The Bourne Identity

19

The army sedan sped south on Manhattan’s East River Drive, headlights illuminating the swirling remnants of a late-winter snowfall. The major in the back seat dozed, his long body angled into the corner, his legs stretched out diagonally across the floor. In his lap was a briefcase, a thin nylon cord attached to the handle by a metal clamp, the cord itself strung through his right sleeve and down his inner tunic to his belt. The security device had been removed only twice in the past nine hours. Once during the major’s departure from Zurich, and again with his arrival at Kennedy Airport. In both places, however, U. S. government personnel had been watching the customs clerks—more precisely, watching the briefcase. They were not told why, they were simply ordered to observe the inspections, and at the slightest deviation from normal procedures—which meant any undue interest in the briefcase—they were to intercede. With weapons, if necessary.
There was a sudden, quiet ringing; the major snapped his eyes open and brought his left hand up in front of his face. The sound was a wrist alarm; he pressed the button on his watch and squinted at the second radium dial of his two-zoned instrument. The first was on Zurich time, the second, New York; the alarm had been set twenty-four hours ago, when the officer had received his cabled orders. The transmission would come within the next three minutes. That is, thought the major, it would come if Iron Ass was as precise as he expected his subordinates to be. The officer stretched, awkwardly balancing the briefcase, and leaned forward, speaking to the driver.
“Sergeant, turn on your scrambler to 1430 megahertz, will you please?”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant flipped two switches on the radio panel beneath the dashboard, then twisted the dial to the 1430 frequency. “There it is, Major.”
“Thanks. Will the microphone reach back here?”
“I don’t know. Never tried it, sir.” The driver pulled the small plastic microphone from its cradle and stretched the spiral cord over the seat. “Guess it does,” he concluded.
Static erupted from the speaker, the scrambling transmitter electronically scanning and jamming the frequency. The message would follow in seconds. It did.
“Treadstone? Treadstone, confirm, please.”
“Treadstone receiving,” said Major Gordon Webb. “You’re clear. Go ahead.”
“What’s your position?”
“About a mile south of the Triborough, East River Drive,” said the major.
“Your timing is acceptable,” came the voice from the speaker.
“Glad to hear it. It makes my day ... sir.”
There was a brief pause, the major’s comment not appreciated. “Proceed to 139 East Seventy-first. Confirm by repeat.”
“One-three-niner East Seventy-first
“Keep your vehicle out of the area. Approach on foot.”
“Understood.”
“Out.”
“Out.” Webb snapped the transmission button in place and handed the microphone back to the driver. “Forget that address, Sergeant. Your name’s on a very short file now.”
“Gotcha’, Major. Nothing but static on that thing anyway. But since I don’t know where it is and these wheels aren’t supposed to go there, where do you want to be dropped off?”
Webb smiled. “No more than two blocks away. I’d go to sleep in the gutter if I had to walk any further than that.”
“How about Lex and Seventy-second?”
“Is that two blocks?”
“No more than three.”
“If it’s three blocks you’re a private.”
“Then I couldn’t pick you up later, Major. Privates aren’t cleared for this duty.”
“Whatever you say, Captain.” Webb closed his eyes. After two years, he was about to see Treadstone Seventy-One for himself. He knew he should feel a sense of anticipation; he did not. He felt only a sense of weariness, of futility. What had happened?
The incessant hum of the tires on the pavement below was hypnotic, but the rhythm was broken by sharp intrusions where concrete and wheels were not compatible. The sounds evoked memories of long ago, of screeching jungle noises woven into a single tone. And then the night—that night—when blinding lights and staccato explosions were all around him, and below him, telling him he was about to die. But he did not die; a miracle wrought by a man had given his life back to him ... and the years went on, that night, those days never to be forgotten. What the hell had happened?
“Here we are, Major.”
Webb opened his eyes, his hand wiping the sweat that had formed on his forehead. He. looked at his watch, gripped his briefcase and reached for the handle of the door.
“I’ll be here between 2300 and 2330 hours, Sergeant. If you can’t park, just cruise around and I’ll find you.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver turned in his seat. “Could the major tell me if we’re going to be driving any distance later?”
“Why? Have you got another fare?”
