The Bourne Ultimatum: Jason Bourne Book #3
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At a small-town carnival, two men, each mysteriously summoned by telegram, witness a bizarre killing. The telegrams are signed “Jason Bourne.” Only they know Bourne’s true identity and understand that the telegrams are really a message from Bourne’s mortal enemy, Carlos, known also as the Jackal, the world’s deadliest and most elusive terrorist. And furthermore, they know what the Jackal wants: a final confrontation with Bourne. Now David Webb, professor of Oriental studies, husband, and father, must do what he hoped never to do again—assume the terrible identity of Jason Bourne. His plan is simple: to infiltrate the politically and economically omnipotent Medusan group and use himself as bait to lure the cunning Jackal into a deadly trap—a trap from which only one of them will escape.
you?" "No. The Jackal would hear about it; he's got ears up and down the Quai d'Orsay. Solo's the only way." "Don't you think she'll know that?" "She'll suspect it, but she can't be certain. I'll have Alex call her, confirming that he's in touch with all the heavy covert firepower in Paris. But first it comes from you." "Why the lie?" "You shouldn't have to ask that, Bro. I've put her through enough." "All right, I'll tell her, but she won't believe me. She'll see right through me, she always
control, maybe." "You mean you don't have the comfort of an excuse, a metaphysical excuse. Sorry, Alex, we part company. We're accountable for what we do, and no confessional absolution can change that." Conklin turned his head, his eyes wide open, and looked at Holland. "Thank you," he said. "For what?" "For sounding like me, even using a variation of the words I've used. ... I came back from Hong Kong five years ago with the banner of Accountability on my lance." "You've lost me." "Forget it.
anonymously told the shaken chairman that someone would be in touch with him later in the day—either at the office or at home. The contact would identify himself simply as Cobra. ("Use all the banal trigger words you can come up with" was the gospel according to St. Conklin.) In the meantime, Armbruster was instructed to talk to no one. "Those are orders from the Sixth Fleet." "Oh, Christ!" Thus Albert Armbruster called for his chariot and was driven home in discomfort. Further nausea was in
instead of coming to kill him, the other "old man" had come to warn him! "Mon Dieu," whispered the Frenchman. "The old men of Paris, the Jackal's army! Too many questions!" Fontaine walked rapidly to the nurse's bedroom door and opened it. With the swiftness developed over a lifetime of practice, impaired only slightly by his years, he began methodically to tear apart the woman's room—suitcase, closet, clothes, pillows, mattress, bureau, dressing table, writing desk ... the desk. A locked drawer
watched. By many—the uninformed, civilians and authorities alike—as a nervous Henry Sykes at Government House kept his word. The official investigation was solely under his command. It was quiet, thorough—and nonexistent. Bourne behaved far worse on the pier of Tranquility Inn, striking his own brother, the amiable Saint Jay, until the younger man subdued him and had him carried up the steps to the nearest villa. Servants came and went bringing trays of food and drink to the porch. Selected