Novgorod. To say it was incredible was to obliquely recognize the existence of credibility and that was nearly impossible. It was the ultimate fantasy, its optical illusions seemingly more real than reality, the phantasmagoria there to be touched, felt, used, entered into and departed from; it was a collective masterpiece of invention cut out of the immense forests along the Volkhov River. From the moment Bourne emerged from the deep underground tunnel below the water with its guards, gates and myriad cameras, he was as close to being in a state of shock while still being able to keep walking, observing, absorbing, thinking.
The American compound, presumably like those of the different countries, was broken up into sections, built on areas anywhere from two to five acres, each distinctly separate from the others. One area, erected on the banks of the river, might be the heart of a Maine waterfront village; another, farther inland, a small Southern town; yet another, a busy metropolitan city street. Each was completely “authentic” with the appropriate vehicular traffic, police, dress codes, shops, grocery and drug stores, gas stations and mock structures of buildings—many of which rose two stories high and were so real they had American hardware on the doors and windows. Obviously, as vital as the physical appearances was language—not merely the fluent use of English but the mastery of linguistic idiosyncrasies, the dialects that were characteristic of specific locations. As Jason wandered from one section to another he heard all around him the distinctive sounds. From New England Down East with its “eeahh” to Texas’s drawl and its familiar “you-alls”; from the gentle nasality of the Midwest to the loud abrasiveness of the large Eastern cities with the inevitable “know what I mean?” tacked on to conversational sentences, whether questions or statements. It was all incredible. It was not simply beyond belief, it made the true suspension of disbelief frighteningly viable.
He had been briefed on the flight from Vnokova by a late-middle-aged Novgorod graduate who had been urgently summoned from his Moscow apartment by Krupkin. The small, bald man was not only garrulously instructive, but in his own way mesmerizing. If anyone had ever told Jason Bourne that he was going to be briefed in depth by a Soviet espionage agent whose English was so laced with the Deep South that it sonorously floated out of his mouth with the essence of magnolias, he would have deemed the information preposterous.
“Good Lawd, Ah do miss those barbecues, especially the ribs. You know who grilled ’em best? That black fellow who I believed was such a good friend until he exposed me. Can you imagine? I thought he was one of those radicals. He turned out to be a boy from Dartmouth workin’ for the FBI. A lawyer, no less.… Hell, the exchange was made at Aeroflot in New York and we still write each other.”
“Adolescent games,” had mumbled Bourne.
“Games?… Oh yes, he was a mighty fine coach.”
“Coach?”
“Sure ’nuff. A few of us started a Little League in East Point. That’s right outside Atlanta.”
Incredible.
“May we concentrate on Novgorod, please?”
“Sutt’nly. Dimitri may have told you, I’m semiretired, but my pension requires that I spend five days a month there as a tak govorya—a ‘trainer,’ as you would say.”
“I didn’t understand what he meant.”
“Ah’ll explain.” The strange man whose voice belonged to the old Confederacy had been thorough.
Each compound at Novgorod was divided into three classes of personnel: the trainers, the candidates and operations. The last category included the KGB staff, guards and maintenance. The practical implementation of the Novgorod process was simple in structure. A compound’s staff created the daily training schedules for each individual section, and the trainers, both permanent and part-time retirees, commandeered all individual and group activities while the candidates carried them out, using only the language of the compound and the dialects of the specific areas in which they were located. No Russian was permitted; the rule was tested frequently by the trainers who would suddenly bark orders or insults in the native language, which the candidates could not acknowledge understanding.
“When you say assignments,” Bourne had asked, “what do you mean?”
“Situations, mah friend. Jest about anything you might think of. Like ordering lunch or dinner, or buying clothes, or fillin’ the tank of your car, requesting a specific gasoline … leaded or unleaded and the degrees of octane—all of which we don’t know a thing about here. Then, of course, there are the more dramatic events often unscheduled so as to test the candidates’ reactions. Say, an automobile accident necessitating conversations with ‘American’ police and the resulting insurance forms that must be filled out—you can give yourself away if you appear too ignorant.”
