'That's quite a cross-section of volunteers,' interrupted the congressman. 'Old line Navy and Army; British and Australian drifters, French colonials, and platoons of thieves. How the hell did you get them to work together?"
To each according to his greeds,' said Gillette.
'Promises,' amplified the colonel. 'Guarantees of rank, promotions, pardons, outright bonuses of cash, and in a number of cases opportunities to steal funds... from the operation itself. You see, they all had to be a little crazy; we understood that. We trained them secretly, using codes, methods of transport, entrapment and killing – even weapons Command Saigon knew nothing about As Peter mentioned, the risks were incredible, capture resulting in torture and execution; the price was high and they paid it. Most people would have called them a collection of paranoics, but they were geniuses where disruption and assassination were concerned. Especially assassination.'
'What was the price?'
'Operation Medusa sustained over ninety per cent casualties. But there's a catch – among those who didn't come back were a number who never meant to.'
'From that faction of thieves and fugitives?'
'Yes. Some stole considerable amounts of money from Medusa. We think Cain is one of those men.'
'Why?'
'His modus operand!. He's used codes, traps, methods of killing and transport that were developed and specialized in the Medusa training.'
'Then for Christ's sake,' broke in Walters, 'you've got a direct line to his identity. I don't care where they're buried and I'm damn sure you don't want them made public – but I assume records were kept'
They were, and we've extracted them all from the clandestine archives, inclusive of this material here.' The officer tapped the file in front of him. 'We've studied everything, put rosters under microscopes, fed facts into computers – everything we could think of. We're no further along than when we began.'
That's incredible,' said the congressman. 'Or incredibly incompetent.'
'Not really,' protested Manning. 'Look at the man; look at what we've had to work with. After the war, Cain made his reputation throughout most of East Asia, from as far north as
Tokyo down through the Philippines, Malaysia and Singapore, with side trips to Hong-Kong, Cambodia, Laos and Calcutta. About two and a half years ago reports began filtering in to our Asian stations and embassies. There was an assassin for hire; his name was Cain. Highly professional, ruthless. These reports started growing with alarming frequency. It seemed that with every killing of note, Cain was involved. Sources would phone embassies in the middle of the night, or stop attaches in the streets, always with the same information. It was Cain, Cain was the one. A murder in Tokyo; a car blown up in Hong Kong; a narcotics caravan ambushed in the Triangle; a banker shot in Calcutta; an ambassador assassinated in Moulmein, a Russian technician or an American businessman killed in the streets of Shanghai itself. Cain was everywhere, his name whispered by dozens of trusted informants in every vital intelligence sector. Yet no one – not one single person in the entire east Pacific area – would come forward to give us an identification. Where were we to begin?'
'But by this time, hadn't you established the fact that he'd been with Medusa?' asked the Tennessean.
'Yes. Firmly.'
Then with the individual Medusa dossiers, damn it!"
The colonel opened the folder he had removed from the Cain file. These are the casualty lists. Among the white occidentals who disappeared from Operation Medusa – and when I say disappeared, I mean vanished without a trace – are the following. Seventy-three Americans, forty-six French, thirty-nine and twenty-four Australians and British respectively, and an estimated fifty white male contacts recruited from neutrals in Hanoi and trained in the field – most of them we never knew. Over two hundred and thirty possibilities; how many are blind alleys? Who's alive? Who's dead? Even if we learned the name of every man who actually survived, who is he now? What is he? We're not even sure of Cain's nationality. We think he's American, but there's no proof.'
'Cain's one of the side issues contained in our constant pressure on Hanoi to trace M.I.A.s,' explained Knowlton. 'We keep recycling these names with the division lists.'
'And there's a catch with that, too,' added the army officer. 'Hanoi's counter-intelligence forces broke and executed scores of Medusa personnel. They were aware of the operation, and
we never ruled out the possibility of infiltration. Hanoi knew the Medusans weren't combat troops; they wore no uniforms. Accountability was never required.'
Walters held out his hand. 'May I?' he said, nodding at the stapled pages.
'Certainly.' The officer gave them to the congressman. 'You understand, of course, that those names still remain classified, as does the Medusa Operation itself.'
'Who made that decision?'
