Statement: “I heard him say it. He was on a small embankment of grass beyond a ledge.
His rifle had a wire shell-trap attached.”
Question: “It was never reported; why wasn’t he seen?”
Statement: “He may have been, but no one would have known it. He was dressed as an old man, with a shabby overcoat, and his shoes were wrapped in canvas to avoid footprints.” A terrorist’s information is certainly not proof, but neither should it always be disregarded. Especially when it concerns a master assassin, known to be a scholar of deception, who has made an admission that so astonishingly corroborates an unknown unpublished statement about a moment of national crisis never investigated. That, indeed, must be taken seriously. As so many others associated--even remotely--with the tragic events in Dallas, “Burlap Billy” was found dead several days later from an overdose of drugs.
He was known to be an old man drunk consistently on cheap wine; he was never known to use narcotics. He could not afford them.
Was “Carlos” the man on the grassy knoll? What an extraordinary beginning for an extraordinary career! If Dallas really was his “operation” how many millions of dollars must have been funneled to him? Certainly more than enough to establish a network of informers and soldiers that is a corporate world unto itself.
The myth has too much substance; Carlos may well be a monster of flesh and too much blood.
Marie put down the magazine. “What’s the game?”
“Are you finished?” Jason turned from the window.
“Yes.”
“I gather a lot of statements were made. Theory, supposition, equations.”
“Equations?”
“If something happened here, and there was an effect over there, a relationship existed.”
“You mean connections,” said Marie.
“All right, connections. It’s all there, isn’t it?”
“To a degree, you could say that. It’s hardly a legal brief; there’s a lot of speculation, rumor, and secondhand information.”
“There are facts, however.”
“Data.”
“Good. Data. That’s fine.”
“What’s the game?” Marie repeated.
“It’s got a simple title. It’s called ‘Trap.’ “
“Trap whom?”
“Me.” Bourne sat forward. “I want you to ask me questions. Anything that’s in there. A phrase, the name of a city, a rumor, a fragment of ... data. Anything. Let’s hear what my responses are. My blind responses.”
“Darling, that’s no proof of--“
“Do it!” ordered Jason.
“All right.” Marie raised the issue of Potomac Quarterly. “Beirut,” she said.
“Embassy,” he answered. “CIA station head posing as an attaché. Gunned down in the street.
Three hundred thousand dollars.”
Marie looked at him. “I remember--“ she began.
“I don’t!” interrupted Jason. “Go on.”
She returned his gaze, then went back to the magazine. “Baader-Meinhof.”
“Stuttgart. Regensburg. Munich. Two kills and a kidnapping, Baader accreditation. Fees from--“ Bourne stopped, then whispered in astonishment, “U. S. sources. Detroit ... Wilmington, Delaware.”
“Jason, what are--“
“Go on. Please.”
“The name, Sanchez.”
“The name is Ilich Ramirez Sanchez,” he replied. “He is ... Carlos.”
“Why the Ilich?”
Bourne paused, his eyes wandering. “I don’t know.”
“It’s Russian, not Spanish. Was his mother Russian?”
“No ... yes. His mother. It had to be his mother ... I think. I’m not sure.”
“Novgorod.”
“Espionage compound. Communications, ciphers, frequency traffic. Sanchez is a graduate.”
“Jason, you read that here!”
“I did not read it! Please. Keep going”
Marie’s eyes swept back to the top of the article. “Teheran.”
“Eight kills. Divided accreditation--Khomeini and PLO. Fee, two million. Source Southwest Soviet sector.”
“Paris,” said Marie quickly.
“All contracts will be processed through Paris.”
“What contracts?”