“Who made that decision?”
“It’s an unbroken executive order from successive presidents based on the recommendation of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was supported by the Senate Armed Services Committee.”
“That’s considerable firepower, isn’t it?”
“It was felt to be in the national interest,” said the CIA Man.
“In this case, I won’t argue,” agreed Walters. “The specter of such an operation wouldn’t do much for the glory of Old Glory. We don’t train assassins, much less field them.” He flipped through the pages. “And somewhere here just happens to be an assassin we trained and fielded and now can’t find.”
“We believe that, yes,” said the colonel.
“You say he made his reputation in Asia, but moved to Europe. When?”
“About a year ago.”
“Why? Any ideas?”
“The obvious, I’d suggest,” said Peter Knowlton. “He overextended himself. Something went wrong and he felt threatened. He was a white killer among Orientals, at best a dangerous concept, it was time for him to move on. God knows his reputation was made; there’d be no lack of employment in Europe.”
David Abbott cleared his throat. “I’d like to offer another possibility based on something Alfred said a few minutes ago.” The Monk paused and nodded deferentially at Gillette. “He said that we had been forced to concentrate on a ‘toothless sand shark while the hammerhead roamed free,’ I believe that was the phrase, although my sequence may be wrong.”
“Yes,” said the man from NSC. “I was referring to Carlos, of course. It’s not Cain we should be after. It’s Carlos.”
“Of course. Carlos. The most elusive killer in modern history, a man many of us truly believe has been responsible—in one way or another—for the most tragic assassinations of our time. You were quite right, Alfred, and, in a way, I was wrong. We cannot afford to forget Carlos.”
“Thank you,” said Gillette. “I’m glad I made my point.”
“You did. With me, at any rate. But you also made me think. Can you imagine the temptation for a man like Cain, operating in the steamy confines of an area rife with drifters and fugitives and regimes up to their necks in corruption? How he must have envied Carlos; how he must have been jealous of the faster, brighter, more luxurious world of Europe. How often did he say to himself, ‘I’m better than Carlos.’ No matter how cold these fellows are, their egos are immense. I suggest he went to Europe to find that better world … and to dethrone Carlos. The pretender, sir, wants to take the title. He wants to be champion.”
Gillette stared at the Monk. “It’s an interesting theory.”
“And if I follow you,” interjected the congressman from Oversight, “by tracking Cain we may come up with Carlos.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” said the CIA director, annoyed. “Why?”
“Two stallions in a paddock,” answered Walters. “They tangle.”
“A champion does not give up the title willingly.” Abbott reached for his pipe. “He fights viciously to retain it. As the congressman says, we continue to track Cain, but we must also watch for other spoors in the forest. And when and if we find Cain, perhaps we should hold back. Wait for Carlos to come after him.”
“Then take both,” added the military officer.
“Very enlightening,” said Gillette.
The meeting was over, the members in various stages of leaving. David Abbott stood with the Pentagon colonel, who was gathering together the pages of the Medusa folder; he had picked up the casualty sheets, prepared to insert them.
“May I take a look?” asked Abbott. “We don’t have a copy over at Forty.”
“Those were our instructions,” replied the officer, handing the stapled pages to the older man. “I thought they came from you. Only three copies. Here, at the Agency, and over at the Council.”
“They did come from me.” The silent Monk smiled benignly. “Too damn many civilians in my part of town.”
The colonel turned away to answer a question posed by the congressman from Tennessee. David Abbott did not listen; instead his eyes sped rapidly down the columns of names; he was alarmed. A number had been crossed out, accounted for. Accountability was the one thing they could not allow. Ever. Where was it? He was the only man in that room who knew the name, and he could feel the pounding in his chest as he reached the last page. The name was there.
Bourne, Jason C.—Last known station: Tam Quan. What in God’s name had happened?
René Bergeron slammed down the telephone on his desk; his voice only slightly more controlled than his gesture. “We’ve tried every café, every restaurant and bistro she’s ever frequented!”
“There’s not a hotel in Paris that has him registered,” said the gray-haired switchboard operator, seated at a second telephone by a drafting board. “It’s been more than two hours now, she could be dead. If she’s not, she might well wish she were.”
“She can only tell him so much,” mused Bergeron. “Less than we could; she knows nothing of the old men.”
