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The Bourne Ultimatum: Jason Bourne Book #3 par [Ludlum, Robert]
Publicité sur l'appli Kindle

The Bourne Ultimatum: Jason Bourne Book #3 Format Kindle

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Format Kindle, 14 août 2012
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Longueur : 754 pages Word Wise: Activé Composition améliorée: Activé
Page Flip: Activé Langue : Anglais

Description du produit

Extrait

Prologue

Darkness had descended on Manassas, Virginia, the countryside alive with nocturnal undercurrents, as Bourne crept through the woods bordering the estate of General Norman Swayne. Startled birds fluttered out of their black recesses; crows awoke in the trees and cawed their alarms, and then, as if calmed by a foraging co-conspirator, kept silent.

Manassas! The key was here! The key that would unlock the subterranean door that led to Carlos the Jackal, the assassin who wanted only to destroy David Webb and his family. . . . Webb! Get away from me, David! screamed Jason Bourne in the silence of his mind. Let me be the killer you cannot be!

With each scissoring cut into the thick, high wire fence, he understood the inevitable, confirmed by his heavy breathing and the sweat that fell from his hairline. No matter how hard he tried to keep his body in reasonable shape, he was fifty years of age; he could not do with ease what he did thirteen years ago in Paris when, under orders, he had stalked the Jackal. It was something to think about, not dwell upon. There were Marie and his children now--David's wife, David's children--and there was nothing he could not do as long as he willed it! David Webb was disappearing from his psyche, only the predator Jason Bourne would remain.

He was through! He crawled inside and stood up, instinctively, rapidly checking his equipment with the fingers of both hands. Weapons: an automatic, as well as a CO2 dart pistol; Zeiss Ikon binoculars; a scabbarded hunting knife. They were all the predator needed, for he was now behind the lines in enemy territory, the enemy that would lead him to Carlos.

Medusa. The bastard battalion from Vietnam, the unlogged, unsanctioned, unacknowledged collection of killers and misfits who roamed the jungles of Southeast Asia directed by Command Saigon, the original death squads who brought Saigon more intelligence input than all the search-and-destroys put together. Jason Bourne had come out of Medusa with David Webb only a memory--a scholar who had another wife, other children, all slaughtered.

General Norman Swayne had been an elite member of Command Saigon, the sole supplier of the old Medusa: And now there was a new Medusa: different, massive, evil incarnate cloaked in contemporary respectability, searching out and destroying whole segments of global economies, all for the benefit of the few, all financed by the profits from a long-ago bastard battalion, unlogged, unacknowledged--nonhistory. This modern Medusa was the bridge to Carlos the Jackal. The assassin would find the principals irresistible as clients, and both camps would demand the death of Jason Bourne. That had to happen! And for it to happen, Bourne had to learn the secrets concealed within the grounds belonging to General Swayne, head of all procurements for the Pentagon, a panicked man with a small tattoo on his inner forearm. A Medusan.

Without sound or warning, a black Doberman crashed through the dense foliage, its frenzy in full force. Jason whipped the CO2 pistol from its nylon holster as the salivating attack dog lunged for his stomach, its teeth bared. He fired into its head; the dart took effect in seconds. He cradled the animal's unconscious body to the ground.

Cut its throat! Roared Jason Bourne in silence.

No, countered his other self, David Webb. Blame the trainer, not the animal.

Get away from me, David!

Chapter One


The cacophony spun out of control as the crowds swelled through the amusement park in the countryside on the outskirts of Baltimore. The summer night was hot, and nearly everywhere faces and necks were drenched with sweat, except for those screaming as they plunged over the crests of a roller coaster, or shrieking as they plummeted down the narrow, twisting gullies of racing water in torpedo sleds. The garishly colored, manically blinking lights along the midway were joined by the grating sounds of emphatic music metallically erupting out of an excess of loudspeakers--calliopes presto, marches prestissimo. Pitchmen yelled above the din, nasally hawking their wares in monotonic harangues while erratic explosions in the sky lit up the darkness, sending sprays of myriad fireworks cascading over a small adjacent black lake. Roman candles bright, arcing bursts of fire blinding.