“Come on, sir. I’m assigned to you until you say otherwise, you know that. But these heavy-plated trucks use gas like the old-time Shermans. If we’re going far I’d better fill it.”
“Sorry.” The major paused. “Okay. You’ll have to find out where it is, anyway, because I don’t know. We’re going to a private airfield in Madison, New Jersey. I have to be there no later than one hundred hours.”
“I’ve got a vague idea,” said the driver. “At 2330, you’re cutting it pretty close, sir.”
“OK—2300, then. And thanks.” Webb got out of the car, closed the door and waited until the brown sedan entered the flow of traffic on Seventy-second Street. He stepped off the curb and headed south to Seventy-first.
Four minutes later he stood in front of a well-kept brownstone, its muted, rich design in concert with those around it in the tree-lined street. It was a quiet street, a monied street—old money. It was the last place in Manhattan a person would suspect of housing one of the most sensitive intelligence operations in the country. And as of twenty minutes ago, Major Gordon Webb was one of only eight or ten people in the country who knew of its existence.
Treadstone Seventy-One.
He climbed the steps, aware that the pressure of his weight on the iron grids embedded in the stone beneath him triggered electronic devices that in turn activated cameras, producing his image on screens inside. Beyond this, he knew little, except that Treadstone Seventy-One never closed; it was operated and monitored twenty-four hours a day by a select few, identities unknown.
He reached the top step and rang the bell, an ordinary bell, but not for an ordinary door, the major could see that. The heavy wood was riveted to a steel plate behind it, the decorative iron designs in actuality the rivets, the large brass knob disguising a hotplate that caused a series of steel bolts to shoot across into steel receptacles at the touch of a human hand when the alarms were turned on. Webb glanced up at the windows. Each pane of glass, he knew, was an inch thick, capable of withstanding the impact of .30 caliber shells. Treadstone Seventy-One was a fortress.
The door opened and the major involuntarily smiled at the figure standing there, so totally out of place did she seem. She was a petite, elegant-looking, gray-haired woman with soft aristocratic features and a bearing that bespoke monied gentility. Her voice confirmed the appraisal; it was mid-Atlantic, refined in the better finishing schools, and at innumerable polo matches.
“How good of you to drop by, Major. Jeremy wrote us that you might. Do come in. It’s such a pleasure to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you again, too,” replied Webb, stepping into the tasteful foyer, finishing his statement when the door was closed, “but I’m not sure where it was we met before.”
The woman laughed. “Oh, we’ve had dinner ever so many times.”
“With Jeremy?”
“Of course.”
“Who’s Jeremy?”
“A devoted nephew who’s also your devoted friend. Such a nice young man; it’s a pity he doesn’t exist.” She took his elbow as they walked down a long hallway. “It’s all for the benefit of neighbors who might be strolling by. Come along now, they’re waiting.”
They passed an archway that led to a large living room; the major looked inside. There was a grand piano by the front windows, harp beside it; and everywhere—on the piano and on polished tables glistening under the spill of subdued lamps—were silver-framed photographs, mementos of a past filled with wealth and grace. Sailboats, men and women on the decks of ocean liners, several military portraits. And, yes, two candid shots of someone mounted for a polo match. It was a room that belonged in a brownstone on this street.
They reached the end of the hallway; there was a large mahogany door, bas-relief and iron ornamentation part of its design, part of its security. If there was an infrared camera, Webb could not detect the whereabouts of the lens. The gray-haired woman pressed an unseen bell; the major could hear a slight hum.
“Your friend is here, gentlemen. Stop playing poker and go to work. Snap to, Jesuit.”
“Jesuit?” asked Webb, bewildered.
“An old joke,” replied the woman. “It goes back to when you were probably playing marbles and snarling at little girls.”
The door opened and the aged but still erect figure of David Abbott was revealed. “Glad to see you, Major,” said the former Silent Monk of Covert Services, extending his hand.
“Good to be here, sir.” Webb shook hands. Another elderly, imposing-looking man came up beside Abbott.
“A friend of Jeremy’s, no doubt,” said the man, his deep voice edged with humor. “Dreadfully sorry time preludes proper introductions, young fellow. Come along, Margaret. There’s a lovely fire upstairs.” He turned to Abbott. “You’ll let me know when you’re leaving, David?”
“Usual time for me, I expect,” replied the Monk. “I’ll show these two how to ring you.”
