The Bourne ultimatum by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online

name is he talking about?” whispered the bewildered Panov to Conklin.
    “Ground zero,” said Alex under his breath. “Be quiet.” The retired field agent turned his head up to the two old men. “Okay, fellas, why don’t you go on your way?”
    “Business is business,” again said the second tattered ancient, glancing at his colleague, both their faces still in shadows.
    “You don’t have any business with us—”
    “You can’t be sure of that,” interrupted the first old man, shaking his head back and, forth. “Suppose I were to tell you that we bring you a message from Macao?”
    “ What ?” exclaimed Panov.
    “Shut up !” whispered Conklin, addressing the psychiatrist but his eyes on the messenger. “What does Macao mean to us?” he asked flatly.
    “A great taipan wishes to meet with you. The greatest taipan in Hong Kong.”
    “Why?”
    “He will pay you great sums. For your services.”
    “I’ll say it again. Why ?”
    “We are to tell you that a killer has returned. He wants you to find him.”
    “I’ve heard that story before; it doesn’t wash. It’s also repetitious.”
    “That is between the great taipan and yourselves, sir. Not with us. He is waiting for you.”
    “Where is he?”
    “At a great hotel, sir.”
    “Which one?”
    “We are again to tell you that it has a great-sized lobby with always many people, and its name refers to this country’s past.”
    “There’s only one like that. The Mayflower.” Conklin directed his words toward his left lapel, into a microphone sewn into the buttonhole.
    “As you wish.”
    “Under what name is he registered?”
    “Registered?”
    “Like in reserved benches, only rooms. Who do we ask for?”
    “No one, sir. The taipan’s secretary will approach you in the lobby.”
    “Did that same secretary approach you also?”
    “Sir?”
    “Who hired you to follow us?”
    “We are not at liberty to discuss such matters and we will not do so.”
    “ That’s it !” shouted Alexander Conklin, yelling over his shoulder as floodlights suddenly lit up the Smithsonian grounds around the deserted path, revealing the two startled old men to be Orientals. Nine personnel from the Central Intelligence Agency walked rapidly into the glare of light from all directions, their hands under their jackets. Since there was no apparent need for them, their weapons remained hidden.
    Suddenly the need was there, but the realization came too late. Two high-powered rifle shots exploded from the outer darkness, the bullets ripping open the throats of the two Oriental messengers. The CIA men lunged to the ground, rolling for cover as Conklin grabbed Panov, pulling him down to the path in front of the bench for protection. The unit from Langley lurched to their feet and, like the combat veterans they were, including the former commando Director Peter Holland, they started scrambling, zigzagging one after another toward the source of the gunfire, weapons extended, shadows sought. In moments, an angry cry split the silence.
    “ Goddamn it!” shouted Holland, the beam of his flashlight angled down between tree trunks. “They made their break!”
    “How can you tell?”
    “The grass, son, the heel imprints. Those bastards were overqualified. They dug in for one shot apiece and got out—look at the slip marks on the lawn. Those shoes were running. Forget it! No use now. If they stopped for a second position, they’d blow us into the Smithsonian.”
    “A field man,” said Alex, getting up with his cane, the frightened, bewildered Panov beside him. Then the doctor spun around, his eyes wide, rushing toward the two fallen Orientals.
    “Oh, my God, they’re dead ,” he cried, kneeling beside the corpses, seeing their blown-apart throats. “ Jesus , the amusement park! It’s the same !”
    “A message,” agreed Conklin, nodding, wincing. “Put rock salt on the trail,” he added enigmatically.
    “What do you mean?” asked the psychiatrist, snapping his