A row of Hit-the-Gong machines drew contorted faces and thick necks bulging with veins as men sought furiously and frequently in frustration to prove their manhood, crashing heavy wooden mallets down on the deceitful planks that too often refused to send the little red balls up the bells. Across the way, others shrieked with menacing enthusiasm as they crashed their Dodge 'Em carts into the whirling, surrounding vehicles, each collision a triumph of superior aggression, each combatant a momentary movie star who overcomes all odds against him. Gunfight at O.K. Corral at 9:27 in the evening in a conflict that meant nothing.

Farther along was a minor monument to sudden death, a shooting gallery that bore little resemblance to the innocent minimum-caliber variety found in state fairs and rural carnivals. Instead, it was a microcosm of the most lethal equipment of modern weaponry. There were mocked-up versions of MAC-10 and Uzi machine pistols, steel-framed missile launchers and antitank bazookas, and finally, a frightening replica of a flamethrower spewing out harsh, straight beams of light through billowing clouds of dark smoke. And again there were the perspiring faces, continuous beads of sweat rolling over maniacal eyes and down across stretched necks--husbands, wives and children--their features grotesque, twisted out of shape as if each were blasting away at hated enemies--wives, husbands, parents and offspring. All were locked in a never-ending war without meaning--at 9:29 in the evening, in an amusement park whose theme was violence. Unmitigated and unwarranted, man against himself and all his hostilities, the worst, of course, being his fears.

A slender figure, a cane gripped in his right hand, limped past a booth where angry, excited customers were hurling sharp-pointed darts into balloons on which were stenciled the faces of public figures. As the rubber heads exploded the bursts gave rise to fierce arguments for and against the sagging, pinched remnants of political icons and their dart-wielding executioners. The limping man continued down the midway, peering ahead through the maze of strollers as if he were looking for a specific location in a hectic, crowded, unfamiliar part of town. He was dressed casually but neatly in a jacket and sport shirt as though the oppressive heat had no effect on him and the jacket was somehow a requirement. His face was the pleasant face of a middle-aged man, but worn with premature lines and deep shadows under the eyes, all of which was the result more of the life he had led than of the accumulated years. His name was Alexander Conklin, and he was a retired covert operations officer in the Central Intelligence Agency. He was also at this moment apprehensive and consumed with anxiety. He did not wish to be in this place at this hour, and he could not imagine what catastrophic event had taken place that forced him to be there.

He approached the pandemonium of the shooting gallery and suddenly gasped, stopping all movement, his eyes locked on a tall, balding man about his own age with a seersucker jacket slung over this shoulder. Morris Panov was walking toward the thunderous counter of the shooting gallery from the opposite direction! Why? What had happened? Conklin snapped his head around in every direction, his eyes darting toward faces and bodies, instinctively knowing that he and the psychiatrist were being watched. It was too late to stop Panov from entering the inner circle of the meeting ground but perhaps not too late to get them both out! The retired intelligence officer reached under his jacket for the small Beretta automatic that was his constant companion, and lurched rapidly forward, limping and flailing his cane against the crowd, smashing kneecaps and prodding stomachs and breasts and kidneys until the stunned, angry strollers erupted in successive cries of shock, a near riot in the making. He then rushed forward, slamming his frail body into the bewildered doctor and shouting into Panov's face through the roars of the crowd, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"The same thing I assume you are. David, or should I say Jason? That's what the telegram said."

"It's a trap!"

There was a piercing scream overriding the surrounding melee. Both Conklin and Panov instantly looked over at the shooting gallery only yards away. An obese woman with a pinched face had been shot in the throat. The crowd went into a frenzy. Conklin spun around trying to see where the shot came from, but the panic was at full pitch; he saw nothing but rushing figures. He grabbed Panov and propelled him through the screaming, frantic bodies across the midway and again through the strolling crowds to the base of the massive roller coaster at the end of the park, where excited customers were edging toward the booth through the deafening noise.

"My God!" yelled Panov. "Was that meant for one of us?"

"Maybe . . . maybe not," replied the former intelligence officer breathlessly as sirens and whistles were heard in the distance.

"You said it was a trap!"

"Because we both got a crazy telegram from David using a name he hasn't used in five years--Jason Bourne! And if I'm not mistaken, your message also said that under no condition should we call his house."

