The Bourne ultimatum by Robert Ludlum

It’s kind of remarkable, really. The Jackal doesn’t know that there’s still a great deal I can’t remember, but he just assumed that I’d forgotten about the old men of Paris.”
    “Maybe he didn’t, David. Maybe he’s counting on the fact that you’d remember. Maybe this whole charade is a prelude to the real trap he’s setting for you.”
    “Then he made another mistake.”
    “Oh?”
    “I’m better than that. Jason Bourne’s better than that.”

4
    David Webb walked through the National Airport terminal and out the automatic doors onto the crowded platform. He studied the signs and proceeded across the walkway leading to the Short-Term Parking area. According to plan, he was to go to the farthest aisle on the right, turn left, and continue down the row of parked cars until he saw a metallic gray 1986 Pontiac LeMans with an ornamental crucifix suspended from the rearview mirror. A man would be in the driver’s seat wearing a white cap, the window lowered. Webb was to approach him and say, “The flight was very smooth.” If the man removed his cap and started the engine, David was to climb in the backseat. Nothing more would be said.
    Nothing more was said, not between Webb and the driver. However, the latter reached under the dashboard, removed a microphone and spoke quietly but clearly. “Our cargo’s on board. Please commence rotating vehicle cover.”
    David thought that the exotic procedures bordered on the laughable, but since Alex Conklin had traced him to the Rockwell jet’s departure area at Logan Airport, and, further, had reached him on Director Peter Holland’s private override telephone, he assumed the two of them knew what they were doing. It crossed Webb’s mind that it had something to do with Mo Panov’s call to him nine hours ago. It was all but confirmed when Holland himself got on the phone insisting that he drive down to Hartford and take a commercial flight out of Bradley to Washington, adding enigmatically that he wanted no further telephone communication or private or government aircraft involved.
    This particular government-oriented car, however, wasted no time getting out of National Airport. It seemed as if in only minutes they were rushing through the countryside and, only minimally less rapidly, through the suburbs of Virginia. They swung up to the private gate of an expensive garden apartment complex, the sign reading VIENNA VILLAS, after the township in which it was located. The guard obviously recognized the driver and waved him through as the heavy bar across the entrance was raised. It was only then that the driver spoke directly to Webb.
    “This place has five separate sections over as many acres, sir. Four of them are legitimate condominiums with regular owners, but the fifth, the one farthest from the gate, is an Agency proprietary with its own road and security. You couldn’t be healthier, sir.”
    “I didn’t feel particularly sick.”
    “You won’t be. You’re DCI cargo and your health is very important to him.”
    “That’s nice to know, but how do you know?”
    “I’m part of the team, sir.”
    “In that case, what’s your name?”
    The driver was silent for a moment, and when he answered, David had the uneasy feeling that he was being propelled back in time, to a time he knew he was reentering. “We don’t have names, sir. You don’t and I don’t.”
    Medusa .
    “I understand,” said Webb.
    “Here we are.” The driver swung the car around a circular drive and stopped in front of a two-story Colonial structure that looked as though the fluted white pillars might have been made of Carrara marble. “Excuse me, sir, I just noticed. You don’t have any luggage.”
    “No, I don’t,” said David, opening the door.
     
    “How do you like my temporary digs?” asked Alex, waving his hand around the tastefully appointed apartment.
    “Too neat and too clean for a cantankerous old bachelor,” replied David. “And since when did you go in