The little things, the insignificant things—they were vital. A back door at the Kubinka Armory. “What else?”
“So many inconsequential things that a person might not consider significant, but they can be. Say, being mugged in a city street at night—what should you do, what shouldn’t you do? Remember, many of our candidates, and all of the younger ones, are trained in self-defense, but depending upon the circumstances, it may not be advisable to use those skills. Questions of background could be raised. Discretion, always discretion.… For me, as an experienced part-time tak govorya, of course, I’ve always preferred the more imaginative situations which we are permitted to implement whenever we care to as long as they fall within the guidelines of environmental penetration.”
“What does that mean?”
“Learn always, but never appear to be learning. For example, a favorite of mine is to approach several candidates, say, at a bar in some ‘location’ near a military testing ground. I pretend to be a disgruntled government worker or perhaps an inebriated defense contractor—obviously someone with access to information—and start ladlin’ out classified material of recognized value.”
“Just for curiosity,” Bourne had interrupted, “under those circumstances how should candidates react?”
“Listen carefully and be prepared to write down every salient fact, all the while feigning total lack of interest and offering such remarks as”—here the Novgorod graduate’s Southern dialect became so rough-mountain South that the magnolias were replaced by sour mash—“ ‘Who gives a barrel a’ hogshit ’bout that stuff?’ and ‘They got any of them whoors over there lak people say they got?’ or ‘Don’t understand a fuckin’ word you’re talkin’ about, asshole—all Ah knows is that you’re borin’ the holy be-Jesus outta me!’ … that sort of thing.”
“Then what?”
“Later, each man is called in and told to list everything he learned—fact by salient fact.”
“What about passing along the information? Are there training procedures for that?”
Jason’s Soviet instructor had stared at him in silence for several moments from the adjacent seat in the small plane. “I’m sorry you had to ask the question,” he said slowly. “I’ll have to report it.”
“I didn’t have to ask it, I was simply curious. Forget I asked it.”
“I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”
“Do you trust Krupkin?”
“Of course I do. He’s brilliant, a multilingual phenomenon. A true hero of the Komitet.”
You don’t know the half of it, thought Bourne, but he said, with even a trace of reverence, “Then report it only to him. He’ll tell you it was just curiosity. I owe absolutely nothing to my government; instead, it owes me.”
“Very well.… Speakin’ of yourself, let’s get to you. With Dimitri’s authority I’ve made arrangements for your visit to Novgorod—please don’t tell me your objective; it’s not in my purview any more than the question you asked is in yours.”
“Understood. The arrangements?”
“You will make contact with a young trainer named Benjamin in the manner I will describe in a few moments. I’ll tell you this much about Benjamin so you’ll perhaps understand his attitude. His parents were Komitet officers assigned to the consulate in Los Angeles for nearly twenty years. He’s basically American-educated, his freshman and sophomore years at UCLA; in fact, until he and his father were hurriedly recalled to Moscow four years ago—”
“He and his father?”
“Yes. His mother was caught in an FBI sting operation at the naval base in San Diego. She has three more years to serve in prison. There is no clemency and no exchanges for a Russian ‘momma.’ ”
“Hey, wait a minute. Then it can’t be all our fault.”
“I didn’t say it was, Ah’m just relayin’ the facts.”
“Understood. I make contact with Benjamin.”
“He’s the only one who knows who you are—not by name, of course, you’ll use the name ‘Archie’—and he’ll furnish you with the necessary clearance to go from one compound to the other.”
“Papers?”
“He’ll explain. He’ll also watch you, be with you at all times, and, frankly, he’s been in touch with Comrade Krupkin and knows far more than I do—which is precisely the way this retired Georgia cracker likes it.… Good huntin’, polecat, if it’s huntin’ you’re after. Don’t rape no wooden Indians.”
