The Bourne Identity (63 page)

Bourne held the glass, avoiding d'Anjou's eyes. The Monk.
The Monk. Do not ask. The Monk is
dead, whoever and whatever he was. He is not pertinent now
. "I repeat," said Jason, "what is it they think they know I'm doing?"

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"Come, Delta,
I'm
the one who's leaving. Its pointless to--"

"
Please
," interrupted Bourne.

"Very well. You agreed to become Cain. The mythical killer with an unending list of contracts that never existed, each created out of whole cloth, given substance by all manner of reliable sources. Purpose. To challenge Carlos--'eroding his stature at every turn' was the way Bergeron phrased it--to undercut his prices, spread the word of his deficiencies, your own superiority. In essence, to draw out Carlos and take him. This was your agreement with the Americans."

Rays of his own personal sunlight burst into the dark comers of Jason's mind. In the distance, doors were opening, but they were still too far away and opened only partially. But there was light where before there was only darkness.

"Then the Americans are--" Bourne did not finish the statement, hoping in brief torment that d'Anjou would finish it for him.

"Yes," said the Medusan. "Treadstone Seventy-One. The most controlled unit of American intelligence since the State Department's Consular Operations. Created by the same man who built Medusa. David Abbott."

"The Monk," said Jason softly, instinctively, another door in the distance partially open.

"Of course. Who else would he approach to play the role of Cain but the man from Medusa known as Delta? As I say, the instant I saw you, I knew it."

"A role--" Bourne stopped, the sunlight growing brighter, warm not blinding. D'Anjou leaned forward. "It's here, of course, that what I heard and what I pieced together was incompatible. It was said that Jason Bourne accepted the assignment for reasons I knew were not true. I was there, they were not, they could not know."

"What did they say? What did you hear?"

"That you were an American intelligence officer, possibly military. Can you imagine?
You
. Delta! The man filled with contempt for so much, not the least of which was for most things American. I told Bergeron it was impossible, but I'm not sure he believed me."

"What did you tell him?"

"What I believed. What I still believe. It wasn't money--no amount of money could have made you do it--it had to be something else. I think you did it for the same reason so many others agreed to Medusa eleven years ago. To clean a slate somewhere, to be able to return to something you had before, that was barred to you. I don't know, of course, and I don't expect you to confirm it, but that's what I think."

"It's possible you're right," said Jason, holding his breath, the cool winds of release blowing into the mists.
It made sense. A message was sent. This could be it. Find the message. Find the sender.
Treadstone!

"Which leads us back," continued d'Anjou, "to the stories about Delta. Who was he? What was he?

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This educated, oddly quiet man who could transform himself into a lethal weapon in the jungles. Who stretched himself and others beyond endurance for no cause at all. We never understood."

"It was never required. Is there anything else you can tell me? Do they know the precise location of Treadstone?"

"Certainly. I learned it from Bergeron. A residence in New York City, on East Seventy-first Street. Number 139. Isn't that correct?"

"Possibly ... Anything else?"

"Only what you obviously know, the strategy of which I admit eludes me."

"Which is?"

"That the Americans think you turned. Better phrased, they want Carlos to believe they think you turned."

"Why?"
He was closer. It was here!

"The story is a long period of silence coinciding with Cain's inactivity. Plus stolen funds, but mainly the silence."

That was it. The message. The silence. The months in Port Noir. The madness' in Zurich, the
insanity in Paris. No one could possibly know what had happened. He was being told to come in.
To surface. You were right, Marie, my love, my dearest love. You were right from the beginning.

"Nothing else, then?" asked Bourne, trying to control the impatience in his voice, anxious now beyond any anxiety he had known to get back to Marie.

"It's all I know--but please understand, I was never told that much. I was brought in because of my knowledge of Medusa--and it was established that Cain was from Medusa--but I was never part of Carlos' inner circle."

"You were close enough. Thank you." Jason put several bills on the table and started to slide across the booth.

"There's one thing," said d'Anjou. "I'm not sure it's relevant at this point, but they know your name is not Jason Bourne."

"What?"

"March 25. Don't you remember, Delta? It's only two days from now, and the date's very important to Carlos. Word has been spread. He wants your corpse on the twenty-fifth. He wants to deliver it to the Americans on that day."

"What are you trying to say?"

"On March 25, 1968, Jason Bourne was executed at Tam Quan. You executed him."

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31

She opened the door and for a moment he stood looking at her, seeing the large brown eyes that roamed his face, eyes that were afraid yet curious. She knew. Not the answer, but that there was an answer, and he had come back to tell her what it was. He walked into the room; she closed the door.

"It happened," she said.

"It happened." Bourne turned and reached for her. She came to him and they held each other, the silence of the embrace saying more than any spoken words. "You were right," he whispered finally, his lips against her soft hair. "There's a great deal I don't know--may never know--but you were right. I'm not Cain because there is no Cain, there never was. Not the Cain they talk about. He never existed. He's a myth invented to draw out Carlos. I'm that creation. A man from Medusa called Delta agreed to become a lie named Cain. I'm that man."

She pulled back, still holding him. " 'Cain is for Charlie ...' " She said the words quietly.

" 'And Delta is for Cain,' " completed Jason. "You've heard me say it?"

Marie nodded. "Yes. One night in the room in Switzerland you shouted it in your sleep. You never mentioned Carlos; just Cain ... Delta. I said something to you in the morning about it, but you didn't answer me. You just looked out the window."

"Because I didn't understand. I still don't, but I accept it. It explains so many things."

She nodded again. "The
provocateur
. The code words you use, the strange phrases, the perceptions. But why? Why
you?"

" 'To clean a slate somewhere.' That's what he said."

