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 authentic. 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.”