“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 who 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.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Good.” Headlight beams bounced through the glass. “Abbott’s taxi is here. I’ll take care of the driver.” The European reached to his right and flipped a switch beneath the armrest. “I’ll be in my car across the street, listening.” He spoke to the chauffeur. “Abbott will be coming out any moment now. You know what to do.”
The chauffeur nodded. Both men got out of the limousine simultaneously. The driver walked around the hood as if to escort a wealthy employer to the south side of the street. Gillette watched through the rear window; the two men stayed together for several seconds, then separated, the European heading for the approaching cab, his hand held up, a bill between his fingers. The taxi would be sent away; the caller’s plans had changed. The chauffeur had raced to the north side of the street and was now concealed in the shadows of a staircase two doors away from Treadstone Seventy-One.
Thirty seconds later Gillette’s eyes were drawn to the door of the brownstone. Light spilled through as an impatient David Abbott came outside, looking up and down the street, glancing at his watch, obviously annoyed. The taxi was late and he had a plane to catch; precise schedules had to be followed. Abbott walked down the steps, turning left on the pavement, looking for the cab, expecting it. In seconds he would pass the chauffeur. He did, both men well out of camera range.