“‘To clean a slate somewhere.’ That’s what he said.”
“Who said?”
“D’Anjou.”
“The man on the steps in Parc Monceau? The switchboard operator?”
“The man from Medusa. I knew him in Medusa.”
“What did he say?”
Bourne told her. And as he did, he could see in her the relief he had felt in himself. There was a light in her eyes, and a muted throbbing in her neck, sheer joy bursting from her throat. It was almost as if she could barely wait for him to finish so she could hold him again.
“Jason!” she cried, taking his face in her hands. “Darling, my darling! My friend has come back to me! It’s everything we knew, everything we felt!”
“Not quite everything,” he said, touching her cheek. “I’m Jason to you, Bourne to me, because that’s the name I was given, and have to use it because I don’t have any other. But it’s not mine.”
“An invention?”
“No, he was real. They say I killed him in a place called Tam Quan.” She took her hands away from his face, sliding them to his shoulders, not letting him go. “There had to have been a reason.”
“I hope so. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the slate I’m trying to clean.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, releasing him. “It’s in the past, over ten years ago. All that matters now is that you reach the man at Treadstone, because they’re trying to reach you.”
“D’Anjou said word was out that the Americans think I’ve turned. No word from me in over six months, millions taken out of Zurich. They must think I’m the most expensive miscalculation on record.”
“You can explain what happened. You haven’t knowingly broken your agreement; on the other hand, you can’t go on. It’s impossible. All the training you received means nothing to you. It’s there only in fragments—images and phrases that you can’t relate to anything. People you’re supposed to know, you don’t know. They’re faces without names, without reasons for being where they are or what they are.”
Bourne took off his coat and pulled the automatic from his belt. He studied the cylinder—the ugly, perforated extension of the barrel that guaranteed to reduce the decibel count of a gunshot to a spit. It sickened him. He walked to the bureau, put the weapon inside and pushed the drawer shut.
He held on to the knobs for a moment, his eyes straying to the mirror, to the face in the glass that had no name.
“What do I say to them?” he asked. “This is Jason Bourne calling. Of course I know that’s not my name because I killed a man named Jason Bourne, but it’s the one you gave me… I’m sorry, gentlemen, but something happened to me on the way to Marseilles. I lost something—nothing you can put a price on—just my memory. Now, I gather we’ve got an agreement, but I don’t remember what it is, except for crazy phrases like ‘Get Carlos!’ and ‘Trap Carlos!’ and something about Delta being Cain and Cain is supposed to replace Charlie and Charlie is really Carlos. Things like that, which may lead you to think I do remember. You might even say to yourselves, ‘We’ve got one prime bastard here. Let’s put him away for a couple of decades in a very tight stockade. He not only took us, but worse, he could prove to be one hell of an embarrassment.’” Bourne turned from the mirror and looked at Marie. “I’m not kidding. What do I say?”
“The truth,” she answered “They’ll accept it. They’ve sent you a message; they’re trying to reach you. As far as the six months is concerned, wire Washburn in Port Noir. He kept records—extensive, detailed records.”
“He may not answer. We had our own agreement. For putting me back together he was to receive a fifth of Zurich, untraceable to him. I sent him a million American dollars.”
“Do you think that would stop him from helping you?”
Jason paused. “He may not be able to help himself. He’s got a problem; he’s a drunk. Not a drinker. A drunk. The worst kind; he knows it and likes it. How long can he live with a million dollars? More to the point, how long do you think those waterfront pirates will let him live once they find out?”
“You can still prove you were there. You were ill, isolated. You weren’t in contact with anyone.”
“How can the men at Treadstone be sure? From their view I’m a walking encyclopedia of official secrets. I had to be to do what I’ve done. How can they be certain I haven’t talked to the wrong people?”
“Tell them to send a team to Port Noir.”
“It’ll be greeted with blank stares and silence. I left that island in the middle of the night with half the waterfront after me with hooks. If anyone down there made any money out of Washburn, he’ll see the connection and walk the other way.”
“Jason, I don’t know what you’re driving at. You’ve got your answer, the answer you’ve been looking for since you woke up that morning in Port Noir. What more do you want?”
“I want to be careful, that’s all,” said Bourne abrasively. “I want to ‘look before I leap’ and make damn sure the ‘stable door is shut’ and ‘Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick—but for Christ’s sake don’t fall into the fire!’ How’s that for remembering?” He was shouting; he stopped.
Marie walked across the room and stood in front of him. “It’s very good. But that’s not it, is it? Being careful I mean.”
Jason shook his head. “No, it isn’t,” he said. “With each step I’ve been afraid, afraid of the things I’ve learned. Now, at the end, I’m more frightened than ever. If I’m not Jason Bourne, who am I really? What have I left back there? Has that occurred to you?”
“In all its ramifications, my darling. In a way, I’m far more afraid than you. But I don’t think that can stop us. I wish to God it could, but I know it can’t.”
The attaché at the American Embassy on the avenue Gabriel walked into the office of the First Secretary and closed the door. The man at the desk looked up.
“You’re sure it’s him?”