"Who said?"

"D'Anjou."

"The man on the steps in Parc Monceau? The switchboard operator?"

"The man from Medusa. I knew him in Medusa."

"What did he say?"

Bourne told her. And as he did, he could see in her the relief he had felt in himself. There was a light in her eyes, and a muted throbbing in her neck, sheer joy bursting from her throat. It was almost as if she could barely wait for him to finish so she could hold him again.

"Jason!" she cried, taking his face in her hands. "Darling, my darling! My friend has come back to me!

It's everything we knew, everything we felt!"

"Not quite everything," he said, touching her cheek. "I'm Jason to you, Bourne to me, because that's the name I was given, and have to use it because I don't have any other. But it's not mine."

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"An invention?"

"No, he was real. They say I killed him in a place called Tam Quan."

She took her hands away from his face, sliding them to his shoulders, not letting him go. "There had to have been a reason."

"I hope so. I don't know. Maybe it's the slate I'm trying to clean."

"It doesn't matter," she said, releasing him. "It's in the past, over ten years ago. All that matters now is that you reach the man at Treadstone, because they're trying to reach you."

"D'Anjou said word was out that the Americans think I've turned. No word from me in over six months, millions taken out of Zurich. They must think I'm the most expensive miscalculation on record."

"You can explain what happened. You haven't knowingly broken your agreement; on the other hand, you can't go on. It's impossible. All the training you received means, nothing to you. It's there only in fragments--images and phrases that you can't relate to anything. People you're supposed to know, you don't know. They're faces without names, without reasons for being where they are or what they are."

Bourne took off his coat and pulled the automatic from his belt. He studied the cylinder--the ugly, perforated extension of the barrel that guaranteed to reduce the decibel count of a gunshot to a spit. It sickened him. He walked to the bureau, put the weapon inside and pushed the drawer shut. He held on to the knobs for a moment, his eyes straying to the mirror, to the face in the glass that had no name.

"What do I say to them?" he asked. "This is Jason Bourne calling. Of course I know that's not my name because I killed a man named Jason Bourne, but it's the one you gave me. ... I'm sorry, gentlemen, but something happened to me on the way to Marseilles. I lost something--nothing you can put a price on--just my memory. Now, I gather we've got an agreement, but I don't remember what it is, except for crazy phrases like 'Get Carlos!' and 'Trap Carlos!' and something about Delta being Cain and Cain is supposed to replace Charlie and Charlie is really Carlos. Things like that, which may lead you to think I do remember. You might even say to yourselves, 'We've got one prime bastard here. Let's put him away for a couple of decades in a very tight stockade. He not only took us, but worse, he could prove to be one hell of an embarrassment.' " Bourne turned from the mirror and looked at Marie. "I'm not kidding. What do I say?"

"The truth," she answered "They'll accept it. They've sent you a message; they're trying to reach you. As far as the six months is concerned, wire Washburn in Port Noir. He kept records--extensive, detailed records."

"He may not answer. We had our own agreement. For putting me back together he was to receive a fifth of Zurich, untraceable to him. I sent him a million American dollars."

"Do you think that would stop him from helping you?"

Jason paused. "He may not be able to help himself. He's got a problem; he's a drunk. Not a drinker. A drunk. The worst kind; he knows it and likes it. How long can he live with a million dollars? More to the point, how long do you think those waterfront pirates will let him live once they find out?"

"You can still prove you were there. You were ill, isolated. You weren't in contact with
anyone
."

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"How can the men at Treadstone be sure? From their view I'm a walking encyclopedia of official secrets. I
had
to be to do what I've done. How can they be certain I haven't talked to the wrong people?"

"Tell them to send a team to Port Noir."

"It'll be greeted with blank stares and silence. I left that island in the middle of the night with half the waterfront after me with hooks. If anyone down there made any money out of Washburn, he'll see the connection and walk the other way."

"Jason, I don't know what you're driving at. You've got your answer, the answer you've been looking for since you woke up that morning in Port Noir. What more do you want?"

"I want to be careful, that's all," said Bourne abrasively. "I want to 'look before I leap' and make damn sure the 'stable door is shut' and 'Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick--but for Christ's sake don't fall into the fire!' How's that for
remembering?"
He was shouting; he stopped. Marie walked across the room and stood in front of him. "It's very good. But that's not it, is it? Being careful I mean."

Jason shook his head. "No, it isn't," he said. "With each step I've been afraid, afraid of the things I've learned. Now, at the end, I'm more frightened than ever. If I'm not Jason Bourne, who am I really?

What have I left back there? Has that occurred to you?"

"In all its ramifications, my darling. In a way, I'm far more afraid than you. But I don't think that can stop us. I wish to God it could, but I know it can't."

The attache at the American Embassy on the avenue Gabriel walked into the office of the First Secretary and closed the door. The man at the desk looked up.

"You're sure it's him?"

"I'm only sure he used the key words," said the attache, crossing to the desk, a red-bordered index card in his hand. "Here's the flag," he continued, handing the card to the First Secretary. "I've checked off the words he used, and if that flag's accurate, I'd say he's genuine."

The man behind the desk studied the card. "When did he use the name Treadstone?"

"Only after I convinced him that he wasn't going to talk with anyone in U. S. Intelligence unless he gave me a damn good reason. I think he thought it'd blow my mind when he said he was Jason Bourne. When I simply asked him what I could do for him, he seemed stuck, almost as if he might hang up on me."

"Didn't he say there was a flag out for him?"

"I was waiting for it but he never said it. According to that eight-word sketch--'Experienced field officer. Possible defection or enemy detention'--he could have just said the word 'flag' and we would have been in sync. He didn't."

"Then maybe he's not genuine."