"That's right."

"It's a trap. . . . You move better than I do, Mo, so move those legs of yours. Get out of here--run like a son of a bitch and find a telephone. A pay phone, nothing traceable!"

"What?"

"Call his house! Tell David to pack up Marie and the kids and get out of there!"

"What?"

"Someone found us, Docto...

Revue de presse

"Vintage Ludlum."—The Cleveland Plain Dealer


From the Paperback edition.

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 4344 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 754 pages
  • Editeur : Bantam (14 août 2012)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B008XNWMDE
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Lecteur d’écran : Pris en charge
  • Composition améliorée: Activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 2.0 étoiles sur 5 1 commentaire client
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°103.802 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta) (Peut contenir des commentaires issus du programme Early Reviewer Rewards)

Amazon.com: 3.9 étoiles sur 5 194 commentaires
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
1.0 étoiles sur 5 Terrible, Sad to see after the first two good ones. 6 janvier 2015
Par Jurie Botha - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Awful book, as much as it pains me to say it. I love the Bourne character, and Identity and Supremacy was brilliant. I don't know what ludlum was thinking when he wrote this - or even if he really wrote this - but it is a complete disappointment and disaster. I would have preferred a 200 page brilliant story to this 600+ page abomination.

I am currently on page 279, and am seriously considering just ditching it. Bourne's decisions and actions leads you to believe that he's a drooling retard, who cannot catch an apparently dying Carlos (I say apparently since in the one encounter they've had so far Carlos seemed to be much more proficient than his 10 years younger nemesis.)

Do NOT buy this book. You will be disappointed. A serious waste of money.
5.0 étoiles sur 5 A Stellar Finish for the Gospel According to St. Bourne 2 juillet 2016
Par Deon C. Mixon - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche Achat vérifié
I struggle to declare this final installment of Ludlum's masterful trilogy the best of them, but I will not hesitate to conclude that it was the most hilarious! Yup, the comedy was a plus towards the intertwining journeys of Jason's many foes and friends. It made the entire adventure less agonizing and more welcoming to plow through. This final arc of the famous chameleon was definitely a ride to wait for. With powerful storytelling, despite the overdrawn formula of intense detail, fulfilling action, and a plethora of surprises to verify those, unfortunately, already verified gaps, this ultimatum, the gospel according to St. Bourne, was still a stellar finale.
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
2.0 étoiles sur 5 A Bridge Too Far 30 octobre 2013
Par A. Sark - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
The third instalment of the Bourne trilogy has little to recommend it. After reading the best part of 1000 pages in the first two offerings, one has about enough of the flashbacks in Jason Bourne's mind and the constant failures to kill or capture the Jackal seem increasingly forced. One finally understands why Hollywood departed so dramatically from Ludlum's text in dramatizing the series. Frankly, and with all due respect to Mr. Ludlum for some more masterful efforts like the Rhineman Exchange and the Matarese Circle, he appears to be trying to reach a page count in the Bourne Ultimatum rather than revealing intriguing story layers.
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Engaging, pulls it all together 11 juillet 2014
Par Dishwasher - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Ludlum does a great job of continuing the saga from the first two books and tying the whole story together. Ultimatum moves! It does not seemed to get bogged down as the first two did at times. Reading all three together is the way to go - AND - you do have to read them all to the end, if you want to understand and appreciate the story line.

Here we get a much better view and understanding of the conflict between Jason Bourne and David Webb. We get to see a much more human Jason Bourne - one who actually makes mistakes, acknowledges them and learns from them.

Having read Ultimatum - I'm intrigued to discover the next chapter in this story. Great job!
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Long and Difficult 27 février 2015
Par Michelle FitzGibbon - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Unfortunately I have to finish a book I start so I did, and with much difficulty. I loved the movies but don't recommended this series. Thank goodness for Kindle 's dictionary as I used it on every page in order to comprehend what I was reading. The author used 20 words when he should have used 1 or 2 and had more detail than necessary. In fact, he could have written his stories on half the pages had many of the unnecessary words and long-winded explanations been left out. It is unfortunate but I do now understand why the movies were so different - they had to be.
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