The Bourne Ultimatum, E-book, T
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The Bourne Ultimatum
Robert Ludlum
The world's two deadliest spies in the ultimate showdown. At a small-town carnival two
men, each mysteriously summoned by telegram, witness a bizarre killing. The telegrams
are signed Jason Bourne. Only they know Bourne's true identity and understand the
telegram is really a message from Bourne's mortal enemy, Carlos, known also as the
Jackal, the world's deadliest and most elusive terrorist. And furthermore, they know that
the Jackal wants: a final confrontation with Bourne. Now David Webb, professor of
Oriental studies, husband, and father, must do what he hoped he would never have to do
again – assume the terrible identity of Jason Bourne. His plan is simple: to infiltrate the
politically and economically Medusan group and use himself as bait to lure the cunning
Jackal into a deadly trap – a trap from which only one of them will escape.
Prologue
Darkness had descended on Manassas, Virginia, the countryside alive with nocturnal
undercurrents, as Bourne crept through the woods bordering the estate of General
Norman Swayne. Startled birds fluttered out of their black recesses; crows awoke in the
trees and cawed their alarms, and then, as if calmed by a foraging co-conspirator, kept
silent.
Manassas! The key was here! The key that would unlock the subterranean door that led to
Carlos the Jackal, the assassin who wanted only to destroy David Webb and his family. ...
Webb! Get away from me, David!" screamed Jason Bourne in the silence of his mind. Let
me be the killer you cannot be!
With each scissoring cut into the thick, high wire fence, he understood the inevitable,
confirmed by his heavy breathing and the sweat that fell from his hairline. No matter how
hard he tried to keep his body in reasonable shape, he was fifty years of age; he could not
do with ease what he did thirteen years ago in Paris when, under orders, he had stalked
the Jackal. It was something to think about, not dwell upon. There were Marie and his
children now-David's wife, David's children-and there was nothing he could not do as
long as he willed it! David Webb was disappearing from his psyche, only the predator
Jason Bourne would remain.
He was through! He crawled inside and stood up, instinctively, rapidly checking his
equipment with the fingers of both hands. Weapons: an automatic, as well as a CO2 dart
pistol; Zeiss Ikon binoculars; a scabbarded hunting knife. They were all the predator
needed, for he was now behind the lines in enemy territory, the enemy that would lead
him to Carlos.
Medusa. The bastard battalion from Vietnam, the un-logged, unsanctioned,
unacknowledged collection of killers and misfits who roamed the jungles of Southeast
Asia directed by Command Saigon, the original death squads who brought Saigon more
intelligence input than all the search-and-destroys put together. Jason Bourne had come
out of Medusa with David Webb only a memory-a scholar who had another wife, other
children, all slaughtered.
General Norman Swayne had been an elite member of Command Saigon, the sole
supplier of the old Medusa. And now there was a new Medusa: different, massive, evil
incarnate cloaked in contemporary respectability, searching out and destroying whole
segments of global economies, all for the benefit of the few, all financed by the profits
from a long-ago bastard battalion, un-logged, unacknowledged-non-history. This modern
Medusa was the bridge to Carlos the Jackal. The assassin would find the principals
irresistible as clients, and both camps would demand the death of Jason Bourne. That had
to happen! And for it to happen, Bourne had to learn the secrets concealed within the
grounds belonging to General Swayne, head of all procurements for the Pentagon, a
panicked man with a small tattoo on his inner forearm. A Medusan.
Without sound or warning, a black Doberman crashed through the dense foliage, its
frenzy in full force. Jason whipped the CO2 pistol from its nylon holster as the salivating
attack dog lunged for his stomach, its teeth bared. He fired into its head; the dart took
effect in seconds. He cradled the animal's unconscious body to the ground.
Cut its throat! roared Jason Bourne in silence.
No, countered his other self, David Webb. Blame the trainer, not the animal.
Get away from me, David!
1
The cacophony spun out of control as the crowds swelled through the amusement park in
the countryside on the outskirts of Baltimore. The summer night was hot, and nearly
everywhere faces and necks were drenched with sweat, except for those screaming as
they plunged over the crests of a roller coaster, or shrieking as they plummeted down the
narrow, twisting gullies of racing water in torpedo sleds. The garishly colored, manically
blinking lights along the midway were joined by the grating sounds of emphatic music
metallically erupting out of an excess of loudspeakers-calliopes presto, marches
prestissimo. Pitchmen yelled above the din, nasally hawking their wares in monotonic
harangues while erratic explosions in the sky lit up the darkness, sending sprays of
myriad fireworks cascading over a small adjacent black lake. Roman candles bright,
arcing bursts of fire blinding.
A row of Hit-the-Gong machines drew contorted faces and thick necks bulging with
veins as men sought furiously and frequently in frustration to prove their manhood,
crashing heavy wooden mallets down on the deceitful planks that too often refused to
send the little red balls up to the bells. Across the way, others shrieked with menacing
enthusiasm as they crashed their Dodge 'Em carts into the whirling, surrounding vehicles,
each collision a triumph of superior aggression, each combatant a momentary movie star
who overcomes all odds against him. Gunfight at O.K. Corral at 9:27 in the evening in a
conflict that meant nothing.
Farther along was a minor monument to sudden death, a shooting gallery that bore little
resemblance to the innocent minimum-caliber variety found in state fairs and rural
carnivals. Instead, it was a microcosm of the most lethal equipment of modern weaponry.
