“What’s the matter, Alan? I don’t have much time; may I speak to him, please?”
There was a moment of silence. “I wish I could make this easier for you, but I don’t know how. Peter’s dead, Marie.”
“He’s … what?”
“The police called a few minutes ago; they’re on their way over.”
“The police? What happened? Oh God, he’s dead? What happened?”
“We’re trying to piece it together. We’re studying his phone log, but we’re not supposed to touch anything on his desk.”
“His desk … ?”
“Notes or memos, or anything like that.”
“Alan! Tell me what happened!”
“That’s just it—we don’t know. He didn’t tell any of us what he was doing. All we know is that he got two phone calls this morning from the States—one from Washington, the other from New York. Around noon he told Lisa he was going to the airport to meet someone flying up. He didn’t say who. The police found him an hour ago in one of those tunnels used for freight. It was terrible; he was shot. In the throat … Marie? Marie?”
The old man with the hollow eyes and the stubble of a white beard limped into the dark confessional booth, blinking his eyes repeatedly, trying to focus on the hooded figure beyond the opaque curtain. Sight was not easy for this eighty-year-old messenger. But his mind was clear; that was all that mattered.
“Angelus Domini,” he said.
“Angelus Domini, child of God,” whispered the hooded silhouette. “Are your days comfortable?”
“They draw to an end, but they are made comfortable.”
“Good … Zurich?”
“They found the man from the Guisan Quai. He was wounded; they traced him through a doctor known to the Verbrecherwelt. Under severe interrogation he admitted assaulting the woman. Cain came back for her, it was Cain who shot him.”
“So it was an arrangement, the woman and Cain—”
“The man from the Guisan Quai does not think so. He was one of the two who picked her up on the Löwenstrasse.”
“He’s also a fool. He killed the watchman?”
“He admits it and defends it. He had no choice in making his escape.”
“He may not have to defend it; it could be the most intelligent thing he did. Does he have his gun?”
“Your people have it.”
“Good. There is a prefect on the Zurich police. That gun must be given to him. Cain is elusive, the woman far less so. She has associates in Ottawa; they’ll stay in touch. We trap her, we trace him. Is your pencil ready?”
“Yes, Carlos.”
13
Bourne held her in the close confines of the glass booth, gently lowering her to the seat that protruded from the narrow wall. She was shaking, breathing in swallows and gasps, her eyes glazed, coming into focus as she looked at him.
“They killed him. They killed him! My God, what did I do? Peter!”
“You didn’t do it! If anyone did it, I did. Not you. Get that through your head.”
“Jason, I’m frightened. He was half a world away … and they killed him!”
“Treadstone?”
“Who else? There were two phone calls, Washington … New York. He went to the airport to meet someone and he was killed.”
“How?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ …” Tears came to Marie’s eyes. “He was shot. In the throat,” she whispered.
Bourne suddenly felt a dull ache; he could not localize it, but it was there, cutting off air.
“Carlos,” he said, not knowing why he said it.
“What?” Marie stared up at him. “What did you say?”
“Carlos,” he repeated softly. “A bullet in the throat. Carlos.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know.” He took her arm. “Let’s get out of here. Are you all right? Can you walk?”
She nodded, closing her eyes briefly, breathing deeply. “Yes.”
“We’ll stop for a drink; we both need it. Then we’ll find it.”
“Find what?”
“A bookstore on Saint-Germain.”
There were three back issues of magazines under the “Carlos” index. A three-year-old copy of the international edition of Potomac Quarterly and two Paris issues of Le Globe. They did not read the articles inside the store; instead they bought all three and took a taxi back to the hotel in Montparnasse. There they began reading, Marie on the bed, Jason in the chair by the window.
Several minutes passed, and Marie bolted up.
“It’s here,” she said, fear in both her face and voice.
“Read it.”
“‘A particularly brutal form of punishment is said to be inflicted by Carlos and/or his small band of soldiers. It is death by a gunshot in the throat, often leaving the victim to die in excruciating pain.
It is reserved for those who break the code of silence or loyalty demanded by the assassin, or others who have refused to divulge information…’” Marie stopped, incapable of reading further. She lay back and closed her eyes. “He wouldn’t tell them and he was killed for it. Oh, my God …”
“He couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know,” said Bourne.
“But you knew!” Marie sat up again, her eyes open. “You knew about a gunshot in the throat! You said it!”
“I said it. I knew it. That’s all I can tell you.”
“How?”
“I wish I could answer that. I can’t.”
“May I have a drink?”
“Certainly.” Jason got up and went to the bureau. He poured two short glasses of whiskey and looked over at her. “Do you want me to call for some ice? Hervé’s on; it’ll be quick.”
“No. It won’t be quick enough.” She slammed the magazine down on the bed and turned to him—on him, perhaps. “I’m going crazy!”
“Join the party of two.”
“I want to believe you; I do believe you. But I … I …”
“You can’t be sure,” completed Bourne. “Any more than I can.” He brought her the glass. “What do you want me to say? What can I say? Am I one of Carlos’ soldiers? Did I break the code of silence or loyalty? Is that why I knew the method of execution?”
“Stop it!”
