The Bourne Identity jb-1

by Robert Ludlum

  “That’s Chernak,” said Gillette, reading the summary. “At least I assume its Chernak. I recognize the name and associate it with the Cain file somewhere.”

  “You should,” replied Manning. “It first appeared in a G-Two report eighteen months ago and cropped up again a year later.”

  “Which would make it six months ago,” interjected Abbott, softly, looking at Gillette.

  “Yes, sir,” continued the colonel. “If there was ever an example of what’s called the scum-of-the-earth, it was Chernak. During the war he was a Czechoslovakian recruit at Dachau, a trilingual interrogator as brutal as any guard in the camp. He sent Poles, Slovaks and Jews to the showers after torture sessions in which he extracted—and manufactured—‘incriminating’ information Dachau’s commandants wanted to hear. He went to any length to curry favor with his superiors, and the most sadistic cliques were hard pressed to match his exploits. What they didn’t realize was that he was cataloguing theirs. After the war he escaped, got his legs blown off by an undetected land mine, and still managed to survive very nicely on his Dachau extortions. Cain found him and used him as a go-between for payments on his kills.”

  “Now just wait a minute!” objected Knowlton strenuously. “We’ve been over this Chernak business before. If you recall, it was the Agency that first uncovered him; we would have exposed him long ago if State hadn’t interceded on behalf of several powerful anti-Soviet officials in the Bonn government. You assume Cain’s used Chernak; you don’t know it for certain any more than we do.”

  “We do now,” said Manning. “Seven and a half months ago we received a tip about a man who ran a restaurant called the Drei Alpenhäuser; it was reported that he was an intermediary between Cain and Chernak. We kept him under surveillance for weeks, but nothing came of it; he was a minor figure in the Zurich underworld, that was all. We didn’t stay with him long enough.” The colonel paused, satisfied that all eyes were on him. “When we heard about Chernak’s murder, we gambled. Five nights ago two of our men hid in the Drei Alpenhäuser after the restaurant closed.

  They cornered the owner and accused him of dealing with Chernak, working for Cain; they put on a hell of a show. You can imagine their shock when the man broke, literally fell to his knees begging to be protected. He admitted that Cain was in Zurich the night Chernak was killed; that, in fact, he had seen Cain that night and Chernak had come up in the conversation. Very negatively.” The military man paused again, the silence filled by a slow soft whistle from David Abbott, his pipe held in front of his crag-lined face. “Now, that is a statement,” said the Monk quietly.

  “Why wasn’t the Agency informed of this tip you received seven months ago?” asked the CIA’s Knowlton abrasively.

  “It didn’t prove out.”

  “In your hands; it might have been different in ours.”

  “That’s possible. I admitted we didn’t stay with him long enough. Manpower’s limited; which of us can keep up a nonproductive surveillance indefinitely?”

  “We might have shared it if we’d known.”

  “And we could have saved you the time it took to build the Brussels file, if we’d been told about that.”

  “Where did the tip come from?” asked Gillette, interrupting impatiently, his eyes on Manning.

  “It was anonymous.”

  “You settled for that?” The birdlike expression on Gillette’s face conveyed his astonishment.

  “It’s one reason the initial surveillance was limited.”

  “Yes, of course, but you mean you never dug for it?”

  “Naturally we did,” replied the colonel testily.

  “Apparently without much enthusiasm,” continued Gillette angrily. “Didn’t it occur to you that someone over at Langley, or on the Council, might have helped, might have filled in a gap? I agree with Peter. We should have been informed.”

  “There’s a reason why you weren’t.” Manning breathed deeply; in less military surroundings it might have been construed as a sigh. “The informant made it clear that if we brought in any other branch, he wouldn’t make contact again. We felt we had to abide by that; we’ve done it before.”

  “What did you say?” Knowlton put down the page summary and stared at the Pentagon officer.

  “It’s nothing new, Peter. Each of us sets up his own sources, protects them.”

