“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.” The Monk lunged forward; there was nothing left but a final gesture, a final defiance. The European fired.
The door of the brownstone opened. From the shadows beneath the staircase the chauffeur smiled. The White House aide was being escorted out by the old man who lived at Treadstone, the one they called the Yachtsman; the killer knew that meant the primary alarms were off. The three-second span was eliminated.
“So good of you to drop by,” said the Yachtsman, shaking hands.
“Thank you very much, sir.”
Those were the last words either man spoke. The chauffeur aimed above the walled brick railing, pulling the trigger twice, the muffled reports indistinguishable from the myriad of distant sounds of the city. The Yachtsman fell back inside the White House aide clutched his upper chest, reefing into the door frame. The chauffeur spun around the brick railing and raced up the steps, catching Stevens’ body as it plummeted down. With bull-like strength, the killer lifted the White House man off his feet, hurling him back through the door into the foyer beyond the Yachtsman. Then he turned to the interior border of the heavy, steel-plated door. He knew what to look for; he found it.
Along the upper molding, disappearing into the wall, was a thick cable, stained the color of the doorframe. He closed the door part way, raised his gun and fired into the cable. The spit was followed by an eruption of static and sparks; the security cameras were blown out, screens everywhere now dark.
He opened the door to signal; it was not necessary. The European was walking rapidly across the quiet street. Within seconds he had climbed the steps and was inside, glancing around the foyer and the hallway--the door at the end of the hallway. Together both men lifted a rug from the foyer floor, the European closing the door on its edge, welding cloth and steel together so that a two-inch space remained, the security bolts still in place. No backup alarms could be raised.
They stood erect in silence; both knew that if the discovery was going to be made, it would be made quickly. It came with the sound of an upstairs door opening, followed by footsteps and words that floated down the staircase in a cultured female voice.
“Darling! I just noticed, the damn camera’s on the fritz. Would you check it, please?” There was a pause; then the woman spoke again. “On second thought why not tell David?” Again the pause, again with precise timing. “Don’t bother the Jesuit, darling. Tell David!” Two footsteps. Silence. A rustle of cloth. The European studied the stairwell. A light went out.
David. Jesuit ... Monk!
“Get her!” he roared at the chauffeur, spinning around, his weapon leveled at the door at the end of the hallway. The uniformed man raced up the staircase; there was a gunshot; it came from a powerful weapon--unmuffled, unsilenced. The European looked up; the chauffeur was holding his shoulder, his coat drenched with blood, his pistol held out, spitting repeatedly up the well of the stairs.
The door at the end of the hallway was yanked open, the major standing there in shock, a file folder in his hand. The European fired twice; Gordon Webb arched backward, his throat torn open, the papers in the folder flying out behind him. The man in the raincoat raced up the steps to the chauffeur; above, over the railing, was the gray-haired woman, dead, blood spilling out of her head and neck. “Are you all right? Can you move?” asked the European.
The chauffeur nodded. “The bitch blew half my shoulder off, but I can manage.”
“You have to!” commanded his superior, ripping off his raincoat. “Put on my coat. I want the Monk in here! Quickly!”
“Jesus! ...”
“Carlos wants the Monk in here!”
Awkwardly the wounded man put on the black raincoat and made his way down the staircase around the bodies of the Yachtsman and the White House aide. Carefully, in pain, he let himself out the door and down the front steps.
The European watched him, holding the door, making sure the man was sufficiently mobile for the task. He was; he was a bull whose every appetite was satisfied by Carlos. The chauffeur would carry David Abbott’s corpse back into the brownstone, no doubt supporting it as though helping an aging drunk for the benefit of anyone in the street; and then he would somehow contain his bleeding long enough to drive Alfred Gillette’s body across the river, burying him in a swamp.
Carlos’ men were capable of such things; they were all bulls. Discontented bulls who had found their own causes in a single man.
The European turned and started down the hallway; there was work to do. The final isolation of the man called Jason Bourne.
It was more than could be hoped for, the exposed files a gift beyond belief. Included were folders containing every code and method of communication ever used by the mythical Cain. Now not so mythical, thought the European as he gathered the papers together. The scene was set, the four corpses in position in the peaceful, elegant library. David Abbott was arched in a chair, his dead eyes
in shock, Elliot Stevens at his feet; the Yachtsman was slumped over the hatch table, an overturned bottle of whiskey in his hand, while Gordon Webb sprawled on the floor, clutching his briefcase.