“I say that a lot to myself. ‘Stop it.’ Don’t think; try to remember, but somewhere along the line put the brakes on. Don’t go too far, too deep. One lie can be exposed, only to raise ten other questions intrinsic to that lie. Maybe it’s like waking up after a long drunk, not sure whom you fought with or slept with, or … goddamn it … killed.”
“No …” Marie drew out the word. “You are you. Don’t take that away from me.”
“I don’t want to. I don’t want to take it away from myself.” Jason went back to the chair and sat down, his face turned to the window. “You found … a method of execution. I found something else. I knew it, just as I knew about Howard Leland. I didn’t even have to read it.”
“Read what?”
Bourne reached down and picked up the three-year-old issue of Potomac Quarterly. The magazine was folded open to a page on which there was a sketch of a bearded man, the lines rough, inconclusive, as if drawn from an obscure description. He held it out for her.
“Read it,” he said. “It starts with the upper left, under the heading ‘Myth or Monster.’ Then I want to play a game.”
“A game?”
“Yes. I’ve read only the first two paragraphs; you’ll have to take my word for that.”
“All right.” Marie watched him, bewildered. She lowered the magazine into the light and read.
MYTH OR MONSTER
For over a decade, the name “Carlos” has been whispered in the back streets of such diverse cities as Paris, Teheran, Beirut, London, Cairo, and Amsterdam. He is said to be the supreme terrorist in the sense that his commitment is to murder and assassination in themselves, with no apparent political ideology. Yet there is concrete evidence that he has undertaken profitable executions for such ex
tremist radical groups as the PLO and Baader-Meinhof, both as teacher and profiteer. Indeed, it is through his infrequent gravitation to, and the internal conflicts within such terrorist organizations that a clearer picture of “Carlos” is beginning to emerge. Informers are coming out of the bloodied spleens and they talk.
Whereas tales of his exploits give rise to images of a world filled with violence and conspiracy, high-explosives and higher intrigues, fast cars and faster women, the facts would seem to indicate at least as much Adam Smith as Ian Fleming. “Carlos” is reduced to human proportions and in the compression a truly frightening man comes into focus. The sado-romantic myth turns into a brilliant, blood-soaked monster who brokers assassination with the expertise of a market analyst, fully aware of wages, costs, distribution, and the divisions of underworld labor. It is a complicated business and “Carlos” is the master of its dollar value.
The portrait starts with a reputed name, as odd in its way as the owner’s profession. Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. He is said to be a Venezuelan, the son of a fanatically devoted but not very prominent Marxist attorney (the Ilich is the father’s salute to Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and partially explains “Carlos’” forays into extremist terrorism) who sent the young boy to Russia for the major part of his education, which included espionage training at the Soviet compound in Novgorod. It is here that portrait fades briefly, rumor and speculation now the artists. According to these, one or another committee of the Kremlin that regularly monitors foreign students for future infiltration purposes saw what they had in Ilich Sanchez and wanted no part of him. He was a paranoid, who saw all solutions in terms of a well-placed bullet or bomb; the recommendation was to send the youth back to Caracas and disassociate any and all Soviet ties with the family. Thus rejected by Moscow, and deeply antithetical to western society, Sanchez went about building his own world, one in which he was the supreme leader. What better way to become the apolitical assassin whose services could be contracted for by the widest range of political and philosophical clients?
The portrait becomes clearer again. Fluent in numerous languages including his native Spanish as well as Russian, French, and English, Sanchez used his Soviet training as a springboard for refining his techniques. Months of concentrated study followed his expulsion from Moscow, some say under the tutelage of the Cubans, Che Guevera in particular. He mastered the science and handling of all manner of weaponry and explosives; there was no gun he could not break down and reassemble blindfolded, no explosive he could not analyze by smell and touch and know how to detonate in a dozen different ways.
He was ready; he chose Paris as his base of operations and the word went out. A man was for hire who would kill where others dared not.
Once again the portrait dims as much for lack of birth records as anything else. Just how old is “Carlos”? How many targets can be attributed to him and how many are myth—self-proclaimed or otherwise? Correspondents based in Caracas have been unable to unearth any birth certificates anywhere in the country for an Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. On the other hand, there are thousands upon thousands of Sanchezes in Venezuela, hundreds with Ramirez attached; but none with an Ilich in front. Was it added later, or is the omission simply further proof of “Carlos”’ thoroughness? The consensus is that the assassin is between thirty-five and forty years of age. No one really knows.
A GRASSY KNOLL IN DALLAS?
But one fact not disputed is that the profits from his first several kills enabled the assassin to set up an organization that might be envied by an operations analyst of General Motors. It is capitalism at its most efficient, loyalty and service extracted by equal parts fear and reward.
The consequences of disloyalty are swift in coming—death—about so, too, are the benefits of service—generous bonuses and huge expense allowances. The organization seems to have hand-picked executives everywhere; and this well-founded rumor leads to the obvious question. Where did the profits initially come from? Who were the original kills?