  “I’m aware of that. It’s why you weren’t told about Brussels. Both drones said to keep the army out.”

  Silence. Broken by the abrasive voice of the Security Council’s Alfred Gillette. “How often is ‘we’ve done it before,’ Colonel?”

  “What?” Manning looked at Gillette, but was aware that David Abbott was watching both of them closely.

  “I’d like to know how many times you’ve been told to keep your sources to yourself. I refer to Cain, of course.”

  “Quite a few, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “And you, Peter? What about the Agency?”

  “We’ve been severely limited in terms of in-depth dissemination.”

  “For God’s sake, what’s that mean?” The interruption came from the least expected member of the conference; the congressman from Oversight. “Don’t misunderstand me, I haven’t begun yet. I just want to follow the language.” He turned to the CIA man. “What the hell did you just say? In-depth what?”

  “Dissemination, Congressman Walters; it’s throughout Cain’s file. We risked losing informants if we brought them to the attention of other intelligence units. I assure you, it’s standard.”

  “It sounds like you were test-tubing a heifer.”

  “With about the same results,” added Gillette. “No cross-pollinization to corrupt the strain. And, conversely, no cross-checking to look for patterns of inaccuracy.”

  “A nice turn of phrases,” said Abbott, his craggy face wrinkled in appreciation, “but I’m not sure I understand you.”

  “I’d say it’s pretty damned clear,” replied the man from NSC, looking at Colonel Manning and Peter Knowlton. “The country’s two most active intelligence branches have been fed information about Cain—for the past three years—and there’s been no cross-pooling for origins of fraud. We’ve simply received all information as bona fide data, stored and accepted as valid.”

  “Well, I’ve been around a long time—perhaps too long, I concede—but there’s nothing here I haven’t heard before,” said the Monk. “Sources are shrewd and defensive people; they guard their contacts jealously. None are in the business for charity, only for profit and survival.”

  “I’m afraid you’re overlooking my point.” Gillette removed his glasses. “I said before that I was alarmed so many recent assassinations have been attributed to Cain—attributed here to Cain—when it seems to me that the most accomplished assassin of our time—perhaps in history—has been relegated to a comparatively minor role. I think that’s wrong. I think Carlos is the man we should be concentrating on. What’s happened to Carlos?”

  “I question your judgment, Alfred,” said the Monk. “Carlos’ time has passed, Cain’s moved in. The old order changes; there’s a new and, I suspect, far more deadly shark in the waters.”

  “I can’t agree with that,” said the man from National Security, his owl-eyes boring into the elder statesman of the intelligence community. “Forgive me, David, but it strikes me as if Carlos himself were manipulating this committee. To take the attention away from himself, making us concentrate on a subject of much less importance. We’re spending all our energies going after a toothless sand shark while the hammerhead roams free.”

  “No one’s forgetting Carlos,” objected Manning. “He’s simply not as active as Cain’s been.”

  “Perhaps,” said Gillette icily, “that’s exactly what Carlos wants us to believe. And, by God, we believe it.”

  “Can you doubt it?” asked Abbott. “The record of Cain’s accomplishments is staggering.”

  “Can I doubt it?”
repeated Gillette. “That’s the question, isn’t it? But can any of us be sure? That’s also a valid question. We now find out that both the Pentagon and the Central Intelligence Agency have been literally operating independently of each other, without even conferring as to the accuracy of their sources.”

  “A custom rarely breached in this town,” said Abbott, amused.

  Again the congressman from Oversight interrupted. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Gillette?”

  “I’d like more information about the activities of one Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. That’s—”

  “Carlos,” said the congressman. “I remember my reading. I see. Thank you. Go on, gentlemen.”

  Manning spoke quickly. “May we get back to Zurich, please. Our recommendation is to go after Cain now. We can spread the word in the Verbrecherwelt, pull in every informer we have, request the cooperation of the Zurich police. We can’t afford to lose another day. The man in Zurich is Cain.”

