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He ran silently to the hangar's wall, then quickly walked to the corner and peered around the edge. The guard had barely moved. Then Jason understood - the man was urinating. Perfectly natural and perfectly perfect. Bourne stepped away from the building, dug his right foot into the grass and rushed forward, his weapon a rigid right hand preceded by an arcing left foot striking the base of the guard's spine. The man collapsed, unconscious. Jason dragged him back to the corner of the hangar, then across the grass to where the assassin lay immobile, afraid to move.
'You're learning, Major,' said Bourne, again grabbing the commando's hair and pulling the nylon rope from around his neck. The fact that the looped rope would not have choked the impostor any more than a loose clothesline wound around a person's neck would, told Delta something. His prisoner could not think geometrically; stresses were not a strong point in the killer's imagination, only the spoken threat of death. It was something to bear in mind. 'Get up,' ordered Jason. The assassin did so, his gaping mouth swallowing air, his eyes furious, hatred in his stare. Think about Echo,' said Bourne, his own eyes returning the killer's loathing. 'Excuse me, I mean d'Anjou. The man who gave you your life back - a life, at any rate, and one you apparently took to. Your Pygmalion, old chap] . . . Now, hear me, and hear me well. Would you like the rope removed?'
'Auggh!' grunted the assassin, nodding his head, his eyes reduced from hatred to pleading.
'And your thumbs released?'
'Auggh, auggh!'
'You're not a guerrilla, you're a gorilla,' said Jason, pulling the automatic from his belt. 'But as we used to say in the old days - before your time, chap - there are "conditions". You see, we both either get out of here alive, or we disappear, our mortal remains consigned to a Chinese fire, no past, no present - certainly no retrospective regarding our sub-zero contributions to society . . . I see I'm boring you. Sorry, I'll forget the whole thing. '
'Auggh!'
'Okay, if you insist. Naturally, I won't give you a weapon, and if I see you trying to grab one - which I will if you try -you're dead. But if you behave, we might - just might - get away. What I'm really saying to you, Mr Bourne, is that whoever your client is over here can't allow you to live anymore than he can me. Understand? Dig? Capisce?'
'Auggh!'
'One thing more,' added Jason, tugging at the rope that fell over the commando's shoulder. This is nylon, or polyurethane, or whatever the hell they call it. When it's burned it just swells up like a marshmallow; there's no way you can untie it. It'll be attached to both your ankles, both knots curled up into cement. You'll have a step-span of approximately five feet - only - because I'm a technician. Do I make myself clear?'
The assassin nodded, and as he did so Bourne sprang to his right, kicking the back of the commando's knees, sending the impostor to the ground, his bound thumbs bleeding. Jason knelt down, the gun in his left hand pressed into the killer's mouth, the fingers of his right undoing the bowknot behind the commando's head.
'Christ almighty? cried the assassin, as the rope fell away.
'I'm glad you're of a religious persuasion,' said Bourne, dropping the weapon and rapidly lashing the rope around the commando's ankles, forming a square knot on each; he ignited his lighter and fired the ends. 'You may need it. ' He picked up the gun, held it against the killer's forehead, and uncoiled the wire around his prisoner's wrists. Take off the rest,' he ordered. 'Be careful with the thumbs, they're damaged. '
'My right arm's no piece of cake, either!' said the Englishman, struggling to remove the slipknots. His hands freed, the assassin shook them, then sucked the blood from his wounds. 'You got your magic box, Mr Bourne"? he asked.
'Always an arm's length away, Mr Bourne,' replied Jason. 'What do you need?
Tape. Fingers bleed. It's called gravity. '
'You're so well schooled. ' Bourne reached behind him for the knapsack and pulled it forward, dropping it in front of the commando, his gun levelled at the killer's head. 'Feel around. It's a spool near the top. '
'Got it,' said the assassin, removing the tape and rapidly winding it around his thumbs. This is one rotten fucking thing to do to anybody,' he added when he had finished.
Think of d'Anjou,' said Jason flatly.
'He wanted to die, for Christ's sake! What the hell was I supposed to do?'
'Nothing. Because you are nothing. '
'Well then, that kind of puts me on your level, doesn't it, sport? He made me into you!'
'You don't have the talent,' said Jason Bourne. 'You're lacking. You can't think geometrically. ' 'What does that mean?'
'Ponder it. ' Delta rose to his feet. 'Get up,' he commanded.
Tell me,' said the assassin, pushing himself off the ground and staring at the weapon aimed at his head. 'Why me?' Why did you ever get out of the business?'
'Because I was never in it. '
Suddenly, floodlights - one after another - began to wash over the field, and with a single brilliant illumination, yellow marker lights appeared along the entire length of the runway. Men ran out of the barracks, a number towards the hangar, others behind their quarters where the engines of unseen vehicles abruptly roared. The lights of the terminal were turned on; activity was at once everywhere.
Take his jacket off and the hat,' ordered Bourne, pointing the gun at the unconscious guard. 'Put them on. '
They won't fit!'
'You can have them altered in Savile Row. Move?
The impostor did as he was told, his right arm so much a problem that Jason had to hold the sleeve for him. With Bourne prodding the commando with the gun, both men ran to the wall of the hangar, then moved cautiously towards the end of the building.
'Do we agree?' asked Bourne, whispering, looking at the face that was so like his own years ago. 'We get out or we die?'
'Understood,' answered the commando. That screaming bastard with his bloody fancy sword is a fucking lunatic. I want out!'
That reaction wasn't on your face. '
'If it had been the maniac might have turned on me!'
'Who is her
'Never got a name. Only a series of connections to reach him. The first was a man at the Guangdong garrison named Soo Jiang-'
'I've heard the name. They call him "The Pig". '
'It's probably accurate, I don't know. '
Then what?'
'A number is left at table five at a casino in-'
The Kam Pek, Macao,' interrupted Jason. 'What then?
'I call the number and speak French. This Soo Jiang is one of the few Slants who speak the language. He sets the time of the meet; it's always the same place. I go across the border to a field up in the hills where a chopper comes in and someone gives me the name of the target. And half the money for the kill. . . Look! Here it conies! He's circling into his approach. '
'My gun's at your head. '
'Understood. '
'Did your training include flying one of those things?'
'No. Only jumping out of them. '
That won't do us any good. '
The incoming plane, its lights blinking, swept down, out of the brightening sky towards the runway. The jet landed smoothly. It taxied to the end of the asphalt, swung to the right, and headed back to the terminal.