The interception was quick, the discussion rapid. In moments, a bewildered David Abbott climbed inside the limousine and the chauffeur walked away into the shadows.
“You!” said the Monk, anger and disgust in his voice. “Of all people, you.”
“I don’t think you’re in any position to be disdainful … much less arrogant.”
”What you’ve done! How dare you? Zurich. The Medusa records. It was you!”
“The Medusa records, yes. Zurich, yes. But it’s not a question of what I’ve done; it’s what you’ve done. We sent our own men to Zurich, telling them what to look for. We found it. His name is Bourne, isn’t it? He’s the man you call Cain. The man you invented.”
Abbott kept himself in check. “How did you find this house?”
“Persistence. I had you followed.”
“You had me followed? What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Trying to set a record straight. A record you’ve warped and lied about, keeping the truth from the rest of us. What did you think you were doing?”
“Oh, my God, you damn fool!” Abbott inhaled deeply. “Why did you do it? Why didn’t you come to me yourself?’
“Because you’d have done nothing. You’ve manipulated the entire intelligence community. Millions of dollars, untold thousands of man hours, embassies and stations fed lies and distortions about a killer that never existed. Oh, I recall your words—what a challenge to Carlos! What an irresistible trap is what it was! Only we were your pawns too, and as a responsible member of the Security Council, I resent it deeply. You’re all alike. Who elected you God so you could break the rules—no, not just the rules, the laws—and make us look like fools?”
“There was no other way,” said the old man wearily, his face a drawn mass of crevices in the dim light. “How many know? Tell me the truth.”
“I’ve contained it. I gave you that.”
“It may not be enough. Oh, Christ!”
“It may not last, period,” said the bureaucrat emphatically. “I want to know what happened.”
“What happened?”
“To this grand strategy of yours. It seems to be … falling apart at the seams.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s perfectly obvious. You’ve lost Bourne; you can’t find him. Your Cain has disappeared with a fortune banked for him in Zurich.”
Abbott was silent for a moment. “Wait a minute. What put you on to it?”
“You,” said Gillette quickly, the prudent man rising to the baited question. “I must say I admired your control when that ass from the Pentagon spoke so knowingly of Operation Medusa … sitting directly across from the man who created it.”
“History.” The old man’s voice was strong now. “That wouldn’t have told you anything.”
“Let’s say it was rather unusual for you not to say anything. I mean, who at that table knew more about Medusa than you? But you didn’t say a word, and that started me thinking. So I objected strenuously to the attention being paid this assassin, Cain. You couldn’t resist, David. You had to offer a very plausible reason to continue the search for Cain. You threw Carlos into the hunt.”
“It was the truth,” interrupted Abbott.
“Certainly it was; you knew when to use it and I knew when to spot it. Ingenious. A snake pulled out of Medusa’s head, groomed for a mythical title. The contender jumps into the champion’s ring to draw the champion out of his corner.”
“It was sound, sound from the beginning.”
“Why not? As I say, it was ingenious, even down to every move made by his own people against Cain. Who better to relay those moves to Cain but the one man on the Forty Committee who’s given reports on every covert operations conference. You used us all!”
The Monk nodded. “Very well. To a point you’re right, there’ve been degrees of abuse—in my opinion, totally justified—but it’s not what you think. There are checks and balances; there always are, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Treadstone is comprised of a small group of men among the most trustworthy in the government. They range from Army G-Two to the Senate, from the CIA to Naval Intelligence, and now, frankly, the White House. Should there be any true abuse, there’s not one of them that would hesitate to put a stop to the operation. None has ever seen fit to do so, and I beg you not to do so either.”
“Would I be made part of Treadstone?”
“You are part of it now.”
“I see. What happened? Where is Bourne?”
“I wish to God we knew. We’re not even sure it is Bourne.”
“You’re not even sure of what?”
“I see. What happened? Where Is Bourne?”
“I wish to God we knew. We’re not even sure it is Bourne.”