  “Then what was Brussels?” The CIA’s Knowlton asked the question as much of himself as anyone at the table. “The method was Cain’s, the informants unequivocal. What was the purpose?”

  “To feed you false information, obviously,” said Gillette. “And before we make any dramatic moves in Zurich, I suggest that each of you comb the Cain files and recheck every source given you. Have your European stations pull in every informant who so miraculously appeared to offer information. I have an idea you might find something you didn’t expect: the fine Latin hand of Ramirez Sanchez.”

  “Since you’re so insistent on clarification, Alfred,” interrupted Abbott, “why not tell us about the unconfirmed occurrence that took place six months ago. We seem to be in a quagmire here; it might be helpful.”

  For the first time during the conference, the abrasive delegate from the National Security Council seemed to hesitate. “We received word around the middle of August from a reliable source in Aix-en-Provence that Cain was on his way to Marseilles.”

  “August?” exclaimed the colonel. “Marseilles? That was Leland! Ambassador Leland was shot in Marseilles. In August!”

  “But Cain didn’t fire that rifle. It was a Carlos kill; that was confirmed. Bore-markings matched with previous assassinations, three descriptions of an unknown dark-haired man on the third and fourth floors of the waterfront warehouse, carrying a satchel. There was never any doubt that Leland was murdered by Carlos.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” roared the officer. “That’s after the fact, after the kill! No matter whose, there was a contract out on Leland—hadn’t that occurred to you? If we’d known about Cain, we might have been able to cover Leland. He was military property! Goddamn it, he might be alive today!”

  “Unlikely,” replied Gillette calmly. “Leland wasn’t the sort of man to live in a bunker. And given his life-style, a vague warning would have served no purpose. Besides, had our strategy held together, warning Leland would have been counterproductive.”

  “In what way?” asked the Monk harshly.

  “It’s your fuller explanation. Our source was to make contact with Cain during the hours of midnight and three in the morning in the rue Sarrasin on August 23. Leland wasn’t due until the twenty-fifth. As I say, had it held together we would have taken Cain. It didn’t; Cain never showed up.”

  “And your source insisted on cooperating solely with you,” said Abbott. “To the exclusion of all others.”

  “Yes,” nodded Gillette, trying but unable to conceal his embarrassment. “In our judgment, the risk to Leland had been eliminated—which in terms of Cain turned out to be the truth—and the odds for capture greater than they’d ever been. We’d finally found someone willing to come out and identify Cain. Would any of you have handled it any other way?” Silence. This time broken by the drawl of the astute congressman from Tennessee.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty … what a bunch of bullshitters.”

  Silence, terminated by the thoughtful voice of David Abbott.

  “May I commend you, sir, on being the first honest man sent over from the Hill. The fact that you are not overwhelmed by the rarefied atmosphere of these highly classified surroundings is not lost on any of us. It’s refreshing.”

  “I don’t think the congressman fully grasps the sensitivity of—”

  “Oh, shut up, Peter,” said the Monk. “I think the congressman wants to say something.”

  “Just for a bit,” said Walters. “I thought you were all over twenty-one; I mean, you look over twenty-one, and by then you’re supposed to know better. You’re supposed to be able to hold intelligent conversations, exchange information while respecting confidentiality, and look for common solutions. Instead, you sound like a bunch of kids jumping on a goddamn carousel, squabbling over who’s going to get the cheap brass ring. It’s a hell of a way to spend taxpayers’ money.”

  “You’re oversimplifying, Congressman,” broke in Gillette. “You’re talking about a utopian fact-finding apparatus. There’s no such thing.”

  “I’m talking about reasonable men, sir. I’m a lawyer, and before I came up to this godforsaken circus, I dealt with ascending levels of confidentiality every day of my life. What’s so damn new about them?”

  “And what’s your point?” asked the Monk.

