Free The Bourne ultimatum by Robert Ludlum Page A

nobody gives a shit now. Especially a marine colonel who liked a sharp game of poker every once in a while, and that man is sitting in the Oval Office at this moment. And furthermore, you ball-less scrotum, when he learns that she’s trying to further defame the brave boys who wanted only a little relaxation while fighting a thankless war—”
    In Vienna, Virginia, Alexander Conklin replaced the phone. Misfire One and Misfire Two ... and he had never heard of Culver Parnell.
     
    The chairman of the Federal Trade Commission, Albert Armbruster, swore out loud as he turned off the shower at the sound of his wife’s shrieking voice in the steam-filled bathroom. “What the hell is it, Mamie? I can’t take a shower without you yammering ?”
    “It could be the White House, Al! You know how they talk, so low and quiet and always saying it’s urgent.”
    “ Shit !” yelled the chairman, opening the glass door and walking naked to the phone on the wall. “This is Armbruster. What is it?”
    “There’s a crisis that requires your immediate attention.”
    “Is this 1600?”
    “No, and we hope it never goes up there.”
    “Then who the hell are you?”
    “Someone as concerned as you’re going to be. After all these years—oh, Christ !”
    “Concerned about what ? What are you talking about?”
    “Snake Lady, Mr. Chairman.”
    “Oh, my God !” Armbruster’s hushed voice was a sudden involuntary cry of panic. Instantly, he controlled himself but it was too late. Mark One . “I have no idea what you’re talking about. ... What’s a snake whatever-it-is? Never heard of it.”
    “Well, hear it now, Mr. Medusa . Somebody’s got it all, everything. Dates, diversions of matériel, banks in Geneva and Zurich—even the names of a half-dozen couriers routed out of Saigon—and worse. ... Jesus, the worst! Other names—MIAs established as never having been in combat ... eight investigating personnel from the inspector general’s office. Everything .”
    “You’re not making sense! You’re talking gibberish!”
    “And you’re on the list, Mr. Chairman . That man must have spent fifteen years putting it together, and now he wants payment for all those years of work or he blows it open—everything, everyone .”
    “Who? Who is he, for Christ’s sake?”
    “We’re centering in. All we know is that he’s been in the protection program for over a decade, and no one gets rich in those circumstances. He must have been cut out of the action in Saigon and now he’s making up for lost time. Stay tight. We’ll be back in touch.” There was a click and the line went dead.
    Despite the steam and the heat of the bathroom, the naked Albert Armbruster, chairman of the Federal Trade Commission, shivered as the sweat rolled down his face. He hung up the phone, his eyes straying to the small, ugly tattoo on the underside of his forearm.
    Over in Vienna, Virginia, Alex Conklin looked at the telephone.
    Mark One .
     
    General Norman Swayne, chief of Pentagon procurements, stepped back from the tee satisfied with his long straight drive down the fairway. The ball would roll to an optimum position for a decent five-iron approach shot to the seventeenth green. “That ought to do it,” he said, turning to address his golfing partner.
    “Certainly ought to, Norm,” replied the youngish senior vice president of Calco Technologies. “You’re taking my butt for a ride this afternoon. I’m going to end up owing you close to three hundred clams. At twenty a hole, I’ve only gotten four so far.”
    “It’s your hook, young fella. You ought to work on it.”
    “That’s certainly the truth, Norm,” agreed the Calco executive in charge of marketing as he approached the tee. Suddenly, there was the high grating sound of a golf cart’s horn as a three-wheeled vehicle appeared over the incline from the sixteenth fairway going as fast as it could go. “That’s your driver, General,” said the armaments marketer, immediately