'It's an unbroken executive order from successive presidents based on the recommendation of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was supported by the Senate Armed Services Committee.'
'That's considerable fire-power, isn't it?'
'It was felt to be in the national interest,' Said the C.I.A. man.
'In this case, I won't argue," agreed Walters. 'The spectre of such an operation wouldn't do much for the glory of Old Glory. We don't train assassins, much less field them.' He flipped through the pages. 'And somewhere here just happens to be an assassin we trained and fielded and now can't find.'
'We believe that, yes,' said the colonel.
'You say he made his reputation in Asia but moved to Europe. When?'
'About a year ago.'
'Why? Any ideas?'
'The obvious, I'd suggest,' said Peter Knowlton. 'He overextended himself. Something went wrong and he felt threatened. He was a white killer among Orientals, at best a dangerous concept; it was time for him to move on. God knows his reputation was made; there'd be no lack of employment in Europe.'
David Abbott cleared his throat. 'I'd like to offer another possibility based on something Alfred said a few minutes ago.' The Monk paused and nodded deferentially at Gillette. 'He said that we had been forced to concentrate on a "toothless sand shark while the hammerhead roamed free". I believe that was the phrase, although my sequence may be wrong.'
'Yes,' said the man from National Security. 'I was referring to Carlos, of course. It's not Cain we should be after. It's Carlos.'
'Of course. Carlos. The most elusive killer in modem history, a man many of us truly believe has been responsible – in one way or another – for the most tragic assassinations of our time. You were quite right, Alfred, and, in a way, I was wrong. We cannot afford to forget Carlos.' 'Thank you,' said Gillette. 'I'm glad I made my point.' 'You did. With me, at any rate. But you also made me think. Can you imagine the temptation for a man like Cain, operating in the steamy confines of an area rife with drifters and fugitives and regimes up to their necks in corruption? But he must have envied Carlos; how he must have been jealous of the faster, brighter, more luxurious world of Europe. How often did he say to himself, "I'm better than Carlos". No matter how cold these fellows are, their egos are immense. I suggest he went to Europe to find that better world... and to dethrone Carlos. The pretender, sir, wants to take the title. He wants to be champion.'
Gillette stared at the Monk. 'It's an interesting theory.' 'And if I follow you,' interjected the congressman from Oversight, 'by tracking Cain we may come up with Carlos.' 'Exactly.'
'I'm not sure I follow,' said the C.I.A. director, annoyed. 'Why?'
'Two stallions in a paddock,' answered Walters. 'They tangle.'
'A champion does not give up the title willingly.' Abbott reached for his pipe. 'He fights viciously to retain it. As the congressman says, we continue to track Cain, but we must also watch for other spoors in the forest. And when and if we find Cain, perhaps we should hold back. Wait for Carlos to come after him.'
'Then take both,' added the military officer.
'Very enlightening,' said Gillette.
The meeting was over, the members in various stages of leaving. David Abbott stood with the Pentagon colonel who was gathering together the pages of the Medusa folder; he had picked up the casualty sheets, prepared to insert them.
'May I take a look?' asked Abbott. 'We don't have a copy over at Forty.'
'Those were our instructions," replied the officer, handing the stapled pages to the older man. 'I thought they came from you.
Only three copies. Here, at the Agency, and over at the Council.'
They did come from me.' The silent Monk smiled benignly. Too damn many civilians in my part of town.'
The colonel turned away to answer a question posed by the congressman from Tennessee. David Abbott did not listen; instead his eyes sped rapidly down the columns of names; he was alarmed. A number had been crossed out, accounted for. Accountability was the one thing they should not allow I Ever! Where was it? He was the only man in that room who knew the name, and he could feel the pounding in his chest as he reached the last page. The name was there!
Bourne, Jason C. – Last known station: Tarn Quan.
What in God's name had happened"}
Rend Bergeron slammed down the telephone on his desk; his Voice only slightly more controlled than his gesture. 'We've tried every cafe", every restaurant and bistro she's ever frequented!'
There's not a hotel in Paris that has him registered,' said the grey-haired switchboard operator, seated at a second telephone by a drawing board. 'It's been more than two hours now; she could be dead. If she's not, she might well wish she were.'