It was then that Webb realized there was a third man in the room; he was standing in the shadows at the far end, and the major recognized him instantly. He was Elliot Stevens, senior aide to the president of the United States—some said his alter ego. He was in his early forties, slender, wore glasses and had the bearing of unpretentious authority about him.
“… it’ll be fine.” The imposing older man who had not found time to introduce himself had been speaking; Webb had not heard him, his attention on the White House aide. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Till next time,” continued Abbott, shifting his eyes kindly to the gray-haired woman. “Thanks, Sister Meg. Keep your habit pressed. And down.”
“You’re still wicked, Jesuit.”
The couple left, closing the door behind them. Webb stood for a moment, shaking his head and smiling. The man and woman of 139 East Seventy-first belonged to the room down the hall, just as that room belonged in the brownstone, all a part of the quiet, monied, tree-lined street. “You’ve known them a long time, haven’t you?”
“A lifetime, you might say,” replied Abbott. “He was a yachtsman we put to good use in the Adriatic runs for Donovan’s operations in Yugoslavia. Mikhailovitch once said he sailed on sheer nerve, bending the worst weather to his will. And don’t let Sister Meg’s graciousness fool you. She was one of Intrepid’s girls, a piranha with very sharp teeth.”
“They’re quite a story.”
“It’ll never be told,” said Abbott, closing the subject. “I want you to meet Elliot Stevens. I don’t think I have to tell you who he is. Webb, Stevens. Stevens, Webb.”
“That sounds like a law firm,” said Stevens amiably, walking across the room, hand extended. “Nice to know you, Webb. Have a good trip?”
“I would have preferred military transport. I hate those damned commercial airlines. I thought a customs agent at Kennedy was going to slice the lining of my suitcase.”
“You look too respectable in that uniform,” laughed the Monk. “You’re obviously a smuggler.”
“I’m still not sure I understand the uniform,” said the major, carrying his briefcase to a long hatch table against the wall, and unclipping the nylon cord from his belt.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you,” answered Abbott, “that the tightest security is often found in being quite obvious on the surface. An army intelligence officer prowling around undercover in Zurich at this particular time could raise alarms.”
“Then I don’t understand, either,” said the White House aide, coming up beside Webb at the table, watching the major’s manipulations with the nylon cord and the lock. “Wouldn’t an obvious presence raise even more shrill alarms? I thought the assumption of undercover was that discovery was less probable.”
“Webb’s trip to Zurich was a routine consulate check, predated on the G-Two schedules. No one fools anybody about those trips; they’re what they are and nothing else. Ascertaining new sources, paying off informants. The Soviets do it all the time; they don’t even bother to hide it. Neither do we, frankly.”
“But that wasn’t the purpose of this trip,” said Stevens, beginning to understand. “So the obvious conceals the unobvious.”
“That’s it.”
“Can I help?” The presidential aide seemed fascinated by the briefcase.
“Thanks,” said Webb. “Just pull the cord through.”
Stevens did so. “I always thought it was chains around the wrist,” he said.
“Too many hands cut off,” explained the major, smiling at the White House man’s reaction. “There’s a steel wire running through the nylon.” He freed the briefcase and opened it on the table, looking around at the elegance of the furnished library-den. At the rear of the room was a pair of French doors that apparently led to an outside garden, an outline of a high stone wall seen dimly through the panes of thick glass. “So this is Treadstone Seventy-One. It isn’t the way I pictured it.”
“Pull the curtains again, will you please, Elliot?” Abbott said. The presidential aide walked to the French doors and did so. Abbott crossed to a bookcase, opened the cabinet beneath it, and reached inside. There was a quiet whir, the entire bookcase came out of the wall and slowly revolved to the left. On the other side was an electronic radio console, one of the most sophisticated Gordon Webb had seen. “Is this more what you had in mind?” asked the Monk. “Jesus ...” The major whistled as he studied the dials, calibrations, cable patches and scanning devices built into the panel. The Pentagon war rooms had far more elaborate equipment, but this was the miniaturized equal of most well-structured intelligence stations.
“I’d whistle, too,” said Stevens, standing in front of the dense curtain. “But Mr. Abbott already gave me my personal sideshow. That’s only the beginning. For more buttons and this place looks like a SAC base in Omaha.”
