The Bourne ultimatum by Robert Ludlum Page A

for floral curtains with pink and yellow daisies?”
    “Wait’ll you see the wallpaper in my bedroom. It’s got baby roses.”
    “I’m not sure I care to.”
    “Your room has hyacinths. ... Of course, I wouldn’t know a hyacinth if it jumped up and choked me, but that’s what the maid said.”
    “The maid?”
    “Late forties and black and built like a sumo wrestler. She also carries two popguns under her skirt and, rumor has it, several straight razors.”
    “Some maid.”
    “Some high-powered patrol. She doesn’t let a bar of soap or a roll of toilet paper in here that doesn’t come from Langley. You know, she’s a pay-grade ten and some of these clowns leave her tips.”
    “Do they need any waiters?”
    “That’s good. Our scholar, Webb the waiter.”
    “Jason Bourne’s been one.”
    Conklin paused, then spoke seriously. “Let’s get to him,” he said, limping to an armchair. “By the way, you’ve had a rough day and it’s not even noon, so if you want a drink there’s a full bar behind those puce shutters next to the window. ... Don’t look at me like that, our black Brunhilde said they were puce.”
    Webb laughed; it was a low, genuine laugh as he looked at his friend. “It doesn’t bother you a bit, does it, Alex?”
    “Hell, no, you know that. Have you ever hid any liquor from me when I visited you and Marie?”
    “There was never any stress—”
    “Stress is irrelevant,” Conklin broke in. “I made a decision because there was only one other one to make. Have a drink, David. We have to talk and I want you calm. I look at your eyes and they tell me you’re on fire.”
    “You once told me that it’s always in the eyes,” said Webb, opening the purplish shutters and reaching for a bottle. “You can still see it, can’t you?”
    “I told you it was behind the eyes. Never accept the first level. ... How are Marie and the children? I assume they got off all right.”
    “I went over the flight plan ad nauseam with the pilot and knew they were all right when he finally told me to get off his case or fly the run myself.” Webb poured a drink and walked back to the chair opposite the retired agent. “Where are we, Alex?” he asked, sitting down.
    “Right where we were last night. Nothing’s moved and nothing’s changed, except that Mo refuses to leave his patients. He was picked up this morning at his apartment, which is now as secure as Fort Knox, and driven to his office under guard. He’ll be brought here later this afternoon with four changes of vehicles, all made in underground parking lots.”
    “Then it’s open protection, no one’s hiding any longer?”
    “That’d be pointless. We sprung a trap at the Smithsonian and our men were very obvious.”
    “It’s why it might work, isn’t it? The unexpected? Backups behind a protection unit told to make mistakes.”
    “The unexpected works, David, not the dumb.” Conklin quickly shook his head. “I take that back. Bourne could turn the dumbs into smarts, but not an officially mounted surveillance detail. There are too many complications.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “As good as those men are, they’re primarily concerned with guarding lives, maybe saving them; they also have to coordinate with each other and make reports. They’re career people, not one-shot, prepaid lowlife with an assassin’s knife at their throats if they screw up.”
    “That sounds so melodramatic,” said Webb softly, leaning back in the chair and drinking. “I guess I did operate like that, didn’t I?”
    “It was more image than reality, but it was real to the people you used.”
    “Then I’ll find those people again, use them again.” David shot forward, gripping his glass in both hands. “He’s forcing me out , Alex! The Jackal’s calling my cards and I have to show.”
    “Oh, shut up,” said Conklin irritably. “Now you’re the one who’s being melodramatic. You sound like a grade-Z Western. You show yourself,