in line and drive up to the gate,' ordered Bourne. 'I'm a fare you picked up in Lo Wu, that's all. I'll do the talking.'
'You ask too much! I will not be seen with someone like you.'
'Just do it,' said Jason, pulling the gun from his belt. The pounding in his chest was unbearable as Bourne stood by a large window looking out on the airfield. The terminal was small and for privileged travellers. The incongruous sight of
casual Western businessmen carrying attach� cases and tennis rackets unnerved Jason because of the stark contrast to the uniformed guards, standing about rigidly. Oil and water were apparently compatible.
Speaking English to the interpreter who translated accurately for the officer of the guard, he had claimed to be a bewildered executive instructed by the consulate on Queen's Road in Hong Kong to come to the airport to meet an official flying in from Beijing. He had misplaced the official's name, but they had met briefly at the State Department in Washington and would recognize each other. He implied that the present meeting was looked upon with great favour by important men in the Central Committee. He was given a pass restricting him to the terminal, and lastly he asked if the taxi could be permitted to remain in case transport was needed later. The request was granted.
'If you want your money, you'll stay,' he had said to the driver in Cantonese as he picked up the folded bills between them.
'You have a gun and angry eyes. You will kill.'
Jason had stared at the driver. The last thing on earth I want to do is kill the man in that car. I would only kill to protect his life.'
The brown sedan with the dark, opaque windows was nowhere in the parking area. Bourne walked as rapidly as he thought acceptable into the terminal, to the window where he stood now, his temples exploding with anger and frustration, for outside on the field he saw the government car. It was parked on the tarmac not fifty feet away from him, but an impenetrable wall of glass separated him from it - and deliverance. Suddenly the sedan shot forward towards a medium-sized jet several hundred yards north on the runway. Bourne strained his eyes, wishing to Christ he had binoculars! Then he realized they would have been useless; the car swung around the tail of the plane and out of sight.
Goddamn it!
Within seconds the jet began rolling to the foot of the runway as the brown sedan swerved and raced back towards the parking area and the exit.
What could he do? I can't be left this way! He's there! He's me and he's there! He's getting away! Bourne ran to the first counter and assumed the attitude of a terribly distraught man.
'The plane that's about to take off! I'm supposed to be on it! It's going to Shanghai and the people in Beijing said I was to be on it! Stop it!'
The clerk behind the counter picked up her telephone. She dialled quickly then exhaled through her tight lips in relief. 'That is not your plane, sir,' she said. 'It flies to Guangdong.'
'Where?
The Macao border, sir.'
'Never! It must not be Macao!' the taipan had screamed... ' The order will be swift^ the execution swifter! Your wife will die}'
Macao. Table Five. The Kam Pek casino.
'If he heads for Macao,' Mr Allister had said quietly, 'he could be a terrible liability...'
' Termination!1
'I can't use that word.'
Chapter Fourteen
14
'You will not, you cannot tell me this!' shouted Edward Newington McAllister, leaping out of his chair. 'It's unacceptable] I can't handle it. I won't hear of it!'
'You'd better, Edward,' said Major Lin. 'It happened.'
'It's my fault,' added the English doctor, standing in front of the desk in Victoria Peak, facing the American. 'Every symptom she exhibited led to a prognosis of rapid, neurological deterioration. Loss of concentration and visual focus; no appetite and a commensurate drop in weight - most significantly, spasms when there was a complete lack of motor controls. I honestly thought the degenerative process had reached a negative crisis-'
'What the hell does that mean?
'That she was dying. Oh, not in a matter of hours or even days or weeks, but that the course was irreversible.'
'Could you have been right?'
'I would like nothing better than to conclude that I was, that my diagnosis was at least reasonable, but I can't. Simply put, I was dragooned.'
'You were hit?'
'Figuratively, yes. Where it hurts the most, Mr Undersecretary. My professional pride.