Marie finished the article first and let the paper drop to the floor. At the sound, Bourne looked over from the edge of the bed. She was staring at the wall, a strange pensive serenity having come over her. It was the last reaction he expected. He finished reading quickly, feeling depressed and hopeless—for a moment, speechless. Then he found his voice and spoke.
“Lies,” he said, “and they were made because of me, because of who and what I am. Smoke you out, they find me. I’m sorry, sorrier than I can ever tell you.”
Marie shifted her eyes from the wall and looked at him. “It goes deeper than lies, Jason,” she said. “There’s too much truth for lies alone.”
“Truth? The only truth is that you were in Zurich. You never touched a gun, you were never in an alley near the Steppdeckstrasse, you didn’t lose a hotel key and you never went near the Gemeinschaft.”
“Agreed, but that’s not the truth I’m talking about.”
“Then what is?”
“The Gemeinschaft, Treadstone Seventy-One, Apfel. Those are true and the fact that any were mentioned—especially Apfel’s acknowledgment—is incredible. Swiss bankers are cautious men. They don’t ridicule the laws, not this way; the jail sentences are too severe. The statutes pertaining to banking confidentiality are among the most sacrosanct in Switzerland. Apfel could go to prison for years for saying what he did, for even alluding to such an account, much less confirming it by name. Unless he was ordered to say what he did by an authority powerful enough to contravene the laws.” She stopped, her eyes straying to the wall again. “Why? Why was the Gemeinschaft or Treadstone or Apfel ever made part of the story?”
“I told you. They want me and they know we’re together. Carlos knows we’re together. Find you, he finds me.”
“No, Jason, it goes beyond Carlos. You really don’t understand the laws in Switzerland Not even a Carlos could cause them to be flaunted this way.” She looked at him, but her eyes did not see him; she was peering through her own mists. “This isn’t one story, it’s two. Both are constructed out of lies, the first connected to the second by tenuous speculation—public speculation—on a banking crisis that would never be made public, unless and until a thorough and private investigation proved the facts. And that second story—the patently false statement that millions were stolen from the Gemeinschaft—was tacked onto the equally false story that I’m wanted for killing three men in Zurich. It was added. Deliberately.”
“Explain that, please.”
“It’s there, Jason. Believe me when I tell you that; it’s right in front of us.”
“What is?”
“Someone’s trying to send us a message.”
19
The army sedan sped south on Manhattan’s East River Drive, headlights illuminating the swirling remnants of a late-winter snowfall. The major in the back seat dozed, his long body angled into the corner, his legs stretched out diagonally across the floor. In his lap was a briefcase, a thin nylon cord attached to the handle by a metal clamp, the cord itself strung through his right sleeve and down his inner tunic to his belt. The security device had been removed only twice in the past nine hours. Once during the major’s departure from Zurich, and again with his arrival at Kennedy Airport. In both places, however, U. S. government personnel had been watching the customs clerks—more precisely, watching the briefcase. They were not told why, they were simply ordered to observe the inspections, and at the slightest deviation from normal procedures—which meant any undue interest in the briefcase—they were to intercede. With weapons, if necessary.
There was a sudden, quiet ringing; the major snapped his eyes open and brought his left hand up in front of his face. The sound was a wrist alarm; he pressed the button on his watch and squinted at the second radium dial of his two-zoned instrument. The first was on Zurich time, the second, New York; the alarm had been set twenty-four hours ago, when the officer had received his cabled orders. The transmission would come within the next three minutes. That is, thought the major, it would come if Iron Ass was as precise as he expected his subordinates to be. The officer stretched, awkwardly balancing the briefcase, and leaned forward, speaking to the driver.
“Sergeant, turn on your scrambler to 1430 megahertz, will you please?”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant flipped two switches on the radio panel beneath the dashboard, then twisted the dial to the 1430 frequency. “There it is, Major.”
“Thanks. Will the microphone reach back here?”
