, considering pots and kettles and odious comparisons, I’ll dispense with a lecture. I’m just telling you that Ogilvie has to be sent back and all the accounts settled; that’s the ‘progressive accommodation’ you have to make.”
“I’m sure we’ll take it under advisement.”
“Not good enough,” said Conklin. “Let’s put it this way. Beyond accountability, there’s simply too much known—or will be in a matter of days—about his enterprise, including the connection to Teagarten’s death, for you to keep him here. Not only Washington, but the entire European community would dump on you. Talk of embarrassments, this is a beaut, to say nothing about the effects on trade, or your imports and exports—”
“You’ve made your point, Aleksei,” interrupted Krupkin. “Assuming this accommodation can be made, will it be clear that Moscow cooperated fully in bringing this American criminal back to American justice?”
“We obviously couldn’t do it without you. As the temporary field officer of record, I’ll swear to it before both intelligence committees of Congress, if need be.”
“And that we had nothing—absolutely nothing to do with the killings you mentioned, specifically the assassination of the supreme commander of NATO.”
“Absolutely clear. It was one of the major reasons for your cooperation. Your government was horrified by the assassination.”
Krupkin looked hard at Alex, his voice lower but stronger for it. He turned slowly, his eyes briefly on the television screen, then back to Conklin. “General Rodchenko?” he said. “What shall we do with General Rodchenko?”
“What you do with General Rodchenko is your business,” replied Alex quietly. “Neither Bourne nor I ever heard the name.”
“Da,” said Krupkin, nodding, again slowly. “And what you do with the Jackal in Soviet territory is your business, Aleksei. However, be assured we shall cooperate to the fullest degree.”
“How do we begin?” asked Jason impatiently.
“First things first.” Dimitri looked over at the KGB commissar. “Comrade, have you understood what we’ve said?”
“Enough so, Krupkin,” replied the heavyset peasant-colonel, walking to a telephone on an inlaid marble table against the wall. He picked up the phone and dialed; his call was answered immediately. “It is I,” said the commissar in Russian. “The third man in tape seven with Rodchenko and the priest, the one New York identified as the American named Ogilvie. As of now he is to be placed under our surveillance and he is not to leave Moscow.” The colonel suddenly arched his thick brows, his face growing red. “That order is countermanded! He is no longer the responsibility of Diplomatic Relations, he is now the sole property of the KGB.… A reason? Use your skull, potato head! Tell them we are convinced he is an American double agent whom those fools did not uncover. Then the usual garbage: harboring enemies of the state due to laxness, their exalted positions once again protected by the Komitet—that sort of thing. Also, you might mention that they should not look a gift horse in the mouth.… I don’t understand any more than you do, comrade, but those butterflies over there in their tight-fitting suits probably will. Alert the airports.” The commissar hung up.
“He did it,” said Conklin, turning to Bourne. “Ogilvie stays in Moscow.”
“I don’t give a goddamn about Ogilvie!” exploded Jason, his voice intense, his jaw pulsating. “I’m here for Carlos!”
“The priest?” asked the colonel, walking away from the table.
“That’s exactly who I mean.”
“Is simple. We put General Rodchenko on a very long rope that he cannot see or feel. You will be at the other end. He will meet his Jackal priest again.”
“That’s all I ask,” said Jason Bourne.
General Grigorie Rodchenko sat at a window table in the Lastochka restaurant by the Krymsky Bridge on the Moskva River. It was his favorite place for a midnight dinner; the lights on the bridge and on the slow-moving boats in the water were relaxing to the eye and therefore to the metabolism. He needed the calming atmosphere, for during the past two days things had been so unsettling. Had he been right or had he been wrong? Had his instincts been correct or far off the mark? He could not know at the moment, but those same instincts had enabled him to survive the mad Stalin as a youth, the blustering Khrushchev in middle age, and the inept Brezhnev a few years later. Now there was yet a new Russia under Gorbachev, a new Soviet Union, in fact, and his old age welcomed it. Perhaps things would relax a bit and long-standing enmities fade into a once hostile horizon. Still, horizons did not really change; they were always horizons, distant, flat, fired with color or darkness, but still distant, flat and unreachable.
He was a survivor, Rodchenko understood that, and a survivor protected himself on as many points of the compass as he could read. He also insinuated himself into as many degrees of that compass as possible. Therefore, he had labored diligently to become a trusted mouth to the chairman; he was an expert at gathering information for the Komitet; he was the initial conduit to the American enterprise known to him alone in Moscow as Medusa, through which extraordinary shipments had been made throughout Russia and the bloc nations. On the other hand, he was also a liaison to the monseigneur in Paris, Carlos the Jackal, whom he had either persuaded or bought off from contracts that might point to the Soviet Union. He had been the ultimate bureaucrat, working behind the scenes on the international stage, seeking neither applause nor celebrity, merely survival. Then why had he done what he did? Was it mere impetuousness born of weariness and fear and the sense of a plague-on-both-your-houses? No, it was a logical extension of events, consistent with the needs of his country and, above all, the absolute necessity that Moscow disassociate itself from both Medusa and the Jackal.