“She knows enough; she’s called Parc Monceau.”
“She’s relayed messages; she’s not certain to whom.”
“She knows why.”
“So does Cain, I can assure you. And he would make a grotesque error with Parc Monceau.” The designer leaned forward, his powerful forearms tensing as he locked his hands together, his eyes on the gray-haired man. “Tell me, again, everything you remember. Why are you so sure he’s Bourne?”
“I don’t know that. I said he was Cain. If you’ve described his methods accurately, he’s the man.”
“Bourne is Cain. We found him through the Medusa records. It’s why you were hired.”
“Then he’s Bourne, but it’s not the name he used. Of course, there were a number of men in Medusa who would not permit their real names to be used. For them, false identities were guaranteed; they had criminal records. He would be one of those men.”
“Why him? Others disappeared. You disappeared.”
“I could say because he was here in Saint-Honoré and that should be enough. But there’s more, much more. I watched him function. I was assigned to a mission he commanded; it was not an experience to be forgotten, nor was he. That man could be—would be—your Cain.”
“Tell me.”
“We parachuted at night into a sector called Tam Quan, our objective to bring out an American named Webb who was being held by the Viet Cong. We didn’t know it, but the odds against survival were monumental. Even the flight from Saigon was horrendous; gale-force winds at a thousand feet, the aircraft vibrating as if it would fall apart. Still, he ordered us to jump.”
“And you did?”
“His gun was pointed at our heads. At each of us as we approached the hatchway. We might survive the elements, not a bullet in our skulls.”
“How many were there of you?”
“Ten.”
“You could have taken him.”
“You didn’t know him.”
“Go on,” said Bergeron, concentrating; immobile at the desk.
“Eight of us regrouped on the ground; two, we assumed, had not survived the jump. It was amazing that I did. I was the oldest and hardly a bull, but I knew the area; it was why I was sent.” The gray-haired man paused, shaking his head at the memory. “Less than an hour later we realized it was a trap. We were running like lizards through the jungle. And during the nights he went out alone through the mortar explosions and the grenades. To kill. Always coming back before dawn to force us closer and closer to the base camp. I thought at the time, sheer suicide.”
“Why did you do it? He had to give you a reason; you were Medusans, not soldiers.”
“He said it was the only way to get out alive, and there was logic to that. We were far behind the lines; we needed the supplies we could find at the base camp—if we could take it. He said we had to take it; we had no choice. If any argued, he’d put a bullet in his head—we knew it. On the third night we took the camp and found the man named Webb more dead than alive, but breathing. We also found the two missing members of our team, very much alive and stunned at what had happened. A white man and a Vietnamese; they’d been paid by the Cong to trap us—trap him, I suspect.”
“Cain?”
“Yes. The Vietnamese saw us first and escaped. Cain shot the white man in the head. I understand he just walked up to him and blew his head off.”
“He got you back? Through the lines?”
“Four of us, yes, and the man named Webb. Five men were killed. It was during that terrible journey back that I thought I understood why the rumors might be true—that he was the highest-paid recruit in Medusa.”
“In what sense?”
“He was the coldest man I ever saw, the most dangerous, and utterly unpredictable. I thought at the time it was a strange war for him; he was a Savonarola, but without religious principle, only his own odd morality which was centered about himself. All men were his enemies—the leaders in particular and he cared not one whit for either side.” The middle-aged man paused again, his eyes on the drafting board, his mind obviously thousands of miles away and back in time. “Remember, Medusa was filled with diverse and desperate men. Many were paranoid in their hatred of Communists. Kill a Communist and Christ smiled—odd examples of Christian teaching. Others—such as myself—had fortunes stolen from us by the Viet Minh; the only path to restitution was if the Americans won the war. France had abandoned us at Dienbienphu. But there were dozens who saw that fortunes could be made from Medusa. Pouches often contained fifty to seventy-five thousand American dollars. A courier siphoning off half during ten, fifteen runs, could retire in Singapore or Kuala Lumpur or set up his own narcotics network in the Triangle. Beyond the exorbitant pay—and frequently the pardoning of past crimes—the opportunities were unlimited. It was in this group that I placed that very strange man. He was a modern-day pirate in the purest sense.”