Bourne followed the signs—everything was in English—to the city of Rockledge, Florida, fifteen miles southwest of NASA’s Cape Canaveral. He was to meet Benjamin at a lunch counter in the local Woolworth store, looking for a man in his mid-twenties wearing a red-checkered shirt, with a Budweiser baseball cap on the stool beside him, saving it. It was the hour, within the time span of minutes: 3:35 in the afternoon.
He saw him. The sandy-haired, California-educated Russian was seated at the far right end of the counter, the baseball cap on the stool to his left. There were half a dozen men and women along the row talking to one another and consuming soft drinks and snacks. Jason approached the empty seat, glanced down at the cap and spoke politely. “Is this taken?” he asked.
“I’m waiting for someone,” replied the young KGB trainer, his voice neutral, his gray eyes straying up to Bourne’s face.
“I’ll find another place.”
“She may not get here for another five minutes.”
“Hell, I’m just having a quick vanilla Coke. I’ll be out of here by then—”
“Sit down,” said Benjamin, removing the hat and casually putting it on his head. A gum-chewing counterman came by and Jason ordered; his drink arrived, and the Komitet trainer continued quietly, his eyes now on the foam of his milk shake, which he sipped through a straw. “So you’re Archie, like in the comics.”
“And you’re Benjamin. Nice to know you.”
“We’ll both find out if that’s a fact, won’t we?”
“Do we have a problem?”
“I want the ground rules clear so there won’t be one,” said the West Coast–bred Soviet. “I don’t approve of your being permitted in here. Regardless of my former address and the way I may sound, I haven’t much use for Americans.”
“Listen to me, Ben,” interrupted Bourne, his eyes forcing the trainer to look at him. “All things considered, I don’t approve of your mother still being in prison, either, but I didn’t put her there.”
“We free the dissidents and the Jews, but you insist on keeping a fifty-eight-year-old woman who was at best a simple courier!” whispered the Russian, spitting out the words.
“I don’t know the facts and I wouldn’t be too quick to call Moscow the mercy capital of the world, but if you can help me—really help me—maybe I can help your mother.”
“Goddamned bullshit promises. What the hell can you do?”
“To repeat what I said an hour ago to a bald-headed friend of yours in the plane, I don’t owe my government a thing, but it sure as hell owes me. Help me, Benjamin.”
“I will because I’ve been ordered to, not because of your con. But if you try to learn things that have nothing to do with your purpose here—you won’t get out. Clear?”
“It’s not only clear, it’s irrelevant and unnecessary. Beyond normal astonishment and curiosity, both of which I will suppress to the best of my ability, I haven’t the slightest interest in the objectives of Novgorod. Ultimately, in my opinion, they lead nowhere.… Although, I grant you, the whole complex beats the hell out of Disneyland.”
Benjamin’s involuntary laugh through the straw caused the foam on his milk shake to swell and burst. “Have you been to Anaheim?” he asked mischievously.
“I could never afford it.”
“We had diplomatic passes.”
“Christ, you’re human, after all. Come on, let’s take a walk and talk some turkey.”
They crossed over a miniature bridge into New London, Connecticut, home of America’s submarine construction, and strolled down to the Volkhov River, which in this area had been turned into a maximum security naval base—again, all in realistic miniature. High fences and armed “U.S. Marine” guards were stationed at the gates and patrolled the grounds fronting the concrete slips that held enormous mock-ups of the stallions of America’s nuclear undersea fleet.
“We have all the stations, all the schedules, every device and every reduced inch of the piers,” said Benjamin. “And we’ve yet to break the security procedures. Isn’t that crazy?”
“Not for a minute. We’re pretty good.”
“Yes, but we’re better. Except for minor pockets of discontent, we believe. You merely accept.”
“What?”
“Your crap notwithstanding, white America was never in slavery. We were.”
“That’s not only long-past history, young man, but rather selective history, isn’t it?”