“Those same buttons also transform this room back into a graceful East Side library.” The old man reached inside the cabinet; in seconds the enormous console was replaced by bookshelves. He then walked to the adjacent bookcase, opened the cabinet beneath and once again put his hand inside. The whirring began; the bookcase slid out, and shortly in its place were three tall filing cabinets. The Monk took out a key and pulled out a file drawer. “I’m not showing off, Gordon. When we’re finished, I want you to look through these. I’ll show you the switch that’ll send them back. If you have any problems, our host will take care of everything.”
“What am I to look for?”
“We’ll get to it; right now I want to hear about Zurich. What have you learned?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Abbott,” interrupted Stevens. “If I’m slow, it’s because all this is new to me. But I was thinking about something you said a minute ago about Major Webb’s trip.”
“What is it?”
“You said the trip was predated on the G-Two schedules.”
“That’s right.”
“Why? The major’s obvious presence was to confuse Zurich, not Washington. Or was it?”
The Monk smiled. “I can see why the president keeps you around. We’ve never doubted that Carlos has bought his way into a circle or two—or ten—in Washington. He finds the discontented men and offers them what they do not have. A Carlos could not exist without such people. You must remember, he doesn’t merely sell death, he sells a nation’s secrets. All too frequently to the Soviets, if only to prove to them how rash they were to expel him.”
“The president would want to know that,” said the aide. “It would explain several things.”
“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” said Abbott.
“I guess it is.”
“And it’s a good place to begin for Zurich,” said Webb, taking his briefcase to an armchair in front of the filing cabinets. He sat down, spreading the folds inside the case at his feet, and took out several sheets of paper. “You may not doubt Carlos is in Washington, but I can confirm it.”
“Where? Treadstone?”
“There’s no clear proof of that, but it can’t be ruled out. He found the fiche. He altered it.”
“Good God, how?”
“The how I can only guess; the who I know.”
“Who?”
“A man named Koenig. Until three days ago he was in charge of primary verifications at the Gemeinschaft Bank.”
“Three days ago? Where is he now?”
“Dead. A freak automobile accident on a road he traveled every day of his life. Here’s the police report; I had it translated.” Abbott took the papers, and sat down in a nearby chair. Elliot Stevens remained standing; Webb continued. “There’s something very interesting there. It doesn’t tell us anything we don’t know, but there’s a lead I’d like to follow up.”
“What is it?” asked the Monk, reading. “This describes the accident. The curve, speed of vehicle, apparent swerving to avoid a collision.”
“It’s at the end. It mentions the killing at the Gemeinschaft, the bolt that got us off our asses.”
“It does?” Abbott turned the page.
“Look at it. Last couple of sentences. See what I mean?”
“Not exactly,” replied Abbott, frowning. “This merely states that Koenig was employed by the Gemeinschaft where a recent homicide took place ... and he had been a witness to the initial gunfire. That’s all.”
“I don’t think it is ‘all,’ ” said Webb. “I think there was more. Someone started to raise a question, but it was left hanging. I’d like to find out who has his red pencil on the Zurich police reports. He could be Carlos’ man; we know he’s got one there.”
The Monk leaned back in the chair, his frown unrelieved. “Assuming you’re right, why wasn’t the entire reference deleted?”
“Too obvious. The killing did take place; Koenig was a witness; the investigating officer who wrote up the report might legitimately ask why.”
“But if he had speculated on a connection wouldn’t he be just as disturbed that the speculation was deleted?”
“Not necessarily. We’re talking about a bank in Switzerland. Certain areas are officially inviolable unless there’s proof.”
“Not always. I understood you were very successful with the newspapers.”
“Unofficially. I appealed to prurient journalistic sensationalism, and—although it damn near killed him—got Walther Apfel to corroborate halfway.”
“Interruption,” said Elliot Stevens. “I think this is where the Oval Office has to come in. I assume by the newspapers you’re referring to the Canadian woman.”
“Not really. That story was already out; we couldn’t stop it. Carlos is wired into the Zurich police; they issued that report. We simply enlarged on it and tied her to an equally false story about millions having been stolen from the Gemeinschaft.” Webb paused and looked at Abbott. “That’s something we have to talk about; it may not be false after all.”