According to the consul general in New York, Bryce Ogilvie was finished in America. The consul’s suggestion was to find him asylum somewhere and, in exchange, gradually absorb his myriad assets in Europe. What worried the consul general in New York was not Ogilvie’s financial manipulations that broke more laws than there were courts to prosecute, but rather the killings, which as far as the consul could determine were wide-spread and included the murder of high U.S. government officials and, unless he was grossly mistaken, the assassination of the supreme commander of NATO. Compounding this chain of horrors was New York’s opinion that in order to save a number of his companies from confiscation, Ogilvie might have ordered additional killings in Europe, primarily of those few powerful executives in various firms who understood the complex international linkages that led back to a great law firm and the unspoken code name Medusa. Should those contracted murders take place while Ogilvie was in Moscow, questions might arise that Moscow could not tolerate. Therefore, get him in and out of the Soviet Union as fast as possible, a recommendation more easily made than accomplished.
Suddenly, Rodchenko reflected, into this danse macabre had come the paranoid monseigneur from Paris. It was imperative they meet immediately! Carlos had fairly screamed his demand over the arranged public telephone communication they employed, but every precaution had to be taken. The Jackal, as always, demanded a public place, with crowds, and numerous available exits, where he could circle like a hawk, never showing himself until his professional eyes were satisfied. Two calls later, from two different locations, the rendezvous was set. St. Basil’s Cathedral in Red Square during the height of the early evening’s summer tourist onslaught. In a darkened corner to the right of the altar where there were outside exits through the curtained walkways to the sacristy. Done!
Then, during that third telephone call, like a crack of thunder over the Black Sea, Grigorie Rodchenko was struck by an idea so dramatically bold, yet so patently obvious and simple, that he had momentarily lost his breath. It was the solution that would totally distance the Soviet government from any involvement or complicity with either the Jackal or Medusa’s Ogilvie should such distance be necessary in the eyes of the civilized world.
Quite simply, unknown to each other, bring the Jackal and Ogilvie together, if only for an instant, just long enough to get photographic evidence of their being seen within the same frame. It was all that was needed.
He had gone to Diplomatic Relations yesterday afternoon, having requested a short routine meeting with Ogilvie. During the extremely innocuous and very friendly conference, Rodchenko had waited for his opening—an opening he had engineered with precision, having done his research.
“You spend summers on Cape Cod, da?” the general had said.
“For me it’s weekends mainly. My wife and the children are there for the season.”
“When I was posted in Washington, I had two great American friends on Cape Cod. I spent several lovely, as you say, weekends with them. Perhaps you know my friends, the Frosts—Hardleigh and Carol Frost?”
“Of course I do. Like myself, he’s an attorney, specializes in maritime law. They live down the shore road in Dennis.”
“A very attractive lady, the Frost woman.”
“Very.”
“Da. Did you ever attempt to recruit her husband for your firm?”
“No. He has his own. Frost, Goldfarb and O’Shaunessy; they cover the waterfront, as it were, in Massachusetts.”
“I feel I almost know you, Mr. Ogilvie, if only through mutual friends.”
“I’m sorry we never met at the Cape.”
“Well, perhaps, I can take advantage of our near meeting—through mutual friends—and ask of you a favor, far less than the convenience I understand my government willingly affords you.”
“I’ve been given to understand the convenience is mutual,” said Ogilvie.
“Ahh, I know nothing of such diplomatic matters, but it is conceivable that I could intervene on your behalf if you would cooperate with us—with my small, although not insignificant, department.”
“What is it?”
“There is a priest, a socially oriented militant priest, who claims to be a Marxist agitator well known to the courts of New York City. He arrived only hours ago and demands a clandestine meeting only hours from now. There is simply no time to verify his claims, but as he insists he has a history of legal ‘persecutions’ in the courts of New York, as well as many photographs in the newspapers, you might recognize him.”
“I probably could, if he is who he says he is.”
“Da! And one way or another, we will certainly let it be known how you cooperated with us.”
It had been arranged. Ogilvie would be in the crowds at St. Basil’s Cathedral close to the meeting ground. When he saw Rodchenko approach a priest in the far corner to the right of the altar, he was to “come across” the KGB general casually, as if surprised. Their greeting would be brief to the point of discourtesy, so rapid and blurred as to be meaningless, the sort of encounter civilized but hostile acquaintances cannot avoid when they run into one another in a public place. Close proximity was also required, as the light was so dim and so cluttered with shadows that the attorney might not get a good look at the priest.
Ogilvie had performed with the expertise of an accomplished trial lawyer verbally trapping a prosecution’s witness with an objectionable inquiry and then shouting “I withdraw the question,” leaving the prosecutor speechless.
