'I'll never tell,' said David, smiling to himself, thinking that Jason Bourne had not deserted him after all. The myth that he once had been knew the avenues that led to the right contacts – knew them blindly – and that man was there inside David Webb.
The curtained whitewashed room of the warehouse, lined with locked, horizontal display cases, was not unlike a museum displaying such artifacts from past civilizations as primitive tools, fossilized insects, mystic carvings of religions past. The difference here was in the objects. These were exploding weapons that ran the gamut, from the lowest-calibre handguns and rifles to the most sophisticated weapons of modern warfare – thousand-round automatic machine guns with spiralling clips on near-weightless frames to laser-guided rockets to be fired from the shoulder, an arsenal for terrorists. Two men in business suits stood guard, one outside the entrance to the room, the other inside. As was to be expected, the former bowed his apology and moved an electronic scanner up and down the clothes of Webb and his driver. Then the man reached for the attach6 case. David pulled it away, shaking his head and gesturing at the wandlike scanner. The guard had waved it over the surface of the case, checking his dials as he did so.
'Private papers,' Webb said in Chinese to the startled guard as he walked into the room.
It took David nearly a full minute to absorb what he saw, to shake off his disbelief. He looked at the bold, emblazoned No Smoking signs in English, French and Chinese that were all over the walls and wondered why they were there. Nothing was exposed. He walked over to the small arms display and examined the wares. He clutched the attache case in his hand as though it were a lifeline to sanity in a world gone mad with instruments of violence.
'Huanying!' cried a voice, followed by the appearance of a youngish looking man. He came out of a panelled door in one of those tightfitting European suits that exaggerate the shoulders and hug the waist, the rear panels of the jacket flowing like a peacock's tail – the product of designers determined to be chic at the price of neutering the male image.
'This is Mr Wu Song, sir,' said Pak-fei, bowing first to the merchant and then to Webb . 'It is not necessary for you to give your name, sir, '
'Bu!' spat out the young merchant, pointing at David's attaché case. 'Bu jing ya!'
'Your client, Mr. Song, speaks fluent Chinese. ' The driver turned to David. 'As you heard, sir, Mr. Song objects to the presence of your briefcase. '
'It doesn't leave my hand,' said Webb.
'Then there can be no serious discussion of business,' rejoined Wu Song in flawless English.
'Why not? Your man checked it. There are no weapons inside, and even if there were and I tried to open it, I have an idea I'd be on the floor before the lid was up. '
'Plastic?' said Wu Song, asking a question. 'Plastic microphones leading to recording devices where the metal content is so low as to be dismissed even by sophisticated machinery?'
'You're paranoid. '
'As they say in your country, it goes with the territory. '
'Your idiom's as good as your English. '
'Columbia University, seventy-three. '
'Did you major in armaments?'
'No, marketing. '
'Aiya!' shrieked Pak-fei, but he was too late. The rapid colloquy had covered the movement of the guards; they had walked across the room, at the last instant lunging at Webb and the driver.
Jason Bourne spun, dislodging his attacker's arm from around his shoulder, clamping it under his own and twisting it further in place, forcing the man down and smashing the attache case up into the Oriental's face. The moves were coming back to him. The violence was returning as it had returned to a bewildered amnesiac on a fishing boat beyond the shoals of a Mediterranean island. So much forgotten, so much unexplained, but remembered. The man fell to the floor, stunned, as his partner turned in fury to Webb after pummelling Pak-fei to the ground. He rushed forward, his hands held up in a diagonal thrust, his wide chest and shoulders the base of his dual battering rams. David dropped the attache case, lurched to his right, then spun again, again to his right, his left foot lashing up from the floor, catching the Chinese in the groin with such force that the man doubled over, screaming. Webb instantly kicked out with his right foot, his toe digging into the attacker's throat directly beneath his jaw; the man rolled on the floor, gasping for air, one hand on his groin, the other gripping his neck. The first guard started to rise; Bourne stepped forward and smashed his knee into the man's chest, sending him halfway across the room where he fell unconscious beneath a display case.
The young arms merchant from Columbia University was stunned. His eyes explained: he was witnessing the unthinkable, expecting any moment that what he saw would be reversed, his guards the victors. Then suddenly, emphatically, he knew it was not going to happen; he ran in panic to the panelled door, reaching it as Webb reached him. David gripped the padded shoulders, spinning the merchant back across the floor. Wu Song tripped over his twisting feet and fell; he held up his hands, pleading.
'No, please! Stop! I cannot stand physical confrontation! Take what you will!'
'You can't stand what?'
'You heard me, I get ill?
'What the hell do you think all this is about?' yelled David, sweeping his arm around the room.
'I service a demand, that is all. Take whatever you want, but don't touch me. Please?
Disgusted, Webb crossed to the fallen driver, who was getting to his knees, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. 'What I take, I pay for,' he said to the arms merchant as he grabbed the driver's arm and helped him to his feet . 'Are you all right?'
'You ask for great trouble, sir,' replied Pak-fei, his hands trembling, fear in his eyes.
'It had nothing to do with you. Wu Song knows that, don't you, Wu?
'I brought you here!' insisted the driver.
To make a purchase,' added David quickly. 'So let's get it over with. But first tie up those two goons. Use the curtains. Rip them down. '
Pak-fei looked imploringly at the young merchant.
'Great Christian Jesus, do as he says? yelled Wu Song. 'He will strike me! Take the curtains! Tie them, you imbecile?
Three minutes later Webb held in his hand an odd-looking gun, bulky but not large. It was an advanced weapon; the perforated cylinder that was the silencer was pneumatically snapped on, reducing the decibel count of a gunshot to a loud spit – but no more than a spit – the accuracy unaffected at close range. It held nine rounds, clips released and inserted at the base of the handle in a matter of seconds; there were three in reserve – thirty-six shells with the fire power of a. 357 Magnum available instantly in a gun half the size and weight of a Colt 45.
'Remarkable,' said Webb, glancing at the bound guards and a quaking Pak-fei. 'Who designed it? So much expertise was coming back to him. So much recognition. From where?
'As an American, it may offend you,' answered Wu Song, 'but he is a man in Bristol, Connecticut, who realized that the company he works for – designs for – would never recompense him adequately for his invention. Through intermediaries he went on the closed international market and sold to the highest bidder. '
'You?'
'I do not invest. I market . '
That's right, I forgot. You service a demand. '