MEDUSA
CAIN
CARLOS
TREADSTONE
“What is this?” asked the secretary. “What the hell is this?”
The director of Cons-Op leaned over the desk. “I don’t know, sir. They’re names, of course. A code for the alphabet--the letter D--and a reference to Medusa; that’s still classified, but I’ve heard of it. And I suppose the ‘Carlos’ refers to the assassin; I wish we knew more about him. But I’ve
never heard of ‘Bourne’ or ‘Cain’ or ‘Treadstone.’ “
“Then come up to my office and listen to a tape of a telephone conversation that I’ve just had with Paris and you’ll learn all about them!” exploded the secretary of state. “There are extraordinary things on that tape, including killings in Ottawa and Paris, and some very strange dealings our First Secretary in the Montaigne had with a CIA man. There’s also outright lying to the authorities of foreign governments, to our own intelligence units, and to the European newspapers--with neither the knowledge nor the consent of the Department of State! There’s been a global deception that’s spread misinformation throughout more countries than I want to think about. Were flying over, under a deep-diplomatic, a Canadian woman--an economist for the government in Ottawa who’s wanted for murder in Zurich. We’re being forced to grant asylum to a fugitive, to subvert the laws-– because if that woman’s telling the truth, we’ve got our ass in a sling! I want to know what’s been going on. Cancel everything on your calendar--and I mean everything. You’re spending the rest of the day and all night if you have to digging this damn thing out of the ground. There’s a man walking around who doesn’t know who he is, but with more classified information in his head than ten intelligence computers!”
It was past midnight when the exhausted director of Consular Operations made the connection; he had nearly missed it. The First Secretary at the embassy in Paris, under threat. of instant dismissal, had given him Alexander Conklin’s name. But Conklin was nowhere to be found. He had returned to Washington on a military jet out of Brussels in the morning, but had signed out of Langley at 1:22 in the afternoon, leaving no telephone number--not even an emergency number--where he could be reached. And from what the director had learned about Conklin, that omission was extraordinary.
The CIA man was what was commonly referred to as a shark-killer; he directed individual strategies throughout the world where defection and treason were suspected. There were too many men in too many stations who might need his approval or disapproval at any given moment. It was not logical he would sever that cord for twelve hours. What was also unusual was the fact that his telephone logs had been scratched; there were none for the past two days--and the Central Intelligence Agency had very specific regulations concerning those logs. Traceable accountability was the new order of the new regime. However, the director of Cons-Op had learned one fact: Conklin had been attached to Medusa.
Using the threat of State Department retaliation, the director had requested a closed circuit readout of Conklin’s logs for the past five weeks. Reluctantly, the Agency beamed them over and the director had sat in front of a screen for two hours, instructing the operators at Langley to keep the tape repeating until he told them to stop.
Eighty-six logicals had been called, the word Treadstone mentioned; none had responded. Then the director went back to the possibles; there was an army man he had not considered because of his well-known antipathy to the CIA. But Conklin had telephoned him twice during the space of twelve minutes a week ago. The director called his sources at the Pentagon and found what he was looking for: Medusa.
Brigadier General Irwin Arthur Crawford, current ranking officer in charge of Army Intelligence data banks, former commander, Saigon, attached to covert operations--still classified. Medusa.
The director picked up the conference room phone, it bypassed the switchboard. He dialed the brigadier’s home in Fairfax, and on the fourth ring, Crawford answered. The State Department man identified himself and asked if the general cared to return a call to State and be put through for verification.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“It concerns a matter that comes under the heading of Treadstone.”
“I’ll call you back.”
He did so in eighteen seconds, and within the next two minutes the director had delivered the outlines of State’s information.
“There’s nothing there we don’t know about,” said the brigadier. “There’s been a control committee on this from the beginning, the Oval Office given a preliminary summation within a week of the inauguration. Our objective warranted the procedures, you may be assured of that.”
“I’m willing to be convinced,” replied the man from State. “Is this related to that business in New York a week ago? Elliot Stevens--that Major Webb and David Abbott? Where the circumstances were, shall we say, considerably altered?”
“You were aware of the alterations?”
“I’m the head of Cons-Op, General.”
“Yes, you would be ... Stevens wasn’t married; the rest understood. Robbery and homicide were preferable. The answer is affirmative.”
“I see ... Your man Bourne flew into New York yesterday morning.”
“I know. We know--that is Conklin and myself. We’re the inheritors.”
“You’ve been in touch with Conklin?”
“I last spoke to him around one o’clock in the afternoon. Unlogged. He insisted on it, frankly.”
“He’s checked out of Langley. There’s no number where he can be reached.”
“I know that, too. Don’t try. With all due respect, tell the Secretary to back away. You back away.
Don’t get involved.”
“We are involved, General. We’re flying over the Canadian woman by diplomatic.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“We were forced to; she forced us to.”
“Then keep her in isolation. You’ve got to! She’s our resolve, we’ll be responsible.”
“I think you’d better explain.”
“We’re dealing with an insane man. A multiple schizophrenic. He’s a walking firing squad; he could kill a dozen innocent people with one outburst, one explosion in his own head, and he wouldn’t know why.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s already killed. That massacre in New York--it was him. He killed Stevens, the Monk, Webb--above all, Webb--and two others you never heard of. We understand now. He wasn’t responsible, but that can’t change anything. Leave him to us. To Conklin.”
“Bourne?”
“Yes. We have proof. Prints. They were confirmed by the Bureau. It was him.”
“Your man would leave prints?”
“He did.”
“He couldn’t have,” said the man from State finally.
“What?”
‘Tell me, where did you come up with the conclusion of insanity? This multiple schizophrenia or whatever the hell you call it.”
“Conklin spoke to a psychiatrist-one of the best--an authority on stress-breakdowns. Alex described the history--and it was brutal. The doctor confirmed our suspicions, Conklin’s suspicions.”
“He confirmed them?” asked the director, stunned.
“Yes.”
“Based on what Conklin said? On what he thought he knew?”