The one most often speculated upon took place thirteen years ago in Dallas. No matter how many times the murder of John F. Kennedy is debated, no one has ever satisfactorily explained a burst of smoke from a grassy knoll three hundred yards away from the motorcade. The smoke was caught on camera; two open police radios on motorcycles recorded noise(s). Yet neither shell casings nor footprints were found. In fact, the only information about the so-called grassy knoll at that moment was considered so irrelevant that it was buried in the FBI-Dallas investigation and never included in the Warren Commission Report. It was provided by a bystander, K. M. Wright of North Dallas, who when questioned made the following statement:
“Hell, the only son of bitch near there was old Burlap Billy, and he was a couple of hundred yards away.”
The “Billy” referred to was an aged Dallas tramp seen frequently panhandling in the tourist areas; the “Burlap” defined his penchant for wrapping his shoes in coarse cloth to play upon the sympathies of his marks. According to our correspondents, Wright’s statement was never made public.
Yet six weeks ago a captured Lebanese terrorist broke under questioning in Tel Aviv.
Pleading to be spared execution he claimed to possess extraordinary information about the assassin “Carlos.” Israeli intelligence forwarded the report to Washington; our capitol correspondents obtained excerpts.
Statement: “Carlos was in Dallas in November 1963. He pretended to be Cuban and programmed Oswald. He was the back-up. It was his operation.”
Question: “What proof do you have?”
Statement: “I heard him say it. He was on a small embankment of grass beyond a ledge. His rifle had a wire shell-trap attached.”
Question: “It was never reported; why wasn’t he seen?”
Statement: “He may have been, but no one would have known it. He was dressed as an old man, with a shabby overcoat, and his shoes were wrapped in canvas to avoid footprints.”
A terrorist’s information is certainly not proof, but neither should it always be disregarded. Especially when it concerns a master assassin, known to be a scholar of deception, who has made an admission that so astonishingly corroborates an unknown unpublished statement about a moment of national crisis never investigated. That, indeed, must be taken seriously. As so many others associated—even remotely—with the tragic events in Dallas, “Burlap Billy” was found dead several days later from an overdose of drugs.
He was known to be an old man drunk consistently on cheap wine; he was never known to use narcotics. He could not afford them.
Was “Carlos” the man on the grassy knoll? What an extraordinary beginning for an extraordinary career! If Dallas really was his “operation” how many millions of dollars must have been funneled to him? Certainly more than enough to establish a network of informers and soldiers that is a corporate world unto itself.
The myth has too much substance; Carlos may well be a monster of flesh and too much blood.
Marie put down the magazine. “What’s the game?”
“Are you finished?” Jason turned from the window.
“Yes.”
“I gather a lot of statements were made. Theory, supposition, equations.”
“Equations?”
“If something happened here, and there was an effect over there, a relationship existed.”
“You mean connections,” said Marie.
“All right, connections. It’s all there, isn’t it?”
“To a degree, you could say that. It’s hardly a legal brief; there’s a lot of speculation, rumor, and secondhand information.”
“There are facts, however.”
“Data.”
“Good. Data. That’s fine.”
“What’s the game?” Marie repeated.
“It’s got a simple title. It’s called ‘Trap.’”
“Trap whom?”
“Me.” Bourne sat forward. “I want you to ask me questions. Anything that’s in there. A phrase, the name of a city, a rumor, a fragment of
… data. Anything. Let’s hear what my responses are. My blind responses.”
“Darling, that’s no proof of—”
“Do it!” ordered Jason.
“All right.” Marie raised the issue of Potomac Quarterly. “Beirut,” she said.
“Embassy,” he answered. “CIA station head posing as an attaché. Gunned down in the street. Three hundred thousand dollars.”
Marie looked at him. “I remember—” she began.
“I don’t!” interrupted Jason. “Go on.”
She returned his gaze, then went back to the magazine. “Baader-Meinhof.”
“Stuttgart. Regensburg. Munich. Two kills and a kidnapping, Baader accreditation. Fees from—” Bourne stopped, then whispered in astonishment, “U. S. sources. Detroit … Wilmington, Delaware.”
“Jason, what are—”
“Go on. Please.”
“The name, Sanchez.”
“The name is Ilich Ramirez Sanchez,” he replied. “He is … Carlos.”
“Why the Ilich?”
Bourne paused, his eyes wandering. “I don’t know.”
“It’s Russian, not Spanish. Was his mother Russian?”
“No … yes. His mother. It had to be his mother … I think. I’m not sure.”
“Novgorod.”
“Espionage compound. Communications, ciphers, frequency traffic. Sanchez is a graduate.”
“Jason, you read that here!”
“I did not read it! Please. Keep going.”
Marie’s eyes swept back to the top of the article. “Teheran.”
“Eight kills. Divided accreditation—Khomeini and PLO. Fee, two million. Source Southwest Soviet sector.”
“Paris,” said Marie quickly.
“All contracts will be processed through Paris.”
“What contracts?”
“The contracts … Kills!”
“Whose kills? Whose contracts?”
“Sanchez … Carlos.”
“Carlos? Then they’re Carlos’ contracts, his kills. They have nothing to do with you.”
“Carlos’ contracts,” said Bourne, as if in a daze. “Nothing to do with … me,” he repeated, barely above a whisper.
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