“You sound like a professor.”
“Suppose I were?”
“I’d argue with you.”
“Only if you were in a sufficiently broad-minded environment that allowed you to argue with authority.”
“Oh, come on, cut the bullshit, man! The academic-freedom bromide is history. Check out our campuses. We’ve got rock and blue jeans and more grass than you can find the right paper to roll it in.”
“That’s progress?”
“Would you believe it’s a start?”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Can you really help my mother?”
“Can you really help me?”
“Let’s try.… Okay, this Carlos the Jackal. I’ve heard of him but he’s not large in my vocabulary. Direktor Krupkin says he’s one very bad dude.”
“I hear California checking in.”
“It comes back. Forget it. I’m where I want to be and don’t for a moment think otherwise.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“What?”
“You keep protesting—”
“Shakespeare said it better. My minor at UCLA was English lit.”
“What was your major?”
“American history. What else, Grandpa?”
“Thanks, kid.”
“This Jackal,” said Benjamin, leaning against the New London fence as several guards began to run toward him. “Prosteetye!” he yelled. “No, no! I mean, excuse me. Tak govorya! I’m a trainer!… Oh, shit!”
“Will you be reported?” asked Jason as they quickly walked away.
“No, they’re too damned dumb. They’re maintenance personnel in uniforms; they walk their posts but they don’t really know what’s going on. Only who and what to stop.”
“Pavlov’s dogs?”
“Who better? Animals don’t rationalize; they go for the throats and plug up the holes.”
“Which brings us back to the Jackal,” said Bourne.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to, it’s symbolic. How could he get in here?”
“He couldn’t. Every guard in every tunnel up the line has the name and serial numbers of the Novgorod papers he took from the agent he killed in Moscow. If he shows up, they’ll stop him and shoot him on sight.”
“I told Krupkin not to do that.”
“For Christ’s sake, why?”
“Because it won’t be him and lives could be lost. He’ll send in others, maybe two or three or four into different compounds, always testing, confusing, until he finds a way to get through.”
“You’re nuts. What happens to the men he sends in?”
“It wouldn’t matter. If they’re shot, he watches and learns something.”
“You’re really crazy. Where would he find people like that?”
“Anyplace where there are people who think they’re making a month’s salary for a few minutes’ work. He could call each one a routine security check—remember, he’s got the papers to prove he’s official. Combined with money, people are impressed with such documents and aren’t too skeptical.”
“And at the first gate he loses those papers,” insisted the trainer.
“Not at all. He’s driving over five hundred miles through a dozen towns and cities. He could easily have copies made in any number of places. Your business centers have Xerox machines; they’re all over the place, and touching up those papers to look like the real items is no sweat.” Bourne stopped and looked at the Americanized Soviet. “You’re talking details, Ben, and take my word for it, they don’t count. Carlos is coming here to leave his mark, and we have one advantage that blows away all his expertise. If Krupkin was able to get the news out properly, the Jackal thinks I’m dead.”
“The whole world thinks you’re dead.… Yes, Krupkin told me; it would’ve been dumb not to. In here, you’re a recruit named ‘Archie,’ but I know who you are, Bourne. Even if I’d never heard of you before, I sure as hell have now. You’re all Radio Moscow’s been talking about for hours.”
“Then we can assume Carlos has heard the news, too.”
“No question. Every vehicle in Russia is equipped with a radio; it’s standard. In case of an American attack, incidentally.”
“That’s good marketing.”
“Did you really assassinate Teagarten in Brussels?”
“Get off my case—”
“Off-limits, okay. What’s your point?”
“Krupkin should have left it to me.”
“Left what?”
“The Jackal’s penetration.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Use Krupkin, if necessary, but send the word up to every tunnel, every entrance to Novgorod, to let in anyone using those papers. My guess is three or four, maybe five. They’re to watch them, but they’re to let everyone come inside.”
“You just got awarded a room made of thick sponge rubber. You’re certifiable, Archie.”