There were mocked-up versions of MAC-10 and Uzi machine pistols, steel-framed
missile launchers and antitank bazookas, and, finally, a frightening replica of a
flamethrower spewing out harsh, straight beams of light through billowing clouds of dark
smoke. And again there were the perspiring faces, continuous beads of sweat rolling over
maniacal eyes and down across stretched necks-husbands, wives and children-their
features grotesque, twisted out of shape as if each were blasting away at hated enemies-
wives, husbands, parents and offspring. All were locked in a never-ending war without
meaning-at 9:29 in the evening, in an amusement park whose theme was violence.
Unmitigated and unwarranted, man against himself and all his hostilities, the worst, of
course, being his fears.
A slender figure, a cane gripped in his right hand, limped past a booth where angry,
excited customers were hurling sharp-pointed darts into balloons on which were stenciled
the faces of public figures. As the rubber heads exploded the bursts gave rise to fierce
arguments for and against the sagging, pinched remnants of political icons and their dart-
wielding executioners. The limping man continued down the midway, peering ahead
through the maze of strollers as if he were looking for a specific location in a hectic,
crowded, unfamiliar part of town. He was dressed casually but neatly in a jacket and
sport shirt as though the oppressive heat had no effect on him and the jacket was
somehow a requirement. His face was the pleasant face of a middle-aged man, but worn
with premature lines and deep shadows under the eyes, all of which was the result more
of the life he had led than of the accumulated years. His name was Alexander Conklin,
and he was a retired covert operations officer in the Central Intelligence Agency. He was
also at this moment apprehensive and consumed with anxiety. He did not wish to be in
this place at this hour, and he could not imagine what catastrophic event had taken place
that forced him to be there.
He approached the pandemonium of the shooting gallery and suddenly gasped, stopping
all movement, his eyes locked on a tall, balding man about his own age with a seersucker
jacket slung over his shoulder. Morris Panov was walking toward the thunderous counter
of the shooting gallery from the opposite direction! Why? What had happened? Conklin
snapped his head around in every direction, his eyes darting toward faces and bodies,
instinctively knowing that he and the psychiatrist were being watched. It was too late to
stop Panov from entering the inner circle of the meeting ground but perhaps not too late
to get them both out! The retired intelligence officer reached under his jacket for the
small Beretta automatic that was his constant companion, and lurched rapidly forward,
limping and flailing his cane against the crowd, smashing kneecaps and prodding
stomachs and breasts and kidneys until the stunned, angry strollers erupted in successive
cries of shock, a near riot in the making. He then rushed forward, slamming his frail body
into the bewildered doctor and shouting into Panov's face through the roars of the crowd,
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"The same thing I assume you are. David, or should I say Jason? That's what the telegram
said."
"It's a trap!"
There was a piercing scream overriding the surrounding melee. Both Conklin and Panov
instantly looked over at the shooting gallery only yards away. An obese woman with a
pinched face had been shot in the throat. The crowd went into a frenzy. Conklin spun
around trying to see where the shot came from, but the panic was at full pitch; he saw
nothing but rushing figures. He grabbed Panov and propelled him through the screaming,
frantic bodies across the midway and again through the strolling crowds to the base of the
massive roller coaster at the end of the park, where excited customers were edging
toward the booth through the deafening noise.
"My God!" yelled Panov. "Was that meant for one of us?"
"Maybe ... maybe not," replied the former intelligence officer breathlessly as sirens and
whistles were heard in the distance.
"You said it was a trap!"
"Because we both got a crazy telegram from David using a name he hasn't used in five
years-Jason Bourne! And if I'm not mistaken, your message also said that under no
condition should we call his house."
"That's right."
"It's a trap. ... You move better than I do, Mo, so move those legs of yours. Get out of
here-run like a son of a bitch and find a telephone. A pay phone, nothing traceable!"
"What?"
"Call his house! Tell David to pack up Marie and the kids and get out of there!"
"What?"
"Someone found us, Doctor! Someone looking for Jason Bourne-who's been looking for
him for years and won't stop until he's got him in his gun sight. ... You were in charge of
David's messed-up head, and I pulled every rotten string in Washington to get him and
Marie out of Hong Kong alive. ... The rules were broken and we were found, Mo. You
and me! The only officially recorded connections to Jason Bourne, address and
occupation unknown."
"Do you know what you're saying, Alex?"
"You're goddamned right I do. ... It's Carlos. Carlos the Jackal. Get out of here, Doctor.
Reach your former patient and tell him to disappear!"
"Then what's he to do?"
"I don't have many friends, certainly no one I trust, but you do. Give him the name of
somebody-say, one of your medical buddies who gets urgent calls from his patients the
way I used to call you. Tell David to reach him or her when he's secure. Give him a
code."
"A code?"
"Jesus, Mo, use your head! An alias, a Jones or a Smith-"
"They're rather common names-"
"Then Schicklgruber or Moskowitz, whatever you like! Just tell him to let us know where
he is."
"I understand."
"Now get out of here, and don't go home! ... Take a room at the Brookshire in Baltimore
under the name of-Morris, Phillip Morris. I'll meet you there later."
"What are you going to do?"
"Something I hate. ... Without my cane I'm buying a ticket for this fucking roller coaster.
Nobody'll look for a cripple on one of these things. It scares the hell out of me, but it's a
logical exit even if I have to stay on the damn thing all night. ... Now get out of here!
Hurry!"
The station wagon raced south down a backcountry road through the hills of New
Hampshire toward the Massachusetts border, the driver a long-framed man, his sharp-
featured face intense, the muscles of his jaw pulsating, his clear light-blue eyes furious.
Beside him sat his strikingly attractive wife, the reddish glow of her auburn hair
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