'She can only tell him so much,' mused Bergeron. 'Less than we could; she knows nothing of the old men.'
'She knows enough; she's called Pare Monceau.'
'She's relayed messages; she's not certain to whom.'
'She knows why.'
'So does Cain, I can assure you. And he would make a grotesque error with Pare Monceau.' The designer leaned forward, his powerful forearms tensing as he locked his hands together, his eyes on the grey-haired man. Tell me, again, everything you remember. Why are you so sure he's Bourne?'
'I don't know that. I said he was Cain. If you've described his methods accurately, he's the man.'
'Bourne is Cain. We found him through the Medusa records. It's why you were hired."
Then he's Bourne, but it's not the name he used. Of course, there were a number of men in Medusa who would not permit their real names to be used. For them, false identities were guaranteed; they had criminal records. He would be one of those men.'
'Why him? Others disappeared. You disappeared.'
'I could say because he was here in Saint-Honoree and that should be enough. But there's more, much more. I watched him function. I was assigned to a mission he commanded; it was not an experience to be forgotten, nor was he. That man could be – would be – your Cain.'
Tell me.'
'We parachuted at night into a sector called Tarn Quan, our objective to bring out an American named Webb who was being held by the Viet Cong. We didn't know it, but the odds against survival were monumental. Even the flight from Saigon was horrendous; gale-force winds at a thousand feet, the aircraft vibrating as if it would fall apart. Still, he ordered us to jump."
'And you did?"
'His gun was pointed at our heads. At each of us as we approached the hatchway. We might survive the elements, not a bullet in our skulls.'
'How many were there of you?'
'Eight'
'You could have taken him.'
'You didn't know him.'
'Go on,' said Bergeron, concentrating; immobile at the desk.
'Seven of us regrouped on the ground; two, we assumed, had not survived the jump. It was amazing that I did. I was the oldest and hardly a bull, but I knew the area; it was why I was sent.' The grey-haired man paused, shaking his head at the memory. 'Less than an hour later we realized it was a trap. We were pinned down by enemy gunfire for two nights and a day, running like lizards through the jungle... And during the nights, he went out alone through the mortar explosions and the grenades. To kill. Always coming back before dawn to force us closer and closer to the base camp. I thought at the time, sheer suicide.'
'Why did you do it? He had to give you a reason; you were Medusans, not soldiers.'
'He said it was the only way to get out alive and there was logic to that. We were far behind the lines; we needed the
supplies we could find at the base camp – if we could take it. He said we had to take it, we had no choice. If any argued, he'd put a bullet in his head, we knew it... On the third night we took the camp and found the man named Webb more dead than alive, but breathing. We also found the two-missing members of our team, very much alive and stunned at what had happened. A white man and a Vietnamese; they'd been paid by the Cong to trap us – trap him, I suspect."
'Cain?'
'Yes. The Vietnamese saw us first and escaped. Cain shot the white man in the head. He just walked up to him and blew his head off."
'He got you back? Through the lines?'
'Four of us, yes, and the man named Webb. Five men were killed. It was during that terrible journey back that I thought I understood why the rumours might be true – that he was the highest paid recruit in Medusa.'
'In what sense?'
'He was the coldest man I ever saw, the most dangerous, and utterly predictable. I thought at the time it was a strange war for him; he was a Savonarola, but without religious principle, only his own odd morality which was centred on himself. All men were his enemies – the leaders in particular and he cared not one whit for either side.' The middle-aged man paused again, his eyes on the drawing board, his mind obviously thousands of miles away and back in time. 'Remember, Medusa was filled with diverse and desperate men. Many were paranoid in their hatred of Communists – kill a Communist and Christ smiled, odd examples of Christian teaching. Others – such as myself – had fortunes stolen from us by the Viet Minh; the only path to restitution was if the Americans won the war. France had abandoned us at Dien Bien Phu. But there were dozens who saw that fortunes could be made from Medusa. Pouches often contained fifty to seventy-five thousand American dollars. A courier siphoning off half during ten, fifteen runs could retire in Singapore or Kuala Lumpur, or set up his own narcotics network in the Triangle. Apart from the exorbitant pay – and frequently the pardoning of past crimes – the opportunities were unlimited. It was in this group that I placed that very strange man. He was a modern-day pirate in the purest sense.