“No, I’m not. I said that everyone should be watched, followed, that the guards maintain constant contact with us here in this compound.”
“So?”
“One of those men will disappear in a matter of minutes. No one will know where he is or where he went. That man will be Carlos.”
“And?”
“He’ll convince himself he’s invulnerable, free to do whatever he wants to do, because he thinks I’m dead. That sets him free.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows and I know that we’re the only ones who can track each other, whether it’s in the jungles or the cities or a combination of both. Hatred does that, Benjamin. Or desperation.”
“That’s pretty emotional, isn’t it? Also abstract.”
“No way,” answered Jason. “I have to think like he thinks—I was trained to do that years ago.… Let’s examine the alternatives. How far up the Volkhov does Novgorod extend? Thirty, forty kilometers?”
“Forty-seven, to be exact, and every meter is impenetrable. There are magnesium pipes crisscrossing the water, spaced above and below the surface to permit the free flow of underwater life but capable of setting off alarms. On the east bank are interlocking ground grids, all weight-sensing. Anything over ninety pounds instantly sets off sirens, and television monitors and spotlights zero in on any intruder over that weight. And even if an eighty-nine-pound wonder reached the fence, he’d be electrically rendered unconscious on the first touch; that also goes for the magnesium pipes in the river. Of course, falling trees or floating logs and the heavier animals keep our security forces on the run. It’s good discipline, I suppose.”
“Then there are only the tunnels,” said Bourne, “is that right?”
“You came through one, what can I tell you that you didn’t see? Except that iron gates literally crash down at the slightest irregularity, and in emergencies all the tunnels can be flooded.”
“All of which Carlos knows. He was trained here.”
“Many years ago, Krupkin told me.”
“Many years,” agreed Jason. “I wonder how much things have changed.”
“Technologically you could probably fill a few volumes, especially in communications and security, but not the basics. Not the tunnels or the miles of grids in and out of the water; they’re built for a couple of centuries. As far as the compounds go, there’re always some minor adjustments, but I don’t think they’d tear up the streets or the buildings. It’d be easier to move a dozen cities.”
“So whatever the changes, they’re essentially internal.” They reached a miniature intersection where an argumentative driver of an early-seventies Chevrolet was being given a ticket for a traffic violation by an equally disagreeable policeman. “What’s that all about?” asked Bourne.
“The purpose of the assignment is to instill a degree of contentiousness on the part of the one driving the car. In America a person will frequently, often loudly, argue with a police officer. It’s not the case here.”
“Like in questioning authority, such as a student contradicting his professor? I don’t imagine that’s too popular, either.”
“That’s also entirely different.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Jason heard a distant hum and looked up at the sky. A light, single-engine seaplane was flying south following the Volkhov River. “My God, airborne,” he said, as if to himself.
“Forget it,” countered Benjamin. “It’s ours.… Technology again. One, there’s no place to land except patrolled helicopter pads; and two, we’re shielded by radar. An unidentified plane coming within thirty miles of here, the air base at Belopol is alerted and it’s shot down.” Across the street a small crowd had gathered, watching the disagreeable policeman and the argumentative driver, who had slammed his hand down on the roof of the Chevrolet as the crowd vocally encouraged him. “Americans can be very foolish,” mumbled the young trainer, his embarrassment showing.
“At least someone’s idea of Americans can be,” said Bourne, smiling.
“Let’s go,” said Benjamin, starting to walk away. “I personally pointed out that the assignment wasn’t very realistic, but it was explained to me that instilling the attitude was important.”
“Like telling a student that he can actually argue with a professor, or a citizen that he can publicly criticize a member of the Politburo? They are strange attitudes, aren’t they?”
“Pound sand, Archie.”
“Relax, young Lenin,” said Jason, coming alongside the trainer. “Where’s your LA cool?”
“I left it in the La Brea Tar Pits.”
“I want to study the maps. All of them.”