The Jackal had instantly turned away furiously but not before an obese elderly female, using a miniature camera that was the handle of her purse, had snapped a series of automatically advanced photographs with ultra high-speed film. That evidence was now in a vault in Rodchenko’s office. The file was titled Surveillance of the American Male B. Ogilvie.
On the page below the photograph showing the assassin and the American attorney together was the following: Subject with as yet unidentified contact during covert meeting at St. Basil’s Cathedral. Meeting covered eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Photographs sent to Paris for any possible verification. It is believed that the unidentified contact may be Carlos the Jackal.
Needless to say, Paris was working up a reply that included several photographic composites from the Deuxième Bureau and the Sûreté. The answer: Confirmed. Definitely the Jackal.
How shocking! And on Soviet soil.
The assassin, on the other hand, had proved to be less accommodating. After the brief, awkward confrontation with the American, Carlos had resumed his ice-cold inquisition, his burning savage self just below the frozen surface.
“They’re closing in on you!” said the Jackal.
“Who is?”
“The Komitet.”
“I am the Komitet!”
“Perhaps you’re mistaken.”
“Nothing goes on in the KGB without my knowledge. Where did you get this information?”
“Paris. Krupkin’s the source.”
“Krupkin will do anything to further himself, including the spreading of false information, even where I am concerned. He’s an enigma—one moment an efficient multilingual intelligence officer, the next a gossiping clown in French feathers, still again a pimp for traveling ministers. He can’t be taken seriously, not where serious matters are concerned.”
“I hope you’re right. I’ll reach you tomorrow, late in the evening. Will you be at home?”
“Not for a phone call from you. I’ll dine alone at the Lastochka, a late supper. What will you be doing tomorrow?”
“Making certain you are right.” The Jackal had disappeared into the crowds of the cathedral.
That was over twenty-four hours ago and Rodchenko had heard nothing to upset the schedule. Perhaps the psychopath had returned to Paris, somehow convinced that his paranoid suspicions were groundless, his need to keep moving, racing, flying all over Europe superseding his momentary panic. Who knew? Carlos, too, was an enigma. Part of him was a retarded sadist, a savant perhaps in the darkest methods of cruelty and killing, yet another part revealed a sick, twisted romantic, a brain-damaged adolescent reaching for a vision that wanted nothing to do with him. Who knew? The time was approaching when a bullet in his head was the answer.
Rodchenko raised his hand for the waiter; he would order coffee and brandy—the decent French brandy reserved for the true heroes of the Revolution, especially the survivors. Instead of the waiter, the manager of Lastochka came rushing to the table, carrying a telephone.
“There is an urgent call for you, General,” said the man in the loose-fitting black suit, placing the phone on the table and holding out the plastic knob of the extension cord that was to be placed into the walled receptacle.
“Thank you.” The manager left and Rodchenko inserted the device. “Yes?”
“You’re being watched wherever you go,” said the voice of the Jackal.
“By whom?”
“Your own people.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’ve been watching all day. Would you like me to describe the places you’ve been for the past thirty hours? Starting with drinks at a café on the Kalinin, a kiosk in the Arbat, the Slavyanky for lunch, an afternoon walk along the Luznekaya?”
“Stop it! Where are you?”
“Come outside the Lastochka. Slowly, casually. I’ll prove it to you.” The line went dead.
Rodchenko hung up and signaled the waiter for his check. The aproned man’s instant response was due less to the general’s status than to the fact that he was the last diner in the restaurant. Leaving his money on top of the bill, the old soldier said good night, walked through the dimly lit foyer to the entrance and let himself out. It was nearly 1:30 in the morning, and except for a few stragglers with too much vodka in them, the street was deserted. In moments an upright figure, silhouetted in the wash of a streetlamp, emerged from a storefront, perhaps thirty meters away on the right. It was the Jackal, still in the black cloth and the white collar of a priest. He beckoned the general to join him as he walked slowly to a dark brown car parked directly across the street. Rodchenko caught up with the assassin, now standing on the curb side of the vehicle, which faced the direction of the Lastochka restaurant.
Suddenly, the Jackal snapped on a flashlight, its powerful beam shooting through the open window of the car. The old soldier momentarily stopped breathing, his heavy-lidded eyes scanning the horrible scene in front of him. Across the seat, the KGB agent behind the wheel was arched back, his throat cut, a river of blood drenching his clothes. Immediately beyond the window was the second surveillance, his wrists and feet bound by wire, a thick rope strapped around his face, yanked taut against his gaping mouth, gagging him, permitting only a rattling, gasping cough. He was alive, his eyes wide in terror.
“The driver was trained at Novgorod,” said the general, no comment in his voice.
“I know,” replied Carlos. “I have his papers. That training’s not what it was, comrade.”
“This other one is Krupkin’s liaison here in Moscow. The son of a good friend, I’m told.”
“He’s mine now.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Rodchenko, staring at the Jackal.
“Correct a mistake,” answered Carlos as he raised his gun, the silencer in place, and fired three bullets into the general’s throat.