“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 aut
hentic. 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?”
20
The limousine was parked between two streetlamps, diagonally across from the heavy ornamental doors of the brownstone. In the front seat sat a uniformed chauffeur, such a driver at the wheel of such a vehicle not an uncommon sight on the tree-lined street. What was unusual, however, was the fact that two other men remained in the shadows of the deep back seat, neither making any move to get out. Instead, they watched the entrance of the brownstone, confident that they could not be picked up by the infrared beam of a scanning camera.
One man adjusted his glasses, the eyes beyond his thick lenses owl-like, flatly suspicious of most of what they surveyed. Alfred Gillette, director of Personnel Screening and Evaluation for the National Security Council, spoke. “How gratifying to be there when arrogance collapses. How much more so to be the instrument.”
“You really dislike him, don’t you?” said Gillette’s companion, a heavy-shouldered man in a black raincoat whose accent was derived from a Slavic language somewhere in Europe.
“I loathe him. He stands for everything I hate in Washington. The right schools, houses in Georgetown, farms in Virginia, quiet meetings at their clubs. They’ve got their tight little world and you don’t break in—they run it all. The bastards. The superior, self-inflated gentry of Washington.
They use other men’s intellects, other men’s work, wrapping it all into decisions bearing their imprimaturs. And if you’re on the outside, you become part of that amorphous entity, a ‘damn fine staff.’”
“You exaggerate,” said the European, his eyes on the brownstone. “You haven’t done badly down there. We never would have contacted you otherwise.” Gillette scowled. “If I haven’t done badly, it’s because I’ve become indispensable to too many like David Abbott. I have in my head a thousand facts they couldn’t possibly recall. It’s simply easier for them to place me where the questions are, where problems need solutions. Director of Personnel Screening and Evaluation! They created that title, that post, for me. Do you know why?”
“No, Alfred,” replied the European, looking at his watch, “I don’t know why.”
“Because they don’t have the patience to spend hours poring over thousands of résumés and dossiers. They’d rather be dining at Sans Souci, or preening in front of Senate committees, reading from pages prepared by others—by those unseen, unnamed ‘damn fine staffs.’”
“You’re a bitter man,” said the European.
“More than you’ll know. A lifetime doing the work those bastards should have done for themselves. And for what? A title and an occasional lunch where my brains are picked between the shrimp and the entrée! By men like the supremely arrogant David Abbott; they’re nothing without people like me.”
“Don’t underestimate the Monk. Carlos doesn’t.”
“How could he? He doesn’t know what to evaluate. Everything Abbott does is shrouded in secrecy; no one knows how many mistakes he’s made. And if any come to light, men like me are blamed for them.”
The European shifted his gaze from the window to Gillette. “You’re very emotional, Alfred,” he said coldly. “You must be careful about that.”
The bureaucrat smiled. “It never gets in the way: I believe my contributions to Carlos bear that out. Let’s say I’m preparing myself for a confrontation I wouldn’t avoid for anything in the world.”
“An honest statement,” said the heavy-shouldered man.
“What about you? You found me.”
“I knew what to look for.” The European returned to the window.
“I mean you. The work you do. For Carlos.”
“I have no such complicated reasoning. I come out of a country where educated men are promoted at the whim of morons who recite Marxist litany by rote. Carlos, too, knew what to look for.”
Gillette laughed, his flat eyes close to shining. “We’re not so different after all. Change the bloodlines of our Eastern establishment for Marx and there’s a distinct parallel.”
“Perhaps,” agreed the European, looking again at his watch. “It shouldn’t be long now. Abbott always catches the midnight shuttle, his every hour accounted for in Washington.”
“You’re sure he’ll come out alone?”
“He always does, and he certainly wouldn’t be seen with Elliot Stevens. Webb and Stevens will also leave separately; twenty-minute intervals is standard for those called in.”
“How did you find Treadstone?”
“It wasn’t so difficult. You contributed, Alfred; you were part of a damn fine staff.” The man laughed, his eyes on the brownstone. “Cain was out of Medusa, you told us that, and if Carlos’ suspicions are accurate, that meant the Monk, we knew that; it tied him to Bourne. Carlos instructed us to keep Abbott under twenty-four-hour surveillance; something had gone wrong. When the gunshots in Zurich were heard in Washington, Abbott got careless. We followed him here. It was merely a question of persistence.”
“That led you to Canada? To the man in Ottawa?”
“The man in Ottawa revealed himself by looking for Treadstone. When we learned w
ho the girl was, we had the Treasury Board watched, her section watched. A call came from Paris; it was she, telling him to start a search. We don’t know why, but we suspect Bourne may be trying to blow Treadstone apart. If he’s turned, it’s one way to get out and keep the money. It doesn’t matter. Suddenly, this section head no one outside the Canadian government had ever heard of was transformed into a problem of the highest priority. Intelligence communiqués were burning the wires. It meant Carlos was right; you were right, Alfred. There is no Cain. He’s an invention, a trap.”
“From the beginning,” insisted Gillette. “I told you that. Three years of false reports, sources unverified. It was all there.”
“From the beginning,” mused the European. “Undoubtedly the Monk’s finest creation … until something happened and the creation turned. Everything’s turning; it’s all coming apart at the seams.”
“Stevens’ being here confirms that. The president insists on knowing.”
“He has to. There’s a nagging suspicion in Ottawa that a section head at the Treasury Board was killed by American Intelligence.” The European turned from the window and looked at the bureaucrat. “Remember, Alfred, we simply want to know what happened. I’ve given you the facts as we’ve learned them; they’re irrefutable and Abbott cannot deny them. But they must be presented as having been obtained independently by your own sources. You’re appalled. You demand an accounting; the entire intelligence community has been duped.”
“It has!” exclaimed Gillette. “Duped and used. No one in Washington knows about Bourne, about Treadstone. They’ve excluded everyone; it is appalling. I don’t have to pretend. Arrogant bastards!”
“Alfred,” cautioned the European, holding up his hand in the shadows, “do remember whom you’re working for. The threat cannot be based on emotion, but in cold professional outrage. He’ll suspect you instantly; you must dispel those suspicions just as swiftly. You are the accuser, not he.”
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