“I’m only sure he used the key words,” said the attaché, crossing to the desk, a red-bordered index card in his hand. “Here’s the flag,” he continued, handing the card to the First Secretary. “I’ve checked off the words he used, and if that flag’s accurate, I’d say he’s genuine.” The man behind the desk studied the card. “When did he use the name Treadstone?”
“Only after I convinced him that he wasn’t going to talk with anyone in U. S. Intelligence unless he gave me a damn good reason. I think he thought it’d blow my mind when he said he was Jason Bourne. When I simply asked him what I could do for him, he seemed stuck, almost as if he might hang up on me.”
“Didn’t he say there was a flag out for him?”
“I was waiting for it but he never said it. According to that eight-word sketch—‘Experienced field officer. Possible defection or enemy detention’—he could have just said the word ‘flag’ and we would have been in sync. He didn’t.”
“Then maybe he’s not genuine.”
“The rest fits, though. He did say D.C.’s been looking for him for more than six months. That was when he used the name Treadstone. He was from Treadstone; that’s supposed to be the explosive. He also told me to relay the code words Delta, Cain and Medusa. The first two are on the flag, I checked them off. I don’t know what Medusa means.”
“I don’t know what any of this means,” said the First Secretary. “Except that my orders are to hightail it down to communications, clear all scrambler traffic to Langley and get a sterile patch to a spook named Conklin. Him I’ve heard of: a mean son of a bitch who got his foot blown off ten or twelve years ago in Nam. He pushes very strange buttons over at the Company. Also he survived the purges, which leads me to think he’s one man they don’t want roaming the streets looking for a job. Or a publisher.”
“Who do you think this Bourne is?” asked the attaché. “I’ve never seen such a concentrated but formless hunt for a person in my whole eight years away from the States.”
“Someone they want ve
ry badly.” The First Secretary got up from the desk. “Thanks for this. I’ll tell D.C. how well you handled it. What’s the schedule? I don’t suppose he gave you a telephone number.”
“No way. He wanted to call back in fifteen minutes, but I played the harried bureaucrat. I told him to call me in an hour or so. That’d make it past five o’clock, so we could gain another hour or two by my being out to dinner.”
“I don’t know. We can’t risk losing him. I’ll let Conklin set up the game plan. He’s the control on this. No one makes a move on Bourne unless it’s authorized by him.”
Alexander Conklin sat behind the desk in his white-walled office in Langley, Virginia, and listened to the embassy man in Paris. He was convinced; it was Delta. The reference to Medusa was the proof, for it was a name no one would know but Delta. The bastard! He was playing the stranded agent, his controls at the Treadstone telephone not responding to the proper code words—whatever they were—because the dead could not talk. He was using the omission to get himself off the meathook! The sheer nerve of the bastard was awesome. Bastard, bastard!
Kill the controls and use the kills to call off the hunt. Any kind of hunt. How many men had done it before, thought Alexander Conklin. He had. There had been a source-control in the hills of Huong Khe, a maniac issuing maniacal orders, certain death for a dozen teams of Medusans on a maniacal hunt. A young intelligence officer named Conklin had crept back into Base Camp Kilo with a North Vietnamese rifle, Russian caliber, and had fired two bullets into the head of a maniac.
There had been grieving and harsher security measures put in force, but the hunt was called off.
There had been no fragments of glass found in the jungle paths of Base Camp Kilo, however.
Fragments with fingerprints that irrefutably identified the sniper as an Occidental recruit from Medusa itself. There were such fragments found on Seventy-first Street, but the killer did not know it—Delta did not know it.
“At one point we seriously questioned whether he was genuine,” said the embassy’s First Secretary, rambling on as if to fill the abrupt silence from Washington. “An experienced field officer would have told the attaché to check for a flag, but the subject didn’t.”
“An oversight,” replied Conklin, pulling his mind back to the brutal enigma that was Delta-Cain.
“What are the arrangements?”
“Initially Bourne insisted on calling back in fifteen minutes, but I instructed lower-level to stall. For instance, we could use the dinner hour …” The embassy man was making sure a Company executive in Washington realized the perspicacity of his contributions. It would go on for the better part of a minute; Conklin had heard too many variations before.
Delta. Why had he turned? The madness must have eaten his head away, leaving only the instincts for survival. He had been around too long; he knew that sooner or later they would find him, kill him. There was never any alternative; he understood that from the moment he turned—or broke—or whatever it was. There was nowhere to hide any longer; he was a target all over the globe. He could never know who might step out of the shadows and bring his life to an end. It was something they all lived with, the single most persuasive argument against turning. So another solution had to be found: survival. The biblical Cain was the first to commit fratricide. Had the mythical name triggered the obscene decision, the strategy itself? Was it as simple as that? Clod knew it was the perfect solution. Kill them all, kill your brother.
Webb gone, the Monk gone, the Yachtsman and his wife … who could deny the instructions Delta received, since these four alone relayed instructions to him? He had removed the millions and distributed them as ordered. Blind recipients he had assumed were intrinsic to the Monk’s strategy.
Who was Delta to question the Monk? The creator of Medusa, the genius who had recruited and created him. Cain.