“You’re not even sure of what?”
The European reached for the switch on the dashboard and snapped it off. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s what we had to know.” He turned to the chauffeur beside him. “Quickly, now. Get beside the staircase. Remember, if one of them comes out, you have precisely three seconds before the door is closed. Work fast.”
The uniformed man got out first; he walked up the pavement toward Treadstone Seventy-One. From one of the adjacent brownstones, a middle-aged couple were saying loud goodbyes to their hosts. The chauffeur slowed down, reached into his pocket for a cigarette and stopped to light it. He was now a bored driver, whiling away the hours of a tedious vigil. The European watched, then unbuttoned his raincoat and withdrew a long, thin revolver, its barrel enlarged by a silencer. He switched off the safety, shoved the weapon back into his holster, got out of the car and walked across the street toward the limousine. The mirrors had been angled properly; by staying in the blind spot there was no way either man inside could see him approach. The European paused briefly for the rear trunk, then swiftly, hand extended, lunged for the right front door, opened it and spun inside, leveling his weapon over the seat.
Alfred Gillette gasped, his left hand surging for the door handle; the European snapped the four-way lock. David Abbott remained immobile, staring at the invader.
“Good evening, Monk,” said the European. “Another, whom I’m told often assumes a religious habit, sends you his congratulations. Not only for Cain, but for your household personnel at Treadstone. The Yachtsman, for instance. Once a superior agent.”
Gillette found his voice; it was a mixture of a scream and a whisper. “What is this? Who are you?” he cried, feigning ignorance.
“Oh come now, old friend. That’s not necessary,” said the man with the gun. “I can see by the expression on Mr. Abbott’s face that he realizes his initial doubts about you were accurate. One should always trust one’s first instincts, shouldn’t one, Monk? You were right, of course. We found another discontented man; your system reproduces them with alarming rapidity. He, indeed, gave us the Medusa files, and they did, indeed, lead us to Bourne.”
“What are you doing?!” screamed Gillette. “What are you saying!”
“You’re a bore, Alfred. But you were always part of a damn fine staff. It’s too bad you didn’t know which staff to stay with; your kind never do.”
“You! …” Gillette rose bodily off the seat, his face contorted.
The European fired his weapon, the cough from the barrel echoing briefly in the soft interior of the limousine. The bureaucrat slumped over, his body crumbling to the floor against the door, owl-eyes wide in death.
“I don’t think you mourn him,” said the European.
“I don’t,” said the Monk.
“It is Bourne out there, you know. Cain turned; he broke. The long period of silence is over. The snake from Medusa’s head decided to strike out on his own. Or perhaps he was bought. That’s possible too, isn’t it? Carlos buys many men, the one at your feet now, for example.”
“You’ll learn nothing from me. Don’t try.”
“There’s nothing to learn. We know it all. Delta, Charlie … Cain. But the names aren’t important any longer, they never were, really. All that remains is the final isolation—removing of the man-monk who makes the decisions. You. Bourne is trapped. He’s finished.”
“There are others who make decisions. He’ll reach them.”
“If he does, they’ll kill him on sight. There’s nothing more despicable than a man who’s turned, but in order for a man to turn, there has to be irrefutable proof that he was yours to begin with. Carlos has the proof; he was yours, his origins as sensitive as anything in the Medusa files.”
The old man frowned; he was frightened, not for his life, but for something infinitely more indispensable. “You’re out of your mind,” he said. “There is no proof.”
“That was the flaw, your flaw. Carlos is thorough; his tentacles reach into all manner of hidden recesses. You needed a man from Medusa, someone who had lived and disappeared. You chose a man named Bourne because the circumstances of his disappearance had been obliterated, eliminated from every existing record—or so you believed. But you didn’t consider Hanoi’s own field personnel who had infiltrated Medusa; those records exist. On March 25, 1968, Jason Bourne was executed by an American Intelligence officer in the jungles of Tam Quan.”