  “I want an explanation. For over eighteen months I’ve sat on the House Assassination Subcommittee. I’ve plowed through thousands of pages, filled with hundreds of names and twice as many theories. I don’t think there’s a suggested conspiracy or a suspected assassin I’m not aware of.

  I’ve lived with those names and those theories for damn near two years, until I didn’t think there was anything left to learn.”

  “I’d say your credentials were very impressive,” interrupted Abbott.

  “I thought they might be; it’s why I accepted the Oversight chair. I thought I could make a realistic contribution, but now I’m not so sure. I’m suddenly beginning to wonder what I do know.”

  “Why?” asked Manning apprehensively.

  “Because I’ve been sitting here listening to the four of you describe an operation that’s been going on for three years, involving networks of personnel and informants and major intelligence posts throughout Europe—all centered on an assassin whose ‘list of accomplishments’ is staggering. Am I substantively correct?”

  “Go on,” replied Abbott quietly, holding his pipe, his expression rapt. “What’s your question?”

  “Who is he? Who the hell is this Cain?”

  16

  The silence lasted precisely five seconds, during which time eyes roamed other eyes, several throats were cleared, and no one moved in his chair. It was as if a decision were being reached without discussion: evasion was to be avoided. Congressman Efrem Walters, out of the hills of Tennessee by way of the Yale Law Review, was not to be dismissed with facile circumlocution that dealt with the esoterica of clandestine manipulations. Bullshit was out.

  David Abbott put his pipe down on the table, the quiet clatter his overture. “The less public exposure a man like Cain receives the better it is for everyone.”

  “That’s no answer,” said Walters. “But I assume it’s the beginning of one.”

  “It is. He’s a professional assassin—that is, a trained expert in wide-ranging methods of taking life. That expertise is for sale, neither politics nor personal motivation any concern to him whatsoever. He’s in business solely to make a profit—and his profits escalate in direct ratio to his reputation.”

  The congressman nodded. “So by keeping as tight a lid as you can on that reputation you’re holding back free advertising.”

  “Exactly. There are a lot of maniacs in this world with too many real or imagined enemies who might easily gravitate to Cain if they knew of him. Unfortunately, more than we care to think about already have; to date thirty-eight killings can be directly attributed to Cain, and some twelve to fifteen are probables.”

  “That’s his list of ‘accomplishments’?”

  “Yes. And we
’re losing the battle. With each new killing his reputation spreads.”

  “He was dormant for a while,” said Knowlton of the CIA. “For a number of months recently we thought he might have been taken himself. There were several probables in which the killers themselves were eliminated; we thought he might have been one of them.”

  “Such as?” asked Walters.

  “A banker in Madrid who funneled bribes for the Europolitan Corporation for government purchases in Africa. He was shot from a speeding car on the Paseo de la Castellana. A chauffeur-bodyguard gunned down both driver and killer, for a time we believed the killer was Cain.”

  “I remember the incident. Who might have paid for it?”

  “Any number of companies,” answered Gillette, “who wanted to sell gold-plated cars and indoor plumbing to instant dictators.”

  “What else? Who else?”

  “Sheik Mustafa Kalig in Oman,” said Colonel Manning.

  “He was reported killed in an abortive coup.”

  “Not so,” continued the officer. “There was no attempted coup; G-Two informants confirmed that. Kalig was unpopular, but the other sheiks aren’t fools. The coup story was a cover for an assassination that could tempt other professional killers. Three troublesome nonentities from the Officer Corps were executed to lend credence to the lie. For a while, we thought one of them was Cain; the timing corresponds to Cain’s dormancy.”

  “Who would pay Cain for assassinating Kalig?”

  “We asked ourselves that over and over again,” said Manning. “The only possible answer came from a source who claimed to know, but there was no way to verify it. He said Cain did it to prove it could be done. By him. Oil sheiks travel with the tightest security in the world.”

  “There are several dozen other incidents,” added Knowlton. “Probables that fall into the same pattern where highly protected figures were killed, and sources came forward to implicate Cain.”