“Not exactly,” replied Abbott, frowning. “This merely states that Koenig was employed by the Gemeinschaft where a recent homicide took place ... and he had been a witness to the initial gunfire.
That’s all.”
“I don’t think it is ‘all,’ “ said Webb. “I think there was more. Someone started to raise a question, but it was left hanging. I’d like to find out who has his red pencil on the Zurich police reports. He could be Carlos’ man; we know he’s got one there.” The Monk leaned back in the chair, his frown unrelieved. “Assuming you’re right, why wasn’t the entire reference deleted?”
“Too obvious. The killing did take place; Koenig was a witness; the investigating officer who wrote up the report might legitimately ask why.”
“But if he had speculated on a connection wouldn’t he be just as disturbed that the speculation was deleted?”
“Not necessarily. We’re talking about a bank in Switzerland. Certain areas are officially inviolable unless there’s proof.”
“Not always. I understood you were very successful with the newspapers.”
“Unofficially. I appealed to prurient journalistic sensationalism, and--although it damn near killed him--got Walther Apfel to corroborate halfway.”
“Interruption,” said Elliot Stevens. “I think this is where the Oval Office has to come in. I assume by the newspapers you’re referring to the Canadian woman.”
“Not really. That story was already out; we couldn’t stop it. Carlos is wired into the Zurich police; they issued that report. We simply enlarged on it and tied her to an equally false story about millions having been stolen from the Gemeinschaft.” Webb paused and looked at Abbott. “That’s something we have to talk about; it may not be false after all.”
“I can’t believe that,” said the Monk.
“I don’t want to believe it,” replied the major. “Ever.”
“Would you mind backing up?” asked the White House aide, sitting down opposite the army officer. “I have to get this very clear.”
“Let me explain,” broke in Abbott, seeing the bewilderment on Webb’s face. “Elliot’s here on orders from the president. It’s the killing at the Ottawa airport.”
“It’s an unholy mess,” said Stevens bluntly. “The prime minister damn near told the president to take our stations out of Nova Scotia. He’s one angry Canadian.”
“How did it come down?” asked Webb.
“Very badly. All they know is that a ranking economist at National Revenue’s Treasury Board made discreet inquiries about an unlisted American corporation and got himself killed for it. To make matters worse, Canadian Intelligence was told to stay out of it; it was a highly sensitive U. S. operation.”
“Who the hell did that?”
“I believe I’ve heard the name Iron Ass bandied about here and there,” said the Monk.
“General Crawford? Stupid son of a bitch--stupid iron-assed son of a bitch!”
“Can you imagine?” interjected Stevens. “Their man gets killed and we have the gall to tell them to stay out.”
“He was right, of course,” corrected Abbott. “It had to be done swiftly, no room for misunderstanding. A clamp had to be put on instantly, the shock sufficiently outrageous to stop everything. It gave me time to reach MacKenzie Hawkins--Mac and I worked together in Burma; he’s retired but they listen to him. They’re cooperating now and that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”
“There are other considerations, Mr. Abbott,” protested Stevens.
“They’re on different levels, Elliot. We working stiffs aren’t on them; we don’t have to spend time over diplomatic posturing. I’ll grant you those postures are necessary, but they don’t concern us.”
“They do concern the president, sir. They’re part of his every working-stiff day. And that’s why I have to go back with a very clear picture.” Stevens paused, turning to Webb. “Now, please, let me have it again. Exactly’ what did you do and why? What part did we play regarding this Canadian woman?”
“Initially not a goddamn thing, that was Carlos’ move. Someone very high up in the Zurich police is on Carlos’ payroll. It was the Zurich police who mocked up the so-called evidence linking her to the three killings. And it’s ludicrous; she’s no killer.”
All right, all right,” said the aide. “That was Carlos. Why did he do it?”
“To flush out Bourne. The St. Jacques woman and Bourne are together.”
“Bourne being this assassin who calls himself Cain, correct?”
“Yes,” said Webb. “Carlos has sworn to kill him. Cain’s moved in on Carlos all over Europe and the Middle East, but there’s no photograph of Cain, no one really knows what he looks like. So by circulating a picture of the woman--and let me tell you, it’s in every damn newspaper over there-– someone may spot her. If she’s found, the chances are that Cain--Bourne--will be found too.
Carlos will kill them both.”
“All right. Again, that’s Carlos. Now what did you do?”
“Just what I said. Reached the Gemeinschaft and convinced the bank into confirming the fact that the woman might--just might--be tied with a massive theft. It wasn’t easy, but it was their man Koenig who’d been bribed, not one of our people. That’s an internal matter; they wanted a lid on it.
Then I called the papers and referred them to Walther Apfel. Mysterious woman, murder, millions stolen; the editors leaped at it.”
“For Christ’s sake, why?” shouted Stevens. “You used a citizen of another country for a U. S. intelligence strategy! A staff employee of a closely allied government. Are you out of your minds? You only exacerbated the situation, you sacrificed her!”
“You’re wrong,” said Webb. “We’re trying to save her life. We’ve turned Carlos’ weapon against him.”
“How?”
The Monk raised his hand. “Before we answer we have to go back to another question,” he said.
“Because the answer to that may give you an indication of how restricted the information must remain. A moment ago I asked the major how Carlos! man could have found Bourne--found the fiche that identified Bourne as Cain. I think I know, but I want him to tell you.” Webb leaned forward. “The Medusa records,” he said, quietly, reluctantly.
“Medusa ...?” Stevens’ expression conveyed the fact that the Medusa had been the subject of early White House confidential briefings. “They’re buried,” he said.
“Correction,” intruded Abbott. “There’s an original and two copies, and they’re in vaults at the Pentagon, the CIA and the National Security Council. Access to them is limited to a select group, each one among the highest-ranking members of his unit. Bourne came out of Medusa; a cross-checking of those names with the bank records would produce his name. Someone gave them to Carlos.”
Stevens stared at the Monk. “Are you saying that Carlos is ... wired into ... men like that? It’s an extraordinary charge.”
“It’s the only explanation,” said Webb.
“By why would Bourne ever use his own name?”
“It was necessary,” replied Abbott. “It was a vital part of the portrait. It had to be authentic; everything had to be authentic. Everything.”
“Authentic?”
“Maybe you’ll understand now,” continued the major. “By tying the St. Jacques woman into millions supposedly stolen from the Gemeinschaft Bank, we’re telling Bourne to surface. He knows it’s false.”
“Bourne to surface?”
“The man called Jason Bourne,” said Abbott, getting to his feet and walking slowly toward the drawn curtains, “is an American intelligence officer. There is no Cain, not the one Carlos believes.