Bergeron unlocked his hands. 'Wait a minute. You used the phrase, "a mission he commanded". There were military men in Medusa; are you sure he wasn't art American officer?"
'American, to be sure, but certainly not an army man.'
'Why?'
'He hated everything military. His scorn for Command Saigon was in every decision he made; he considered the army fools and incompetents. At one point orders were radioed to us in Tam Quan. He broke off the transmission and told a regimental general to have sex with himself – he would not obey. An army officer would hardly do that.'
"Unless he was about to abandon his profession,' said the designer. 'As Paris abandoned you and you did the best you could, stealing from Medusa, setting up your own hardly patriotic activities – wherever you could.'
'My country betrayed me before I betrayed her, Rene".
'Back to Cain. You say Bourne was not the name he used. What was it?'
'I don't recall. As I said, for many, surnames were not relevant. He was simply "Delta" to me.'
'Mekong?'
'No, the alphabet, I think.'
'"Alpha, Bravo, Charlie... Delta",' said Bergeron pensively in English. 'But in many operations the code word "Charlie" was replaced by... "Cain", because "Charlie" had become synonymous with the Cong. "Charlie" became "Cain"!"
'Quite true. So Bourne dropped back a letter and assumed Cain. He could have chosen "Echo" or "Foxtrot" or "Zulu". Twenty-odd others. What's the difference? What's your point?"
'He chose Cain deliberately! It was symbolic! He wanted it clear from the beginning."
'Wanted what clear?'
That Cain would replace Carlos. Think. "Carlos" is Spanish for Charles – Charlie. The code word "Cain" was substituted for "Charlie" – Carlos. It was his intention from the start. Cain would replace Carlos; And he wanted Carlos to know it.'
'Does Carlos?'
'Of course! Word goes out in Amsterdam and Berlin, Geneva and Lisbon, London and right here in Paris. Cain is
available; contracts can be made, his price lower than Carlos's fee. He erodes! He constantly erodes Carlos's stature.'
'Two matadors in the same ring. There can only be one.'
'It will be Carlos. We've trapped the puffed-up sparrow. He's somewhere within two hours of Saint-Honoree.'
'But where?'
'No matter. We'll find him. After all, he found us. He'll come back; his ego will demand it. And then the eagle will sweep down and catch the sparrow. Carlos will kill him.'
The old man adjusted his single crutch under his left arm, parted the black curtain, and stepped into the confessional. He was not well; the pallor of death was on his face, and he was glad the figure in the priest's habit beyond the transparent curtain could not see him clearly. The assassin might not give him further work if he looked too worn to carry it out; he needed work now. There were only weeks remaining and he had responsibilities. He spoke.
'Angelus Domini."
'Angelus Domini, child of God,' came the whisper. 'Are your days comfortable?'
'They draw to an end, but they are made comfortable."
'Yes... I think this will be your last job for me. It is of such importance, however, that your fee will be five times the usual. I hope it will be of help to you.'
'Thank you, Carlos. You know, then.'
'I know. This is what you must do for it, and the information must leave this world with you, There can be no room for error."
'I have always been accurate. I will go to my death being accurate now.'
'Die in peace, old friend. It's easier... You will go to the Vietnamese Embassy and ask for an attaché named Phan Loc. When you are alone, say the following words to him: "Late March, 1968 Medusa, the Tam Quan sector. Cain was there. Another also." Have you got that?"
'"Late March, 1968 Medusa, the Tam Quan sector. Cain was there. Another also."'
'He'll tell you when to return. It will be in a matter of hours."
'I think it's time we talked about une fiche plus confidentielle out of Zurich."
'My God...!'
'I'm not the man you're looking for."
Bourne gripped the woman's hand, holding her in place, preventing her from running into the aisles of the crowded, elegant restaurant in Argenteuil, twenty miles outside Paris. The pavane was over, the gavotte finished. They were alone; the velvet booth a cage.
'Who are you?" The Lavier woman grimaced, trying to pull her hand away, the veins in the cosmeticized neck pronounced.