“I can’t believe that,” said the Monk.
“I don’t want to believe it,” replied the major. “Ever.” “Would you mind backing up?” asked the White House aide, sitting down opposite the army officer. “I have to get this very clear.”
“Let me explain,” broke in Abbott, seeing the bewilderment on Webb’s face. “Elliot’s here on orders from the president. It’s the killing at the Ottawa airport.”
“It’s an unholy mess,” said Stevens bluntly. “The prime minister damn near told the president to take our stations out of Nova Scotia. He’s one angry Canadian.”
“How did it come down?” asked Webb.
“Very badly. All they know is that a ranking economist at National Revenue’s Treasury Board made discreet inquiries about an unlisted American corporation and got himself killed for it. To make matters worse, Canadian Intelligence was told to stay out of it; it was a highly sensitive U. S. operation.”
“Who the hell did that?”
“I believe I’ve heard the name Iron Ass bandied about here and there,” said the Monk.
“General Crawford? Stupid son of a bitch—stupid iron-assed son of a bitch!”
“Can you imagine?” interjected Stevens. “Their man gets killed and we have the gall to tell them to stay out.”
“He was right, of course,” corrected Abbott. “It had to be done swiftly, no room for misunderstanding. A clamp had to be put on instantly, the shock sufficiently outrageous to stop everything. It gave me time to reach MacKenzie Hawkins—Mac and I worked together in Burma; he’s retired but they listen to him. They’re cooperating now and that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”
“There are other considerations, Mr. Abbott,” protested Stevens.
“They’re on different levels, Elliot. We working stiffs aren’t on them; we don’t have to spend time over diplomatic posturing. I’ll grant you those postures are necessary, but they don’t concern us.”
“They do concern the president, sir. They’re part of his every working-stiff day. And that’s why I have to go back with a very clear picture.” Stevens paused, turning to Webb. “Now, please, let me have it again. Exactly’ what did you do and why? What part did we play regarding this Canadian woman?”
“Initially not a goddamn thing, that was Carlos’ move. Someone very high up in the Zurich police is on Carlos’ payroll. It was the Zurich police who mocked up the so-called evidence linking her to the three killings. And it’s ludicrous; she’s no killer.”
All right, all right,” said the aide. “That was Carlos. Why did he do it?”
“To flush out Bourne. The St. Jacques woman and Bourne are together.”
“Bourne being this assassin who calls himself Cain, correct?”
“Yes,” said Webb. “Carlos has sworn to kill him. Cain’s moved in on Carlos all over Europe and the Middle East, but there’s no photograph of Cain, no one really knows what he looks like. So by circulating a picture of the woman—and let me tell you, it’s in every damn newspaper over there—someone may spot her. If she’s found, the chances are that Cain—Bourne—will be found too. Carlos will kill them both.”
“All right. Again, that’s Carlos. Now what did you do?”
“Just what I said. Reached the Gemeinschaft and convinced the bank into confirming the fact that the woman might—just might—be tied with a massive theft. It wasn’t easy, but it was their man Koenig who’d been bribed, not one of our people. That’s an internal matter; they wanted a lid on it. Then I called the papers and referred them to Walther Apfel. Mysterious woman, murder, millions stolen; the editors leaped at it.”
“For Christ’s sake, why?” shouted Stevens. “You used a citizen of another country for a U. S. intelligence strategy! A staff employee of a closely allied government. Are you out of your minds? You only exacerbated the situation, you sacrificed her!”
“You’re wrong,” said Webb. “We’re trying to save her life. We’ve turned Carlos’ weapon against him.”
“How?”
The Monk raised his hand. “Before we answer we have to go back to another question,” he said. “Because the answer to that may give you an indication of how restricted the information must remain. A moment ago I asked the major how Carlos! man could have found Bourne—found the fiche that identified Bourne as Cain. I think I know, but I want him to tell you.”
Webb leaned forward. “The Medusa records,” he said, quietly, reluctantly.
“Medusa ...?” Stevens’ expression conveyed the fact that the Medusa had been the subject of early White House confidential briefings. “They’re buried,” he said.
“Correction,” intruded Abbott. “There’s an original and two copies, and they’re in vaults at the Pentagon, the CIA and the National Security Council. Access to them is limited to a select group, each one among the highest-ranking members of his unit. Bourne came out of Medusa; a cross-checking of those names with the bank records would produce his name. Someone gave them to Carlos.”
