“Almighty God, what have I done?”
“What you thought was right. What he convinced you was right. You can’t blame yourself. Or him, really.”
“He said he was going to write out everything that had happened to him, everything that they remembered… How painful that statement must have been for him! I can’t wait for that letter, mademoiselle. We can’t wait. I must know everything you can tell me. Now.”
“What can you do?”
“Go to the American Embassy. To the ambassador. Now. Everything.” Marie St. Jacques withdrew her hand slowly as she leaned back in the booth, her dark red hair against the banquette. Her eyes were far away, clouded with the mist of tears. “He told me his life began for him on a small island in the Mediterranean called Ile de Port Noir…”
The secretary of state walked angrily into the office of the director of Consular Operations, the department’s section dealing with clandestine activities. He strode across the room to the desk of the astonished director, who rose at the sight of this powerful man, his expression a mixture of shock and bewilderment.
“Mr. Secretary? … I didn’t receive any message from your office, sir. I would have come upstairs right away.”
The secretary of state slapped a yellow legal pad down on the director’s desk. On the top page was a column of six names written with the broad strokes of a felt-tipped pen.
BOURNE
DELTA
MEDUSA
CAIN
CARLOS
TREADSTONE
“What is this?” asked the secretary. “What the hell is this?”
The director of Cons-Op leaned over the desk. “I don’t know, sir. They’re names, of course. A code for the alphabet—the letter D—and a reference to Medusa; that’s still classified, but I’ve heard of it. And I suppose the ‘Carlos’ refers to the assassin; I wish we knew more about him. But I’ve never heard of ‘Bourne’ or ‘Cain’ or ‘Treadstone.’”
“Then come up to my office and listen to a tape of a telephone conversation that I’ve just had with Paris and you’ll learn all about them!” exploded the secretary of state. “There are extraordinary things on that tape, including killings in Ottawa and Paris, and some very strange dealings our First Secretary in the Montaigne had with a CIA man. There’s also outright lying to the authorities of foreign governments, to our own intelligence units, and to the European newspapers—with neither the knowledge nor the consent of the Department of State! There’s been a global deception that’s spread misinformation throughout more countries than I want to think about. We’re flying over, under a deep-diplomatic, a Canadian woman—an economist for the government in Ottawa who’s wanted for murder in Zurich. We’re being forced to grant asylum to a fugitive, to subvert the laws—because if that woman’s telling the truth, we’ve got our ass in a sling! I want to know what’s been going on. Cancel everything on your calendar—and I mean everything. You’re spending the rest of the day and all night if you have to digging this damn thing out of the ground. There’s a man walking around who doesn’t know who he is, but with more classified information in his head than ten intelligence computers!”
It was past midnight when the exhausted director of Consular Operations made the connection; he had nearly missed it. The First Secretary at the embassy in Paris, under threat of instant dismissal, had given him Alexander Conklin’s name. But Conklin was nowhere to be found. He had returned to Washington on a military jet out of Brussels in the morning, but had signed out of Langley at 1:22 in the afternoon, leaving no telephone number—not even an emergency number—where he could be reached. And from what the director had learned about Conklin, that omission was extraordinary.
The CIA man was what was commonly referred to as a shark-killer; he directed individual strategies throughout the world where defection and treason were suspected. There were too many men in too many stations who might need his approval or disapproval at any given moment. It was not logical he would sever that cord for twelve hours. What was also unusual was the fact that his telephone logs had been scratched; there were none for the past two days—and the Central Intelligence Agency had very specific regulations concerning those logs. Traceable accountability was the new order of the new regime. However, the director of Cons-Op had learned one fact: Conklin had been attached to Medusa.
Using the threat of State Department retaliation, the director had requested a closed circuit readout of Conklin’s logs for the past five weeks. Reluctantly, the Agency beamed them over and the director had sat in front of a screen for two hours, instructing the operators at Langley to keep the tape repeating until he told them to stop.
Eighty-six logicals had been called, the word Treadstone mentioned; none had responded. Then the director went back to the possibles; there was an army man he had not considered because of his well-known antipathy to the CIA. But Conklin had telephoned him twice during the space of twelve minutes a week ago. The director called his sources at the Pentagon and found what he was looking for: Medusa.
Brigadier General Irwin Arthur Crawford, current ranking officer in charge of Army Intelligence data banks, former commander, Saigon, attached to covert operations—still classified. Medusa.
The director picked up the conference room phone, it bypassed the switchboard. He dialed the brigadier’s home in Fairfax, and on the fourth ring, Crawford answered. The State Department man identified himself and asked if the general cared to return a call to State and be put through for verification.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“It concerns a matter that comes under the heading of Treadstone.”
“I’ll call you back.”
He did so in eighteen seconds, and within the next two minutes the director had delivered the outlines of State’s information.
“There’s nothing there we don’t know about,” said the brigadier. “There’s been a control committee on this from the beginning, the Oval Office given a preliminary summation within a week of the inauguration. Our objective warranted the procedures, you may be assured of that.”