'A rich American who lives in the Bahamas. Don't you believe that?"
'I should have known," she said, 'no charges, no cheque... only cash. You didn't even look at the bill.'
'Or the prices before that. It's what brought you over to me."
'I was a fool. The rich always look at prices, if only for the pleasure of dismissing them." Lavier spoke while glancing round, looking for a space in the aisles, a waiter she might summon. Escape.
'Don't,' said Jason, watching her eyes. 'It'd be foolish. We'd both be better off if we talked.'
The woman stared at him, the bridge of hostile silence accentuated by the hum of the large, dimly-lit, candelabra'd room and the intermittent eruptions of quiet laughter from the nearby tables. 'I ask you again,' she said. 'Who are you?'
'My name isn't important. Settle for the one I gave you.'
'Briggs? It's false.'
'So's Larousse and that's on the lease of a hired car that picked up three killers at the Valois bank. They missed there. They also missed this afternoon at the Pont Neuf. He got away.'
'Oh, Corf!' she cried, trying to break away.
'I said don't'.' Bourne held her firmly, pulling her back.
'If I scream. Monsieur?' The powdered mask was cracked with lines of venom now, the bright red lipstick defining the snarl of an ageing, cornered rodent.
'I'll scream louder,' replied Jason. 'We'd both be thrown out, and once outside I don't think you'll be unmanageable. Why not talk? We might learn something from each other. After all, we're employees, not employers.'
'I have nothing to say to you.'
'Then I'll start. Maybe you'll change your mind.' He lessened his grip cautiously. The tension remained on her white, powdered face, but it, too, was lessened as the pressure of his fingers was reduced. She was ready to listen. 'You paid a price in Zurich. We paid, too. Obviously more than you did. We're after the same man; we know why we want him.' He released her. 'Why do you?'
She did not speak for nearly half a minute, instead, studying him in silence, her eyes angry yet frightened. Bourne knew he had phrased the question accurately; for Jacqueline Lavier not to talk to him would be a dangerous mistake. It could cost her her life if subsequent questions were raised.
'Who is "we"?' she asked.
'A company that wants its money. A great deal of money. He has it.'
'He did not earn it, then?'
Jason knew he had to be careful, he was expected to know far more than he did. 'Let's say there's a dispute,'
'How could there be? Either he did or he did not, there's hardly a middle ground.'
'It's my turn,' said Bourne. 'You answered a question with a question and I didn't avoid you. Now, let's go back. Why do you want him? Why is the private telephone of one of the better shops in Saint-Honoree put on a fiche in Zurich?' 'It was an accommodation, Monsieur.'
'For whom?'
'Are you mad?'
'All right, I'll pass on that for now. We think we know anyway.'
'Impossible!
'Maybe, maybe not. So it was an accommodation,., To kill a man?'
'I have nothing to say.'
'Yet a minute ago when I mentioned the car, you tried to run. That's saying something.'
'A perfectly natural reaction.' Jacqueline Lavier touched the stem of her wine glass. 'I arranged for the rental. I don't mind telling you that because there's no evidence that I did so. Beyond that I know nothing of what happened.' Suddenly she gripped the glass, her mask of a face a mixture of controlled fury and fear. 'Who are you people?"
'I told you. A company that wants its money back.'
'You're interfering! Get out of Paris! Leave this alone!'
'Why should we? We're the injured party; we want the balance sheet corrected. We're entitled to that.'
'You're entitled to nothing!' spat Mme Lavier. The error was yours and you'll pay for it!'
'Error?' He had to be very careful. It was here – right below the hard surface – the eyes of the truth could be seen beneath the ice. 'Come off it. Theft isn't an error committed by the victim.'
'The error was in your choice, Monsieur. You chose the wrong man.'
'He stole millions from Zurich,' said Jason. 'But you know that. He took millions, and if you think you're going to take them from him – which is the same as taking them from us you're very much mistaken.'
'We want no money!'
'I'm glad to know it. Who's "we"?'
'I thought you said you knew."
'I said we had an idea. Enough to expose a man named Koenig in Zurich, d'Amacourt here in Paris. If we decide to
do that, it could prove to be a major embarrassment, couldn't it?'