Stevens stared at the Monk. “Are you saying that Carlos is … wired into ... men like that? It’s an extraordinary charge.”
“It’s the only explanation,” said Webb.
“By why would Bourne ever use his own name?”
“It was necessary,” replied Abbott. “It was a vital part of the portrait. It had to be authentic; everything had to be authentic. Everything.”
“Authentic?”
“Maybe you’ll understand now,” continued the major. “By tying the St. Jacques woman into millions supposedly stolen from the Gemeinschaft Bank, we’re telling Bourne to surface. He knows it’s false.”
“Bourne to surface?”
“The man called Jason Bourne,” said Abbott, getting to his feet and walking slowly toward the drawn curtains, “is an American intelligence officer. There is no Cain, not the one Carlos believes. He’s a lure, a trap for Carlos; that’s who he is. Or was.”
The silence was brief, broken by the White House man. “I think you’d better explain. The president has to know.”
“I suppose so,” mused Abbott, parting the curtains, looking absently outside. “It’s an insoluble dilemma, really. Presidents change, different men with different temperaments and appetites sit in the Oval Office. However, a long-range intelligence strategy doesn’t change, not one like this. Yet an offhand remark over a glass of whiskey in a post-presidential conversation, or an egotistical phrase in a memoir, can blow that same strategy right to hell. There isn’t a day that we don’t worry about those men who have survived the White House.”
“Please,” interrupted Stevens. “I ask you to remember that I’m here on the orders of this president. Whether you approve or disapprove doesn’t matter. He has the right by law to know; and in his name I insist on that right.”
“Very well,” said Abbott, still looking outside. “Three years ago we borrowed a page from the British. We created a man who never was. If you recall, prior to the Normandy invasion British Intelligence floated a corpse into the coast of Portugal, knowing that whatever documents were concealed on it would find their way to the German Embassy in Lisbon. A life was created for that dead body; a name, a naval officer’s rank; schools, training, travel orders, driver’s license, membership cards in exclusive London clubs and a half-dozen personal letters. Scattered throughout were hints, vaguely worded allusions, and a few very direct chronological and geographical references. They all pointed to the invasion taking place a hundred miles away from the beaches at Normandy, and six weeks off the target date in June. After panicked checks were made by German agents all over England—and, incidentally, controlled and monitored by MI Five—the High Command in Berlin bought the story and shifted a large part of their defenses. As many as were lost, thousands upon thousands of lives were saved by that man who never was.” Abbott let the curtain fall into place and walked wearily back to his chair.
“I’ve heard the story,” said the White House aide. “And?”
“Ours was a variation,” said the Monk, sitting down wearily. “Create a living man, a quickly established legend, seemingly everywhere at once, racing all over Southeast Asia, outdoing Carlos at every turn, especially in the area of sheer numbers. Whenever there was a killing, or an unexplained death, or a prominent figure involved in a fatal accident, there was Cain. Reliable sources—paid informants known for accuracy—were fed his name; embassies, listening posts, entire intelligence networks were repeatedly funneled reports that concentrated on Cain’s rapidly expanding activities. His ‘kills’ were mounting every month, sometimes it seemed weekly. He was everywhere ... and he was. In all ways.”
“You mean this Bourne was?”
“Yes. He spent months learning everything there was to learn about Carlos, studying every file we had, every known and suspected assassination with which Carlos was involved. He pored over Carlos’ tactics, his methods of operation, everything. Much of that material has never seen the light of day, and probably never will. It’s explosive—governments and international combines would be at each others’ throats. There was literally nothing Bourne did not know—that could be known—about Carlos. And then he’d show himself, always with a different appearance, speaking any of several languages, talking about things to selected circles of hardened criminals that only a professional killer would talk about. Then he’d be gone, leaving behind bewildered and often frightened men and women. They had seen Cain; he existed, and he was ruthless. That was the image Bourne conveyed.”
“He’s been underground like this for three years?” asked Stevens.