The perfect solution. To be utterly convincing, all that was required was the death of a brother, the proper grief to follow. The official judgment would be rendered. Carlos had infiltrated and broken Treadstone. The assassin had won, Treadstone abandoned. The bastard!
“… so basically I felt the game plan would come from you.” The First Secretary in Paris had finished. He was an ass, but Conklin needed him; one tune had to be heard while another was being played.
“You did the right thing,” said a respectful executive in Langley. “I’ll let our people over here know how well you handled it. You were absolutely right; we need time, but Bourne doesn’t realize it. We can’t tell him, either, which makes it tough. We’re on sterile, so may I speak accordingly?”
“Of course.”
“Bourne’s under pressure. He’s been … detained … for a long period of time. Am I clear?”
“The Soviets?”
“Right up to the Lubyanka. His run was made by means of a double-entry. Are you familiar with the term?”
“Yes, I am. Moscow thinks he’s working for them now.”
“That’s what they think.” Conklin paused. “And we’re not sure. Crazy things happen in the Lubyanka.”
The First Secretary whistled softly. “That’s a basket. How are you going to make a determination?”
“With your help. But the classification priority is so high it’s above embassy, even ambassadorial level. You’re on the scene; you were reached. You can accept the condition or not, that’s up to you. If you do, I think a commendation might come right out of the Oval Office.”
Conklin could hear the slow intake of breath from Paris.
“I’ll do whatever I can, of course. Name it.”
“You already did. We want him stalled. When he calls back, talk to him yourself.”
“Naturally,” interrupted the embassy man.
“Tell him you relayed the codes. Tell him Washington is flying over an officer-of-record from Treadstone by military transport. Say D.C. wants him to keep out of sight and away from the embassy; every route is being watched. Then ask him if he wants protection, and if he does, find out where he wants to pick it up. But don’t send anyone; when you talk to me again I’ll have been in touch with someone over there. I’ll give you a name then and an eye-spot you can give to him.”
“Eye-spot?”
“Visual identification. Something or someone he can recognize.”
“One of your men?”
“Yes, we think it’s best that way. Beyond you, there’s no point in involving the embassy. As a matter of fact, it’s vital we don’t, so whatever conversations you have shouldn’t be logged.”
“I can take care of that,” said the First Secretary. “But how is the one conversation I’m going to have with him going to help you determine whether he’s a double-entry?”
“Because it won’t be one; it’ll be closer to ten.”
“Ten?”
“That’s right. Your instructions to Bourne—from us through you—are that he’s to check in on your phone every hour to confirm the fact that he’s in safe territory. Until that last time, when you tell him the Treadstone officer has arrived in Paris and will meet with him.”
“What will that accomplish?” asked the embassy man.
“He’ll keep moving … if he’s not ours. There are a half a dozen known deep-cover Soviet agents in Paris, all with tripped phones. If he’s working with Moscow, the chances are he’ll use at least one of them. We’ll be watching. And if that’s the way it turns out, I think you’ll remember the time you spent all night at the embassy for the rest of your life. Presidential commendations have a way of raising a career man’s grade level. Of course, you don’t have too much higher to go …”
“There’s higher, Mr. Conklin,” interrupted the First Secretary.
The conversation was over; the embassy man would call back after hearing from Bourne. Conklin got up from the chair and limped across the room to a gray filing cabinet against the wall. He unlocked the top panel. Inside was a stapled folder containing a sealed envelope bearing the names and locations of men who could be c
alled upon in emergencies. They had once been good men, loyal men, who for one reason or another could no longer be on a Washington payroll. In all cases it had been necessary to remove them from the official scene, relocate them with new identities—those fluent in other languages frequently given citizenship by cooperating foreign governments.
They had simply disappeared.
They were the outcasts, men who had gone beyond the laws in the service of their country, who often killed in the interests of their country. But their country could not tolerate their official existence; their covers had been exposed, their actions made known. Still, they could be called upon.
Monies were constantly funneled to accounts beyond official scrutiny, certain understandings intrinsic to the payments.
Conklin carried the envelope back to his desk and tore the marked tape from the flap; it would be resealed, remarked. There was a man in Paris, a dedicated man who had come up through the officer corps of Army Intelligence, a lieutenant colonel by the time he was thirty-five. He could be counted on; he understood national priorities. He had killed a left-wing cameraman in a village near Hu a dozen years ago.
Three minutes later he had the man on the line, the call unlogged, unrecorded. The former officer was given a name and a brief sketch of defection, including a covert trip to the United States during which the defector in question on special assignment had eliminated those controlling the strategy.
“A double-entry?” asked the man in Paris. “Moscow?”
“No, not the Soviets,” replied Conklin, aware that if Delta requested protection, there would be conversations between the two men.
“It was a long-range deep cover to snare Carlos.”
“The assassin?”
“That’s right.”
“You may say it’s not Moscow, but you won’t convince me. Carlos was trained in Novgorod and as far as I’m concerned he’s still a dirty gun for the KGB.”
“Perhaps. The details aren’t for briefing, but suffice it to say we’re convinced our man was bought off; he’s made a few million and wants an unencumbered passport.”
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