The Jason Bourne Series 3-Book Bundle: The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, The Bourne Ultimatum
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Millions of readers have followed this master of suspense into the shadowy world of Jason Bourne, an expert assassin haunted by the splintered nightmares of his former life—and the inspiration for a series of blockbuster films. Now, for the first time, all three of the gripping Bourne thrillers by Robert Ludlum are packaged together in one spellbinding eBook bundle:
THE BOURNE IDENTITY
“Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined.”—The New York Times
Meet Jason Bourne. His memory is a blank. His bullet-ridden body was fished from the Mediterranean Sea. His face has been altered by plastic surgery. A frame of microfilm has been surgically implanted in his hip. His real name is a mystery. Marked for death, he is racing for survival through a bizarre world of murderous conspirators, led by Carlos, the world’s most dangerous terrorist. Who is Jason Bourne? The answer may kill him.
THE BOURNE SUPREMACY
“Ludlum has never come up with a more head-spinning, spine-jolting, intricately mystifying, Armageddonish, in short Ludlumesque, thriller than this.”—Publishers Weekly
Someone else has taken on the Bourne identity—a ruthless killer who must be stopped or the world will pay a devastating price. To succeed, the real Jason Bourne must maneuver through the dangerous labyrinth of international espionage—an exotic world filled with CIA plots, turncoat agents, and ever-shifting alliances—all the while hoping to find the truth behind his haunted memories and the answers to his own fragmented past. This time there are two Bournes—and one must die.
THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM
“Vintage Ludlum.”—The Plain Dealer
At a small-town carnival, two men, each mysteriously summoned by a telegram signed “Jason Bourne,” witness a bizarre killing. Only they know Bourne’s true identity. They understand that the telegrams are really a message from Bourne’s mortal enemy, Carlos. Now one man must do something he hoped never to do again: Assume the terrible identity of Jason Bourne. His plan is simple: Use himself as bait to lure Carlos into a deadly trap—from which only one of them will escape.
body, the face was younger—younger than the myth he was imitating—and in that youth was strength, the strength of a Delta from Medusa. It was incredible. Even the guarded, catlike walk, the long arms loose at the sides that were so obviously proficient in the deadly arts. It was Delta, the Delta he had been told about, the Delta who had become Cain and finally Jason Bourne. He was looking at himself but not himself, yet withal a killer. An assassin. A crack in the distance intruded upon the
now—for your sake as well as mine. If I’m right and anyone thought you’d been given information, you could be transferred to Reykjavik without a sweater.” “But you said you didn’t know what the connection was, that you wished you did.” “In the sense that I can’t understand the reasons for it if, indeed, it exists. I only know one side of the story and it’s filled with holes. I could be wrong.” Catherine again drank a small portion of her whisky. “Look, Johnny,” she continued. “Only you can make
officer. “They have been unable to do so for the past three hours. They are now searching the Hengshui mountains.… Great spirits, why am I telling you? You heard the reports yourself! You speak better than my parents, and they were educated!” “Two points for the Republic’s Air Force.… Okay, take a hundred-and-sixty-degree turn in two and a half minutes and climb to an altitude of a thousand feet. We’ll be over water.” “We’ll be in range of the Japanese! They’ll shoot us down!” “Put out a white
and I received identical telegrams from Jason Bourne asking us to be at the amusement park at nine-thirty last night. It was urgent, and we were to meet him in front of the shooting gallery, but we were not, under any condition, to call his house or anyone else.… We both independently assumed that he didn’t want to alarm his wife, that he had something to tell us individually that he didn’t want her to know.… We arrived at the same time, but I saw Panov first and figured it was a bad scene. From
sitting in chairs looking frightened, wondering what le docteur’s condition would be that morning. Actually, it wasn’t bad. Geoffrey Washburn still drank like a mad Cossack, but these days he stayed on his horse. It was as if a reserve of hope had been found in the recesses of his own destructive fatalism. And the man with no memory understood; that hope was tied to a bank in Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse. Why did the street come so easily to mind? The bedroom door opened and the doctor burst in,