“It’s been arranged. Also the other ground rules.”
They sat in a conference room at staff headquarters, the large rectangular table covered with maps of the entire Novgorod complex. Bourne could not help himself; even after nearly four hours of concentration, he frequently shook his head in sheer astonishment. The series of deep-cover training grounds along the Volkhov were more expansive and more intricate than he had thought possible. Benjamin’s remark that it would “be easier to move a dozen cities” rather than drastically alter Novgorod was a simple statement of fact, not too much of an exaggeration. Scaled-down replicas of towns and cities, waterfronts and airports, military and scientific installations from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, north to the Baltic and up the Gulf of Bothnia, were represented within its boundaries, all in addition to the American acreage. Yet for all the massive detail, suggestion and miniaturization made it possible to place everything within barely thirty miles of riverfront wilderness, at a depth ranging from three to five miles.
“Egypt, Israel, Italy,” began Jason, circling the table, staring down at the maps. “Greece, Portugal, Spain, France, the UK—” He rounded the corner as Benjamin interrupted, leaning wearily back in a chair: “Germany, the Netherlands, and the Scandinavian countries. As I explained, most of the compounds include two separate and distinct countries, usually where there are common boundaries, cultural similarities or just to conserve space. There are basically nine major compounds, representing all the major nations—major to our interests—and therefore nine tunnels, approximately seven kilometers apart starting with the one here and heading north along the river.”
“Then the first tunnel next to ours is the UK, right?”
“Yes, followed by France, then Spain—which includes Portugal—then across the Mediterranean, beginning with Egypt along with Israel—”
“It’s clear,” broke in Jason, sitting down at the end of the table, bringing his clasped hands together in thought. “Did you get word up the line that they’re to admit anyone with those papers Carlos has, no matter what he looks like?”
“No.”
“What?” Bourne snapped his head toward the young trainer.
“I had Comrade Krupkin do that. He’s in a Moscow hospital, so they can’t lock him up here for training fatigue.”
“How can I cross over into another compound? Quickly, if necessary.”
“Then you’re ready for the rest of the ground rules?”
“I’m ready. There’s only so much these maps can tell me.”
“Okay.” Benjamin reached into his pocket and withdrew a small black object the size of a credit card but somewhat thicker. He tossed it to Jason, who caught it in midair and studied it. “That’s your passport,” continued the Soviet. “Only the senior staff has them and if one’s lost or misplaced for even a few minutes, it’s reported immediately.”
“There’s no ID, no writing or marking at all.”
“It’s all inside, computerized and coded. Each compound checkpoint has a clearing lock. You insert it and the barriers are raised, admitting you and telling the guards that you’re cleared from headquarters—and noted.”
“Damned clever, these backward Marxists.”
“They had the same little dears for just about every hotel room in Los Angeles, and that was four years ago.… Now for the rest.”
“The ground rules?”
“Krupkin calls them protective measures—for us as well as you. Frankly, he doesn’t think you’ll get out of here alive; and if you don’t, you’re to be deep-fried and lost.”
“How nicely realistic.”
“He likes you, Bourne … Archie.”
“Go on.”
“As far as the senior staff is concerned, you’re undercover personnel from the inspector general’s office in Moscow, an American specialist sent in to check on Novgorod leaks to the West. You’re to be given whatever you need, including weapons, but no one is to talk to you unless you talk to him first. Considering my own background, I’m your liaison; anything you want you relay through me.”
“I’m grateful.”
“Maybe not entirely,” said Benjamin. “You don’t go anywhere without me.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
“That’s the way it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t be impeded … and if I do get out of here, I’d like a certain Benjamin’s mother to find him alive and well and commuting to Moscow.”
The young Russian stared at Bourne, strength mingled with no little pain in his eyes. “You really think you can help my father and me?”
“I know I can … so help me. Play by my rules, Benjamin.”
“You’re a strange man.”