“I’m willing to be convinced,” replied the man from State. “Is this related to that business in New York a week ago? Elliot Stevens—that Major Webb and David Abbott? Where the circumstances were, shall we say, considerably altered?”
“You were aware of the alterations?”
“I’m the head of Cons-Op, General.”
“Yes, you would be … Stevens wasn’t married; the rest understood. Robbery and homicide were preferable. The answer is affirmative.”
“I see … Your man Bourne flew into New York yesterday morning.”
“I know. We know—that is Conklin and myself. We’re the inheritors.”
“You’ve been in touch with Conklin?”
“I last spoke to him around one o’clock in the afternoon. Unlogged. He insisted on it, frankly.”
“He’s checked out of Langley. There’s no number where he can be reached.”
“I know that, too. Don’t try. With all due respect, tell the Secretary to back away. You back away. Don’t get involved.”
“We are involved, General. We’re flying over the Canadian woman by diplomatic.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“We were forced to; she forced us to.”
“Then keep her in isolation. You’ve got to! She’s our resolve, we’ll be responsible.”
“I think you’d better explain.”
“We’re dealing with an insane man. A multiple schizophrenic. He’s a walking firing squad; he could kill a dozen innocent people with one outburst, one explosion in his own head, and he wouldn’t know why.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s already killed. That massacre in New York—it was him. He killed Stevens, the Monk, Webb—above all, Webb—and two others you never heard of. We understand now. He wasn’t responsible, but that can’t change anything. Leave him to us. To Conklin.”
“Bourne?”
“Your man would leave prints?”
“He did.”
“He couldn’t have,” said the man from State finally.
“What?”
‘Tell me, where did you come up with the conclusion of insanity? This multiple schizophrenia or whatever the hell you call it.”
“Conklin spoke to a psychiatrist—one of the best—an authority on stress-breakdowns. Alex described the history—and it was brutal. The doctor confirmed our suspicions, Conklin’s suspicions.”
“He confirmed them?” asked the director, stunned.
“Yes.”
“Based on what Conklin said? On what he thought he knew?”
“There’s no other explanation. Leave him to us. He’s our problem.”
“You’re a damn fool, General. You should have stuck to your data banks or maybe more primitive artillery.”
“I resent that.”
“Resent it all you like. If you’ve done what I think you’ve done, you may not have anything left but resentment.”
“Explain that,” said Crawford harshly.
“You’re not dealing with a madman, or with insanity, or with any goddamned multiple schizophrenia—which I doubt you know any more about than I do. You’re dealing with an amnesiac, a man who’s been trying for months to find out who he is and where he comes from. And from a telephone tape we’ve got over here, we gather he tried to tell you—tried to tell Conklin, but Conklin wouldn’t listen. None of you would listen … You sent a man out in deep cover for three years—three years—to pull in Carlos, and when the strategy broke, you assumed the worst.”
“Amnesia? … No, you’re wrong! I spoke to Conklin; he did listen. You don’t understand; we both knew—”
“I don’t want to hear his name!” broke in the director of Consular Operations.
The general paused. “We both knew … Bourne … years ago. I think you know from where; you read the name off to me. He was the strangest man I ever met, as close to being paranoid as anyone in that outfit. He undertook missions—risks—no sane man would accept. Yet he never asked for anything. He was filled with so much hate.”
“And that made him a candidate for a psychiatric ward ten years later?”
“Seven years,” corrected Crawford. “I tried to prevent his selection in Treadstone. But the Monk said he was the best. I couldn’t argue with that, not in terms of expertise. But I made my objections known. He was psychologically a borderline case; we knew why. I was proven right I stand on that.”
“You’re not going to stand on anything, General. You’re going to fall right on your iron ass. Because the Monk was right. Your man is the best, with or without a memory. He’s bringing in Carlos, delivering him right to your goddamn front door. That is, he’s bringing him in unless you kill Bourne first.” Crawford’s low, sharp intake of breath was precisely what the director was afraid he might hear. He continued. “You can’t reach Conklin, can you?” he asked.
“No.”
“He’s gone under, hasn’t he? Made his own arrangements, payments funneled through third and fourth parties unknown to each other, the source untraceable, all connections to the Agency and Treadstone obliterated. And by now there are photographs in the hands of men Conklin doesn’t know, wouldn’t recognize if they held him up. Don’t talk to me about firing squads. Yours is in place, but you can’t see it—you don’t know where it is. But it’s Prepared—a half a dozen rifles ready to fire when the condemned man comes into view. Am I reading the scenario?”
“You don’t expect me to answer that,” said Crawford.
“You don’t have to. This is Consular Operations; I’ve been there before. But you were right about one thing. This is your problem; its right back in your court. We’re not going to be touched by you. That’s my recommendation to the Secretary. The State Department can’t afford to know who you are. Consider this call unlogged.”
“Understood.”
“I’m sorry,” said the director, meaning it, hearing the futility in the general’s voice. “It all blows up sometimes.”
“Yes. We learned that in Medusa. What are you going to do with the girl?”
“We don’t even know what we’re going to do with you yet.”
“That’s easy. Eisenhower at the summit: ‘What U-Twos?’ We’ll go along; no preliminary summation. Nothing. We can get the girl off the Zurich books.”