'Money? Embarrassment? These are not issues. You are consumed with stupidity, all of you! I'll say it again. Get out of Paris. Leave this alone! It is not your concern any longer.'
'We don't think it's yours. Frankly, we don't think you're competent."
'Competent?' repeated Lavier, as if she did not believe what she had heard.
'That's right.'
'Have you any idea what you're saying! Whom you're talking about?'
'It doesn't matter. Unless you back off, my recommendation is that we come out loud and clear. Mock up charges – not traceable to us, of course. Expose Zurich, the Valois. Call in the Surete, Interpol... anyone and anything to create a manhunt – a massive manhunt.'
'You are mad. And a fool!'
'Not at all. We have friends in very important positions; we'll get the information first. We'll be waiting at the right place at the right time. We'll take him.'
'You won't take him. He'll disappear again! Can't you see that? He's in Paris and a network of people he cannot know are looking for him. He may have escaped once, twice; but not a third time! He's trapped now. We've trapped him!'
'We don't want you to trap him. That's not in our interests.' It was almost the moment, thought Bourne. Almost, but not quite; her fear had to match her anger. She had to be detonated into revealing the truth. 'Here's our ultimatum, and we're holding you responsible for conveying it – otherwise you'll join Koenig and d'Amacourt. Call off your hunt tonight. If you don't we'll move first thing in the morning; we'll start shouting Les Classiques'll be the most popular store in Saint-Honoree', but I don't think it'll be the right people.'
The powdered face cracked. 'You wouldn't dare! How dare you? Who are you to say this?!'
He paused, then struck. 'A group of people who don't care much for your Carlos.'
The Lavier woman froze, her eyes wide, stretching the taut skin into scar tissue. 'You do know,' she whispered. 'And you think you can oppose him? You think you're a match for Carlos?'
'In a word, yes.'
'You're insane! You don't give ultimatums to Carlos!'
'I just did.'
'Then you're dead. You raise your voice to anyone and you won't last the day. He has men everywhere; they'll cut you down in the street.'
'They might if they knew who to cut down,' said Jason. 'You forget. No one does. But they know who you are. And Koenig, and d'Amacourt. The minute we expose you you'd be eliminated. Carlos couldn't afford you any longer. But no one knows me.'
'You forget, Monsieur. I do.'
'The least of my worries'. Find me... after the damage is done and before the decision is made regarding your own future. It won't be long.'
'This is madness. You come out of nowhere and talk like a madman! You cannot do this!'
'Are you suggesting a compromise?'
'It's conceivable,' said Jacqueline Lavier. 'Anything is possible.'
'Are you in a position to negotiate it?'
'I'm in a position to convey it... far better than I can an ultimatum. Others will relay it to the one who decides.'
'What you're saying is what I said a few minutes ago; we can talk.'
'We can talk, Monsieur,' agreed Mme Lavier, her eyes fighting for her life.
"Then let's start with the obvious.'
'Which is?'
Now. The truth.
'What's Bourne to Carlos? Why does he want him?'
'What's Bourne?...' The woman stopped, venom and fear replaced by an expression of absolute shock. 'You can ask that
'I'll ask it again,' said Jason, hearing the pounding echoes in his chest. 'What's Bourne to Carlos?'
'He's Cain! You know it as well as we do. He was your error, your choice. You chose the wrong man!'
Cain. He heard the name and the echoes erupted into cracks of deafening thunder. And with each crack, pain jolted him, bolts searing one after another through his head, his mind and body recoiling under the onslaught of the name. Cain. Cain! The mists were there again. The darkness, the wind, the explosions.
Alpha, Bravo, Cain, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot... Cain, Delta. Delta, Cain. Delta... Cain.
Cain is for Charlie.
Delta is for Cain!
'What is it? What's wrong with you?'
'Nothing..' Bourne had slipped his right hand over his left wrist, gripping it, his fingers pressed into his flesh with such pressure he thought his skin might break. He had to do something; he had to stop the trembling, lessen the noise, repulse the pain. He had to clear his mind. The eyes of the truth were staring at him; he could not look away. He was there, he was home, and the cold made him shiver. 'Go on,' he said, imposing a control on his voice that resulted in a whisper; he could not help himself.
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