The Bourne Identity (43 page)

"Then I don't understand, either," said the White House aide, coming up beside Webb at the table, watching the major's manipulations with the nylon cord and the lock. "Wouldn't an obvious presence raise even more shrill alarms? I thought the assumption of undercover was that discovery was less probable."

"Webb's trip to Zurich was a routine consulate check, predated on the G-Two schedules. No one fools anybody about those trips; they're what they are and nothing else. Ascertaining new sources, paying off informants. The Soviets do it all the time; they don't even bother to hide it. Neither do we, frankly."

"But that
wasn't
the purpose of this trip," said Stevens, beginning to understand. "So the obvious conceals the unobvious."

"That's it."

"Can I help?" The presidential aide seemed fascinated by the briefcase.

"Thanks," said Webb. "Just pull the cord through."

Stevens did so. "I always thought it was chains around the wrist," he said.

"Too many hands cut off," explained the major, smiling at the White House man's reaction. "There's a steel wire running through the nylon." He freed the briefcase and opened it on the table, looking around at the elegance of the furnished library-den. At the rear of the room was a pair of French doors that apparently led to an outside garden, an outline of a high stone wall seen dimly through the panes of thick glass. "So this is Treadstone Seventy-One. It isn't the way I pictured it."

"Pull the curtains again, will you please, Elliot?" Abbott said. The presidential aide walked to the French doors and did so. Abbott crossed to a bookcase, opened the cabinet beneath it, and reached inside. There was a quiet whir, the entire bookcase came out of the wall and slowly revolved to the left. On the other side was an electronic radio console, one of the most sophisticated Gordon Webb had seen. "Is this more what you had in mind?" asked the Monk. "Jesus ..." The major whistled as he studied the dials, calibrations, cable patches and scanning devices built into the panel. The Pentagon war rooms had far more elaborate equipment, but this was the miniaturized equal of most well-structured intelligence stations.

"I'd whistle, too," said Stevens, standing in front of the dense curtain. "But Mr. Abbott already gave me my personal sideshow. That's only the beginning. For more buttons and this place looks like a SAC base in Omaha."

"Those same buttons also transform this room back into a graceful East Side library." The old man reached inside the cabinet; in seconds the enormous console was replaced by bookshelves. He then walked to the adjacent bookcase, opened the cabinet beneath and once again put his hand inside. The whirring began; the bookcase slid out, and shortly in its place were three tall filing cabinets. The Monk took out a key and pulled out a file drawer. "I'm not showing off, Gordon. When we're finished, I want you to look through these. I'll show you the switch that'll send them back. If you have any problems, our host will take care of everything."

"What am I to look for?"

"We'll get to it; right now I want to hear about Zurich. What have you learned?"

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"Excuse me, Mr. Abbott," interrupted Stevens. "If I'm slow, it's because all this is new to me. But I was thinking about something you said a minute ago about Major Webb's trip."

"What is it?"

"You said the trip was predated on the G-Two schedules."

"That's right."

"Why? The major's obvious presence was to confuse Zurich, not Washington. Or was it?"

The Monk smiled. "I can see why the president keeps you around. We've never doubted that Carlos has bought his way into a circle or two--or ten--in Washington. He finds the discontented men and offers them what they do not have. A Carlos could not exist without such people. You must remember, he doesn't merely sell death, he sells a nation's secrets. All too frequently to the Soviets, if only to prove to them how rash they were to expel him."

"The president would want to know that," said the aide. "It would explain several things."

"It's why you're here, isn't it?" said Abbott.

"I guess it is."

"And it's a good place to begin for Zurich," said Webb, taking his briefcase to an armchair in front of the filing cabinets. He sat down, spreading the folds inside the case at his feet, and took out several sheets of paper. "You may not doubt Carlos is in Washington, but I can confirm it."

"Where? Treadstone?"

"There's no clear proof of that, but it can't be ruled out. He found the
fiche
. He altered it."

"Good God, how?"

"The how I can only guess; the who I know."

"Who?"

"A man named Koenig. Until three days ago he was in charge of primary verifications at the Gemeinschaft Bank."

"Three days ago? Where is he now?"

"Dead. A freak automobile accident on a road he traveled every day of his life. Here's the police report; I had it translated." Abbott took the papers, and sat down in a nearby chair. Elliot Stevens remained standing; Webb continued. "There's something very interesting there. It doesn't tell us anything we don't know, but there's a lead I'd like to follow up."

"What is it?" asked the Monk, reading. "This describes the accident. The curve, speed of vehicle, apparent swerving to avoid a collision."

"It's at the end. It mentions the killing at the Gemeinschaft, the bolt that got us off our asses."

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"It does?" Abbott turned the page.

"Look at it. Last couple of sentences. See what I mean?"

"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.

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"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."

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"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. He's a lure, a trap for Carlos; that's who he is. Or was."

The silence was brief, broken by the White House man. "I think you'd better explain. The president has to know."

"I suppose so," mused Abbott, parting the curtains, looking absently outside. "It's an insoluble dilemma, really. Presidents change, different men with different temperaments and appetites sit in the Oval Office. However, a long-range intelligence strategy doesn't change, not one like this. Yet an offhand remark over a glass of whiskey in a post-presidential conversation, or an egotistical phrase in a memoir, can blow that
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