“I don’t know. Never tried it, sir.” The driver pulled the small plastic microphone from its cradle and stretched the spiral cord over the seat. “Guess it does,” he concluded.
Static erupted from the speaker, the scrambling transmitter electronically scanning and jamming the frequency. The message would follow in seconds. It did.
“Treadstone? Treadstone, confirm, please.”
“Treadstone receiving,” said Major Gordon Webb. “You’re clear. Go ahead.”
“What’s your position?”
“About a mile south of the Triborough, East River Drive,” said the major.
“Your timing is acceptable,” came the voice from the speaker.
“Glad to hear it. It makes my day … sir.”
There was a brief pause, the major’s comment not appreciated. “Proceed to 139 East Seventy-first. Confirm by repeat.”
“One-three-niner East Seventy-first
“Keep your vehicle out of the area. Approach on foot.”
“Understood.”
“Out.”
“Out.” Webb snapped the transmission button in place and handed the microphone back to the driver. “Forget that address, Sergeant. Your name’s on a very short file now.”
“Gotcha’, Major. Nothing but static on that thing anyway. But since I don’t know where it is and these wheels aren’t supposed to go there, where do you want to be dropped off?”
Webb smiled. “No more than two blocks away. I’d go to sleep in the gutter if I had to walk any further than that.”
“How about Lex and Seventy-second?”
“Is that two blocks?”
“No more than three.”
“If it’s three blocks you’re a private.”
“Then I couldn’t pick you up later, Major. Privates aren’t cleared for this duty.”
“Whatever you say, Captain.” Webb closed his eyes. After two years, he was about to see Treadstone Seventy-One for himself. He knew he should feel a sense of anticipation; he did not. He felt only a sense of weariness, of futility. What had happened?
The incessant hum of the tires on the pavement below was hypnotic, but the rhythm was broken by sharp intrusions where concrete and wheels were not compatible. The sounds evoked memories of long ago, of screeching jungle noises woven into a single tone. And then the night—that night—when blinding lights and staccato explosions were all around him, and below him, telling him he was about to die. But he did not die; a miracle wrought by a man had given his life back to him … and the years went on, that night, those days never to be forgotten. What the hell had happened?
“Here we are, Major.”
Webb opened his eyes, his hand wiping the sweat that had formed on his forehead. He. looked at his watch, gripped his briefcase and reached for the handle of the door.
“I’ll be here between 2300 and 2330 hours, Sergeant. If you can’t park, just cruise around and I’ll find you.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver turned in his seat. “Could the major tell me if we’re going to be driving any distance later?”
“Why? Have you got another fare?”
“Come on, sir. I’m assigned to you until you say otherwise, you know that. But these heavy-plated trucks use gas like the old-time Shermans. If we’re going far I’d better fill it.”
“Sorry.” The major paused. “Okay. You’ll have to find out where it is, anyway, because I don’t know. We’re going to a private airfield in Madison, New Jersey. I have to be there no later than one hundred hours.”
“I’ve got a vague idea,” said the driver. “At 2330, you’re cutting it pretty close, sir.”
“OK—2300, then. And thanks.” Webb got out of the car, closed the door and waited until the brown sedan entered the flow of traffic on Seventy-second Street. He stepped off the curb and headed south to Seventy-first.
Four minutes later he stood in front of a well-kept brownstone, its muted, rich design in concert with those around it in the tree-lined street. It was a quiet street, a monied street—old money. It was the last place in Manhattan a person would suspect of housing one of the most sensitive intelligence operations in the country. And as of twenty minutes ago, Major Gordon Webb was one of only eight or ten people in the country who knew of its existence.
Treadstone Seventy-One.
He climbed the steps, aware that the pressure of his weight on the iron grids embedded in the stone beneath him triggered electronic devices that in turn activated cameras, producing his image on screens inside. Beyond this, he knew little, except that Treadstone Seventy-One never closed; it was operated and monitored twenty-four hours a day by a select few, identities unknown.