“Yes. He moved to Europe, the most accomplished white assassin in Asia, graduate of the infamous Medusa, challenging Carlos in his own yard. And in the process he saved four men marked by Carlos, took credit for others Carlos had killed, mocked him at every opportunity ... always trying to force him out in the open. He spent nearly three years living the most dangerous sort of lie a man can live, the kind of existence few men ever know. Most would have broken under it; and that possibility can never be ruled out.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“A professional,” answered Gordon Webb. “Someone who had the training and the capability, who understood that Carlos had to be found, stopped.”
“But three years ...?”
“If that seems incredible,” said Abbott, “you should know that he submitted to surgery. It was like a final break with the past, with the man he was in order to become a man he wasn’t. I don’t think there’s any way a nation can repay a man like Bourne for what he’s done. Perhaps the only way is to give him the chance to succeed—and by God I intend to do that.” The Monk stopped for precisely two seconds, then added, “If it is Bourne.”
It was as if Elliot Stevens had been struck by an unseen hammer. “What did you say?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve held this to the end. I wanted you to understand the whole picture before I described the gap. It may not be a gap—we just don’t know. Too many things have happened that make no sense to us, but we don’t know. It’s the reason why there can be absolutely no interference from other levels, no diplomatic sugar pills that might expose the strategy. We could condemn a man to death, a man who’s given more than any of us. If he succeeds, he can go back to his own life, but only anonymously, only without his identity ever being revealed.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that,” said the astonished presidential aide.
“Loyalty, Elliot. It’s not restricted to what’s commonly referred to as the ‘good guys.’ Carlos has built up an army of men and women who are devoted to him. They may not know him but they revere him. However, if he can take Carlos—or trap Carlos so we can take him—then vanish, he’s home free.”
“But you say he may not be Bourne!”
“I said we don’t know. It was Bourne at the bank, the signatures were authentic. But is it Bourne now? The next few days will tell us.”
“If he surfaces,” added Webb.
“It’s delicate,” continued the old man. “There are so many variables. If it isn’t Bourne—or if he’s turned—it could explain the call to Ottawa, the killing at the airport. From what we can gather, the woman’s expertise was used to withdraw the money in Paris. All Carlos had to do was make a few inquiries at the Canadian Treasury Board. The rest would be child’s play for him. Kill her contact, panic her, cut her off, and use her to contain Bourne.”
“Were you able to get word to her?” asked the major.
“I tried and failed. I had Mac Hawkins call a man who also worked closely with the St. Jacques woman, a man named Alan somebody-or-other. He instructed her to return to Canada immediately. She hung up on him.”
“Goddamn it!” exploded Webb.
“Precisely. If we could have gotten her back, we might have learned so much. She’s the key. Why is she with him? Why he with her? Nothing makes sense.”
“Less to me!” said Stevens, his bewilderment turning into anger. “If you want the president’s cooperation—and I promise nothing—you’d better be clearer.”
Abbott turned to him. “Some six months ago Bourne disappeared,” he said. “Something happened; we’re not sure what, but we can piece together a probability. He got word into Zurich that he was on his way to Marseilles. Later—too late—we understood. He’d learned that Carlos had accepted a contract on Howard Leland, and Bourne tried to stop it. Then nothing; he vanished. Had he been killed? Had he broken under the strain? Had he ... given up?”
“I can’t accept that,” interrupted Webb angrily. “I won’t accept it!”
“I know you won’t,” said the Monk. “It’s why I want you to go through that file. You know his codes; they’re all in there. See if you can spot any deviations in Zurich.”
“Please!” broke in Stevens. “What do you think? You must have found something concrete, something on which to base a judgment. I need that, Mr. Abbott. The president needs it.”
“I wish to heaven I had,” replied the Monk. “What have we found? Everything and nothing. Almost three years of the most carefully constructed deception in our records. Every false act documented, every move defined and justified; each man and woman—informants, contacts, sources—given faces, voices, stories to tell. And every month, every week just a little bit closer to Carlos. Then nothing. Silence. Six months of a vacuum.”
“Not now,” countered the president’s aide. “That silence was broken. By whom?”
“That’s the basic question, isn’t it?” said the old man, his voice tired. “Months of silence, then suddenly an explosion of unauthorized, incomprehensible activity. The account penetrated, the fiche altered, millions transferred—by all appearances, stolen. Above all, men killed and traps set for other men. But for whom, by whom?” The Monk shook his head wearily. “Who is the man out there?”