“We’ll tell her. It may help. We’ll be making apologies all over the place; with her we’ll try for a very substantial settlement.”
“Are you sure?” interrupted Crawford
“About the settlement?”
“No. The amnesia. Are you positive?”
“I’ve listened to that tape at least twenty times, heard her voice. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. Incidentally, she got in several hours ago. She’s at the Pierre Hotel under guard. We’ll bring her down to Washington in the morning after we figure out what were going to do.”
“Wait a minute!” The general’s voice rose. “Not tomorrow! She’s here …? Can you get me clearance to see her?”
“Don’t dig that grave of yours any deeper, General. The fewer names she knows, the better. She was with Bourne when he was calling the embassy; she’s aware of the First Secretary, probably Conklin by now. He may have to take the fall himself. Stay out of it.”
“You just told me to play it out.”
“Not this way. You’re a decent man; so am I. We’re professionals.”
“You don’t understand! We have photographs, yes, but they may be useless. They’re three years old, and Bourne’s changed, changed drastically. It’s why Conklin’s on the scene—where I don’t know—but he’s there. He’s the only one who’s seen him, but it was night, raining. She may be our only chance. She’s been with him—living with him for weeks. She knows him. It’s possible that she’d recognize him before anyone else.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll spell it out. Among Bourne’s many, many talents is the ability to change his appearance, melt into a crowd or a field or a cluster of trees—be where you can’t see him. If what you say is so, he wouldn’t remember, but we used to have a word for him in Medusa. His men used to call him … a chameleon.”
“That’s your Cain, General.”
“It was our Delta. There was no one like him. And that’s why the girl can help. Now. Clear me! Let me see her, talk to her.”
“By clearing you, we acknowledge you. I don’t think we can do that.”
“For God’s sake, you just said we were decent men! Are we? We can save his life! Maybe. If she’s with me and we find him, we can get him out of there!”
“There? Are you telling me you know exactly where he’s going to be?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because he wouldn’t go anywhere else.”
“And the time span?” asked the incredulous director of Consular Operations. “You know when he’s going to be there?”
“Yes. Today. It’s the date of his own execution.”
35
Rock music blared from the transistor radio with tin-like vibrations as the long-haired driver of the Yellow Cab slapped his hand against the rim of the steering wheel and jolted his jaw with the beat.
The taxi edged east on Seventy-first Street, locked into the line of cars that began at the exit on the East River Drive. Tempers flared as engines roared in place and cars lurched forward only to slam to sudden stops, inches away from bumpers in front. It was 8:45 in the morning, New York’s rush hour traffic as usual a contradiction in terms.
Bourne wedged himself into the corner of the back seat and stared at the tree-lined street beneath the rim of his hat and through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. He had been there; it was all indelible. He had walked the pavements, seen the doorways and the storefronts and the walls covered with ivy—so out of place i
n the city, yet so right for this street. He had glanced up before and had noticed the roof gardens, relating them to a gracious garden several blocks away toward the park, beyond a pair of elegant French doors at the far end of a large … complicated … room. That room was inside a tall, narrow building of brown, jagged stone, with a column of wide, lead-paned windows rising four stories above the pavement. Windows made of thick glass that refracted light both inside and out in subtle flashes of purple and blue. Antique glass, perhaps, ornamental glass … bulletproof glass. A brownstone residence with a set of thick outside steps. They were odd steps, unusual steps, each level crisscrossed with black ridges that protruded above the surface, protecting the descender from the elements. Shoes going down would not slip on ice or snow … and the weight of anyone climbing up would trigger electronic devices inside.
Jason knew that house, knew they were coming closer to it. The echo in his chest accelerated and became louder as they entered the block. He would see it any moment, and as he held his wrist, he knew why Parc Monceau had struck such chords in his mind’s eye. That small part of Paris was so much like this short stretch of the Upper East Side. Except for an isolated intrusion of an unkempt stoop or an ill-conceived whitewashed façade, they could be identical blocks.
He thought of André Villiers. He had written down everything he could remember since a memory had been given him in the pages of a notebook hastily purchased at Charles de Gaulle Airport. From the fast moment when a living, bullet-ridden man had opened his eyes in a humid, dingy room on Ile de Port Noir through the frightening revelations of Marseilles, Zurich and Paris—especially Paris, where the specter of an assassin’s mantle had fallen over his shoulders, the expertise of a killer proven to be his. By any standards, it was a confession, as damning in what it could not explain as in what it described. But it was the truth as he knew the truth, infinitely more exculpatory after his death than before it. In the hands of André Villiers it would be used well; the right decisions would be made for Marie St. Jacques. That knowledge gave him the freedom he needed now. He had sealed the pages in an envelope and mailed it to Parc Monceau from Kennedy Airport. By the time it reached Paris he would be alive or he would be dead; he would kill Carlos or Carlos would kill him. Somewhere on that street—so like a street thousands of miles away—a man whose shoulders floated rigidly above a tapered waist would come after him. It was the only thing he was absolutely sure of; he would do the same. Somewhere on that street …
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