@@@@@The brown sedan sped down the country road,
@@@@@The brown sedan sped down the country road, racing past overgrown fields,
the driver maniacally gripping the wheel and sporadically glancing at his bound prisoner, a young
man who kept straining at his wire-bound hands and feet, his rope-strapped face causing him
enormous pain, attested to by his constant grimace and his bulging frightened eyes
In the rear seat, the upholstery covered with blood, were the corpses of General Grigorie
Rodchenko and the KGB Novgorod graduate who headed the old soldier’s surveillance team
Suddenly, without slowing down the car or giving any indication of his action, the Jackal saw what
he was looking for and swerved off the roadTires shrieking in the side-winding turn, the sedan
plunged into a field of tall grass and in seconds came to a shatteringly abrupt stop, the bodies in the
rear crashing into the back of the front seatCarlos opened his door and lurched outside; he
proceeded to yank the blood-drenched corpses from their upholstered crypts and dragged them into
the high grass, leaving the general partially on top of the Komitet officer, their life fluids now
mingling as they soiled the ground
He returned to the car and brutally pulled the young KGB agent out of the front seat with one
hand, the glistening blade of a hunting knife in his other
“We have a lot to talk about, you and I,” said the Jackal in Russian“And you would be foolish
to withhold anythingYou won’t, you’re too soft, too young Carlos whipped the man to the
ground, the tall grass bending under the fallHe withdrew his flashlight and knelt beside his
captive, the knife going toward the agent’s eyes
The bloodied, lifeless figure below had spoken his last words, and they were words that
reverberated like kettledrums in the ears of Ilich Ramirez SanchezJason Bourne was in Moscow! It
had to be Bourne, for the terrified, youthful KGB surveillant had blurted out the information in a
gushing, panicked stream of phrases and half phrases, saying anything and everything that might
possibly save his lifeComrade Krupkin—two Americans, one tall, the other with a limp! We took
them to the hotel, then to the Sadovaya for a conference
Krupkin and the hated Bourne had turned his people in Paris—in Paris, his impenetrable armed
camp!—and had traced him to MoscowIt did not matter nowAll that mattered
was that the Chameleon himself was at the Metropole; the traitors in Paris could waitAt the
Metropole! His enemy of enemies was barely an hour away back in Moscow, no doubt sleeping the
night away, without any idea that Carlos the Jackal knew he was thereThe assassin felt the
exhilaration of triumph—over life and deathThe doctors said he was dying, but doctors were as
often wrong as they were right, and at this moment they were wrong! The death of Jason Bourne
would renew his life
However, the hour was not rightThree o’clock in the morning was not the time to be seen
prowling the streets or the hotels in search of a kill in Moscow, a city in the grip of permanent
suspicion, darkness itself contributing to its warinessIt was common knowledge that the nightfloor
stewards in the major hotels were armed, selected as much for their marksmanship as for their
aptitude for serviceDaylight brought a relaxation of the night’s concerns; the bustling activity of
the early morning was the time to strike—and strike he would
Robert Ludlum ?? THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM
381
But the hour was right for another kind of strike, at least the prelude to