“I’m a hungry man. Can we get some food around here? And maybe a little bandage? I got hit a while back, and after today my neck and shoulders are letting me know it.” Jason removed his jacket; his shirt was drenched in blood.
“Jesus Christ! I’ll call a doctor—”
“No, you won’t. Just a medic, that’s all.… My rules, Ben.”
“Okay—Archie. We’re staying at the Visiting Commissars Suite; it’s on the top floor. We’ve got room service and I’ll ring the infirmary for a nurse.”
“I said I’m hungry and uncomfortable, but they’re not my major concerns.”
“Not to worry,” said the Soviet Californian. “The instant anything unusual happens anywhere, we’ll be reached. I’ll roll up the maps.”
It happened at precisely 12:02 A.M. directly after the universal changing of the guard, during the darkest darkness of the night. The telephone in the Commissars Suite screamed, propelling Benjamin off the couch. He raced across the room to the jangling, insistent instrument and yanked it off its cradle. “Yes?… Gdye? Kogda? Shto eto znachit?… Da!” He slammed the phone down and turned to Bourne at the dinner table, the maps of Novgorod having replaced the room-service dishes. “It’s unbelievable. At the Spanish tunnel—across the river two guards are dead, and on this side the officer of the watch was found fifty yards away from his post, a bullet in his throat. They ran the video tapes and all they saw was an unidentified man walking through carrying a duffel bag! In a guard’s uniform!”
“There was something else, wasn’t there?” asked Delta coldly.
“Yes, and you may be right. On the other side was a dead farmhand clutching torn papers in his hand. He was lying between the two murdered guards, one of them stripped to his shorts and shoes.… How did he do it?”
“He was the good guy, I can’t think of anything else,” mused Bourne, rising quickly, and reaching, pouncing on the map of the Spanish compound. “He must have sent in his paid impostor with the rotten mocked-up papers, then ran in himself, the wounded Komitet officer at the last moment exposing the fraud and speaking the foreign language which his impostor couldn’t do and couldn’t understand.… I told you, Ben. Probe, test, agitate, confuse and find a way in. Stealing a uniform is standard, and in the confusion it got him through the tunnel.”
“But anyone using those papers was to be watched, followed. They were your instructions and Krupkin sent the word up the line!”
“The Kubinka,” said Jason, now pensive as he studied the map.
“The armory? The one mentioned in the news bulletins from Moscow?”
“Exactly. Just as he had done at the Kubinka, Carlos has someone inside here. Someone with enough authority to order an expendable officer of the guard to bring anyone penetrating the tunnel to him before sending out alarms and raising headquarters.”
“That’s possible,” agreed the young trainer rapidly, firmly. “Involving headquarters with false alarms can be embarrassing, and as you say, there must have been a lot of confusion.”
“In Paris,” said Bourne, glancing up from the compound map, “I was told that embarrassment was the KGB’s worst enemy. True?”
“On a scale of one to ten, at least eight,” replied Benjamin. “But who would he have in here, who could he have? He hasn’t been here in over thirty years!”
“If we had a couple of hours and a few computers programmed with the records of everyone in Novgorod, we might be able to feed in several hundred names and come up with possibilities, but we don’t have hours. We don’t even have minutes! Also, if I know the Jackal, it won’t matter.”
“I think it matters one whole hell of a lot!” cried the Americanized Soviet. “There’s a traitor here and we should know who it is.”
“My guess is that you’ll find out soon enough.… Details, Ben. The point is, he’s here! Let’s go, and when we get outside we stop somewhere and you get me what I need.”
“Okay.”
“Everything I need.”
“I’m cleared for that.”
“And then you disappear. I know what I’m talking about.”
“No way, José!”
“California checking in again?”
“You heard me.”
“Then young Benjamin’s mother may find a corpse for a son when she gets back to Moscow.”
“So be it!”
“So be …? Why did you have to say that?”
“I don’t know. It just seemed right.”
“Shut up! Let’s get out of here.”