Bourne trilogy 3 the b.., p.54
Bourne Trilogy 3 - The Bourne Ultimatum, page 54
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."
